Framed to Death (A Faith Hunter Scrap This Mystery Book 4) (9 page)

NINE

“I was getting my nails done.” I sat on the rolling chair, removed my sock and shoe, and wiggled my smudged pink toenails at my grandmothers. “Whoever told you otherwise was mistaken.”

When I strolled into Scrap This, the place was abuzz with excitement over Chad Carr’s death. The majority—at almost hundred percent—believed the man had received proper justice for supplying the teens with drugs. I originally thought the customers’ behavior—and not mine—had irritated my grandmothers.

“I can’t deal with this right now, Faith.” Hope turned from me, heading down the hallway leading to the office and employee lounge.

“There’s nothing to deal with. I promise.” I sent Grandma Cheryl a beseeching look and crossed my heart.

“I wish I could believe that.” Cheryl dropped a stack of orders on my desk. “For a girl who wants a quiet life, you sure do have a way of working yourself into someone else’s mess. Check these product numbers against special order requests and what’s currently on the shelf. We’ve been putting too much product on the clearance tables.”

“I verified those yesterday.”

“Double-checking never hurts.”

“This is busy work.” I knew what was going on. There was a mystery brewing in Eden, and Cheryl wanted me busy at the store, not gallivanting around town.

Cheryl muttered something under her breath and followed after Hope. I wasn’t sure if it was to console her best friend or conspire with her on a way to lock me in a tower.

“Have you found anything good?” Mrs. Barlow rushed into the store, panting and clutching at her side.

“There’s nothing good about Chad’s murder.” I fixed a displeased look at Mrs. Barlow. “I have nothing to say.”

“Chad Carr?” Mrs. Barlow tilted her head to the side, looking like a confused soulful-eyed puppy. “I was asking about Lake’s album. A fire inspector is coming on Monday, and she’d like to have something to show him.”

“Sorry. It wasn’t very nice of me to accuse you of being here for gossip.”

Mrs. Barlow’s eyes twinkled. “But since you brought it up…”

From my purse, I pulled out the stack of photos Mrs. Barlow had given me and walked away. I’d browse our products and find something to enhance pictures of Lake’s inventory. In the back of the store, a line of distressed pattern paper caught my eye. I picked out a few sheets and placed photos of roses in a gray vase on it. It would work. My gaze roamed the walls. This project was perfect to try out the new mosaic templates. I’d create a lovely collage using what were to me boring snapshots.

I totaled up the purchases on my phone, subtracting my employee discount. I was still within the budget.

“I wonder what she wants,” a customer stage-whispered.

“It’ll be interesting for Faith.”

Pushing down a sigh, I rummaged in my mind for one of the hundreds of I-know-nothing quotes that would work best with Karen. I knew she’d show up sooner or later to question me about being at the fire and bringing Hannah along for the ride. Or so the story went. I wasn’t up to talking with her. Fortunately, I had a good distraction at my fingertips. “Karen’s here to talk to me about what I saw this morning. If she spots you, she’ll interrogate you too.”

Mrs. Barlow beamed.

“That’s a wonderful idea. I should go speak with Karen about what I heard on the scanner last night. But she’s not here right now.”

I glanced out the large picture window. A disheveled and angry Dawn Carr paced up and down the sidewalk, muttering and gesturing wildly. I already had all the drama I needed for one day. There was no way I wanted to tangle with a raging, grieving widow who was also a suspected drug dealer.

“Can you go to the office and ask Hope to call the police?” I asked Mrs. Barlow.

The bell above the front door jingled. Dawn stepped inside and stared right at me. Mrs. Barlow scurried for the office, a gleam in her eye and a bounce in her step. There was nothing she loved more than drama: real or self-created. My grandmothers were encouraging her to start writing fiction in hopes it would contain her drama to paper rather than creating a ruckus at basket bingo or during Bunco games. So far, Mrs. Barlow still liked dabbling in real-world drama.

“You set my husband up. That’s why you came to my store Friday afternoon.” Dawn clutched a cell phone in her hand. “Admit it.”

I looked her in the eyes. “I think you should go home.”

“Why? So people can keep talking about me and my husband like we’re criminals and treat you like Miss Innocent?” Her body shook so hard, her teeth chattered.

Two women standing near the back wall of stickers edged forward. Not a smart move on their part, but I guess the promise of good gossip outweighed safety.

