Cropped to Death

by Christina Freeburn

  I fixed my eyes on my grandmother. Grandma Hope looked exhausted. She couldn’t approve of me involving myself in an activity leaning toward dangerous. We needed something else to think about, bond over, besides my sleuthing issues.

  “How about we have an impromptu crop?” I smiled at my grandmothers.

  They glanced over into the craft area. Cheryl seemed to consider it, but Hope shook her head. My grandmother probably thought crafting equaled cleaning as the disarray bordered on chaos.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie, but I’m kind of tired tonight,” Hope said.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  Times like this reminded me my grandmothers were getting older. One day they wouldn’t be here. The fear of utter aloneness skittered along my nerves and my heart raced. Without them, I’d have no one on Earth who loved me.

  Hope hugged me. “I’m fine. The last two weeks of working late nights to get ready for the show wore me out. I just need to catch up on sleep.”

  I looked at Cheryl. She winked and left with Hope. The wink said that’s-all-there-is-to-it brought some relief. I watched them cross the yard and then go into their house. Once they were safely inside, I shut my door and went into the kitchen. Work first, then play.

  After finishing the dishes, I walked into the craft area and stood in the middle of the room. Glancing around, my shoulders slumped forward with the truth of all the cleaning I had to do. Evidence lingered from my frantic night of putting together layouts for the Art Benefit Show.

  Bits of different colored ribbon littered the blond wood laminate floor. On the table, small pieces of cardstock filled the basket I used for scraps. In the middle of the table, full sheets of pattern paper and cardstock were stacked to near skyscraper heights. Open magazines took up the small floral couch against the wall. My bottles of flowers, brads and gems were stacked haphazardly on the large table and the shelves bolted into the wall.

  From the distance of the kitchen, I didn’t get the full effect of what a disaster zone I created in my cropping area. Well, no time like the present for turning chaos into calm. I plucked the basket of scraps off the table, went over to the small couch, shoved the magazines aside and sat down. Most of the scrap pieces were too small and creased for use on another project. I dumped the contents of the basket into the trash.

  Gathering up bottles, I returned them to the proper shelf. Using my hands, I swept the bits of ribbons and unusable trimmings into the wastebasket stationed at the end of the table. I eyed the leaning tower of paper. Divide and conquer. I cleared off the remainder of the table and started sorting the paper by color and pattern.

  The edge of a photo caught my eye. Gingerly, I pulled it out from underneath the stack of pages. I looked down at myself at the Renaissance festival. In the background of the picture, Steve was captured as part of our family. Every time I turned around, my grandmothers insisted on including Steve in our family gatherings. I wondered how Steve’s dad felt about his son’s calendar being booked solid with Hunter/Greyfield family events. I’m sure his dad would like to spend time with his only child. Steve’s mother died a few years back. He and his stepmom didn’t quite get along from the conversations I overheard between my grandmothers. Without his dad, Steve would be alone.

  But without my grandmothers—and Steve—I ran the high risk of being truly alone in this world. My mind caught that thought and reeled it in. Maybe my grandmothers’ matchmaking efforts were because they saw that reality in my future. Since I moved back home, I kept a distance between others and myself. I had friends. I engaged in their lives, but kept mine private. No one understood I lived that way to protect them.

  Collapsing onto the couch, I clutched the photo as memories flooded over me. Trapping me. My grandmothers’ dream for me could never happen. Entering a relationship required an honesty I couldn’t give. Even to my grandmothers who had given up everything for me.

  Because of Adam. Because of myself.

  By the time I realized I was a pawn in Adam’s life, our finances and future were tied. I trusted him. I loved him. He saw me as a naïve girl from West Virginia whom he could charm and control—and one who held a security clearance benefiting his sideline business.

  From the first moment Adam introduced himself to me, I was smitten by the older, handsome man. I never questioned anything he told me. Until it was nearly too late.

  I shuddered and pulled myself away from the morbid thoughts.

