Framed to Death (A Faith Hunter Scrap This Mystery Book 4) (4 page)

After my run-in with the hoodlums last night, I went straight to bed, skipping dinner. My stomach was begging for some food. “Fine. I’ll hear you out, but it doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”

I climbed into the truck then took a sip of coffee. Black. No sugar. No milk. I should’ve clarified what type of coffee before I agreed to the tête-à-tête.

Charlotte pulled away from the curb. “I’m sorry. The officer that spoke to us, some intense guy named Mitchell, had already talked to Whitney and Kirstin before coming to us. Coach Rutherford had called him and said you tried selling drugs to the girls. Hannah and I were shocked.”

“Why didn’t you clear it up?”

“He had a picture from Hannah’s Instagram showing you giving one of the girls the bag of Janie. It threw us off balance. He said since Hannah took the pictures to document the crime and posted them, it proved she wanted to let everyone know the truth. The other girls said Hannah was the hero. All I kept thinking was if Hannah disagreed, she’d be in trouble. I didn’t want my little girl going to jail. Whitney Rutherford is considered pure and good in this town.”

I remembered the flash going off, right in my face. Whitney had Hannah’s phone and took the picture. The situation grew less and less fuzzy. Coach Rutherford had rounded up the people to block me from leaving the police station.

“Why did Hannah post the first picture? Why not just call you or the police when the drug was brought into the store?”

“Hannah knew she needed evidence to prove Whitney bought the drugs. No one would believe her over Whitney.”

“Chief Moore would’ve. And Ted and Steve. I would. I do.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Charlotte turned onto my street. “Whitney is the daughter of the town golden boy. Hannah is the daughter of a criminal. I was run out of our last town.”

“You set a garbage can on fire. On the scale of crimes, it ranks pretty low.”

“True. But that was arrest number three.”

“The first time doesn’t count. The guy deserved to be hit.”

“It’s the extortion rumor that bothered everyone.”

“Extortion?” I coughed out the word, and the coffee I’d just sipped.

“Yes. The police didn’t believe that the owner of the biggest car dealership in town was trying to sleep with my daughter.”

I sat with my mouth wide open.

“So I snuck into his office and swiped his phone. There were a few pictures of him and Hannah at his house. They were having a nice PG-13 time in his pool. I told him he had two choices: jail, or give me enough money to move Hannah out of town.”

“I’m surprised killing him wasn’t one of the options you offered.”

“Hannah needed me. Her dad isn’t much of a winner, and I didn’t think the police would understand me murdering the man when they refused to believe he was dating her. And as he told me, Hannah was sixteen, the legal age of consent in West Virginia. I told him a sixteen-year-old girl and a forty-three-year-old man would never be legal in my mind.” She released a shaky breath.

I rubbed her back. “I’m so sorry, Charlotte.”

“Hannah is always looking for a father figure. I wish I’d picked a better man to father my child, but then I wouldn’t have Hannah.”

I’d been in jail for a crime I didn’t commit, and I wasn’t going to duplicate that time of my life. And I’d also refuse to allow a browbeaten confused teenage girl to go to jail either. “I’m not selling drugs, and you and Hannah aren’t selling drugs, so our only course of action—”

“Is finding the person who is,” Charlotte finished my sentence for me. “You’re the expert. Tell me what I need to do.”

FOUR

I slid out of Charlotte’s truck, patting the pocket of my jacket. Scrap it all. I forgot my keys. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hope the police had locked up, thereby keeping out nosy neighbors, or had left my home unsecured so I could go inside without bothering my grandmothers. They’d want to know I was home, but I didn’t want them knowing I was up to something.

My contemplation lasted only a few seconds. My grandmother Cheryl opened the front door, shouting over her shoulder, “Faith’s home.”

Making a plan was going on the backburner.

Charlotte nodded at me, hoisting herself back into her truck. “I’ll talk to you later. I have to head home and get Hannah to school this morning. I’d rather she avoid her usual morning ride.”

I made a mental note to ask Charlotte which one of the two girls at Polished last night usually took Hannah to school. Chances were that girl was Hannah’s closest friend and someone Hannah perhaps colluded with to bring Whitney down.