“I’m sorry about your husband and what you’re going through,” I said.

“Then fix it.” Dawn leaned over the counter, sinking her nails into my arm. “Tell the truth. You were at Made With Love on Friday, along with Felicity. You left the drugs there.”

“You really think I crawled under your building and left drugs?”

“The kids didn’t just hang out at our store, they hung out here too. There was a picture on Instagram. The potpourri was here, not at my store.”

The bell tinkled and another customer came into the store. Drat. Not Ted. The women paused by the front display, tilting their heads toward us.

I squeezed Dawn’s wrist until she unclenched my arm. “No, it wasn’t.”

“I have proof.” She ran her finger over her phone’s screen. Pictures flipped by. “See here. This is you.”

How long would that picture of me confiscating the drugs lurk around? “That’s me, but I was at Polished.”

“That’s a lie!” Dawn spun around and kicked one of the paper racks down.

“Stop.” I hustled around from behind the counter. “I’m not lying. I set the alarm before I left. The security company can verify that time. And I’ll show the police my bank records. They’ll see the only income I have coming in is what I make here.”

After every sentence, Dawn went after another rack, tossing it onto its side.

A flash went off. I spotted Hope and Mrs. Barlow standing at the entrance to the hallway leading to the back office and employee lounge. Mrs. Barlow used her cell to get another photo. I had to calm Dawn Carr down before she hurt herself or someone else, or I had to hurt her to stop the rampage.

“You set us up.” Dawn grabbed a case of pens and heaved it toward the front window.

I stepped into the path of the pens; picture windows were expensive to replace. I’d rather deal with a bruised body than a shattered window. The customers fled out the front door. Good choice.

“I’ll stop you.” Dawn snatched up some packages of embellishments, preparing to heave those at me.

“Why would I set you up?”

“To clear your own name. I’ll prove I’m not a criminal.”

“And how is this tantrum helping you?”

She stopped in mid-throw, dropped the package, and raced out the door, crushing the three-dimensional flowers under her feet.

I looked at the destruction around me: a bent wire rack, crushed embellishment packages, and crumbled and torn decorative paper. There was at least three hundred dollars of ruined merchandise on the floor. She’d better pay for all of it. I took off after her.

Dawn scrambled into her car. I sprinted. Grabbing hold of the passenger door handle, I yanked it open, jumping into the seat. “Not so fast. You—”

The rest of the words left me as Dawn crumbled against the steering wheel, soul-crushing sobs erupting from her.

The woman’s husband died—was murdered—and the majority of the community’s response was “good riddance.” What were a couple of pieces of damaged paper?

The words in my head felt insignificant under the circumstances, and I didn’t know if Dawn would even believe me.

“He didn’t deserve to die like that.” Dawn sat up, wiping her eyes and nose on the hem of her t-shirt.

“No.” Whether Chad was guilty or not of selling the illegal substance, I had to agree. Burning a man to death was cruel; a lot of hate had to churn through a person to do that to another human being.

Dawn gripped the steering wheel and stared at the shopping complex which held Polished, Scrap This, and Home Brewed. “Why are people so heartless?”

The intensity and grief in her eyes scared me. I placed one hand on the door handle, readying to bail in case she planned on doing something really stupid, like ramming the wall. “I don’t know.”

“Chad didn’t sell drugs to kids. He sold potpourri.”

“That potpourri was synthetic marijuana. It’s illegal to sell.”

Dawn shook her head. “Not what we sold.”

“Show the police your inventory and order records.”

“I can’t. They were destroyed in the fire.”

“Ask the companies and the local crafters to send you a copy of what you bought.”

Dawn dabbed at her wet cheeks. “I don’t know who Chad bought from. He took care of all of that. How am I going to save my husband’s memory and reputation? I have nothing to prove his innocence. It was all destroyed.”

“There has to be something. At the bank? Safe deposit box? At your home?”

“We lived on the second floor of Made With Love. I have nothing. No one cares.”

“That’s not true.”

Huge tears trailed down her pale face. “Pastor Evans is hemming and hawing about Chad’s funeral. He keeps saying he doesn’t know if there’s a date available next week or the one after.”

My face heated as anger raced through me. Chad was looking like a bad guy, but to deny his widow a funeral service for her husband was horrific. Shameful.

“The police will uncover who killed your husband.”

