EMBELLISHED TO DEATH (12 page)

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.”

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.

I walked outside. A warm breeze flickered through the air and played with the ends of my hair. After looking both ways, I stepped out into the parking lot, paying careful attention to the area where the woman got run over. I stared at the vehicles parked in the back row. One of them belonged to the victim.

Or maybe not. The police, from what I knew, were still trying to figure out the woman's identity. If a car belonged to her, then they would know. And it's not like they'd tell me or Bob. Ted would.

Or at least he'd tell Bob.

From now on, I'd carry some type of identification in my pocket—unless I didn't want someone knowing who I was. The victim being the ID thief was the only solution That made sense to me. No one had had the opportunity to take her wallet from her.

My “job” in the investigation was to keep an eye on the croppers and make note of anything suspicious. I had a list so far with one name on it. Guessing was doing me no good. I either needed to talk with Marsha or poke around to find out more information on Violet…like asking to see her layouts. Croppers loved sharing their pages with others. It would be the easiest way to learn a little more about her.

And if Violet refused to let me see any, I had more reason to suspect her.

I went back into the hotel portion and scanned the area. No Marsha. I'd see if I could get her room number or have the clerk call it for me when I got my key.

The line went quick and I was standing in front of a frazzled clerk. “Can I help you?”

“I need to check in.” I gave the clerk my name and soon had a sleeve with two room keys.

“You're on the third floor.”

Right beside Steve, just like how I arranged it when I first signed us up. “Thanks. I was also wondering what room Marsha Smith is in.”

“I can't give you that information.” The clerk wrote something on a sheet of paper near her keyboard.

“Can you call her room for me? We need her in the crop room.”

The clerk cast a quick look over her shoulder. The manger was in a back room talking with Detective Bell. They were probably still trying to narrow down the identity of the dead woman. Every woman who checked in was one less name Bell could cross off his list.

“I forgot to get her cell number. I promise from now on I'll call her on her phone.” I smiled and hoped the pleading in my gaze worked.

She typed on the keyboard then called Marsha's room. After a few seconds, she hung up the phone. “No answer.”

“Thanks.” I scurried away from the desk and headed for the door. I was counting on her being back in the cropping zone and wanted to catch her before she moved again.

Yanking open the door, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and sent a quick text to Steve.
If you see Marsha, detain her for me.
I swiped my finger across the screen and checked the Facebook page for Cropportunity. If there was gossip going on at the crop about Marsha or the hit-and-run, it would've made it to social media outlets by now. There was nothing like asking a question publicly to shame people into giving some answers.

Then something—or someone—body checked me into a door. My shoulder banged into the frame. The cell phone tumbled from my grasp. I started to scream, but a hand covered my mouth before I could reach full volume. My lungs burned. I jerked my arm back and met a not so-toned stomach. It wasn't flabby, but also not rock-hard. Good thing for me as the blow loosened the person's hold on me.

I twisted and faced my attacker. Morgan. I went to shove him. “Stay away from me.”

Morgan captured my hands and barreled me into the door. The doorknob jabbed into my side. I sucked in a sharp breath and jerked my knee up. I refused to take any more of his abuse.

Morgan arched away from me. “Don't try it. There are penalties for assaulting law enforcement.”

“You're a liar.” I glared straight into his eyes. “I'm not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

I sensed someone else in the hallway—a shadow against the wall. Part of me hoped they made their presence known, the other part of me screamed silently for them to run. Get help. Get out before Morgan spotted them.

“I know you're not FBI.” I wrestled away from his grasp but I was still trapped against the door. “Garrison knows who you really are. I'm surprised you'd think he'd keep it quiet.”

Morgan placed his hand on my collar bone, keeping me pressed against the door. “Then you should be even more scared.”

“Get your hands off me.”

“Or…” Morgan trailed off and grazed his hand down my arm.

“I'll shoot you.” Bob's enraged voice came from a few feet away.

I turned my head. Bob had a hand on the butt of his revolver.

Morgan raised his hands and stepped backwards, pivoting toward Bob. “My hands are in clear view.”