Cropped to Death (Faith Hunter Scrap This Mystery) (23 page)

I made a quick stop in the kitchen. Opening up the refrigerator, I peered inside and found fruits, vegetables and a chunk of cheese. I shut the door and searched the cabinets and found a half-empty bag of chocolate chips, noodles, soup and crackers. Cheese and crackers would have to do, plus a handful of chocolate chips. I tossed the rich morsels into my mouth as I prepared a healthier late night snack. 

Carrying my plate of cubed Monterey Jack cheese and butter crackers, I walked over to the craft table. I juggled the items while I cleared off a spot in the corner. I never finished cleaning, so I’d simply have to create amidst the chaos. Appropriate considering the state of my life.

Nope. Only pleasant and happy thoughts allowed.

The easiest way for me to reach a peaceful state of mind was focusing on the business side of my life rather than the personal. We took photos at every single Scrap This event and I planned on creating pages for advertising use. Photos of Roget and Steve working on layouts would’ve been great.

Humming a made up tune, I gathered up photos and white textured cardstock. The photos would pop off the page rather than using the color of the cardstock to grab a person’s attention. I placed the choices onto the table and sorted through the pictures. After choosing three from our last customer crop, I put them on the cardstock and arranged, then rearranged, them. Once I settled on the placement, I reached for the adhesive.

None. I searched through the supplies on the table, but came up empty. When was the last time I used the dispenser?

I closed my eyes. My cropping tote appeared in my mind. I took scrapping necessities to the Art Benefit Show in case any layouts needed fixing. The packed bag still sat by the front door where I placed it on Saturday.

My stomach rumbled and I snagged a cheese and cracker sandwich as I headed toward the front door. My purse was on top of it. Linda’s layout. I could fix hers and have at least one co-worker happy with me. I carefully carried it to my work table.

A jagged hole marred the pattern paper and the tip of the photograph near her husband’s head. I cringed. Poor Linda. I studied the layout, turning the page in different directions as I contemplated the best way to repair the rip while maintaining the integrity and style of Linda’s page.

The easiest solution was placing a fabric flower over the hole, but the embellishment didn’t complement the photo of her husband and son. Linda’s handsome son grinned out, his arm draped around his dad’s shoulder. The older man had his head turned toward his son, a look of pride and affection glowing on his face.

I examined the products in my craft space. A piece of ribbon or fabric twisted and stapled to form a remembrance ribbon would give the layout a feeling of reverence. I ran my fingers across the glass jars on the shelf. The soft pastel colors spoke of femininity.

Until tonight, I had no need for masculine colors when I cropped at home. The photographs I did have from my time in the Army were kept in a box in my closet, under an old blanket. I didn’t destroy them because totally obliterating my past left me nervous, almost as if I would repeat my doom by not having a reminder of it.

I reached for a jar containing a light beige ribbon with a white strip stitched down the middle and placed it on top of the layout. The light brown clashed with the tone of the page. I rummaged in the jar and none of the other choices fit. The colors and shades gave the layout a cheery, almost comical tone.

I’d hold off on adding the embellishment until tomorrow when I had the store’s stock to choose from. This wasn’t a case of just repairing a display project, but mending a work of the heart for a grieving widow. Picking up the protected layout, I studied it for any more damage. A brad crinkled up the beginning of the journaling box, smashing a few words of the text.

With care, I slipped the page from the protector and laid it on the table. Using my nail, I smoothed out the corner of the four-inch text box. The paper twisted and I sucked in a breath. Please don’t let me have caused more damage. Another slip of cardstock peeked out from underneath. The brad had been used for a hidden journaling panel.

Should I check the hidden box? It wasn’t fair to invade her privacy, even with good intentions. As I moved the top layer back into place, newsprint slid into my view. It was an article, probably her husband’s obituary. The nice thing to do was make sure the document was intact. If needed, I could go down to the newspaper and get a replacement copy.

The article was attached to black cardstock by a piece of white ribbon tied at the top of the mat. Another journaling box peeked out from underneath. Gently, I lifted the obituary.

My stomach plummeted and I felt light-headed.

