Cropped to Death (Faith Hunter Scrap This Mystery) (15 page)

A dark-haired woman in her late teens hovered behind me. Two splotches of red bloomed on her cheeks and she stammered. “I was wondering if. Well, if you could…would you mind…”

I smiled and waved my hand over the products on the table. “It’s not too late to sign up for the crop tonight.”

She pushed a piece of paper toward me. “I was wondering if…”

I held my pleasant smile and waited.

“If I could… like… get…”

The smile strained my cheeks.

“Your autograph.”

“My what?” I kept my reaction in check, uncertain if amusement or anger was more appropriate.

“Aren’t you the owners’ granddaughter? The one mentioned in the paper?”

I went with anger. Before the scolding exploded from my mouth, the young woman turned and fled out the door. Why couldn’t the store reach celebrity status because of our awesome customer service rather than because of murder?

I had a crop I needed to finish planning. We also needed a way to draw more to the crops. Door prizes usually encouraged scrapbookers to sign-up, and pay, so I’d add a little incentive and display the goodies in the window.

And if that didn’t work…well, I could just start signing products and auctioning them off.

EIGHTEEN

With the class materials gathered, I went on to the next project, putting together the prize basket for new scrapbookers. The class attendees had a fifty-percent chance of winning. Good odds. With Linda being new to the hobby, she’d know what would catch a beginner’s eye.

Linda hovered over a magazine, biting her lip, as she ran her finger over a page. Scrunching up her eyes, she muttered the steps on how to hand stitch on cardstock. The dedication she showed for learning more about the business touched me. I wished there was something I could do to show my appreciation.

If we had boxes to unpack from the show, Linda’s layout could be in one of them. I grinned.

“I’ll be in the storage room for a little bit. I need to search for something.”

Linda nodded absentmindedly.

Pushing aside the gold-lined maroon curtain, I went into the backroom. Three boxes were inside the room. I stepped closer and read the labels. New paper ordered from an up-and-coming company.

I placed my hands on my hips and turned around in the recently organized space. Grandma Cheryl spent some time in the room. She probably double-checked to make sure Detective Roget hadn’t carted off anything else as evidence. If Cheryl had found the layout, she’d have put it in a safe place. The office.

I hurried out of the storage area and tapped on the closed office door. After waiting a minute, I opened it inch-by-inch. Habits died hard. Even with my grandmothers at home, I still felt like I was invading their space.

Hope had left on the desk light. I walked over and snapped it off, my eyes grazing over the financial statement for last month. I winced. We had to get more people into the store, and I feared the contest was a bust. A few entries had trickled in, but the early closing of the Art Benefit Show probably stopped a lot of scrapbookers from getting photos.

I lifted up some magazines and catalogs hoping to find the layout. Nothing. I scanned the rest of the room. Where would my grandmothers put a layout?

Shame skipped into my heart. Actually, where would I have put the layout? Sierra hadn’t been able to fix the layout and handed it off to me. I had looked at it and set it down when a potential customer walked into our booth. That page meant the world to Linda. It was the last picture she took of her husband and son together. We tried dissuading her from using that photograph on a display page, but she insisted, wanting to share the day with her husband and son.

Where was that layout? How would I tell her I misplaced her most precious page, or worse yet, left it at the convention center? Who knows what they did with items left behind.

One last place. I dropped onto my knees and scrambled under the desk. A crumbled piece of paper had rolled behind the leg. I snagged hold of it and withdrew the wadded paper from its hiding place.

My name written in Hope’s handwriting caught my eye. I tossed the paper ball from palm to palm. Should I read it? It did have my name on it. But if Hope wanted me to know, she’d have told me. Right? I flicked at the edges of the paper.

Once again, curiosity won out. And once again, it crashed my world.

Numbers were written on the top of the page. If it was the financials of the business, not too bad as long as the bottom number was the account balance. If not, the store was in serious trouble. But it was the two words underneath that made me regret reading the paper.

Tell Faith.
No punctuation, but underlined multiple times. Was it a question or a statement
?
What did she need to tell me? Why was the decision a struggle for Grandma Hope?

“A cropper just arrived,” Linda called from the front of the store.

I jumped up, crumbling back up the paper and tossing it into the trash. I didn’t want Grandma knowing I found it.

“On my way,” I squeaked out. 

I yanked a hair band from my jeans pocket and twisted my hair into a ponytail, as hair dangling in my face was a major distraction while I taught. When I was a cropper rather than a teacher, I liked the veil my hair created around me. Hiding my face made it hard for someone to talk to me.

I raced into the main part of the store and started my warm greeting, only to stop in mid-speak. Roget stood in the doorway, surveying the place.

“What are you doing here?” I spoke before I engaged my brain.

Linda’s eyes widened. She must not remember the man was the detective investigating Marilyn’s murder, and we’ve never had a male cropper.

Roget headed toward the magazines and picked one up and flipped through it. “Checking out the store.”

“You already did that, remember?” I pointed toward the spot where our scissors had been and waged war with my eyes. My glare had no effect on him as he continued flipping through the magazine at a leisurely pace.

“I also brought back your phone and car.” He held out my keys and my cell phone.

Linda’s mouth popped open.

“Thanks,” I grumbled. I took the items and quickly stored them under the counter wishing Linda would stop acting like there was a tennis match going on between me and Roget.  

Something was different about him. Watching Roget take an exaggerated interest in the latest issue of a new scrapbooking magazine, Life Artist Diva, the feeling intensified. The longer I kept my eye on the man, the more I felt—knew—something was off. I studied his stance and then I figured it out. Roget wore jeans and a polo shirt. An off-duty outfit.

Linda wandered over and smiled at Roget. “How long have you been scrapbooking?”

“I don’t.”