“They don’t care. Don’t you get that? Chad’s a drug dealer to them. He almost killed Felicity Sullivan’s son. Crime was rising. Chad’s death means it all stops.”

“The truth is important to them. They won’t drop the case because Chad might not have been a law-abiding citizen.”

“The world isn’t so noble, Faith. The kids at the bonfire last night were football players. Cheerleaders. Two of them Coach Rutherford’s children. Officer Mitchell has basically told me they think Chad set the building on fire himself.”

“Why?”

“Why not? It’s a good excuse to close a case. Drug dealer sets his building on fire and kills himself in the process. Just did the world a favor.”

“Mitchell should never have said that.”

“It’s not just him.” Dawn’s shoulders slumped forward, all energy seemingly leaving her body. “I have no pictures of Chad and me. No memorabilia. We couldn’t have children. The only thing I have of my life with Chad are my happy memories, and the murderer and this hateful town are taking those away.” Dawn’s voice broke on a sob.

“We’ll find the proof.” If Chad was innocent.

“We?” Hope shone on her face.

“Yes. We.”

TEN

The computer’s hum added a serene background noise to my search. My stuffed animals stared down at me from the shelf above my head. I gazed fondly at my beloved teddy bear that Ted’s ex-wife had repaired for me after a murderer slashed it open and ripped out the stuffing. Ol’ Yowler jumped onto the desk, stalking over and settling his rump on my keyboard. The once-upon-a-time-stray tabby cat resettled himself, now using my hands as a resting place for his hiney.

Maybe I shouldn’t have insisted the cat move inside. I yanked my hands out from under his plentiful rump. “Give me a break. I have some investigating to do. Time is of the essence.”

He eyeballed me with that look of superior indifference only a cat possessed.

For as long as I’d lived here, Ol’ Yowler was the neighborhood prowler. Many before me had tried coaxing the cat inside to live, and all failed, as the tabby seemed born to wander. It wasn’t until this year’s awful winter that Yowler decided to accept my offer of a warm place to call home. He claimed the office as his own, treating me like an unwanted guest barging into his domain.

I scrolled through the pictures on Hannah’s Instagram account, trying to find the date she first suspected Whitney was involved in selling—or at least giving—drugs to Brandon. Most of the pictures on her account were everyday teenage girl stuff: celebrities, memes of angst and woe over parent-controlled life, food, and selfies.

Not one of a football game or bonfire. Either Hannah never took photos at them, or she never went to one. How would she know about the cigarette Brandon smoked? I checked her list of followers. Time to browse Kirstin and Whitney’s photos.

Now I was getting somewhere.

“Whitney loves to party. And Kirstin loves taking photos.” Once this mess cleared up, I needed to get her into scrapbooking. If we won one teen over to the hobby, we’d have more joining in. The hobby was on a downswing and desperately needed a resurgence in interest before all scrapbooking stores closed.

On Kirstin’s page, there were pics of roasting hot dogs, bag of marshmallows, stumps used as seats, and teens passing a hand-rolled cigarette. I zoomed in. There was no way to tell if the cigarette was tobacco or synthetic marijuana. None of the pictures showed what the group used to fill the cigarettes. If there had been an organza bag lying around, I’d have something to pass on to the police.

Ol’ Yowler plopped his hefty body onto the keyboard, flashing the pictures at warp speed.

“Knock it off.” I prodded at the cat. He made himself more comfortable. Finally, I wrangled him onto my lap, where he seemed content for the time being.

I brought the cursor back to where I had left off, pausing when I spotted a picture of the lot beside Made With Love. The next photo was a selfie. Kirstin beamed and the teens in the background looked like they were having a good time. A rock circle contained the bonfire. The flames were about six feet into the air, highlighting all the faces of the kids huddled around it. Near the edge of the woods was a girl. Whitney.

I zoomed in. Andrew Taylor was half in, half out of the wooded area. What was he doing there?

My cell rang, startling me and Yowler. My sudden jump earned me claws in my thighs. I removed the sharp nails from my legs and deposited the cat onto the floor. I scribbled “make a cat bed” in my calendar. The phone trilled again.

Mrs. Barlow. I debated not answering it but knew the woman would come over. She could see my car in the driveway. “Hello.”

“Your grandmothers said you were working at home today,” Mrs. Barlow said. “I hope that means my project for Lake is almost done.”

