Cropped to Death

by Christina Freeburn

  I gave up on finding a pen and concentrated on memorizing the list.

  “The library called. The romance book Cheryl put on hold is in and she’d like you to pick it up for her.”

  “The title?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  I could almost hear Grandma Hope blush.

  “Then stop at the bank and get some deposit slips.”

  My morning slipped away from my control. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Pick up a carafe of coffee from Dianne’s. Our coffeemaker broke this morning.”

  “Sure. Not a problem. I might be a little—”

  “And hurry. Between the entries coming in, fielding phone calls on the contest, and customers needing help, we’re swamped.” Hope’s voice held a smile. “It’s so wonderful to see this place filled to the max. More customers walked in. Must go. Remember, hurry.”

  Interesting, none of the places she was sending me sold the Daily Eden Tribune. And now I’d have no time to get a copy before I came into work. Something suspicious lurked in the town of Eden.

  Offering my most pleasant smile, I handed a purchase to our fifteenth customer that morning. Why did business always pick up on the days I had something to do which required a slow morning? I tapped my nails on the counter as I watched a customer match her photos to different cardstock colors.

  She refused my help, afraid any employee assistance would disqualify her layout. Even my reassurances did not relieve her concerns about the rules. Darlene had every contest cropper running scared. Then again, Darlene’s antics spread through our scrapbook community, resulting in lots of customers. Buying customers.

  Good gossip helped business. Our regulars stopped by for the inside scoop, but stayed and spent money. A few admitted they also wanted to be here in case there was a repeat of yesterday, figuring Darlene’s entry would arrive soon. Heaven forbid anyone thought she needed more time than the sisters to complete her layout. Women venturing into the competitive side of the hobby often turned into scrapzillas.

  The bell above the door jingled and I greeted the newcomer. Karen England, otherwise known as Karen Pancake during our growing up years, glided into the store wearing a suit that highlighted her trim figure. She glanced around the store. Her mouth dipped into a frown as she took in the rows of pattern paper and the packages of stickers on the far wall.

  I had a feeling she didn’t enter into the store because of a desire to scrapbook her articles and clippings. But I could be wrong. And she could be the answer for my information dilemma. No need to browse the internet when I could just speak with the reporter holding all the facts.

  Giving my best customer service smile, I greeted her. “Welcome to Scrap This. How can I help you?”

  She tapped a long red nail against her lips as she walked over. “This is where Marilyn Kane worked?” Disappointment lined her tone. She lifted the flap of her brown leather tote and stuck her hand inside.

  I lost my smile. Karen wanted dirt about Marilyn for career advancement. An ordinary story of a woman killing her husband wouldn’t make a big splash on the wire service. She needed a unique angle to make this story bigger, catch the interest of a national organization. Well she was on her own.

  I plucked a catalog from under the counter and read it. Some new shapes in chipboard caught my eye. I marked the page with a paperclip, circling the item in bright orange ink.

  Karen cleared her throat.

  After licking the tip of my finger, I flipped the page with a nice resounding snap. If Grandma, either of them, caught me doing that, they’d lecture me as if I was daydreaming during a sermon. Scrapbook shoppers didn’t appreciate paper licking. Near riot conditions occurred when someone touched paper with germ-laced fingers.

  “Where have I seen you before?” Karen placed a hand on top of the catalog and tried tugging it away.

  “Grades kindergarten through twelfth.” I yanked the catalog back.

  She snapped her fingers. “You tricked Annette Holland into an interview.” She made air quotes on the last word. “Sheer genius. I should’ve thought of it rather than play the take a number game. But you’re not a reporter. Why were you talking to Annette?”

  “I’m working. No time for questions.” I prayed for a customer to walk into the store and beg for help choosing cardstock, pattern paper and other embellishments for their page. I needed Darlene to flounce in and start another argument about the contest.

  “Come on, don’t you want to help Marilyn?” She flipped open a notebook, her pen poised above a blank page.