  On the bright side, I never told my grandmothers about him as I wanted our marriage to be a surprise for them. Well, it turned out as more of a surprise for me.

  I stood and wandered to the front window and stared out into the vast darkness. Not even one star glimmered, leaving the world ink black. To West Virginians, faith, family and country meant everything. How would my grandmothers be treated once it became known their granddaughter—even unknowingly—betrayed those principles?

  There was nothing that could be done about the past except live with it. I deposited the picture into a drawer and got cleaning, focusing on the here and now.

  With the amount of time reorganization was taking, I’d call it a night before I completed one page. Clean today, scrap tomorrow. My stomach rumbled. I needed something comforting. Preferably with chocolate. Homemade chocolate chip cookies sounded perfect.

  I walked into the kitchen. Something thumped against my backdoor. I froze. The scratch sounded again and I reached for the light but stopped. Turning them off now would only confirm I was in the house. I crept away from the kitchen and headed toward the phone.

  A howling meow erupted from behind the door. Ol’ Yowler. Opening the cabinet beside the stove, I took out a can of shrimp flavored cat food. I dumped it into a green plastic bowl and water into a red dish. I opened the door. The inky blackness held the coldness of an approaching cold snap. Shivering, I placed dinner out for the cat then retreated back inside.

  I scrounged around in the cabinets for chocolate chips. Finding only a half-filled bag, I conceded and declared it an early night. I’d finish organizing tomorrow. I started for the stairs and the red light from the answering machine caught my eye. Sighing, I clomped down the stairs and checked the messages. I hit the play button and examined my chipping nail polish. Time for a new manicure.

  “You just can’t stop.” A voice wheezed from the voice mail the message ended with an abrupt click.

  FOURTEEN

  Wrapping my arms around my waist, I stared at the phone. Maybe the high-pitched meow of Yowler wasn’t a feed-me-now scream, but a some-idiot-stepped-on-my-tail scream. My legs shook. I made my way to the sofa and dropped onto it. If Annette was involved in Michael’s murder, she could’ve enlisted someone to get me off the case.

  Like Roget. He knew where I lived.

  “Stop it.” I wanted to end the horror flick developing in my mind. Taking in a deep breath, I stood and marched back to the phone.

  I replayed the message and analyzed out the creepiness. The wheezing sounded forced. Like someone masking their voice. I hit the caller ID button and looked at the last number that called. Local cell number. Just because someone said “you just can’t stop” in a creepy voice didn’t mean danger lurked in the backyard. The message could’ve been meant for someone else. A wrong number.

  I placed my hand on the receiver. I could call the number back and find out who called. Though that sounded like something on a top ten list of stupid things for a woman to do. Call and confirm your number to a potential stalker.

  It’s a Small World chimed. I screeched.

  Pressing my hand against my heart, I tried calming myself. An attacker would break down the door, not ring the bell.

  “Faith!” Steve pounded on the front door.

  That explained the noise in my backyard. Furious, I yanked the door open and faced my would-be knight in shining armor. Every instinct screamed smack him. I balled my hands and squeezed them against my side. Next time, I’d call the police and let Steve explain his skulking to them
.

  “Stop spying on me.” I pushed the door closed.

  Steve gripped the doorframe and kept it open. “Faith, what’s going on? What happened?”

  “Because of you lurking around in my backyard, I got all worked up over a stupid phone call.” I blinked at the wetness blurring Steve’s image. “You scared me.”

  He maneuvered around me and stepped into the house. He shut the door and locked it. “I wasn’t in your backyard.”

  My knees quaked and I placed a hand on the wall. Steve walked me to the couch and sat me down. I reached over, grabbed one of the throw pillows, and clutched it against my stomach. Steve knelt in front of me.

  “Did you see someone outside?” He asked.

  “I heard a scratching. I thought it was Yowler but…” I glanced at the phone and a shiver worked its way up my spine. I heaved out a sigh of defeat. “Someone left a weird message on my answering machine.”

