Designed to Death (A Faith Hunter Scrap This Mystery) (3 page)

I was wondering how our attendees would feel having to look at lime green and bright pink all day. “It will be hard for the students taking Belinda’s class to follow along if they have to twist their necks to watch the demonstration.”

Hazel looked at me as if I was a simpleton. “Are these tables bolted to the floor?”

I frowned. “No.”

“Get a move on then. Start rearranging.” Hazel swished her hands in a go-away-little-doggie manner. “My daughter is the most important person here.”

Belinda had the good graces to cringe at her mother’s words. One attendee hustled over to the register and I heard her ask for her class fee back.

Annoyed murmurs erupted from the rest of the class. A few women discretely, and some not so, placed their copy of
Making Legacies
they had intended to buy back onto the pile.

Leslie started tapping a stylus onto the screen of her iPad, a frown marring the pleasant expression her tattooed eyebrows and eyeliner attempted to give her. The editor-in-chief didn’t appear pleased with the diva’s behavior.

This was going to be a long day.

TWO

“Next,” Hazel announced, holding out her hands for an issue of
Making Legacies
to slide in front of Belinda.

Two more stragglers raced into the store, grabbed a magazine, and jumped into the back of the line. I looked over at Belinda. This time, she nodded yes to my suggestion of closing off the line. The signing should’ve ended an hour ago, but Belinda hadn’t wanted to turn away any of her fans, and neither did Leslie Amtower. She cared about the books being sold, not the class.

I, on the other hand, had to balance both. I thought making the class attendees wait for an hour was more than long enough.

The women poised at the cropping tables as if preparing for battle, one hand hovering over a hammer and the other over the wide range of tin sheets, finally smiled. For over an hour, they waited for the diva to begin the class. With one word from their idol, they’d grab the hammer, a pin, and snatch up the nearest color of thin sheets of aluminum to start poking the metal into creative submission.

I had yet to figure out how the boa came into play.

Hazel slid another copy of the magazine over to Belinda. With a flourish, Belinda signed the copy and handed it to the waiting groupie. The class attendees’ arms quivered in anticipation, two more signatures and then they’d be on their way to the fame of being part of the first class taught by Belinda.

“What product did you use on this layout?” A young woman with hopeful eyes asked, tapping a design with stacked flowers on the corner of the photo. “I love these shapes and haven’t seen them before. This would be great for my engagement photo.”

Belinda queen-waved off the young lady. “I have a class to teach. No time for questions right now.”

“I’m sure there’s a supply list included.” Hazel beamed at the young woman.

“There’s not.” The woman remained glued to her spot, staring at Belinda. “Don’t you remember what product this is?”

Hazel looked pointedly at me.

Holding in a long-suffering sigh, I smiled at the girl. “Leave your email with one of my grandmothers and I’ll locate the supplies for you.”

“Thanks.” The girl beamed and skipped toward Hope.

I was surprised
Making Legacies
hadn’t included a product list with the layouts. It was standard for the items the designer used to be listed either alongside or underneath the layout. Was this a way for the magazine to get more readers to check out their blog and increase their number of hits?

The last autograph seeker made it through the line. Hallelujah. The students flexed their fingers, anticipating the first words from the newest scrapbooking It-Girl.

Gathering up a set of tools for Belinda, I raced over to the table and arranged them for quick and easy access. Hammer. Check. Different size nails. Check. Different color tin sheets. Check. Protective mat for the table. Check. Hot glue gun. Check. Glitter. Check. Pink boa. Check.

“Do you need anything else, Belinda?” I hoped for a no. The table was running out of room.

She glanced at the items and pointed at the hammer, nails and tin. “If you don’t mind, can you scoot those over toward my mother? She’s doing the hands-on portion while I read from my notes.” Belinda reached into her expensive bubblegum pink leather artist portfolio and pulled out a stack of paper.

I stepped closer to Belinda and lowered my voice. “These women paid a premium price to take a class taught by you.”

“I am teaching it.” She waved the pages under my nose.

“Teaching as in demonstrating. If they just wanted to read the instructions, they could have done that at home.”

Belinda laughed. “These instructions haven’t been published yet. They are the first to be learning this technique. You should be pleased I’m debuting this class at Scrap This. I could have gone elsewhere.”

Right now, I wished she had. The paying customers took this class under the belief the creator of the technique would demonstrate it, not have her mother do it while the diva read the instructions aloud. Granted, maybe her hand was tired from writing but then a short break was in order, not substituting another instructor at the last moment.

“This will be a problem.” I crossed my arms and tried to keep my voice even, neutral and low. “For us, you, and the magazine. These women will talk. And don’t forget the editor is watching. If word gets out a class taught by you isn’t really done by you, you’re done as a diva.”

Not to mention another hole punched into the reputation of Scrap This. We already had a murder to live down, now we’d have to add an expensive class taught by a flaky teacher. Though I had a feeling the customers would be more willing to forgive the murder.

