Read Online Cropped to Death (Faith Hunter Scrap This Mystery) by Christina Freeburn - Free Book Online

died?
    I needed the pregnant mistress’ name. Referring to her as home-wrecker wouldn’t get me very far in questioning people. I started my investigation by reading the article.
    Apparently the reporter, Karen England, didn’t have the whole scoop.  She identified the crying woman solely as Annette Holland, a co-worker of the victim. Self-proclaimed reporter extraordinaire contributed the hysterical crying to pregnancy hormones, not to the fact that the recently deceased was the father of the child. A twinge of pain gathered in my chest. The baby would never have a chance to know his or her father.
    If Michael was the father.
    Maybe Marilyn wasn’t the only person Michael fed that line to. I’m sure a pregnant woman wouldn’t be thrilled for the daddy-to-be to deny paternity.

       
    When lunchtime arrived, I visited the office of Allan, Taylor & Gilder. The modern chrome and glass structure was out of place in our rural town. The building could be seen from every point in Eden, making it a landmark from which driving directions branched from.
    The Allegheny Mountains rose in the background, dwarfing the modern building and commanding attention for its beauty. Spring was still a few weeks away, but the barren trees cascading down the rolls and dips in the mountain started showing some green.
    I pulled into the parking lot and slid off my sneakers and replaced them with classic tan two-inch pumps. I hated driving in heels but the grown-up shoes added a snazzy touch and gave me a more professional appearance.
    I gripped the steel handle and pulled open the glass door. A rush of cold air hit me. I headed toward the security station. The sound of my heels grew louder on the gray tile floor. I gave the guard my most winning smile. The man responded with a bored, annoyed look. This was going well. I composed my expression into a more hardened, no-nonsense professional look.
    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