I hugged Cheryl.

She clasped me close, squishing out all the breath in my lungs. “We were so worried. We wanted to go, but thought it was best to watch your home and keep an eye on what those officers were doing. Heather videotaped all of it.”

“I’ll tell Mrs. Barlow thanks later.” I stepped inside, the smell of sausage gravy and biscuits making my stomach rumble.

“You can tell her now.” Cheryl pointed toward the dining room I’d converted into scrapbooking central.

Mrs. Barlow, my across-the-street neighbor and announcer of any and all secrets known, was hunched over the table, the tip of her tongue sticking out. She arranged and rearranged a grouping of pictures. Beside her right elbow was a plethora of choices of my cardstock, ranging from peacock blue to alabaster white. She picked up the top sheet, regular blue, and laid it next to the photos. Shaking her head, she shoved it to the side and plucked off the next choice.

“She’s working on a scrapbook album,” Cheryl said, a hint of pride in her voice. “Her first one.”

I was shocked. Every Friday for the last nine months, Mrs. Barlow came into the store and purchased two pieces of white cardstock. I had anticipated the day when she’d change it up and buy a different color, never expecting her to actually have pictures she wanted to scrapbook. And I’d definitely never expected to see her use my personal cropping space.

“Breakfast is almost done,” Hope called out from the kitchen.

“How is she?” I asked, linking my arm with Cheryl’s. I figured not so good since Hope was hiding out in the kitchen. She hated me seeing her enraged. Distraught, yes. Disappointed, yes. Worried, yes. On the verge of harming someone, or at least wishing to, no. Grandma Hope found that emotion very unchristian-like and strived to always be the best example for me.

“She broke her date with Chief Moore tonight. It’ll be Hope and me again, like old times. He’ll have to attend the football game by himself.”

“It’s not his fault.” Not really. He did go a little overboard, and I thought he should’ve told Felicity Sullivan to take a long walk across the Appalachian Trail, but the man did have the county to answer to. If it was anyone else besides my grandmothers, I’d have been furious if the chief just took their word.

Mrs. Barlow released a loud, long-suffering sigh. She cupped her chin in her hands, glanced over at us, heaving out another woe-is-me exhalation.

“I’ll see to that.” I tilted my head in Mrs. Barlow’s direction.

Cheryl smiled. “I’ll go set the table and tell Hope you’re right as rain.”

“I appreciate you being there for my grandmas this morning,” I said as I approached Mrs. Barlow.

“Wouldn’t think of doing anything else.” Mrs. Barlow held up a stack of photos. “Can you give me a hand? I’m not real sure what I should do. It’s so complicated.”

“The first layout is always the hardest.” I took the pictures, layout ideas already swirling in my head. Mrs. Barlow was a classic kind of woman with a touch of sassiness. Pattern paper with chevrons in distressed primary colors would mix well with neutrals, giving her album a cohesive look. She loved to garden, so flowers with a touch of glitter accents would be a nice complement, adding in some touches of her personality to the pages.

As I flipped through the pictures, my brow furrowed. Flowers might not be the best choice for embellishments as the pictures featured nothing but flowers, in large tubes and vases.

Why in the world was Mrs. Barlow scrapbooking the inventory of Lake’s florist shop?

“Lake wants to document her store and knows I shop at Scrap This. She asked if I could make some layouts for her. Her flower shop burned practically to the ground last night, and she’d like to have something pretty to look at rather than just a stack of pictures.” Mrs. Barlow blushed. “I told her I was a wonderful scrapbook artist. Truth is I don’t know a thing about it.”

I was certain Mrs. Barlow also wanted the fresh gossip straight from the source. The fire had happened last night, so Lake must have visited her friend bright and early this morning in the cover of darkness.

“We have a paper line at the store that will showcase these photos beautifully.”

“Wonderful.” Mrs. Barlow drew the front of her shirt away from her chest and stuck her hand inside. After rummaging around, she drew out three fifty dollar bills. “Buy whatever you think will look nice. Don’t worry about putting the pages in a book. Just put them in the page protectors and I’ll take them to Lake that way. Do you think you can have the pages done by Tuesday?”