“Widow’s claim denied.” On the left hand side of the newspaper article was a small picture of Michael Kane walking down the courthouse steps.

“There might be another pair of scissors missing.”
Linda’s comment from the other day entered my mind. Detective Roget hadn’t publically spoken about the scissors. How did Linda know there was a pair missing?

Don’t start conjuring up another suspect. Get facts, not guesses.

I went upstairs and searched online for more information about the accident that claimed Jim Anderson’s life. A logging truck had overturned on a winding road one foggy evening and the trees rolled off the truck. One of the logs crashed into Jim’s car and crushed him. I shuddered.

According to some accounts of the accident, the truck driver had fallen asleep. The driver denied the accusation, claiming Jim Anderson’s small compact car collided into his rig. That didn’t add up to me. How could a small car cause so much damage to a large rig that it jackknifed? Did the driver notice Jim Anderson’s car at the last minute and swerve, causing the load to tip and break the chains holding the logs in place?

Jim had been given a ticket early that night for driving ten miles over the speed limit during poor weather conditions, and it factored into the jurors’ verdict, giving them reasonable doubt. It was possible Jim Anderson didn’t heed the warning and continued driving at an unsafe speed, thereby contributing to the accident—and his own death.

Poor Linda. How awful to sit in the courtroom and hear your beloved spouse blamed for his own death. I wished I could read the court transcript. What questions did Michael Kane ask the driver of the logging truck? Did Michael’s defense help the driver get off scot-free and leave Linda Anderson destitute?

Linda had come in one day begging for a job. She mentioned her husband died and left inadequate insurance. She had no job skills since she’d been a stay-at-home mother, then a stay-at-home wife, for the last twenty-five years. My grandmothers took pity on her and offered her a job on the spot even though our finances were probably as dire as Linda’s. My grandmothers’ compassion outweighed any business concerns.

What would I do with this information? Linda had a good—or a potentially good—reason for wanting Michael dead. I leaned back in the chair and stared at the screen. But just because she had a good reason didn’t mean she had the opportunity, means, and temperament to do it.

I’ve cried wolf so many times, nobody would believe me even if I had a written confession and a YouTube link of the murder.

I scrubbed at my eyes as weariness settled into my bones and my soul. I hated when people had blamed me for a crime based on no real evidence, and I’d been doing it to others to help Marilyn. Hadn’t Linda been through enough? Did I really want to walk up to her tomorrow and ask for her alibi?  I could do it with a little more finesse.

Or could I? Wasn’t that my biggest problem right now with Ted? Every time I tried to help Marilyn, I made matters worse. I wasn’t a subtle sleuth. I could do the smart thing, hand over all the information to the police. But what information did I really have? Michael Kane was a defense attorney for the truck company whose driver drove the semi that killed Jim Anderson. Was it fair to drag Linda into this mess just because I believed Marilyn innocent? It was one thing to take a good hard look at Annette Holland, but quite another to go after a widow because of one coincidence.

A quick check of our inventory would clear it right up without creating more unnecessary drama. Our town had enough of the necessary kind right now.

I kept hearing Annette say Michael told her he was afraid of “her.” What if he hadn’t meant afraid of his wife, but the woman he ensured lost a wrongful death settlement? Another issue I needed to clear up before I brought my new theory to Ted.

The insurance company was victorious. Jim Anderson slandered. Linda heart-broken and destitute.

Where was Linda when Michael was stabbed? If anyone had a solid motive to kill the man, it was Linda.

TWENTY-SEVEN

My plan for doing more Monday morning quarterbacking of Detective Roget’s decision to arrest Marilyn was in jeopardy. And the day had just started. I needed a “plan B” and I had spent all of Sunday coming up with a “plan A.” A simple yet brilliant plan thwarted by Grandma Hope.

Yesterday, I had pretended to be sick and skipped church. Having a run-in with Sierra and Hank was inevitable and I’d rather have it happen at the store than in the sanctuary. Not everyone needed to know about my meddling. Mrs. Newsome had gotten a new smartphone and would have any “discussion” up on her blog before the pastor got the words of the first hymn on the overhead.