Tears glittered in Belinda’s eyes and she lowered her gaze to the ground. The papers in her hand trembled. “This is my first class. I’m not the best at public speaking. I’ll get confused. That’s why I need…”

My heart went out to her. There had to be some way to help Belinda with her anxiety, give the customers what they paid for, and not have Ms. Amtower bad-mouth the store. I’m sure she’d place the blame on us and not in her choice of diva.

I flipped through a bunch of scenarios in my head. No. No. Possibly.

Wait. That one would work. I grinned. “How about your mom reads the instructions while you demonstrate? You can then add in some anecdotes here and there.”

In the back of the store, Karen leaned against the wall, half-asleep. She was probably wondering what she ever did to get this assignment. The adoption day at the animal shelter was probably more exciting than a book signing and a class at a scrapbook store.

The photographer took a couple of shots of the paper racks, stickers, and the curtains blocking off the storage area. At least he appeared busy and interested.

Belinda chewed on her lip. “I’m not sure.”

“It’ll be fabulous. The women will understand someone will be reading the directions so you can concentrate on showing them how to create the actual project.”

“Well…” Belinda looked at the women who were waiting with bated breath for their illustrious teacher to begin. The hero worship in the students’ eyes must have gotten to her because she perked up and then motioned for her mother to take over as the reader. “We must give the public what they want.”

Thankfully, egos always overruled fear.

Holding in my breath of relief, I wandered to the edge of the open classroom area to observe. If needed, I could step in to help some of the struggling students.

Cheryl rang up purchases while Hope helped other unhappy scrapbookers discover what products were needed to reasonably duplicate the pages in
Making Legacies’
newest edition.

The bell jingled. I kept my eyes on the class.

“I forgot. The new wonder girl is making her first appearance today.” Darlene Johnson, self-proclaimed professional life artist expert and Belinda’s cousin, sidled up to me. “How quaint. She can’t talk and demonstrate at the same time.”

The photographer went to snap a picture of the class. I held my hand up and all he got was the back of it.

Darlene picked unseen lint off the sleeves of her dove gray shirt and slipped the strap of her silvery-blue leather Coach bag further onto her shoulder.

“Let him take pictures. Belinda’s style is, shall we say, so 1999.”

“Jealous much,” I muttered under my breath. It had to wound Darlene that Belinda won a major design contest on her first try, while Darlene still struggled to even have one layout published after a decade of submitting.

Not to mention the two cousins had been competing against each other since they left the womb. Darlene’s mother, Eliza, considered it a victory her daughter was born on Halloween, fitting when one thought about it, while her sister Hazel popped out her child on November first.

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind why the fathers-to-be bolted soon after the pregnancies were announced. Neither man was heard from again, a fact that didn’t seem to bother or even interest either the wives or the daughters. The men had sent the child support and alimony checks on time so they were happy.

“Sorry, but the class is booked.” I smiled at Darlene. “If you’d like, you can sign up for the Halloween Eve crop. Belinda will be attending it.”

“She’s teaching.” Darlene flipped her expertly cut brown hair off her shoulders, forcing the word “teaching” past her lips as if it was distasteful. With two fingers, she picked up a copy of the magazine a class attendee had placed on the edge of the table and laid it on her palm. She dusted her fingers together and then made a production of wiping the appendages onto her pressed dress pants.

I pocketed my fists and reminded myself I was raised to be polite, kind, and not start fights. No matter how irritating and deserving the person happened to be. I prayed I kept my temper.

“Of course artists should support each other, even if it is just a small contest sponsored by
Making Legacies
. Belinda should get some accolades. This publication is all about being trendy and being an artist inside the box.” Darlene shuddered and flipped through the magazine. Light bounced off her red glossy nails.

“This is the most sought after title in the scrapbook world.” I looked at Belinda and hoped Darlene’s words weren’t heard by the instructor or the students. The ones in the back of the class arched their necks back to catch the venom Darlene spewed.

By the pinched look on Hazel’s face and the shaking of Belinda’s hands, the “hope ship” had sailed away without my wish on it.

“When you’re trying to create out-of-the-box artistic work that isn’t just like all the other famous scrapbook page designers, then there’s—” Darlene stopped talking, pulled in a breath and released it as a hiss.

THREE

I watched in rapt fascination as Darlene’s complexion changed from alabaster white to cherry red. The magazine fell to the floor. I looked down. Belinda’s smiling face stared up at me. It was a great photograph of Belinda and I felt a smidge of jealousy that I didn’t photograph as well.

Releasing a screech that shook the building and rattled the windows, Darlene ran straight for Belinda, arms outstretched and hands moving like a claw machine going for a prize. Open and close. Open and close.

Straight for Belinda’s throat. I ran forward.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Karen come to life.

“Faith, stop her!” Hope’s cry galvanized me into action.

