Cropped to Death

by Christina Freeburn

  “Faith, are you all right?” Dianne started behind the counter.

  “Maybe I should stay for the crop,” Linda said.

  I placed my finger against my lips then pointed at the back of the store. “Don’t let my grandmothers hear you. I don’t want them fussing.”

  Dianne frowned and tried hustling me to a chair. “Maybe they should.”

  I sidestepped away from Dianne. “I’m fine. I got rear-ended coming back from Morgantown. No big deal. Everything—” I started to say everything was fine then stopped. I hadn’t checked the machine in the back. Maybe all wasn’t sunshine and roses.

  Dianne’s gaze narrowed and she walked around me, looking me over. “I’m supposed to buy that?”

  “The police towed my car and an officer drove me here. My grandmothers already know everything. If I wasn’t okay, don’t you think they would insist I go to the doctor?” I raised my arms into the air and then quickly slapped them down to my sides. I didn’t need to go all drama queen.

  “That’s true.” Dianne released a defeated sigh of agreement.

  “I just totally forget about checking on your machine. I’ll get—”

  “I can get the machine.” Linda stood in front of me and held out her hand. “If you give me your keys, I’ll take it to Home Brewed.”

  “Problem is, I don’t have the car. I’m sure one of the officers will be returning it.” I didn’t want to mention which officer because then Dianne would scold me about having a new career aspiration. “Once my car is here, I’ll take it over.”

  “I’ll just call Jasper and ask him to bring it over,” Dianne said. “Or Bobbi-Annie. I just made some pumpkin muffins and she’d love a fresh one. I’ll have my machine and your car will be returned, in about five minutes.”

  Dianne hustled off, needing her beloved machine back home.

  “Why do the police have your car?” Linda asked.

  “Probably because it didn’t need any work. The officer didn’t want me driving and probably thought it would be easier for me to pick it up from them.”

  “Mmmm...hmmm.” Linda fiddled with the class sign-ups lists on the counter, avoiding eye contact with me.

  Linda’s comment rankled me. Why else would Roget tow the car there? It was closer to the scene and he needed to get it out of the way before more motorists got angry.

  And maybe a way for him to find out what I was up to? Darn it! What if I left a clue about the purpose of my trip? I’d be in serious trouble. I was so not a good amateur sleuth.

  Everyone knew the man suspected me, thanks to our resident reporter’s tell-all published in the newspaper. I’m surprised Linda came in today to work with a possible murderer, or at least the accomplice of a suspected murderer.

  Then again, this might be the highlight of her day and give her something to talk about with her son and friends.

  “Is it okay if I run to get a coffee at Home Brewed? I didn’t have time to grab a drink and having her in here has made the place smell like pumpkin. Regular coffee just won’t do.”

  I drew in a deep breath. Pumpkin and coffee. Now I wanted one. “As long as you get me a mocha.” I grinned. “Let me get you—”

  Linda smiled at me. “My treat.”

  “Thanks. I’ll treat next time. “

  I headed over to the displayed layouts and studied them, looking for a new embellishing trend that warranted its own class. The store needed to keep up with fresh approaches in scrapbooking, or else our customers sought out online stores for inspiration. I bent closer and looked at a few of the photos. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear my grandmothers took one of the photos. The subject was Steve taking a picture of our booth, but the angle of the shot told me no way.

  While Steve did make a nice focus for a picture, especially since the photographer got a lovely rear view, it really wasn’t what we were looking for store promotion.

  Linda returned with the smell of caffeine and a hint of citrus accompanying her arrival. “Dianne sent over samples of her new specialty drink.”

  I took one of the lidded foam cups and then picked up a handled basket from the end of the counter. “I’ll be pulling the supplies for tonight’s class.”

  I headed into the paper racks, weaving through the reds and yellows to reach the browns. The hues ranged from sand to a brown so dark it could pass for black. What shade and texture should I use tonight?

