In the middle of the room, drama was brewing. Two women huddled around a third, each taking a turn to peer at a young woman at the end of an extra-large table. Two twelve-foot tables were pushed together to form a large square instead of two lanky rectangles.
The fourth woman bobbed her head in tune, or at least I suspected so, to the music she played through her headphones. Her blonde hair tucked behind her ears showed off her bright red ear buds. With her eyes glued to the intricate layering work on a journal, she was oblivious to what her friends plotted against her.
Three resort employees wheeled in carts loaded down with fruit, chips, salsa and pretzels. Another employee tugged a gigantic plastic trash can behind him filled to the brim with ice. Two muscled security guys carried in cases of water and soda. Snack time had arrived.
“I said, move it.” A voice rose over the sound of the employees setting up the snack zone.
I zeroed in on the large table. Yep. That was it. The blonde could no longer ignore her friends’ annoyance.
Two of the women stood off to the side. One was heavily engrossed in her phone and the other was fretting her hands together. The youngest woman still sat and scrapped, bopping along to the music coming through her headphone. The third woman seized the back of the chair of the cropper and yanked it. Fortunately, neither the chair nor its occupant budged.
Bob studied the arguing women, taking keen interest in the one sitting. He took a picture, pocketed his phone, and left the cropping area.
I wanted to follow but figured I could help more by finding out what caused the brouhaha. The woman looked vaguely familiar to me—and to Bob. Could this blonde be the one I spotted arguing with Morgan and the thief?
Not that she was the only tall, blonde, lithe woman in the room.
“I guess I should go see what that’s about.”
“Shouldn’t Lydia or Marsha?” Steve stapled a receipt to a tab sheet.
“If you see one of them, send them over.” I left Gussie’s album with Steve.
I had a feeling Darlene wasn’t able to make magic out of the seating arrangement chaos Marsha created. I bet women had decided to settle themselves into a spot rather than wait on Marsha. I marched right over to the table, deciding to take charge from the get-go. If this little battle got out of hand, who knew how many others would erupt.
“Is there something I can help with?” I asked.
“She isn’t our tablemate.” The woman yanked a sheet of paper from between her bosom. “Right here. Amanda. Julie. Heather. And Extra Paid Space. She doesn’t belong at our table.”
Extra paid space? I went with the assumption that they liked having a spot for their larger tools.
The one who didn’t belong continued cropping. I admired her dedication, and was suspicious of it.
“Are you sure you’re at the right table?” A lot of tables were still empty as some croppers wouldn’t arrive until after five, not everyone could take the day off from work, and the angry crew might be the ones making a mistake on the seating.
“Yes. Want to see?” She held the sheet of paper out to me.
I placed my hands behind my back, taking her word for it. “I’ll just have a little chat with her.”
“I hope talking works better for you,” the woman muttered, crossing her arms and glaring at the table trespasser.
I tapped the young woman on her shoulder. Her blonde hair swung as she swiveled toward me. She pulled out one of the ear buds. I heard nothing. There wasn’t a volume control on the headphones. So she had been dancing to the music inside of her head. Maybe we could move the threesome to another table and leave Dancing Queen where she was happy.
“It seems there’s a mix up with the table.” I smiled at the young woman. She looked to be in her early twenties.
“No.” She drummed her fingers on the table.
“These women are assigned to this table.” I studied her face. She had spotted me taking photos in the parking lot. If she was the identity thief then she knew—or at least suspected—I was on to her. I needed to tell Bob.
“Okay with me. There’s plenty of room.” She rearranged strips of pattern papers on top of a composition notebook.
“Move!” One of the trio jostled the woman’s chair. “We paid for all four of these seats and want all of them.”
“I’m already set up.” The young woman held her ground.
“Let’s just check where you were assigned,” I said.
“Don’t know why you’d do that. I’m not moving.” The woman continued working on her pages.
This sounded like a challenge. “Just give me your name.”
The woman sighed. “Fine. Violet Hancock.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I made a detour back to Scrap This and fetched the tab sheet binder. I had a perfect reason to take a look at the seating chart and I might as well compare it to the names in my binder. No sense making customers wait for me to make them a sheet when I could do it now. While I perused it, I’d find a way to make a quick copy for Bob.
“What about the shopper?” Steve pointed at a woman debating between two types of adhesive.
“Write her name on top of the slip. I’ll put it in the notebook when I come back.”
Before Steve thought of a different way to handle it, I hurried to the registration desk where a bored volunteer updated her Facebook status. “I need to see the seating chart.”
“It’s right there.” She pointed at a laminated sheet of paper.
It was final now. I walked around and sat on the edge of the table, placing the chart just above my binder. First thing, check for Violet. Frowning, I leaned closer and went over the chart again. No Violet. I checked three more times and came up empty.
Please don’t tell me someone decided to help and just let Violet in without registering her properly. The volunteer collected the fee and probably put her in the “empty space” figuring it meant exactly that. I knew from the headcount supplied to Scrap This, there were only a few walk-in spots available.