Apparently, my moaning and whimpering were worthy of an Oscar as Hope had marched into my bedroom this morning to take me to the doctor. I had two choices: admit I lied yesterday, or be taken to the doctor like a child. I saw the doctor. Even scarier than tracking down a murderer was admitting to my grandmothers I lied about church.

When I finally arrived at work, a stack of layouts were on the counter and Hank was repairing the display boards. I smiled and waved but he—and Sierra—ignored me. This was going to be a long day. I slipped my purse under the counter.

Linda gave me a friendly smile and patted my arm. “It’ll work out.”

If she knew what I found out, she might not be so happy about it working out. “Thanks for coming in and helping. I was running way behind today.”

“It’s nice to be able to return the favor.”

I fingered the layouts. “The croppers redid their layouts?”

“After church, Linda and I helped your grandmothers’ come up with a plan. We extended the contest three days and decided the contestants could use photos from the show or any other one that illustrated how art is important in their life,” Sierra piped up from the display racks.

“Thanks for letting me know.”

“You would’ve already known if you hadn’t ditched your responsibility to them because you were too interested in hanging out with the detective.”

“I wasn’t—”

Sierra gave me the I’m-done-with-you hand.

“Ignore her,” Linda whispered. “She’ll see the truth soon enough.”

Or I would if Linda went home. “I appreciate all your hard work and filling in for me. Since I’m here, you can take off if you’d like.” Please, please, please.

Linda pouted slightly. “If you don’t need me, I’ll go. But I don’t mind working today, even if you can’t pay me. It’s better than my quiet house.”

“No. That’s not it. We’re doing fine.” I grinned. “I just wanted you to go about your day if you had any plans. Lunch out. Gardening. Reading a great book. Whatever.”

“I’ll just put the layouts up on the board,” Linda said.

Sierra shot a questioning look over at me.

This time I ignored her. I needed Linda out of the store so she didn’t see me check the inventory and put two and two together. Of course, that would only matter if she was the murderer.

While Linda put the layouts up, I scanned the inventory sheet Jasper left and jotted down the number of scissors the police took. Now to figure out a way to compare it to our current inventory. If a pair of scissors was missing, then I needed to figure out if Linda helped the scissors find their way into Michael’s chest.

“Going down a checklist?” Sierra asked as she walked toward the back of the store. “Who you accusing next?”

“I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I only answered what the detective asked.”

“I’d be careful if I were you, Linda,” Sierra sang. “Faith is being awfully friendly lately. Might be a motive there besides friendship.”

Linda paled.

“That’s not fair, Sierra.” Though actually spot on.

Sierra rolled her eyes and continued reorganizing the supplies. “Whatever, Faith.”

My friend’s words and attitude bruised my spirit. I needed to talk to someone who’d give me the benefit of the doubt, even when it appeared I didn’t deserve it. My grandmothers would, but I didn’t want them knowing what I involved myself in this time.

Grabbing the strap of my purse, I yanked it out. Papers slid out along with my purse. Sierra could clean up the mess. I headed for the front door. A nice brisk stroll would cool me off.

“Where are you going?” Sierra asked.

“Out. You and Linda have everything under control.”

“Say hi to Detective Roget for me.”

I slammed the door and marched across the parking lot. Let Sierra think what she wanted. Though I wished she kept it to herself. My low-key look into Linda’s possible involvement blew up before I even started.

In fifteen minutes, I made it to the courthouse and tugged open the door.

“Morning, Faith.” Mrs. Dawn Altwright, my former Bible school teacher, said. “Haven’t seen you here. Anything I can help with?”

“Just wanted to visit Steve.” I held in a groan. The man was working. What if he had a client in his office or was in court? “Do you know if he’s available?”

She winked at me and pointed the way. “For you, darling, I’m sure he is.”

I walked down the hallway and stopped in front of the door with the name Steve Davis on it. Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door and hoped I wasn’t making another mistake in my quest for justice.

I stepped inside and froze. I had never been in Steve’s office before. Unlike his immaculate house, which looked like he didn’t really live there, his office was a poster child for chaos. Papers and folders took up every available space. In the corner was a table holding a microwave and a box of clean plasticware.

What would my grandmothers say upon learning Steve wasn’t perfect?