  A smoother paper worked better for beginners, as it was easier for tearing and for making other embellishments, but I had no idea the skill level of the women signed up for the contest class and mini crop. A texture cardstock added an extra dimension to the work and gave the beginning layout a little edge. If using it for a border, tearing the texture paper added a nice jagged effect with feathering detail.

  Maybe a sheet of both styles using a monochromatic scheme. That worked. A deeper beige mixed with a sand almost white shade. Neutrals worked well with any photos. I’d take a look at the students’ pictures when they arrived and pull complementary colors showcased in the photos.

  Time to pick embellishments. I gathered up sheets of letter stickers in a variety of fonts and colors for the layout titles. I stopped in front of the clear stamps and picked out an alphabet set. I’d buy the stamps and share them tonight with the class. Hopefully, they’d love them so much, the two attendees would want a set for themselves. To save some money, I’d go with standard neutral paint colors. If the croppers wanted a hue with a little more pop, they could purchase it.

  The bell above the door jangled. I took the items out of the basket and arranged them in piles on the tables. Before the crop started, I wanted to check on the amount of choices offered for the class participants. I snapped my fingers. Items for the prize basket.

  A shadow fell over me. I jerked upright, and the wind whooshed in my ears even though I was inside. This fear issue was getting annoying. I hated feeling vulnerable. Taking in a deep breath, my heart rate slowed to normal as I realized a new customer, not a stalker, entered into the store.

  A dark-haired woman in her late teens hovered behind me. Two splotches of red bloomed on her cheeks and she stammered. “I was wondering if. Well, if you could…would you mind…”

  I smiled and waved my hand over the products on the table. “It’s not too late to sign up for the crop tonight.”

  She pushed a piece of paper toward me. “I was wondering if…”

  I held my pleasant smile and waited.

  “If I could… like… get…”

  The smile strained my cheeks.

  “Your autograph.”

  “My what?” I kept my reaction in check, uncertain if amusement or anger was more appropriate.

  “Aren’t you the owners’ granddaughter? The one mentioned in the paper?”

  I went with anger. Before the scolding exploded from my mouth, the young woman turned and fled out the door. Why couldn’t the store reach celebrity status because of our awesome customer service rather than because of murder?

  I had a crop I needed to finish planning. We also needed a way to draw more to the crops. Door prizes usually encouraged scrapbookers to sign-up, and pay, so I’d add a little incentive and display the goodies in the window.

  And if that didn’t work…well, I could just start signing products and auctioning them off.

  EIGHTEEN

  With the class materials gathered, I went on to the next project, putting together the prize basket for new scrapbookers. The class attendees had a fifty-percent chance of winning. Good odds. With Linda being new to the hobby, she’d know what would catch a beginner’s eye.

  Linda hovered over a magazine, biting her lip, as she ran her finger over a page. Scrunching up her eyes, she muttered the steps on how to hand stitch on cardstock. The dedication she showed for learning more about the business touched me. I wished there was something I could do to show my appreciation.

  If we had boxes to unpack from the show, Linda’s layout could be in one of them. I grinned.
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br />   “I’ll be in the storage room for a little bit. I need to search for something.”

  Linda nodded absentmindedly.

  Pushing aside the gold-lined maroon curtain, I went into the backroom. Three boxes were inside the room. I stepped closer and read the labels. New paper ordered from an up-and-coming company.

  I placed my hands on my hips and turned around in the recently organized space. Grandma Cheryl spent some time in the room. She probably double-checked to make sure Detective Roget hadn’t carted off anything else as evidence. If Cheryl had found the layout, she’d have put it in a safe place. The office.

  I hurried out of the storage area and tapped on the closed office door. After waiting a minute, I opened it inch-by-inch. Habits died hard. Even with my grandmothers at home, I still felt like I was invading their space.