Maybe Darlene forgot to transfer over a name. Putting the seating assignments together on the spot was a difficult task, especially with numerous last-minute changes. I picked up the chart and blinked a few times, hoping the lines, doodles, cross-outs and writings somehow evolved into something readable. It didn’t work. I flipped through my tab binder. I knew I could make heads from tails from my records. No Violet.
I had an almost overwhelming desire to cart everything over to Bob. But I refrained, because a huge production would be a big tipoff if the identity thief was in the room. My instincts had narrowed it down to Violet and the blonde I spotted arguing with Morgan in the hallway. What better way to disappear at an event than by giving an incorrect name?
But then why create such a ruckus? Of course, she probably didn’t know the empty seat she picked had such territorial croppers. I had to play this cool. I didn’t want this woman to leave before Bob got a heads-up.
“Mind if I borrow this?” I shoved the laminated seating chart into my binder.
“How will I tell people where they sit?” The volunteer kept her gaze trained on her phone.
“They can come over to Scrap This.”
“Right. Make them carry their stuff to the back of the room and then over to their table. Sounds like fun for them.”
“I just need it for a few minutes.”
The woman sighed and looked at me. “Those few minutes might annoy a lot of the croppers. I know Lydia has two other Cropportunity retreats planned for this year. She needs croppers to register for the other ones this weekend.”
“I’ll give them a twenty percent discount on consumables for their troubles.” If I discounted the one electronic die-cutter I bought to sell, I wouldn’t have to worry about what harm Morgan had in sto
re. My grandmothers would take care of that part themselves.
The woman’s eyes brightened. “That should smooth things over.”
“Great. I’ll have it back to you in a little bit.”
She returned to her phone. “Take your time.”
I walked back over to the table. I had a feeling even the truth wasn’t going to move Dancing Queen from the spot she already configured as her own territory. I didn’t want to push too hard and make her leave.
“You’re not listed at this table.” I showed her the seating chart. No Violet at the table.
“Yes, I am.” Violet waved her arms over her organized work space. Three small totes with pockets set up a fence between the table she commandeered and the one pushed against it. “Why would I spend so much time setting up here, if this wasn’t where Marsha told me to sit?”
All I knew was that the seating chart didn’t list her, unless her real name happened to be Extra Paid Space.
“Don’t you have your own friends to sit with?” one of the women asked.
“No.”
“We paid for that spot,” the woman who liked to store paper down her shirt fired back.
“So did I.” Violet placed her earbuds back in place and got back to scrapbooking.
“I don’t think so!” The woman grabbed at one of the totes.
“Just let it go, Amanda.” One of the other real tablemates tugged at Amanda.
“That’s our space to dry our layouts. I don’t want my glitter getting smeared.”
Understandable. A cropper spent a lot of time perfecting glitter use on embellishments, titles, and on eye-pleasing squiggles to complement a page. It was devastating to have all that work ruined by accidentally smudging it when working on another layout.
“Maybe we can find another place for your layouts to dry,” I said.
“No!” Amanda’s outstretched arm quivered. “We paid for this space.”
“I’m sure Marsha and Lydia will give you a refund,”
“I don’t want a refund. I want the space we paid for.”
“Would you like to join my group?” Garrison inserted himself into the conversation. He added a bright smile to the question. “We have a space left.”
One of the original three looked ready to take him up on the offer. I hoped Violet accepted. It would give Bob, or me, a good opportunity to take a peek at her stuff and see if Violet was really someone else.
Violet scooted the chair back. “I don’t like having to announce my personal issues, but for medical reasons I’d rather not go into, I need to sit close to an outdoors exit. And this space is the closet.”
We all studied the room. Violet was correct. While there were other exits, this spot gave her the quickest means to use one that lead to the large outdoor patio.
“I’m a doctor,” Garrison said. “If you sat with me and my friends, I would be right there if anything happened.”
“I’d rather sit here.”
“We rather you didn’t.” Amanda continued glaring, not at all swayed by the young woman’s medical condition. “I don’t buy your story for one minute.”
Violet heaved out a sigh. “If I buy the three of you a twenty-five dollar gift certificate to Scrap This, can I stay?”
One of the women beamed. Amanda shook her head no. The last tilted her head to the side, contemplating the offer.
“And I’ll buy drinks and dinner at the restaurant tonight. It’s a prime rib buffet,” Violet upped her bribery.
“The crop supplies dinner.” A wistfulness entered Amanda’s tone.
“We can eat in the restaurant instead,” one of her friends said. “I think it’ll be fun. We can get to know Violet. You always say the more scrapping friends the better.”
“Okay.”
Amanda looked at her friends’ excited faces then turned to Violet. “Welcome to our table. I’m Amanda. That’s…”
When I saw they were getting acquainted without further incident, I left. I had more comparing to do between the before-and-after seating charts, and also with my customer-tab binder. I knew the answer to the identity thief was in my hands. I was leaning toward Violet Hancock as the criminal. All I needed was one key piece of evidence to show that I had correctly solved the equation. I learned my lesson about making accusations based on small details and not the full picture. During my first foray into sleuthing, I almost lost a friend because of my suspicions. I had vowed to be more careful.
