Cropped to Death Page 2

  I swallowed my sigh and took my gaze from the man and placed it on the cup of coffee. Also sigh-worthy.

  Marilyn tugged the strap of my tote off my shoulder. “I’ll start setting up while you flirt with Steve.” She continued into the building.

  I accepted the coffee from Steve. “I’m not flirting with you. Just being polite since you waited for me.”

  His expression remained neutral though a twinkle glittered in his deep brown eyes. “I volunteered to help your grandmothers today. They asked me to walk you to your booth. Here I am.”

  “I can find my way.” I took a sip of the coffee and nearly burned my tongue.

  “I have a hard time denying a request from Hope and Cheryl. They worry about you.”

  Poor, unknowing man. Pairing Steve and me together motivated my grandmothers, not worry. Their matchmaking plan had topped every to-do, resolution and prayer list since I moved home fourteen months ago. They turned on the fragile, old women charm whenever Steve and I entered the same orbit. A wasted effort but I treasured the care and love motivating their antics.

  I scanned the large open area and tried locating the Scrap This booth. The art gallery arena was spectacular. Bright, bold signs directed attendees to different exhibits and fabulous art displays. Fans could easily spot their favorite artists and make their way to the booth.

  “This is great,” I said. “The setup makes it very easy to move around the space.”

  “Your grandmothers did a good job organizing the traffic flow.” Steve draped his arm around my shoulders.

  My heart fluttered and I ordered the treacherous organ to stop. What woman wouldn’t be thrilled at the attention? But I wasn’t looking for a relationship. I was unavailable. My heart still continued at the more rapid pace. A heart was a fickle thing.

  Marilyn ran over, exasperation on her face. She raised her eyebrows as she stared at Steve’s arm. “Faith, you’re needed at the booth.”

  I stepped away from Steve. “That’s where I was headed.”

  He suppressed a smile and waved goodbye. “I’ll let your grandmothers know you’re here safe and sound.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Marilyn looked heavenward and shook her head. “One of Linda’s layouts was damaged. She stored them without page protectors and one layout with brads poked a hole in the corner of a picture of her husband and son. She ran off in tears toward the restrooms. Sierra is trying to fix the page. And talking about Sierra, she arrived with the Hooligans. Hank’s working security today here at the show. Then some photographer is running around taking photos without permission and upsetting the artists.”

  I stood on my tiptoes to get a better read of the signs. “I’ll go after Linda. Point the photographer out to the Hooligans and tell the boys we’ll give them a dollar each for every picture they can jump into or disrupt.”

  “Soothing Linda can wait.” Marilyn grabbed my arm and tugged me down the aisle. “We’re behind on setting up and they’ve started letting attendees in.”

  We only went two steps before Marilyn squealed and rooted her feet to the concrete floor. I slammed into her.

  “What’s—” I shut up.

  Marilyn’s coloring went from brandy red to colonial white. Her husband, Michael, walked down the aisle with his pregnant mistress at his side. He spotted us, blanched, then hurried in the opposite direction with the homewrecker weebling and wobbling behind him.

  “That lousy prince-turned-into-a-poisonous-toad stood his son up. His son! He was taking Mark to the baseball game.” Marilyn huffed herself red again and started a verbal-roast of Michael. “Heaven better help that man because I’m going to kill him.”

  She stormed off in a fit, leaving me to face the growing crowd. Smiling, I shrugged my shoulders and asked, “Does anyone know her?”

  I hurried to the Scrap This booth—an empty booth besides Sierra.

  “The boys are tracking down the photographer. Should you really be encouraging them?” Sierra adjusted one of the framed layouts on the backboard.

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “No. And talking about ideas...” Sierra nodded toward Linda’s layout near the cash register, “…have any on how to patch up that mess?”

  The gaping hole in the layout mocked me. The tear at the bottom of the photograph would be hard to fix without damaging the journaling box. “That’s the question of the day.”

