Cropped to Death (Faith Hunter Scrap This Mystery)

by Freeburn, Christina

  The man turned his chair and looked at the monitors on the desk.

  Maybe pestering him would work. I leaned against the counter and cleared my throat, tapping my nails on the black marble top.

  He picked up a clipboard and made a tick mark on the sheet. “The conference room is on the fourth floor. Miss Holland is currently speaking with a reporter from channel Nine News. After that, there are two newspaper reporters and then the dude from the radio. You’ll have at least a two-hour wait.”

  I decided against correcting him. Admitting “I’m here to get Annette Holland to confess to killing a man” would get me kicked out of the building. I thanked him and headed toward the elevator. As I waited, my gaze lingered over the building directory. A cafeteria was on the second floor.

  The elevator doors opened and I stepped inside and pushed the button for the second floor. As long as I acted like I belonged, I would be fine. I’d ask my questions and be out of there before anyone figured out my intent was proving Annette Holland guilty of murder.

  Including—and especially—my number one suspect.

  I took a deep breath and hurried, but not suspiciously, to the cafeteria. I choose two different types of salad, one a traditional garden salad and the other a spinach salad with grapes, walnuts and a raspberry vinaigrette dressing. I grabbed two chocolate brownies, and in case Annette wasn’t a chocolate girl, a piece of key lime pie.

  From down the line, I heard a voice that sounded like the man I most wanted to avoid. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder. Yep, Detective Roget. I strained to hear his conversation with the man and woman standing with him, but couldn’t make out if they were discussing lunch options or locating more evidence against Marilyn.

  Which I’m sure they needed. A marriage certificate and a flip threat to kill someone had to fall under circumstantial. Even the cropped photographs and the scissors weren’t undisputable proof—unless Marilyn’s fingerprints were on the sharp-tip scissors.

  I quickly handed over my money and asked for a bag. The last thing I needed was someone noticing I was there. Okay, not someone, but Detective Roget, the man who warned me to mind my own business. Mentioning Marilyn asked for my help probably wouldn’t persuade him this was now my business.

  “We don’t have bags,” the cashier said. People grumbled about the hold up.

  “No problem.” I opened up my quilted handbag, glad I preferred my purses cavernous, and placed the items inside. I stopped at the condiment station and fiddled with the plasticware as I waited for Roget to focus on the menu. When he studied the food choices, I scurried off.

  Once I was safely enclosed inside the elevator, I let out the breath captured in my lungs. Never did stale air feel so refreshing. The elevator reached the fourth floor.

  I walked down the hallway and saw where a large group of men and women assembled. I stood a little away from them and waited. Fifteen minutes later, the conference room door opened. I charged forward, pushing my way through the swarm of bodies.

  Annette stood in the doorway, one hand caressing her swelled belly and the other rubbed her back. She looked tired, triumphant, and ravenous.

  I pulled out one of the brownies and held it up. “I brought lunch!”

  Her gaze pounced on me and she crooked her finger. “You’re next.”

  Complaints erupted around me. Most from reporters wishing they had thought of my scheme. Of course, all they wanted was a story. I wanted to exonerate my friend.

  When I was close enough to see her eye color—baby doll blue—Annette snatched the brownie from my hand and unwrapped the plastic from around it. She waddled back into the room and took a large bite of the chocolate treat.

  I shut the door and continued toward the large table in the middle of the room. A wall of windows was in front of me, and behind me were bookshelves loaded down with leather-bound books. Annette plopped into a chair at the end of the table. She finished off the brownie and tossed the crumbled wrapper onto the table.

  “I also brought a choice of salads.” I put the garden and the spinach salad on the table with forks and napkins.

  “No more chocolate?” A hopeful expression filled her face.

  I smiled and pulled out the gooey, rich brownie I had planned on saving for myself. I held it out to her and she plucked it from my hand, a loving sigh escaped her lips. She motioned for me to sit down and devoured the dessert in two bites. Impressive.

  She dusted the crumbs off her hands and picked the garden salad. “I guess you’d want me to start with how I found Michael’s body.” A sob accompanied his name.

  Nice dramatic effect. I pretended to focus on opening the other salad, but peeked at her. “How about some background on why you decided to attend the Art Benefit Show?”

  Her fork paused above the plastic bowl. “Why would readers want to know that?”

  I scooped up some spinach and walnuts onto my fork, keeping my expression neutral. “People love back story. It really helps to fill everything out. Gives that added personal touch.”

  A smile flashed in her eyes and then quickly faded. Maybe I could persuade her to admit she killed Michael by pointing out confessing brought even more attention.

  “Mr. Allan wanted the lawyers there as a way of supporting the community,” Annette said. “Michael knew she was going to be there and didn’t want to arrive alone.”

  “She?”

  “His wife. At some craft booth. He was afraid she’d create a scene. They were in the middle of a nasty divorce. “

  I shoved a large wad of salad into my mouth, expanding my cheeks to rival a squirrel storing nuts. It was the safest option unless I choked. I needed the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth to get Marilyn out of jail. Calling the woman who most likely committed the murder a liar wasn’t a wise choice. The boss made us go was such a lame excuse. I had trouble believing Mr. Allan announced on Friday night he wanted his employees to attend the event.