I settled myself into the cropping space reserved for Bob. I needed room to spread out and a place where customers weren’t going to see the notes I wrote.
At least at the cropping table, I had some privacy and by sitting sideways could also keep a half-eye on the store, though it looked like Steve had everything well under control. For an assistant prosecuting attorney and a guy, he sure did know the retail business and hobby side of scrapbooking. I hoped his skills came from the classes I taught at the crops Steve attended at the store.
I knew his interest in scrapbooking had more to do with his interest in me than the actual hobby, and that fact endeared him to me even more. Who couldn’t like a man who got involved in the hobby that brought happiness and some direction to your life?
“What are you working on?” Darlene leaned over into my space.
“Making sure I have everyone in here.” I patted the binder. “There have been a few additions since I made it.”
“I’m surprised Lydia and Marsha allow on-site registrations.” Darlene adjusted the angle of the title on her layout.
“I don’t think the manager is very happy about it. I’ve seen Lydia and him in a couple of meetings,” I said.
Darlene changed the placement of her title. “That and the cancellation policy sure did create a mess for them. I’ve never seen a retreat that didn’t have a drop-dead date for canceling.”
“No policy at all?”
“None. Even the classes at Scrap This had a date you can cancel to get a refund. Even people who emailed this morning were going to get a refund.” Darlene stood and walked back a few paces. She tilted her head and stared at her layout. After a few minutes, she grinned. “Perfect.”
“Must’ve been hard to put the chart into order.”
“The key was starting over.” Darlene placed her completed layout into a page protector then flipped through a packet of photos. “For some reason, Marsha wanted to use the same piece of paper. I told her that was why she was having so many issues. All those scribbles, scratches, and markings were making it hard to read. There was also no way the volunteers would be able to figure out all her shorthand notes and hieroglyphics. Marsha couldn’t even remember what some of her symbols were.”
I studied the original chart. What I had thought were random doodles were actually little symbols placed by names. I wished I had a magnifying glass so I could get a better look at what Marsha drew. “Was she trying to remember who not to sit by each other?”
Darlene shrugged and placed three photos of Blackwater Falls onto a light green and soft beige pattern paper. “She told me she couldn’t remember. If there are any complaints about the seating chart, it’s Marsha’s fault. She really wasn’t much of a help. She devised such a complicated system to remember things, she couldn’t remember what the rules were.”
“Maybe I should go chat with Marsha and see if she remembers anything about the new cropper.” I gathered up the seating charts and the binder. “It’s better to do the fixing before we find out about any more problems from irate croppers.”
“I’d leave it alone.” Darlene held my gaze with hers. “This is Marsha and Lydia’s problem to deal with.”
I pointed over at Scrap This and spoke a partial truth. “Unfortunately, being the main vendor makes people think that the problem is also mine to deal with.”
&nb
sp; The remainder of the truth was I needed to help Bob find the identity thief, and I was now wondering if Marsha suspected something was going on at the crop. Why all the secrecy with the seating chart? Why would she hide that from us?
The answer to Marsha’s squirrely behavior and forgetfulness could have been because her drinking had gotten the best of her.
I knew the first place to look for Marsha—the bar. After leaving the binders with Steve, I walked out of the crop room and headed into the foyer. A few women toted in their cropping gear. Some pulled rolling bags behind them and others tried to maneuver overflowing luggage racks around the chairs and coffee tables in the lobby of the convention center.
I waited for a slowdown then quickly made my way to the connecting hallway. I tugged open the door and shivered. I really disliked the dark hallway. I placed my hand on my back pocket, debating on taking out my phone and using the flashlight app. Give it a rest, I told myself. It isn’t that dark. I needed to stop catering to my paranoia.
“Excuse me.” A woman slipped past me and into the bathroom.
Taking in a deep breath, I got my feet moving. I hadn’t realized my musings had brought me to a stop right in front of the bathrooms. The carpet muffled my footsteps.
Enough of this silliness. I walked boldly forward. Closed doors flanked both sides of the hallway. I remained smack dab in the middle of the hallway. Just in case. No sense taking any unnecessary chances. The florescent lights added an eerie orange cast to everything. The hotel needed to work on the lighting in the hallway. If I saw a suggestion box, I knew what I’d write.
To my relief, and also embarrassment, I made it down the hallway without incident. I really needed to get my overactive imagination under control. I opened the other door and crossed the foyer in the hotel. A few croppers were checking into their rooms and others mingled in small groups.
I stuck my head into the bar. No Marsha. That was good. Now, I just had to figure out where else she could be. In her room? Or in the parking lot trying to find clues to who might have really run over the victim. I knew that was what I would do if I was in her shoes. The more people that arrived meant there was more of a chance any unfound clues would be destroyed.
Christina Freeburn - Faith Hunter 03 - Embellished to Death Page 12