  Hope had left on the desk light. I walked over and snapped it off, my eyes grazing over the financial statement for last month. I winced. We had to get more people into the store, and I feared the contest was a bust. A few entries had trickled in, but the early closing of the Art Benefit Show probably stopped a lot of scrapbookers from getting photos.

  I lifted up some magazines and catalogs hoping to find the layout. Nothing. I scanned the rest of the room. Where would my grandmothers put a layout?

  Shame skipped into my heart. Actually, where would I have put the layout? Sierra hadn’t been able to fix the layout and handed it off to me. I had looked at it and set it down when a potential customer walked into our booth. That page meant the world to Linda. It was the last picture she took of her husband and son together. We tried dissuading her from using that photograph on a display page, but she insisted, wanting to share the day with her husband and son.

  Where was that layout? How would I tell her I misplaced her most precious page, or worse yet, left it at the convention center? Who knows what they did with items left behind.

  One last place. I dropped onto my knees and scrambled under the desk. A crumbled piece of paper had rolled behind the leg. I snagged hold of it and withdrew the wadded paper from its hiding place.

  My name written in Hope’s handwriting caught my eye. I tossed the paper ball from palm to palm. Should I read it? It did have my name on it. But if Hope wanted me to know, she’d have told me. Right? I flicked at the edges of the paper.

  Once again, curiosity won out. And once again, it crashed my world.

  Numbers were written on the top of the page. If it was the financials of the business, not too bad as long as the bottom number was the account balance. If not, the store was in serious trouble. But it was the two words underneath that made me regret reading the paper.

  Tell Faith. No punctuation, but underlined multiple times. Was it a question or a statement? What did she need to tell me? Why was the decision a struggle for Grandma Hope?

  “A cropper just arrived,” Linda called from the front of the store.

  I jumped up, crumbling back up the paper and tossing it into the trash. I didn’t want Grandma knowing I found it.

  “On my way,” I squeaked out.

  I yanked a hair band from my jeans pocket and twisted my hair into a ponytail, as hair dangling in my face was a major distraction while I taught. When I was a cropper rather than a teacher, I liked the veil my hair created around me. Hiding my face made it hard for someone to talk to me.

  I raced into the main part of the store and started my warm greeting, only to stop in mid-speak. Roget stood in the doorway, surveying the place.

  “What are you doing here?” I spoke before I engaged my brain.

  Linda’s eyes widened. She must not remember the man was the detective investigating Marilyn’s murder, and we’ve never had a male cropper.

  Roget headed toward the magazines and picked one up and flipped through it. “Checking out the store.”

  “You already did that, remember?” I pointed toward the spot where our scissors had been and waged war with my eyes. My glare had no effect on him as he continued flipping through the magazine at a leisurely pace.

  “I also brought back your phone and car.” He held out my keys and my cell phone.

  Linda’s mouth popped open.

  “Thanks,” I grumbled. I took the items and quickly stored them under the counter wishing Linda would stop acting like there was a tennis match going on between me and Roget.

  Something was different about him. Watching Roget take an exaggerated interest in the latest issue of a new scrapbooking magazine, Life Artist Diva, the feeling intensified. The longer I kept my eye on the man, the more I felt—knew—something was off. I studied his stance and then I figured it out. Roget wore jeans and a polo shirt. An off-duty outfit.

  Linda wandered over and smiled at Roget. “How long have you been scrapbooking?”

  “I don’t.”

  Looking at the clock, I cheered in my head. Two minutes until closing. I pasted on my sweetest smile and turned it full force on Roget. “If you’d like help in choosing some items, please come back tomorrow morning. We’re closing—”

  He pointed at the table. “What kind of class are you teaching tonight?”

  “Scrapbooking,” I replied ever so helpfully.

  “Actually, it’s more of a mini-crop,” Linda said. “Women bring their photographs to work on pages together. Tonight’s is focused on the contest.”

  “This class is for those interested in entering the layout contest of the Art Benefit Show,” I said. “We’re offering prizes for the best layout in two categories.”