  “Right, you’re here to help her.” I glared at her, hoping she’d take the hint. The bell above the door jingled. Hallelujah, a customer. “As I said, I have a customer to help.”

  The woman waved off my offer and headed toward the adhesives.

  “Looks like she knows exactly what she wants.”

  I wanted to say like you, but kept the comment inside my head. Getting into a word war with Karen seemed like a bad decision.

  “One question. I promise.”

  “I won’t talk about Marilyn.”

  “This isn’t about her. I’m interested in what you and Annette Holland, Michael’s mistress, talked about.”

  That raised my eyebrows. So the mistress story was getting out. “I wanted to know why she showed up at the event with Michael, and how she came across his body. I saw the picture in the paper of her kneeling beside him.”

  “You don’t think Marilyn committed the crime. Even though she did say—to you—that she wanted to kill him.”

  “I’m sure she’s not the first wife to utter those words.”

  “True. I heard my mom say it to my dad more than once. But then again, my dad is still alive.”

  “She had nothing to do with Michael’s murder. This conversation is over.” I spun away from her and frantically looked behind the counter for work needing done.

  “If she had nothing to do with it, why was she denied bail? Did you visit Annette to threaten her on Marilyn’s behalf?”

  “What?” I gaped at her.

  A wicked gleam lit her eyes. “I have it on good authority you and Marilyn had a chat before she was arrested. Then you went and had a little talk,” she air quoted again, “with Annette. Surprisingly, right after you left, the young expectant mother refused to speak with anyone.”

  The accusation reeled around in my brain. I didn’t know who was in the most danger right now, Marilyn or me. Why hadn’t Roget confronted me? Was he gathering more information before he made a move? My stomach churned. How much trouble was my help getting Marilyn into? It wasn’t her fault I questioned Annette.

  Okay, maybe a little since she asked for my help, but she probably figured I’d be a more competent detective. “We didn’t create some elaborate plot to intimidate that woman.”

  “That’s not the way it looks.”

  “And I wonder who’s helping your point of view? Annette?” Detective Roget’s name popped in my mind and I kept it there. “Why did Michael show up at the art show with her? He knew his wife would be there, even told her he wanted to put the divorce on hold.”

  Karen’s brows rose. “He called off the divorce?”

  “He sure did. So bringing the girlfriend with him doesn’t make sense.”

  “True. Then again, Michael Kane wasn’t a bright man if he thought he could have an affair in this small town.” Karen shaped her hand into a duck’s bill and opened and closed her fingers. “Gossip is our most renewable energy source. He should’ve known to stop the nonsense when she got transferred from the Morgantown office to the satellite office here.”

  True. The only secrets in this town were the ones where only the holder knew the details. To continue an affair— “Wait a minute. Did you say Annette followed Michael from the Morgantown branch to the Eden site?”

  Karen grinned. “He asked for her specifically when his office needed a new secretary. Funny how Miss Lucy was fine as his secretary until he met Annette at a wor
k retreat.”

  That was a new piece of information. I needed Karen’s sources, they had all the information I craved. “That had to make it worse for Annette. She moves down her to be with the man of her dreams, and when she needs him most, he decides he likes his wife better. Good reason to kill a man.”

  “I agree with you. The only problem is Annette has a solid alibi.”

  “She could’ve killed the cheater, established an alibi, then returned and cried over Michael.”

  “Most grown-ups don’t believe in fairy tales.” Karen whipped out a copy of today’s newspaper from her purse and dropped it onto the counter. “My compliments,” she said, then waltzed out the door.

  The headline screamed at me: “Vengeful Wife Kept Behind Bars.” Instead of a picture of Marilyn, there was a photograph of her two children being shielded by their grandparents. My heart ached for Elizabeth and Mark.

  Why didn’t I stop Marilyn before she started spouting off figurative threats? Or throw out the stupid trash from the crop the night before? Right now, she’d be home with her children and helping them through their grief.