When had I agreed to scrapbook the pictures for her?

“Lake plans on dropping off more pictures this afternoon. I’ll just bring them over before I go to the game. You’ll be home?”

“Yes. I don’t have any plans.” But maybe I should. The game would be a good place to talk to the girls that were at Polished last night and possibly get some ideas on who was supplying the teens of Eden with Janie.

The problem with the plan was the cheerleaders would be cheering; not the right time to have a little chat with them. And there was the problem of Coach Rutherford being there. I was sure he wouldn’t be too keen on me chatting with his daughter.

What about this morning? The students were just arriving. I had a better chance of Coach Rutherford not being in the student parking lot than him not being at the game. Step one in proving I wasn’t a drug dealer was about to commence.

I parked in a visitor’s spot at Eden High School. Students hustled from the parking lot toward the door, attempting to beat the impending bell. Walking toward the glass front doors, I scanned the crowd, trying to pick out Hannah. I preferred to get information out of her first. A few gazes shifted my way, though most of the kids were caught up in their phones and conversations.

A large group of cheerleaders were gossiping near the doors. The snippet I heard stopped me in my tracks. I hid behind a large column, wanting to eavesdrop a little more before I asked any questions.

I might get my answers without having to say a word. Just in case the universe was working with me, I pulled out my cell phone to record the conversation.

“I wonder if the police will talk to Whitney,” a girl said, tapping on her cell phone. “I heard she was the one buying.”

“She told the Scrap This girl to come over to Polished?”

“Someone called her. We all know no one does anything when Whitney’s around that she hasn’t approved.”

“I’d drop it.” The tallest girl in the bunch jerked her head toward the student parking lot. Whitney was approaching the group, a scowl on her face.

“The picture Hannah posted went viral. I hope Whitney doesn’t get kicked off the team for being there. The school handbook says no drugs.” The lilt in a cheerleader’s voice told me that was exactly what she hoped would happen.

Whitney stomped up to her entourage, blond hair in a ponytail, perfect curls dancing down her back. “Has anyone seen Kirstin or Hannah this morning?”

“No,” the cheerleaders answered in unison, averting their gazes to the cell phones in their hands.

“Did any of you pass on the photos Hannah took last night?” Whitney planted her hands on her hips and glared at the girls.

“Don’t know why you’re worried. We all know it’s not your fault,” a petite redhead said.

A couple of the girls giggled. Whitney shot them a scathing look and the merriment ended. “It isn’t. Hannah was the one being all snap happy with her phone.”

“There’s Kirstin.” The redhead pointed out a teen slipping out of a rusty red compact car.

“Interesting.” Whitney tapped her cell against her chin. “Hannah’s not with her this morning. I guess Charlotte shut that friendship down.” Whitney started toward her.

A young man in a wheelchair moved into Whitney’s path, a determined look on his face. He gripped the rim of his wheels, making small corrections to match every sidestep Whitney made. The pair made eye contact. He shook his head, raising his left hand toward his mouth like he was holding a cigarette.

I quickly snapped a photo. I was certain the kid was Brandon Sullivan. Why was he making that gesture?

“I’ll talk to her later.” Whitney about-faced, snapping her fingers in the air. “Let’s go.”

The cheerleaders turned as one unit and entered the school, singing and chanting praises to the football team.

My sleuthing gene kicked into high gear at Whitney’s reaction. Was his gesture a veiled accusation that Whitney had something to do with his car accident? The scuttlebutt around town was that Brandon had smoked Janie right before the wreck that paralyzed him. Brandon denied it, and as nothing was found in his system, no charges were filed against him. Of course, the synthetic drug wouldn’t have shown up. Felicity was certain something besides fatigue had caused her son to fall asleep at the wheel.

Brandon wheeled into the school.

Kirstin’s attention was on her phone. Perfect. I hurried into the lot, stepped into her path, and planted myself firmly, bracing for impact.