  Roget placed the magazine back in its slot. “The contest the woman was ranting about in the coffee shop?”

  “The very one,” I said.

  Linda kept volleying her gaze from me to Roget. Her brows drew together and she gnawed on her lip.

  “Detective, the crop is a teaching crop and starts in a few minutes. I need to make sure I have everything ready.” So please go away.

  He gestured toward the empty chairs. “Who are you teaching?”

  I shoved down my anger and tried a somewhat polite answer. “Croppers sometimes run late.”

  “Then I guess that means the class…crop…whatever you call it, hasn’t started. So, I could take it.” He jammed his hands into his back jean pockets.

  “You’re kidding.” My eyebrows rose. “You want to attend our crop? You said you weren’t a hobby kind of guy.”

  “Maybe I just haven’t found the right one.”

  “The crop is forty-five dollars, which is actually scheduled for today and tomorrow,” Linda said. “That price also includes supplies for a two-page layout and use of the stores’ tools and computer.”

  “Sounds reasonable.” Roget pulled out his wallet and headed for the register.

  “What pictures are you going to use from the Art Benefit Show? Crime scene photos?” I said.

  Linda paled.

  Roget stared at me, his face frozen between shock and amusement. I wanted to grab the snarky words and shove them back in my mouth, but it was too late for a retraction.

  “I’ll take care of this transaction, Linda.” I walked through the small opening and kept my gaze on the floor. “You can go ahead and go home.”

  “Are you sure?” Her voice wavered.

  “Absolutely.” I rung up the purchase, took Roget’s debit card, and ran it through without ever meeting his gaze.

  “If you’re sure, I’ll head out. And if you need me to fill in tomorrow morning, just call me.” Linda exited out the front door. The tinkle added a sound of joy into the mix of snark and baiting wit.

  True, I didn’t trust the detective’s motives—or him, for that matter—but that was no excuse to be rude. As my grandmothers kept reminding me, they raised me better. And I also upset Linda. Since I couldn’t apologize to her, I’d have to settle for the only person available.

  “I’m sorry. Sometimes…” I didn’t know what else to say.

  Roget shoved the receipt into his back pocket. “You’re not the first or the last p
erson to speak without thinking. I bring that out in people. Mind if I ask a question?”

  I grimaced. “Depends.”

  He grinned. “Have to admire an honest woman.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Roget’s grin deepened. “I thought the backdoor was for the employees. That one just went out the front.”

  “Linda doesn’t open or close yet. She’s only been working here a few months, so she doesn’t have a key.”

  A slight frown tugged at the corners of Roget’s mouth and his brows drew together. “Don’t trust her?”

  I wandered from behind the counter into the shopping area, doing my best to stay away from Roget. He was up to something. “I trust her. It’s just that we only have four keys. I have one, my grandmothers share one, and Sierra has one. Marilyn does. Did.”

  Maybe we should get that key back and let Linda use it until Marilyn returned.

  “That makes sense.” He slapped his hands together and rubbed them back and forth. “Should we get started?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to wait a few minutes.”

  “Not a problem.” Resting one foot on top of the other, Roget leaned against the wall.

  Since he wanted to play student, I’d oblige. I pulled the band from my hair and it fell to my shoulders. “I chose some neutrals paper for the background. If you want, you could pick out a different color or we can find a complementary color of cardstock to use as the photo mat for your project.”

  “And that would be?” His gaze roamed around the store.

  “Are you asking what is your project or what is cardstock?”

  “Both.”

  I let out a huff of breath. “The project is up to you. The cardstock I can show you. It’s a type of paper we carry. It’s down this aisle.” I pointed.

  “How would I know cardstock from wide ruled paper?” He asked, humor lacing his words.

  “For one thing, we don’t sell wide-ruled paper. We’re not a stop for back to school shopping.”

  “I’m a guy. Paper is paper.”