  “Weird?” Steve stood, walked over, and pressed the button on the machine. His face reddened and he clenched his hands. “When did you get this?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t think to check my messages until a little bit ago.”

  Steve pulled his cell phone from the clip attached to his belt. “We should call Roget.”

  Calling the detective scared me more than calling the person who left the message. “What if it’s a wrong number?”

  Steve raised his hands in a preaching-was-comin’ gesture. “What if it’s not? Faith, it’s better to err on the side of caution. The police are trained to handle these kinds of matters.”

  “I don’t want anyone getting in trouble.” Especially myself.

  “Are you listening to me? Safety first. Hurt feelings can be sorted out later.”

  The McGruff role started annoying me. “If everyone’s right, then Michael’s killer is in jail. Who’s going to hurt me?”

  “Just let Roget hear the message and see what he says.”

  I crossed my arms. “He’ll say I called myself and left the message. It’s my new method of interfering. Besides, the voice sounds a little like a woman faking a tough male voice.”

  The I-know-best expression softened on Steve’s face.

  “And how dangerous can this criminal be? They used a phone without blocking the number.”

  Steve glanced at the display screen. “All right. So they’re not a professional. That doesn’t make them harmless.”

  “I can take a pregnant woman. Out run her anyway.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The only person I’ve upset with my investigation is Annette Holland.” Okay, also Detective Roget, but I decided it best not to bring up that man’s name.

  Steve’s eyes bugged out. Not a good look for him. “Your investigation? You’re actively getting involved with this case? After you’ve been warned?”

  I grimaced. Bad choice of word. “Okay, not really investigating in the sense like the way the police handle a case. I’ve just asked a few questions. Annette is lying. I don’t know why no one—”

  “Faith, she didn’t kill Michael.”

  “Of course not, she’s too sweet and innocent.”

  Steve walked over and knelt in front of the couch. He gathered my hands into his and took in a deep breath. “I need you to listen to me.”

  Anger rumbled inside of me, twisting my stomach and threatening to bubble out of my mouth. I yanked away from his touch. “When are people going to listen to me?”

  “We have been. You’re the one ignoring what everyone has said.” Steve dropped onto the cushion beside me. “I need to tell you something.”

  I scooted as far away as I could, picked up a throw pillow and clutched it to my chest as a barrier. Or an object to bash Steve on the head with—depending on what he said.

  Heaving out a sigh, Steve leaned forward and looked at the floor. “I was with Annette when she discovered Michael’s body and screamed.”

  The pillow tumbled from my hand. “What?”

  Steve rubbed his head then hooked his hands together behind his neck. He leaned against the couch cushion, staring up at the ceiling. “Marilyn was headed toward Michael and I thought it would be good if she didn’t see Annette.”

  “Did you see Michael?”

  He sighed. “No.”

  “So how do you know Annette didn’t kill him and then you intercepted her after the deed? Did she seem upset Marilyn was going to talk to Michael?”

  “No. Or at least she didn’t mention it.” Steve rubbed his hand over his shaved head. “I know it’s easier to blame someone you don’t know or care—”

  “This isn’t about ease, it’s about the truth.”

  “I heard Michael talking to someone. Annette turned to go back and that’s when I stopped her. I told her we should get her a drink since it was stuffy and she was expecting.”

  That was Steve, always the knight in shining armor. Excitement wiggled through me at his other revelation. “Who was he talking to? Did you recognize the voice?”

  He shook his head. “I told the police everything. I’m only bringing up the part about Annette so you’ll back off of her.”

  A little green worked its way inside of me. “Awful protective of her, aren’t you?”

  “I’m more inclined on keeping you from being charged with intimidating witnesses. Let the police do the investigating.”

  “That’s the problem. They’re done.” I slapped my hands onto the couch. “If there was still a murderer to find, I’d be minding my own business. But Roget believes he’s found his murderer. He’s wrong.”

  “And you know this because…”

  “Because if Marilyn killed Michael, why did she ask for help?” I asked. “She couldn’t have done it.”

