EMBELLISHED TO DEATH by Christina Freeburn

offered an unsolicited reason.”
    â€œI’m hoping so.” Marsha scanned the paper then flipped it over and looked at the back. “Nothing.”
    â€œCheck the sheets of the other women. Maybe there’s a clue on one of them.”
    Marsha shoved the stack at me. “You figure it out.”
    The door open and some women entered, grumbling about the delay in being able to set up. As this was a group of six wearing matching scrapbook slogan t-shirts, I figured they weren’t the embattled croppers.
    I read through the forms. The “excluded cropper” had noted she wanted to sit under an air-conditioning vent. I bet the “excluder” was on the cold-blooded side and didn’t want to freeze all weekend. We could work with this.
    â€œHave this group sit at one of the tables near Scrap This.” I tugged the seating chart from the bottom of the pile. It was a hodgepodge of highlighting, writing, and cross-outs. No one, probably even Marsha, could make heads or tails from it. I circled a four-person table with only two croppers at it. “Put the group of four with the dissenter here so she can have a seat with her back to the window. That should keep her warm during the day.”
    â€œAnd these two?” Marsha tapped the page.
    â€œDo you mind if you were moved?” I showed the chart to Garrison. Bob and Garrison had been placed at a table near the front of the crop room near a door –one of the least desirable spots since it was the main exit into and out of the cropping area.
    â€œAs long as we’re together, Bob and I won’t care,” Garrison said.
    â€œPerfect.” I jotted down Bob and Garrison in the two spaces left at Gussie and Darlene’s table. One of those spots was for me to crop at when things got slow, but as Bob wasn’t a scrapper I could still set up my crafting station and it would help Bob “sell” his cover. “All fixed.”
    Marsha studied it. The stress on her face dissolved. “This will work. I’ll just go pretty it up.”
    The door opened.
    Morgan.
    He looked around the room and when he spotted Garrison and me, a slow smile spread across his face. He sauntered inside. Apparently, whatever he wanted to say to me, he had no problems saying in front of an audience.
    I tilted my chin up and met his eyes. No cowering.
    â€œSo we meet up again.” Morgan walked two fingers down my arm.
    I smacked his hand away. “No. This is not a meeting. It’s more like a bad stalking attempt.”
    Garrison shifted his chair back.
    Morgan moved Marsha’s tote to the floor. “Mind if I join you?”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    Marsha frowned. “I didn’t give you permission to move my stuff.”
    â€œI don’t need it,” Morgan said. “So what are you gals gossiping about?”
    Garrison kept quiet, anger brewing in his gaze. What was going on? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Morgan knew Garrison and had made a bigoted comment. But how could he? Did Garrison treat the federal agent at one time?
    â€œAll the clucking stops when a man comes in the room.” Morgan picked up Marsha’s coffee and drank some. “Could use sugar. What’s all this?”
    As he reached for the seating chart, I tugged it toward me. “We’re working on the retreat.”
    â€œAh yes, the scrapbooking thing. Your cover for the weekend.” Morgan grinned and leaned back in the chair.
    I wished he would topple over and smack his head. I knew I shouldn’t cater to the uncharitable thought but I allowed the image to play in my head for a few seconds before I shut it off.
    â€œCover?” Marsha evil-eyed me and then Morgan. “What does that mean?”
    â€œYou’ll find out soon enough.”
    â€œI want to know now.” Marsha clenched her hands.
    Without a word, Morgan righted the chair, and kicked Marsha’s tote over. Wallet, lipstick,