She smacked right into me. The cell tumbled to the ground. She leaned down and picked up her phone, checking the screen to make sure it wasn’t cracked. “Sorry. Good thing I bought this case.”

“Why did you lie about me?”

After opening and closing her mouth a few times she muttered, “I didn’t.”

“The police told me they had witnesses saying I arrived with the drugs.”

She shoved her phone into her back pocket. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“Whitney and Hannah aren’t going to save you when the truth comes out. And it will.”

“Says you.”

I took hold of her arm, stopping her from running into the school.

“Once the police look at the timestamp of when that picture was posted and when I set the alarm for Scrap This, they’ll know the drug was already there when I went into Polished.”

“Let me go,” Kirstin whispered, not putting up a real struggle.

I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to force the truth out of her or didn’t want any attention directed her way for some other reason. “I don’t care who brought the drugs into the store. I want to know who sold it to one of you girls.”

Kirstin heaved out a sigh. “You don’t think it’ll get around that I snitched?”

“People’s lives are in jeopardy.”

A buzz filled the air. First bell.

“What does it matter?” Kirstin’s gaze darted to and fro, looking for a savior. “This will all end soon and you’ll be off the hook.”

“How do you know that?”

Kirstin heaved out an anxious breath, brows drawing down over her worry-filled gray eyes. “I just do. It’s not like you can smuggle potpourri into your regular inventory. You guys don’t sell it.”

Into your inventory. Did Kirstin just let something slip? “Which store is?”

She blanched. “I don’t know. How would I know?”

“You said we couldn’t smuggle it into our inventory. And you’re quite certain this will go away. That gives me the impression you know who is selling it.”

Kirstin bit her lip, looking around nervously.

“If you know something, you have to tell the police. People’s lives are being ruined. Someone could get seriously hurt.”

Tears filled her eyes. “You don’t understand. You don’t need the Rutherfords to like you to have a job. My mom does.”

“Who do you think is going to be blamed next when I’m cleared?”

Kirstin smiled. “Hannah.”

“No. You. The police have your and Whitney’s statement. Hannah was in the back doing laundry when the drugs were brought into the store. Remember?”

Kirstin’s eyes widened, and we stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, she spoke. “If Whitney isn’t at cheerleading practice or a game, you can find her at Upcycle Wear, Made With Love, or Piece A Pie.”

“I didn’t know Piece A Pie was still a teen hangout.”

“It’s not.” Kirstin checked the time on her phone. “I have to go.”

“How did Hannah get wrapped up into this?”

“Because Brandon almost died.”

Coldness swept the back of my head. Someone was watching me. I slowly turned, trying to act casual and not like I was up to something. Principal Hanover stood right outside the front door of the school, gaze zeroed in on us. Had the final bell rung? The man had the same stern expression I remembered seeing every day when I was in high school. He had just been hired as the new principal, coming up from the elementary school. Students in my class were thrilled, assuming the principal for a bunch of babies would be a pushover for them. We hadn’t thought he’d last long on the job, yet fifteen years later he was still in charge of Eden High.

Principal Hanover strode over, staring at my hand lingering on Kirstin’s arm. “You’re thirty seconds away from being tardy, young lady.”

I placed my arms behind my back. “It’s my fault. I wanted to ask her a few questions—”

Principal Hanover held out a hand. “I’m sure you do, Miss Hunter. Kirstin, go inside and pick up an excused tardy slip from the secretary.”

She scampered away.

“I hope you’re not trying to browbeat any of the students into changing the statements they made to the police.”

“Just trying to get to the truth.”

“Which from my understanding, the police already have.”

“No, they don’t,” I said.

“I’m sure that’s what you’d like everyone to believe.” Hanover settled a disapproving look on me. “I’m asking you to stay away from school grounds. Parents will not be pleased to find out you were spotted here talking to the students.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal.”

“That will depend upon everyone’s interpretation of what you were doing here. Seeking the truth, or selling drugs.”

He had a point. As long as my name was in the running as Eden’s drug dealer, parents would automatically think the worst of my being here, especially when I was lurking behind columns and conversing with students in parking lots.