  Running my finger under the words, I took my time reading the details the story revealed. Marilyn was working at the Art Benefit Show. Michael attended with a colleague, now also revealed to be his mistress. Okay, check mark by those details.

  Marilyn arrested. Check. Marilyn denied bailed. Check. Marilyn argued with Michael at the show. New detail. Marilyn spotted screeching at Annette Holland at the art show. Another new detail. At least now I knew why the court denied bail.

  But I still didn’t believe Marilyn killed Michael.

  “Don’t even think about it, Faith.” Sierra tossed her purse under the counter and grabbed mine. She thrust it at me. “Go get some lunch. And stop feeling guilty about Marilyn.”

  “How do you know that’s what I’m thinking?”

  “I can see what you’re reading.”

  I shoved the newspaper into my purse.

  Sierra started towards an overwhelmed customer in the blue paper section. “Take your lunch break and think about something happy.”

  “Tell me what the boys did to the car.” I grinned. “I bet it’s a great story.”

  Sierra eyeballed me.

  “Okay, okay, I’m leaving.” Apparently not a story with a happy ending. I picked up my purse and went next door to Home Brewed. Dianne made a wonderful chicken salad sandwich, and I knew no one would bother me there. She was as protective of me as my grandmothers, only she didn’t think Steve was the answer for every problem.

  After placing my order, I dropped into a chair facing away from the windows. It was easier to ignore people by eliminating eye contact. I smoothed out the newspaper and read the article again.

  If they believed Marilyn killed her husband, then thinking she’d do the same to the woman who was expecting her husband’s baby wasn’t a stretch. My speaking with Annette didn’t help the situation.

  But who told the police I had been at both places? Detective Roget knew Marilyn and I were together at the police station. He also knew I questioned Annette about her whereabouts. But he’d want a reporter in his investigation even less than he wanted me. Would Jasper blab details of the case?

  There was evidence out there proving Marilyn’s innocence. But where was it?

  Someone had to have seen Marilyn during the time of the murder—away from Michael. Someone saw the real last person Michael talked with. All I had to do was find the person who saw Michael alive after the argument with Marilyn. Hopefully someone besides the actual murderer. I couldn’t count on that person being forthcoming.

  “Worrying about Marilyn?” Dianne placed my order on the table and then sat in the vacant chair.

  I tapped the newspaper. “Every day gets worse for her.”

  Dianne smiled and patted my hand. “It’ll work out.”

  Yeah, right. The homicide detective had this case wrapped up in his mind and the prosecution went right along with his assessment. Conducting an investigation myself meant Detective Roget prying into my life, but he couldn’t do that if he didn’t find out. I needed to improve my sleuthing and keep it a secret. Or hire another target for his wrath.

  “Whatever you’re planning, don’t get yourself into trouble.” Dianne stood and cast a worried glance at me.

  “I’m not planning anything.”

  “And that might be even worse. I’ll just put in a word in to God to find a way to put a stop between you and anything rash.” She walked over to the counter and picked up the next meal.

  Lunch break for my first job ended, so I worked at my second job. Private investigating. I pulled out a notebook I usually jotted down layout ideas in and listed my speculations and questions. Who spotted Marilyn talking to Michael?

  She should’ve known not to talk to him with her temper flaring. Then again, she probably didn’t think her husband would be found murdered the same day. Someone could’ve lied about seeing her yell at Michael. And that led me right back to Annette Holland.

  But who gave Annette an alibi? Even if I proved Annette claimed Marilyn saw Michael last, it wouldn’t help unless I broke Annette’s alibi. I pulled out my cell and dialed Karen at the newspaper. I was transferred to her direct line.

  “Karen England.”

  I hurried into my spiel as lunchtime ticked away.

  “I won’t reveal my sources,” Karen snapped.

  I wanted to question her use of “won’t” over “couldn’t” but knew that would get me nowhere. All during the school years, from preschool to high, Karen was one of the kids who never succumbed to peer pressure, rather she created it. “But you put the information in the paper.”

  “Not my source’s name.”

  “Please.”