Darlene made an amazing leap. Tin sheets and the front row students scattered as her body grazed over the tabletop heading for her cousin. Red painted claw-like nails aimed for Belinda’s throat.

I weaved through the class attendees who were scuttling backwards, away from the wrestling match about to go down. I shouldn’t have turned down Officer Conroy Jasper’s offer of volunteer security guard. At the time, my main concern was Conroy trying to pick up a hot girl or two at the event, not a reenactment of a battle scene from a Twilight movie.

Belinda stood frozen.

Hazel answered Darlene’s battle cry with one of her own. The shrieks shook the rafters. Hazel tossed the instruction sheets and went for the hot glue gun.

Women paused and focused on the brawl. Apparently, they just realized the great gossip potential of a good catfight. Who wanted safety when the best scandal to hit the town in months was being displayed right in front of their very eyes? A few moved forward, clutching their cell phones and holding them out at arm’s length.

Wrapping my arms around Darlene’s waist, I tugged. She reached back with one hand and clawed at my face.

“It’s mine! She stole it!” Darlene lashed out with her legs. One hand tightened on Belinda’s handmade t-shirt. “It’s mine!”

“Let go of my daughter!” Hazel squeezed the trigger of the glue gun. Hot liquid glue dribbled from the nozzle and splattered on Darlene’s hand.

Darlene snarled and hissed in pain but kept hold of Belinda. I tightened my grip on the raging scrapbooker and pulled.

A cloud of blue, yellow and green dust attacked our eyes. Hazel wielded the glue gun in one hand and a plastic jar of glitter in the other.

Was she trying to brand us?

Darlene twisted and turned her hips, killer heels jabbed into my legs. I hung on for Belinda’s dear life.

Rip.
I cringed. Underneath us, paper crinkled. Profits destroyed. I wanted to plead for help but was afraid my grandmother Cheryl would jump into the mix. I just needed to restrain Darlene for a little longer. Grandma Hope was probably on the phone right now arranging for either Steve or Ted, the detective who I tried to get along with for the sake of staying on his good side, to come as my back up.

As the specks of color continued to rain down on us, Darlene twisted her head and started blowing in Hazel’s direction while continuing to kick at me.

“My eyes!” Hazel screeched.

The color bombardment stopped. The container clattered to the floor. Though, unfortunately for me, Darlene persisted in attacking me with her heels.

Where in the world was Steve—or Ted—when I really needed their help? There were times I didn’t want to be totally self-reliant and capable. Where were these knights now?

Darlene’s grip relaxed. I yanked her from the table and we both splattered to the linoleum floor with Darlene on top of me. Darlene grabbed a pot of glitter as we fell, whipped off the top and heaved it at Hazel and Belinda. Both covered their heads and screeched as the color figments coated them.

“That’s it! I’ve had enough of you.” Belinda screeched and kicked off her kitten heels. Things were about to get real ugly now.

“Faith, do something!” Sierra shouted.

What in the world did she think I was doing? I didn’t wrestle as a pastime. Belinda wasn’t the only one who’d had enough of this nonsense. I tightened my grip and rolled over. I pinned Darlene, face-down to the floor.

“My necklace.” Belinda pummeled my back with a container of glitter. Specks of gold, rose, and Christmas green fluttered over and around me. “She took my necklace.”

How in the world did I become the punching bag? Thankful Belinda hadn’t grabbed the hammer and nails, I ignored the blows and kept hold of Darlene. An elbow jabbed into my stomach. I sucked in a breath, pressing more of my weight onto the life artist gone berserk.

Darlene grunted and squirmed.

Snap. Snap
.

Flashes went off. Just what we needed, layouts of a brawl in Scrap This. It’s what one always looked for when looking for a place to shop and crop. I hoped this didn’t show up on the community blog or in the church’s newsletter as I saw Frieda joined in documenting the moment. Pastor Evans was having a hard time explaining to his mother-in-law that God didn’t need, nor want, any help in having “sinful behavior” brought to His attention. One day I wanted to add a picture of her taking a picture of others to the newsletter, but copy-catting bad behavior to point out bad behavior never worked out the way one intended.

Karen’s photographer moved in closer, aiming the lens of the camera I thought I might be falling in love with at me. I wasn’t so enamored with it anymore. 

“Some help instead of taking pictures.” How could the photographer stand there and take photos at a time like this? I guess not all men were helpful in a brewing crisis.

I heard Hope ushering some of the onlookers outside as Cheryl herded some to the back. Customers expressed their disappointment at being denied the opportunity to witness the hostility.

“The cops are on their way.” Sierra pulled and pushed Belinda away from Darlene and me.

“Good.” Darlene muttered from under me. “That thief needs to go to jail.”

“Thief! How dare you…you…twit!” Hazel charged forward, high heels clacking on the linoleum floor.

I braced myself for impact. After a frustrated scream, the sound of heels stopped. I turned my head to peek at Hazel. She paced a few feet away, trying to get past my grandmothers who turned themselves into a human barrier.