  “Wonderful. You’re as much help as Marilyn. What’s she doing?” Sierra grabbed a large box of adhesives and dropped it onto the ground.

  “Trying not to kill Michael.”

  “What?” She paused, the box cutter midway through the length of tape.

  As I examined Linda’s layout closer, I explained Marilyn’s disappearing act.

  “Maybe now she’ll reconsider the reconciliation,” Sierra said.

  “My thoughts exactly.” I glanced at the products we brought with us. None complemented Linda’s layout.

  Sierra hummed as she rearranged layouts on the temporary wall.

  That had to mean one thing. I smiled. “Yesterday’s interview went well for Hank?”

  Four months out of work took a toll on her husband’s confidence and their bank account. The unemployment checks and Sierra’s paycheck stretched to cover the basics but that would only last so long. I knew their hearts broke at the inability to buy a few inexpensive extras for their boys.

  Sierra nodded. “He told me the builder was impressed with his résumé and talked to him for an hour. We should hear back Monday.”

  Two mothers with toddlers stopped and asked about our classes. Sierra placed the cutter into her back pocket and walked them over to the table holding our class lists and sign-up sheets. A man entered the booth and I placed the damaged layout down to give him my attention. He examined one of the framed layouts.

  “Is that fishing wire?” He squinted and leaned forward, his nose almost pressing against the plastic protecting the page.

  “Yes.” I smiled and started explaining about mixed media. The man nodded and stepped back. Since he only wanted a yes or no response and not a discourse, I stopped talking and allowed him privacy to browse.

  A voice crackled over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen. Everyone stay in the building and remain calm. The police are on their way.”

  From what I could see, security guards approached the exits and stood in front of them. Hands rested at waists near the butts of their guns.

  The voice continued. “There’s been a murder!”

  Pandemonium erupted.

  THREE

  They asked vendors to return to their spaces and ushered attendees into the main hall. Linda perched on the edge of a wooden stool nervously sipping a bottle of soda, the small drips of condensation splattering her pants. Sierra wrung her hands together and paced around our tiny space. I stood still and worried, the emotion churning the coffee in my stomach. Where were my grandmothers? Where was Steve? Where were Hank and the boys?

  Grandma Cheryl was probably chasing Clyde around the building trying to make him victim number two. Who in the world announced a murder over a loudspeaker?

  I tried keeping myself calm and rational. Not something easy to do when a person feared for the lives of those they loved. Except for Steve. I liked Steve. I didn’t love him.

  “They’re probably speaking with the police.” Sierra placed a comforting arm around my shoulder. We huddled together. “Hope and Cheryl are in charge.”

  “You’re right. And Hank went with them or is rounding up the boys. He wouldn’t want them walking around alone.”

  Those words brought little comfort to either of us. Were the police going to blame my grandmothers for what happened? Would they be sued? I spotted Cheryl, Hope and Steve walking toward the booth and relief flooded through me. They were safe. The tightness in my chest relaxed.

  But where was Hank? The boys? I held onto Sierra.

  A man in a suit stopped Steve to talk to him. They both
looked in my direction, then walked toward me. That wasn’t good. Cheryl shot an angry glare at the suited man’s back.

  “The boys?” Sierra asked.

  Steve reassured her with a smile. “Hank took them outside. They were way too interested in the police.”

  I grinned at Sierra. “I told you Hank was with the boys.”

  Relief was visible on her face.

  “I hate to break up the cheering section, but I have a few questions for you, Miss Hunter.” The attractive red-haired man in the dark blue suit flashed a badge.

  I squinted and studied the badge. This guy wasn’t a security guard. “Officer—”

  “Detective Roget.” He stood with his legs apart, a stance worthy of any cowboy bent on saving the town from the evil gunslinger.

  I didn’t know if placing his hands so the jacket opened and revealed the gun was an involuntarily reflex or an act of intimidation. Crossing my arms, I locked gazes with him. From somewhere behind me, Steve groaned.