  “So, Michael Kane asked you to attend the Art Benefit Show with him, knowing his wife would be there?”

  “Yes, he asked me.” Collapsing back into the chair, Annette fanned herself with her hands, fingers outstretched and the peach painted acrylic nails fluttered at the air. “Michael feared for his life.”

  The man should’ve had a little fear bringing his girlfriend to his wife’s job. I shook my head in hopes of silencing the questions growing in my head. “He said those words?”

  She stopped the waving motion, but her hands remained raised. She chewed on her bottom lip as her eyes and nose scrunched. “Sure. He said those exact words.” She tapped her peach nails onto the table. “Make sure you write that down.”

  I pushed down the annoyance and worked on settling down my snark. “The reason you accompanied Michael Kane was because he feared for his life? He thought someone would hurt him.”

  “Not someone. His wife.”

  “He said he was scared of his wife?” Understandable in a way since the man made a really stupid choice.

  “Of course he meant his wife. Who else would he mean?”

  I drummed my fingers on the table and gave her my best thoughtful look. “If he was in such fear of his wife, why didn’t he just stay home? Being a lawyer, I’m sure he could’ve come up with a good excuse why he missed the show. “

  “It was necessary.”

  “Why?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I guess you’d have to ask Michael. And we can’t do that since his wife killed him.”

  It was time to switch embellishments. “There was a picture in the paper of you kneeling besides Michael’s body.”

  Tears filled her eyes. The brusque manner and the calculated look slipped for a minute as real grief etched itself onto her face. Annette had loved Michael. And now her baby would never know his or her father. Shame skittered along my conscience and I almost stopped the questioning, but a picture of Marilyn behind bars flashed into my mind.

  “Were you nearby when he was killed?” I asked.
<
br />   “No. I was getting a drink when a woman came and told me something happened to Michael.”

  “Did she call Michael by name?”

  A blush crept across Annette’s face. “No, she said my boyfriend.”

  I suppressed my smile. Annette opened up the topic that I hedged around. “Why would this woman believe Michael, Mr. Kane, was your boyfriend?”

  She fanned herself again. “She probably saw us together and assumed it since I’m pregnant.”

  “Could it have been because the two of you were holding hands or acting like a romantic couple?”

  Clenching her hands together, she clambered to her feet. “Wait a minute. Why are you asking these questions?”

  “Just looking for the truth about what happened.”

  “The police know Marilyn Kane killed her husband.” She lumbered around the table and headed toward me.

  I grabbed my purse figuring the question and answer session was over. “Maybe because they don’t know he told his wife your baby wasn’t his.”

  Annette charged like a bull in slow motion. I glided away from her and reached the door with no problem. I took hold of the knob at the same time the door was thrust open. I slammed into the wall.

  Detective Roget rushed into the room. Sputtering, Annette pointed at the wall I was squished against. Roget’s eyes widened then turned into slits. He marched over and grabbed hold of my arm.

  “Hey—” I tried tugging away.

  “Not. One. Word,” he said, between clenched teeth. He kept a grip on my arm and yanked me out of the room.

  I watched my feet to make sure I didn’t trip over anything, and to not have to look at the detective. I’d call Cheryl to bail me out. She’d handle the news better than Grandma Hope. Hope would rush into the station apologizing for my behavior. Or leave me in jail so I’d suffer the consequences.

  Roget found a vacant room, pulled me inside, then released me. He slammed the door and faced me. “What are you doing here?”

  I rubbed my forearm and thought about commenting on police brutality then decided remaining silent might be my saving grace.

  “I’ll ask again, why are you here?”

  I took two steps backwards, my pulse fluttering. Truth seemed the better option than evasiveness when dealing with a furious officer of the law. “Helping Marilyn.”

  His face reddened and his chest ballooned out as he took in a deep breath.

  Then again, maybe not. I cringed backwards.

  He muttered under his breath, either counting or asking for restraint. “And just how is talking to Miss Holland doing that?”

  “I just wanted to know where she was when Michael died. Ask her some simple questions since—”

  “On what authority?” He cut me off before I said “the police won’t ask her.”

  I met his gaze head-on, posture straight and regal. “Being Marilyn’s friend. I know she didn’t kill Michael. I can’t see her harming anyone. No matter how horribly they treated her.”

  “Miss Hunter, did you ever see yourself trying to solve a murder?”

  I shook my head and remained standing tall.

  “Or see yourself talking to, or rather arguing with, a homicide detective?”

  Again I responded with a denial.

  “Or see yourself coming really close to being arrested?”

  Once. I kept that truth and remained silent.

  He rested his hands at his hips, fingers drifting over the handcuffs. “If you can’t even know for certain what you would do, how can you be so certain about your friend?”

  NINE

  I jabbed the blade of the box cutter into the thick tape and jerked my arm downward. The top flaps separated and I yanked the flaps open, the cardboard tearing at the seam. How did Roget know there was no way I could be absolutely sure? I could so know that Marilyn wouldn’t murder a person. Cynical cop.