Looking at the clock, I cheered in my head. Two minutes until closing. I pasted on my sweetest smile and turned it full force on Roget. “If you’d like help in choosing some items, please come back tomorrow morning. We’re closing—”

He pointed at the table. “What kind of class are you teaching tonight?”

“Scrapbooking,” I replied ever so helpfully.

“Actually, it’s more of a mini-crop,” Linda said. “Women bring their photographs to work on pages together. Tonight’s is focused on the contest.”

“This class is for those interested in entering the layout contest of the Art Benefit Show,” I said. “We’re offering prizes for the best layout in two categories.”

Roget placed the magazine back in its slot. “The contest the woman was ranting about in the coffee shop?”

“The very one,” I said.

Linda kept volleying her gaze from me to Roget. Her brows drew together and she gnawed on her lip.

“Detective, the crop is a teaching crop and starts in a few minutes. I need to make sure I have everything ready.” So please go away.

He gestured toward the empty chairs. “Who are you teaching?”

I shoved down my anger and tried a somewhat polite answer. “Croppers sometimes run late.”

“Then I guess that means the class…crop…whatever you call it, hasn’t started. So, I could take it.” He jammed his hands into his back jean pockets.

“You’re kidding.” My eyebrows rose. “You want to attend our crop? You said you weren’t a hobby kind of guy.”

“Maybe I just haven’t found the right one.”

“The crop is forty-five dollars, which is actually scheduled for today and tomorrow,” Linda said. “That price also includes supplies for a two-page layout and use of the stores’ tools and computer.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Roget pulled out his wallet and headed for the register.

“What pictures are you going to use from the Art Benefit Show? Crime scene photos?” I said.

Linda paled.

Roget stared at me, his face frozen between shock and amusement. I wanted to grab the snarky words and shove them back in my mouth, but it was too late for a retraction. 

“I’ll take care of this transaction, Linda.” I walked through the small opening and kept my gaze on the floor. “You can go ahead and go home.”

“Are you sure?” Her voice wavered.

“Absolutely.” I rung up the purchase, took Roget’s debit card, and ran it through without ever meeting his gaze.

“If you’re sure, I’ll head out. And if you need me to fill in tomorrow morning, just call me.” Linda exited out the front door. The tinkle added a sound of joy into the mix of snark and baiting wit.

True, I didn’t trust the detective’s motives—or him, for that matter—but that was no excuse to be rude. As my grandmothers kept reminding me, they raised me better. And I also upset Linda. Since I couldn’t apologize to her, I’d have to settle for the only person available.

“I’m sorry. Sometimes…” I didn’t know what else to say.

Roget shoved the receipt into his back pocket. “You’re not the first or the last person to speak without thinking. I bring that out in people. Mind if I ask a question?”

I grimaced. “Depends.”

He grinned. “Have to admire an honest woman.”

I rolled my eyes.

Roget’s grin deepened. “I thought the backdoor was for the employees. That one just went out the front.”

“Linda doesn’t open or close yet. She’s only been working here a few months, so she doesn’t have a key.”

A slight frown tugged at the corners of Roget’s mouth and his brows drew together. “Don’t trust her?”

I wandered from behind the counter into the shopping area, doing my best to stay away from Roget. He was up to something. “I trust her. It’s just that we only have four keys. I have one, my grandmothers share one, and Sierra has one. Marilyn does. Did.”

Maybe we should get that key back and let Linda use it until Marilyn returned.

“That makes sense.” He slapped his hands together and rubbed them back and forth. “Should we get started?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to wait a few minutes.”

“Not a problem.” Resting one foot on top of the other, Roget leaned against the wall.

Since he wanted to play student, I’d oblige. I pulled the band from my hair and it fell to my shoulders. “I chose some neutrals paper for the background. If you want, you could pick out a different color or we can find a complementary color of cardstock to use as the photo mat for your project.”

“And that would be?” His gaze roamed around the store.

“Are you asking what is your project or what is cardstock?”

“Both.”

I let out a huff of breath. “The project is up to you. The cardstock I can show you. It’s a type of paper we carry. It’s down this aisle.” I pointed.

“How would I know cardstock from wide ruled paper?” He asked, humor lacing his words.

“For one thing, we don’t sell wide-ruled paper. We’re not a stop for back to school shopping.”

“I’m a guy. Paper is paper.”

Gesturing toward the multitude of color paper, I stepped aside. “This, Detective Roget—”

“Can you call me Ted?” He gazed into my eyes, the green of his a vivid forest. “The detective title sounds out of place.”

Flustered by the intensity in his eyes, I looked away. “Sure. Why not, that’s your name isn’t it?” What is it about Roget—Ted—that caused words to start flowing before the mind engaged?

His lips twitched into a smile and then slipped back into a straight line.

“This is cardstock. It’s heavier. Paper. Acid-free…” I clamped my lips shut and stopped the stumbling speech. Hard to inspire confidence when a person sounded like they didn’t know what they were talking about.

“I’m supposed to choose one from all of those?” He looked terrified at the prospect.

“It’s just paper.” Why did men get so bent out of shape by hues? I stood in the middle of the aisle and pointed at the reds and then the blues. “What color is predominant in the photo you’re using for your layout?”

He grimaced. “This was a spur of the moment decision. I had nothing else to do tonight. “

“I figured that.” I refrained from rubbing my hands in malicious glee.  It was time to turn the tables. Let him feel uncomfortable and out of his league. 

He reached forward and pulled out a burgundy sheet, the color closest to his reach.

The best way to know a person was to see what their private life was like. And this was my opportunity. “If you’re not going to enter into the contest, I’m willing to wave the subject of the photograph for your layout. Do you have an idea of what kind of picture you’d like to use?”

“Not really.” He returned the burgundy and removed a sheet of Christmas red.