  “When was the last time you talked with Marilyn Kane?” Roget asked.

  Marilyn. Marilyn wasn’t with us at the booth. Marilyn was dead. Murdered. Detective Roget wavered in front of me, a whirling sound filled my ears. Strong arms wrapped around me and I leaned against a rock of warmth and comfort.

  “Marilyn’s okay, Faith,” Steve said.

  “Stay out of this, Davis.”

  “I would if…” Steve didn’t complete the sentence, only tightened his hold around me.

  I took in deep breaths and the room came back into focus. My grandmothers stood behind the detective. Cheryl’s hands bunched into fists. Hope gripped Cheryl’s shoulders to stop her from assaulting the detective. If he wasn’t asking about Marilyn because she was the victim then—

  “How was he killed?” I asked.

  “Him? How do you know it’s a him?” A knowing smile tilted the corners of the detective’s lips.

  “Because you’re asking about Marilyn. If she’s not hurt then it has to be about her husband.” For some reason, I couldn’t say dead. Murdered. “Why else would you be asking about Marilyn?”

  Steve gestured for me to be quiet. Not something I was good at.

  “With an ongoing investigation, the police ask the questions,” Roget said.

  I stepped closer to the detective. “But you’re here to accuse Marilyn.”

  The detective bestowed a half-smile, half-sneer on me. “You think that because of a little conversation you had with Marilyn?”

  So, his search for Marilyn wasn’t just based on her being the spouse. I wouldn’t admit anything to Roget. “It’s because I’m not stupid.”

  “Faith!” Hope gasped. She looked at the detective and shook her head. “We did not raise her to speak like that to police officers. I’m sure she’s just upset.”

  Great. My poor grandmother was defending her parenting skills. “Listen, Detective, I know the wife is usually the person blamed but it could’ve been someone else.”

  “True.” Roget walked around the booth, appearing to take a mental note of our inventory.

  “So you admit it was Michael.” Shivers raced up spine.

  “Informing. Not admitting.” The detective studied the booth and then me. “You sure do have an unusual way of phrasing things. Maybe I should be questioning you.”

  I tried keeping my anger from rising. “Now you’re accusing me of killing him?”

  Steve stepped forward and rested a hand on my shoulder, drawing me away from the detective. “Faith, the detective has to assume everyone is a suspect. It’s not personal.”

  “Of course it’s personal.” I pushed away from Steve. Being accused of crimes you didn’t commit attacked your character, your pride and your self-worth. How could it be anything else?

  “I think we should have this conversation in private.” Roget took hold of my arm.

  “Where are you taking my granddaughter?” Cheryl stepped in front of the detective.

  “Steve, stop him,” Hope said.

  “It’ll be okay,” Steve soothed my grandmothers. “Faith’s been here at the booth the whole time. She’s not really suspected of anything. The detective just needs to ask a few questions about Marilyn’s whereabouts.”

  My blood froze. Steve had no idea what Marilyn said to me.

  Roget shrugged. “I can either do it here or at the police station.”

  I pulled my arm away from the detective. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  I wiped my hands on my pants and hoped the detective didn’t notice my nervousness. Or if he did, he didn’t take the movement as a confession of my guilt. I knew from experience in the beginning of an investigation every action comes across as an admission of guilt.

  I looked behind me. Steve stood with his arms loose at his side and left leg bent, a relaxed position the military termed at ease. But his face told me he was far from that state of mind. Of course, his concern could be more on the lines of what kind of trouble I’d get myself into rather than what kind of trouble I was already in.

  Detective Roget led me toward the stairwell. “If you need a lawyer, it will be along the lines of a defense attorney rather than a prosecutor.” He opened the door and ushered me inside.

  “I don’t need an attorney.” I leaned against the wall, needing the support to keep standing. My heart thudded in my chest and my knees shook. Why was the detective so hostile? I did nothing wrong. I hadn’t hurt anyone. Or killed anyone.