Ugh. The scrapbook of Lake’s inventory. I’d forgotten all about it. The photos and scrapbooking goodies were on my crafting table downstairs. I had planned on working on it this evening. Dawn’s crisis sidetracked me.

“I still have some pages to complete.” Like all of them. I saved the photos of the bonfire get-together to my hard drive. I’d make a copy and give them to Ted.

“Lake needs them Monday morning.”

“As soon as we hang up, I’ll get to work.”

“Lake would like the title page to show the front of the shop. She had the brick front repainted and a new sign made.”

While I was talking to Mrs. Barlow, Yowler returned to his perch on the keyboard. I left him there. Maybe his tapping on the keys would find something concrete to tie someone else to the drugs. I wasn’t so sure that Andrew’s presence made him the dealer. The man had been on the volunteer fire squad. He might have been there to ensure the fire was put out properly, and just did a horrible job at it.

I took a slight detour to the kitchen and brewed myself an iced mocha. It wasn’t as tasty as the ones made at Home Brewed, but it was easier on my budget. I brought my travel mug over to the craft table and stared at the mix of pictures, pattern paper, and embellishments scattered everywhere.

I arranged Lake’s photos by themes. There were pictures of every type of flower she sold, ribbons with varying widths and shades of black and gold, football balloons, even her cash register, and a small basket of satchels with dried rose petals, but not one of any of the hundred and sixty-four pictures were of flower arrangements she’d made.

Why hadn’t Lake taken photos of those? She could’ve used them in a book to help sell her creations to customers. Maybe that was one of the reasons she struggled so much. She had nothing displaying her talent for clients to see, and she had incredible skills when it came to flower arranging. She had such a creative eye, she could put her own book together. All she needed was a gentle nudge, and someone to give her the confidence to try.

I reached for my cell, knocking the pictures to the floor. Leaning over, I gathered them up, noticing the date on the back was Wednesday, the day before Lake’s shop burned down. Why would Lake pick that day to get the pictures printed? Coincidence?

When it came to crime, I didn’t believe in coincidence. I studied the front of the pictures, hoping to see a date stamp on one of the pictures. The windows were clean and the prominent colors of ribbons were gold and black with football balloons floating in the background. A black ribbon slashed through a small wreath made of blue and white buttons. Hazard High School colors. The pictures were taken the day before the fire. The day before a home game, Lake always hung up a wreath using the opposing team’s colors. Why had Lake decided to take photos that day? Had she just finished doing the work to the outside of her shop? Or had she been worried the bonfire might cause damage?

There was only one woman with the answers. I called Lake.

“Lake Breckenridge, how can I help you?”

“It’s Faith. I have a few questions about your scrapbook.”

“Heather passed my project off to you?” Lake sounded incensed.

“Mrs. Barlow was worried her skills weren’t up to showcasing your pictures for the insurance adjuster. Is there a certain style you’d like for the whole project page? Linear. Shabby chic. Abstract. Or do you prefer every page is unique and has a cohesive feel by using the same color scheme and embellishments on each page?” I rambled. The more I talked, the more the project woke up the conspiracy theory gal residing in my brain. Why did Lake want an album? Was it to prove she had these pictures for a long time and not just taken them?

“I prefer you give my photos back to Heather.”

“I started on the album.” Kind of. I moved the pictures into groupings. “Would you like a collage of your inventory? Do you have any shots of your arrangements?” I really wanted to keep her pictures until I studied them. Her behavior was odd.

“Give them to Heather. She knows how I want it done.”

“I can consult with her if you’d like.” Someone rapped on the front door, then rang the doorbell.

“I don’t want you touching my photos,” Lake said. “Heather is on her way to get them back.”

“Did you tell her—” I stopped the question. Officer Mitchell stood on my small front porch, tapping a rolled-up sheet of paper against the frame.

“I have to go. The police are here.” I reluctantly allowed Officer Mitchell to step inside, pocketing my phone.

“According to this police report, you were at the football game Friday night.” Mitchell unfurled the document, showing me the date on the top.

It was my report about my stolen camera. “Yes, I was. I was returning to my car when someone stole my camera.”

“Let me see if I understand all this. You attended the game Friday night. For the first time ever. You were so close to the players, you were jostled onto the field.”

“Shoved,” I corrected him.

“When you left, someone stole your camera.”