  Steve rubbed his hand over his shaved head. “She shouldn’t have asked you to help her.”

  “Maybe she asked me because no one else would.”

  Steve cupped my cheek. “Faith, did you ever think there might be a good reason others can’t help her?”

  “No,” I said, keeping still.

  “Regardless, it wasn’t right of Marilyn to guilt you into investigating her case.”

  “Sometimes it’s not about what is right,” I whispered, withdrawing from his touch. “But what’s needed.”

  “And what’s needed is for us to call Roget and let him know.” Steve flipped open his phone.

  “If the police come, my grandmothers will worry. Hope has been stressed enough lately.” I couldn’t tell Steve the person he wanted to call was the person I planned on investigating—Googling—tonight.

  “We have to do something.” Steve paced around the room. “Sitting here and testing if this is a joke isn’t a smart choice. I don’t want you getting hurt. “

  “I won’t get hurt.”

  “Like you can promise that.” Steve peered out the curtains in the living room and then went into the kitchen and gazed outside. “It’s possible if we don’t call the police, then the person will think they called the wrong number.”

  I didn’t like that theory because it meant the person deliberately called me. I liked my theory better. I was the wrong person pranked.

  Steve rubbed his jaw. After a few minutes, he released a loud sigh and nodded. “You can’t stay here.”

  The resolved expression on his face troubled me. “Steve, if I go spend the night at my grandmothers, they’re going to know something’s wrong. How do I explain a sleepover?”

  “You won’t stay with them. You’ll stay at my house.” He walked toward me.

  I held up my hands and blocked his approach. “There’s no way I’m spending the night with you. That wouldn’t look proper.”

  I didn’t believe in toying with temptation. Plus, I was really, really getting into livid territory with Steve deciding my life. I allowed one man to make my decisions for me and I’d never do it again.

  Steve shoved his hands into his back pockets. “I don’t know if I should be insulted by the assumption or by
your utter horror at the idea.”

  The hurt look on his face revved up my guilt. I took in a deep breath and smiled at him. Friendly, but not flirty.

  “I’m not horrified at the thought. It’s not like there isn’t some appeal. Not that I’m suggesting it, or discounting it because I’m appalled at the idea of us sleeping together. I mean sleeping in the same house.”

  Steve smiled, the gesture growing broader as I rambled on. Why couldn’t I shut up? I’d rather dig a hole and fall into it rather than keep talking my way into an overnighter.

  “It’s just that, well, what would people think? What if my grandmothers saw me coming out of your place?” I hoped the expression on my face garnered some pity from him.

  “You’ve come up with a much more interesting plan than I had in mind,” Steve said, stepping closer to me.

  My face flamed and I took some steps backwards, scared by the spark of attraction in his eyes.

  “That wasn’t what I was proposing,” Steve said.

  I kept my voice mute and just nodded. My words were venturing me into a place I shouldn’t tread.

  “I figured we’d switch houses. I’ll spend the night here. You spend the night at my place. This way if anyone does come, you’ll be safely tucked into my guest room and I can identify the person.”

  Pictures of a bruised and battered Steve filled my mind. I fought back tears. “What about you? I don’t want someone hurting you. It’s my home. If someone comes, I’ll deal with it.”

  With a stubborn expression chiseled onto his handsome face, he held out his hands. In one, he gripped the cell phone, the other hand held his keys. “Then we call the police. Your choice. Choose one. “

  There was the third choice I inadvertently brought up. “We’ll go with my plan. I’ll stay at your place. With you. Not with you with you. But…”

  “I get what you’re saying.”

  “Good.” Because if I tried explaining anymore, who knows what I landed up proposing we do. Wicked, delightful thoughts bounced around in my head.

  I went upstairs and packed my fabric weekender bag. I jammed a t-shirt and sweatpants inside. I slowed down so the R-rated movie playing in my head stopped. I thought about Marilyn and all the prison movies I seen. I shuddered.