  Roget pointed at the steps. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  He looked me up and down. A spark of interest gleamed in his green eyes. “You seem a little unsteady and I’d rather not have to catch you.”

  I walked over to the stairs and sat on the second step.

  “When was the last time you saw Michael Kane?”

  “I thought you wanted to ask me about Marilyn.”

  “Just answer my questions, Miss Hunter.”

  “I saw him a little after nine when he waltzed past with the…” I paused, rummaging through my brain for the correct and least offensive, or less likely to get me into trouble word. “Girlfriend.”

  Detective Roget grinned, eyebrows raised. “Girlfriend.”

  “Michael Kane paraded his pregnant mistress right by his wife.”

  “Right by?”

  “Okay, technically, not right in front of her, but where she would notice. I don’t know why Michael brought her. His co-workers were going to be here. Why would he want them to know he was committing adultery?”

  Roget’s features tightened. “Because it isn’t a crime. Unlike murder.”

  I squirmed on the step.

  “After Mrs. Kane saw her husband and his girlfriend, what happened?”

  Poor Marilyn. Even though she was on the outs with Michael, she loved him. How would his children get over this? I blinked back tears. “How was he killed?”

  The detective’s look said “that’s for me to know and you not to find out,” but aloud he said it in a nicer way. “At this time, that’s privileged information the public doesn’t need to know.”

  “The public doesn’t have the right to know how a man was killed?”

  “Not when it could hamper the case. And to clarify this again, it’s my job to ask questions. Your role is to sit, listen and answer what I ask. Understand?”

  I gave one sharp nod and narrowed my eyes at him.

  “So, after she saw him, she walked away?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He grinned at my answer. “Do you recall which direction?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How did Mrs. Kane react when she saw Mr. Kane and the other woman?”

  I’m going to kill him. The statement swirled in my head. Those hastily spoken words would make Marilyn the most likely suspect in her husband’s murder. I took a deep breath then answered carefully. “She got very pale and upset.”

  “Upset as in screaming, yelling, sobbing.” He made a circle motion with his hand
, encouraging me to elaborate.

  “She squealed. Her face turned red, then paled. I where she was looking and saw Michael and the girlfriend.”

  “Did they approach you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re doing good, only a couple more questions. Do you know if Marilyn went home or somewhere else?”

  Marilyn was missing. Did the girlfriend kill Michael then his wife? I shook my head and held back the terrifying thoughts. “I don’t know where she went.”

  He winked at me like we were old friends. Confidantes. “Okay, last one. Did Marilyn say anything after seeing her husband?”

  “Yes.” I stood. I did my duty. Obligation fulfilled.

  “Miss Hunter, I need the exact words she said.”

  “What happens if I don’t remember?”

  “Nothing. Unless I find out you’re lying to me.” He stepped toward me. “If you are, your ‘forgetting’ might fall under aiding and abetting.”

  I hunched forward, my gaze now directed at the marred linoleum floor. I hated being forced into betraying my friend.

  “Let me try again, Miss Hunter, and take note that I have spoken with other witnesses. Did Mrs. Kane say anything after she saw her husband?”

  I had to tell Roget. I knew the law. I also knew Marilyn. She said those words because she was angry. She did not want Michael dead. But I couldn’t lie. “She said that heaven better help that man because she was going to kill him.”

  FOUR

  The door creaked open and Officer Conroy Jasper, county chess champion and former high school classmate, walked into the stairwell. He nodded at Detective Roget and held out a piece of paper.

  I tried to catch Jasper’s attention.

  He ignored me.

  Roget rolled up the paper and tapped it against his palm. “I have a search warrant for Scrap This.”

  “What?” Blood rushed from my head. I squeezed the stair rail, keeping myself upright. A warrant for the store? Why would the detective think Scrap This tied into Michael Kane’s murder?

  “I’d like you to open it up for us,” Roget said. “Or I could have one of your grandmothers come with me.”