The word “stole” held a completely different tone than when I said it to him.

“And then Friday night, there was a hasty bonfire celebration put together, Made With Love burned down with Chad Carr inside, and lo and behold, Janie was found under the floorboards, in a location where someone could’ve entered through the crawl space at the side of the building.”

When he listed everything out, it sounded more like I was engaged in committing a crime rather than trying to solve one.

A crash coming from my office caused us to look toward the stairs. Darn that cat.

“What’s that?” Mitchell headed for the stairs.

“My cat.” I raced in front of him, planting myself on the second step, and holding out my arms. If he saw what I had on my computer, he’d have something else to add to his list of “Faith’s dubious behavior.” “His favorite game is pushing my collectibles off the shelves.”

“I really should check it out. Maybe someone broke in.”

“With a cop car parked out front? I don’t think so.”

“Maybe they got here before me.” Mitchell tried shoving past me. I held my ground.

“I’m sure it’s my cat.” Fortunately, Yowler decided now was the time to demonstrate the reason for his name. The guttural squall reverberated through the house. “See? Cat.”

“Or an injured burglar.”

Mitchell really wanted to get upstairs and check out my office. He must be hoping he’d find something to use against me, but without a warrant he needed a good excuse to go up the stairs.

The front door burst open, and Mrs. Barlow charged inside, a woebegone look on her face. “I need those photos back. Lake is having the hissy fit of all hissys.” The excitement in her voice cancelled out her expression. This was making the older woman’s day.

“I have a doorbell,” I said. “I’d appreciate you use it instead of barging in.”

“I saw you had company. Didn’t think I should interrupt. I figured I’d sneak in and get Lake’s items for her.” Mrs. Barlow fixed a captivated gaze on Officer Mitchell. I wasn’t sure if it was because the man was attractive—though not likeable—or because there was a member of law enforcement in my house who wasn’t Ted.

“You are interrupting.” I remained on the stairs as Mrs. Barlow gathered items from my craft table.

“My apologies. Lake was just so insistent I retrieve her photos, I allowed my manners to slip. Why don’t you two carry on with your conversation? I’ll pack up the items for the album lickety-split. I’ll be so quiet, you won’t know I’m here.”

Mitchell switched his gaze from me to Mrs. Barlow and then back again. He grinned. “Sure. Why not? So you were at the football game, near the bleachers for the Eden High School players, the very night there was a fire at Made With Love that burned it down, and police were finally able to locate drugs in the building. That happened the day after there was a picture of you handing a bag of Janie to a teenage girl.”

“But Faith wasn’t at the bonfire with the players and cheerleaders.” Mrs. Barlow hoisted the strap of one of my totes onto her shoulder.

“Is that so?” Mitchell leaned against the banister, moving his attention to Mrs. Barlow.

“Yes. Obviously you’re not monitoring Instagram.” Mrs. Barlow raised her nose into the air, narrowing her eyes into slits as she pranced by.

“We’d be able to close this investigation if some people weren’t protected.” Mitchell made it clear he was talking about me.

“As I recall, I was questioned at the station. It’s nice that some officers know they can’t hold an innocent person responsible for the crimes of another.” I went up another stair for some personal space.

“I know you’re trying to hold those teens responsible for what you’ve done. I won’t let it happen.”

The doorbell chimed “It’s a Small World.”

Mrs. Barlow yanked it open. “Good thing you’re here, Steve. There’s an officer accusing Faith of being a drug dealer when we all know it was Chad Carr.”

Steve. I forgot about our dinner tonight. Steve wore a charcoal suit, white shirt, and a purple-striped tie. He had planned for a fancy dinner out, while I still wore the t-shirt and jeans I’d tugged on this morning. His choice of attire also told me Steve believed we were getting back together. Why would a man dress up for a woman who was now in the category of “just a friend?”

“Actually, we don’t know that either,” I said, feeling a need to defend the dead.

“Change your mind?” Steve asked.

“I’ve been preoccupied.” I tilted my head at Mitchell, putting all the blame on the officer rather than my sleuthing.

“Is there a problem, Officer?” Steve asked.

“Just here to follow up on Miss Hunter’s complaint of a stolen camera,” Mitchell said. “There was a crash upstairs and I offered to investigate it. Miss Hunter is very insistent I not go up.”

“It’s just Yowler being obnoxious.”