  “I read the police report,” Karen said. “Try doing that.”

  That response was a little snarky, but helpful. “So, the police report names Annette’s alibi?”

  A snort sounded in my ear and I winced.

  “I’m not going to let some wannabe reporter use my hard work for their benefit.”

  “I’m not asking for the details about your story. All I want to know is who supplied the alibi.”

  “Same thing, Faith. This is my story.” A loud click signaled the end of our conversation.

  Thank goodness my cell phone had web access. I had cringed when I splurged on the phone with internet capabilities. It wasn’t a necessity but with all the traveling we planned to do for trade shows, consumer shows, and weekend getaway crops, I thought the entertainment value would be useful. Plus, it allowed me to check out prices when shopping for new supplies. With our limited budget, there was no sense in paying more for chipboard from one company when the next one supplied a similar product for less.

  I tapped the screen and brought up a search engine. If I went with the theory Annette didn’t kill Michael, and I knew Marilyn didn’t, I needed to eliminate love as the motive.

  The other type of person who might want to kill Michael Kane, a defense lawyer, was a displeased client. I typed Michael Kane into the search box and hit enter. A lot of hits showed up on the tiny screen, and from a quick scan, most of them appeared useless. I started a new search, this time adding in his firm’s name.

  A nice supply of manageable links popped up. The first one was of the firm’s website. And, the best form of advertisement for a company, their list of victories. I tapped the screen and hit the link on Michael Kane’s name.

  A serious looking photo of Michael stared at me. The gaze unnerved me. I averted my attention from his photo to the list of achievements listed below his likeness. Insurance claims, employers being sued for discrimination, and a denial of a wrongful death multimillion-dollar claim against a logging company. Quite a victory.

  I hit the link and saw a tiny photo of a triumphant Michael walking down the courthouse steps in Morgantown. I back clicked to my original search and read the other entries. I sucked in a breath. The name Roget appeared in the t
ext along side Michael’s law firm. I clicked it and was taken to a screen explaining how I could subscribe.

  Cheryl walked into Home Brewed and looked right at me. Her brows drew together.

  I closed the browser and dropped the phone back into my purse, then gulped down the rest of my lunch. Cheryl’s brows hunched even lower over her eyes as she continued looking at me.

  An innocent smile wouldn’t work as I grew up living with Grandma Cheryl and Grandpa Joseph. She was better at reading my mannerisms than Hope. When Cheryl turned and placed her order, I shoved the newspaper into my bag.

  I gave grandmother a hug before I rushed out the door. I wondered if Detective Roget mentioned at the police station or the prosecutor’s office that he was tied to the firm Michael Kane worked for. Seemed like a conflict of interest. Roget could be getting revenge on his nemesis by charging the man’s wife with murder.

  Of course first I had to find out if Roget and Michael were actually enemies and not just people on opposing legal teams passing by each other without so much as exchanging a nod.

  As I entered the store, I saw Linda cornered by Darlene near the contest display. I rushed over. “What’s going on?”

  “I was hanging up the entries.” Linda clutched an envelope against her chest. Darlene attempted to snatch it away.

  I stepped between the two and avoided Darlene’s pink-tipped claws. “Is that an entry?”

  “It’s mine.” Darlene snapped. “I told her I didn’t want it up.”

  “But it has to be,” Linda said. “How can the customers judge it if it’s not hung up with the rest?”

  The rest comprised of eight other entrants work, one of those belonging to the team of Robyn and Stephanie. I motioned for the envelope.

  Linda thrust it at me, then retreated to the register.

  “Linda has a point,” I said.

  “No one is voting until Friday. Why does my entry have to be up there for the next three days? I’ve created a unique technique and don’t want anyone else using it.” Darlene clamped her hands around her waist and drummed her vicious nails against the pockets of her khakis. She did come up with innovative techniques, but unfortunately for her, she always discovered the newest trend one month too late. By the time her layout and instructions were submission-ready, another scrapbooker already had it published in a magazine.