  The bell above the door sounded its polite ding. I put on my happy face, stood and placed the box cutter into my front pocket before I turned around.

  Steve filled the doorway. My warm smiled faded when I saw the closed expression on his face. Usually he greeted me with a flirtatious smile, but the straightened lips said something bothered him.

  And it involved me.

  “Can I talk with you?” Steve asked.

  I continued unloading the paper. “I need to restock. Our customers have been badgering us for more of this brand. Then I need to get the easel boards set up for the layout contest displays.”

  Hope rushed over. “I’ll finish the paper.”

  I wanted to glare at her, but could never do that to my grandmother. Instead, I rolled my eyes and continued unpacking. “Grandma, I don’t want you to strain your back bending over and standing so many times. I can talk to Steve tonight when I’m done working.” I flashed a smile at Steve. “That okay with you?”

  His mouth remained straight. “It’s important we talk right now.”

  Hope closed the flaps on the box. “This can wait until later, Faith. Why don’t you two talk in the office? He did interrupt his day to come over. You should speak with him.”

  “Thanks, Hope.” Steve started in that direction.

  Why did my grandmothers always comply with Steve’s wishes—or him with theirs? Especially when it came to me. For once, I’d have liked respect for my choice. “Grandma, I know you’re in the middle of checking the statements.”

  “I can use the break.” She shooed me back toward the small area. “Take all the time you need.”

  Unknowingly, my grandmother was leading me to the firing squad. Steve didn’t come here for a date. The only interest he had in me right now was delivering a lecture.

  Trudging into the office, I made my way behind the desk and sat down. A large piece of furniture between Steve and me seemed like a good idea. I wasn’t sure if it was more for my benefit or his.

  Steve shut the door and locked gazes with me. “Guess who stopped by my office?”

  Even though playing dumb didn’t become me, I entered into the game. “Did Cheryl stop by to see if you had a layout for our contest?”

  “Faith, this is serious.” He braced his arms on the desktop and leaned forward. “You don’t realize how much trouble you’re about to get into.”

  I knew. I just didn’t really care. Or not care that much. Marilyn needed someone’s help and all she had right now was me.

  Steve sat on the edge of the desk. “Detective Roget isn’t happy with your amateur sleuthing.”

  “He’s going to arrest me?” I peered at the desk and pushed a paperclip around the surface, fighting the emotions wanting released. I wasn’t sure if I’d cry or yell at Steve.

  “He didn’t say anything about arresting you. He just wanted to know if I’d talk to you. Thought you might listen to me.”

  “Why would he think that?” I grimaced after the question left my mouth as the implied meaning registered in my brain. I would listen to Steve’s warning as well as I did the detective’s—not at all.

  “Because he wanted to offer me a professional courtesy before he took certain extreme measures,” Steve said.

  I stared at him, hoping he’d elaborate on the statement without my vocal prodding.

  He stood and looked down at me. I hated when people did that, it was easy enough to look down on me when standing, sitting while someone did made me feel like a child receiving a scolding.

  “Roget has been asking around about you,” Steve said.

  Sweat trickled down my back and I swallowed down my gasp. Roget had no right asking about me. I pressed my hands against my legs, stopping myself from jumping up. No reason for Steve knowing someone prying into my background was my worst fear.

  “People saw us together, in friendly terms, as Roget put it.”

  “Why wouldn’t you be friendly?” I forced out a smile.

  “Then there’s the fact we live close to each other. A nice, easy arrangement was what the detective called it. Might be the reason you’re ge
tting preferential treatment for interfering in a criminal matter.”

  My cheeks flamed at the assumption the detective made against Steve’s character and mine. Pride mixed in with the embarrassment. It was nice to know others thought I had the ability to hook a guy like Steve.

  “What did you say?” I asked nonchalantly. Part of me needed Steve to respond that he said there was nothing between us, without him being insulted at the assumption. Another part of me wanted him to have told the detective if there was something between us, it was none of his business.

  “I told the detective a man shouldn’t go around ruining a lady’s reputation because he was irritated at her.”

  “Oh.”

  “He then responded you were doing plenty of damage on your own. Like intimidating a witness.”

  “That’s not true!” I jumped up and the rolling chair collided into the wall. “I asked a simple question and the woman blew up. She’s lying about why she went with Michael to the art show.”

  “Faith, the investigation doesn’t concern you.”

  I stamped my foot and crossed my arms. Not grown-up behavior, but I had no idea what else to do to release the frustration shooting through my body. “It does concern me, Marilyn is my friend. That Annette chick is hiding something about what happened when Michael died. I need to find out what it is. Marilyn asked for my help and I owe her.”

  Steve narrowed his eyes. “You owe her?”

  “I need to help her.”

  “Stay out of this. You’re only going to help yourself become her roommate.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I do.” Steve wrapped his arms around me and rested his head on top of mine.

  “No, you don’t,” I muttered before accepting the comfort he supplied. This was a temporary lapse of judgment not to be repeated. Ever.

  We remained like that for a few minutes before Steve released his hold and took a step back.

  “Please, listen. It’s not your fault. You had to tell the detective what Marilyn said.”

  Heaviness filled my heart. “Then why do I feel so bad?”