Death Threads (21 page)

But that was about to change.

Dirk Rogers was a person of interest in Colby’s disappearance as far as she was concerned. He’d been livid after reading Colby’s expose on the wartime fire that had annihilated Sweet Briar, he had a reputation—at least in Margaret Louise’s eyes—for being deceptive and sneaky, and Police Chief Dallas had reportedly made a few trips into the woods behind his garage since Monday night. Whether any of that added up to his involvement in the death of Debbie’s husband remained to be seen.

Had she told Margaret Louise what she was up to when they’d met for breakfast, Tori wouldn’t be making the drive alone. But she hadn’t and so she was.

She’d intended to ask Margaret Louise to join her on this leg of her investigation, but after the brief and unexpected Milo sighting midway through breakfast she’d realized she simply needed time alone. To think.

Back in Chicago, when she’d been engaged to Jeff, she’d believed in the man he was . . . his principles, his views, his goals. Yet, in the time span of about thirty seconds, she’d watched those beliefs self-destruct before her very eyes when she’d found him in a coat closet with another woman.

From that moment forward, Tori had been determined to keep her eyes wide-open in all future relationships. Milo’s early reactions to Colby’s desire for truth had sent off warning bells—loud ones. Were they as glaring as the ones Jeff had set off in the coat closet of the hall where their engagement party was being held? Of course not. But she didn’t intend to be the recipient of a blinding sucker punch ever again.

As she rounded a curve on Route 6 and turned onto Lantern Drive, she let up on the gas, loose strands of hair falling limp against her head. Sighing, she twisted the knob of the radio to the left and pulled into the parking lot of Dirk’s garage. Disappointment over the presence of other cars in the lot turned to relief as she realized they were ownerless—the kind of vehicles that people dumped off at a garage in the hopes of earning a little money from harvested parts.

She pulled up to an open car bay and shifted into Park, the final few notes of the song she’d just switched off echoing through the garage.

She smiled to herself as she turned the key and stepped out of the car. As cued in to Dirk Rogers as Margaret Louise seemed to be, Tori didn’t know very much about the man other than the fact that he’d never stepped foot in the library in the six months she’d been working there as head librarian.

“How can I help you, young lady?” A deep voice caught her off guard and she spun around, the rapid movement upsetting her balance. “Whoa there, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t . . . I-I just didn’t see you.” She shifted from one wedge-heeled foot to the other as she watched the man’s gaze play across her face before moving slowly down her body, taking in her pale pink halter top and white denim jeans. “Do you know where I might find Dirk Rogers?”

A soft whistle escaped his lips as his eyes traveled back up her body and settled on hers. “I’m Dirk Rogers. What can I do for you, Miss . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

Swallowing quickly, she extended her hand in his direction. “I’m Tori. Tori Sinclair.”

His hand, thick and strong, closed over hers, a shot of warmth spreading from the tips of her fingers to the tips of her toes. “Tori. Now that sure is a pretty name. You from around here?”

Willing her mind to focus on the task at hand rather than the rugged yet incredibly handsome man in front of her, Tori nodded. “I moved to Sweet Briar about six months ago.”

“Wait! I know you . . . you were the one everyone was pointing at for Tiffany Ann Gilbert’s murder. Wow, now that you’re standing right here, in front of me, I don’t know how anyone could think you were guilty of anything besides sending a guy’s heart pumping.”

She felt her face flush at the unexpected compliment. Good grief, what was wrong with her? She was here for one reason and one reason only—to find answers about Colby.

And to get an oil change she didn’t really need . . .

“Thank you.” Extricating her hand from his lingering grasp, Tori tucked her fingers around the shoulder strap of her backpack purse. “I was hoping to get my oil changed if you’re not busy. I haven’t kept up with it the way I should since moving here.”

“Then let’s take a look, shall we?” He reached around her and into the open window, pulling the release for the hood. “Wow, you sure smell good. Lilac, right?”

“Uhhh, yeah, actually it is.” She followed him as he lifted the hood and gestured her over.

“Do you check your oil from time to time?” he asked as he reached for a black cap and began twisting his hand to the left.

“No. I’m not sure how to do that.” She tucked her right hand behind her back and crossed her fingers as she continued. “I’m not even sure where the oil box is.”

He laughed, a hearty sound that started somewhere deep in his muscular chest. “It’s an oil pan, Miss Sinclair.”

“I didn’t know that.” She pulled her left hand behind her back as well as she crossed additional fingers.

Slowly, he lowered the dipstick into a long tube and pulled it back out, his eyebrows furrowing as he examined the results in the light.

“You sure you haven’t changed your oil recently?”

“I’m sure.”

He dipped the stick again, the second reading doing nothing to dispel the downward turn to his lips. “It sure looks clean and full to me.”

“Could you change it anyway? I’m considering a somewhat lengthy road trip in the next few weeks and I want everything to be running right.”

“Where are you going?” he asked as he closed the cap and wiped his hands on a cloth he kept stuffed in his jeans pocket.

“Where am I going?” she repeated.

“That was my question.” Dirk Rogers leaned against her car and flashed a smile that surely charmed his way into more women’s beds than she could ever hope to count.

“I-I’m thinking about heading up to Chicago for a few days. To visit with some friends.”

Where on earth had that come from? The last thing in the world she wanted to do was run the risk of seeing Jeff ever again.

“Chicago, eh? I’ve never been there, myself. I bet it’s got some great nightlife, huh?”

She nodded.

“Man, I’d kill to get out of here for a few days.” He cast a sly look in her direction. “Got room for one more? I could cover the gas both ways. And maybe”—he raked a hand through his blondish brown hair—“we could go in on a place to stay . . .”

She considered squashing his hopes like a bug but she resisted. Until she had what she needed from this man, she needed to play nice. And if nice meant flirting, she needed to keep up pretenses for Debbie’s sake.

Using her best theatrical skills, Tori dipped her head and giggled. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I bet we can come up with something when I’m done with your car.” Dirk tossed the cloth to the ground and reached for a long black tool box that sat on the floor not far from her car. “This won’t take me too long. Why don’t you have a seat in my office and I’ll come get you when I’m done.”

“Your office?”

“Yeah, sure. The owner always has his own office.” Inhaling deeply, Dirk puffed his chest outward then pointed toward an open door on the far side of the garage. “It’s right there. Make yourself at home.”

“I will, thank you.” Cocking her head ever so slightly to the right, she flashed a slow, sensual smile at the man. “Thank you, Dirk. For being so sweet.”

“Mmmm. It’s my pleasure, Miss—it is Miss, right?”

She batted her eyelashes slowly. “Yes. But, please, call me Tori.”

He looked at her for a long moment, his charm-filled eyes taking on a slightly different edge—one of a more predatory nature that set her nerves on edge. Stepping backward, she hoisted her purse higher on her shoulder and pointed at his office door, her mind making mental calculations as to how quickly she could pull her cell phone from her back pocket if needed. “I’ll just wait inside.”

Willing herself not to run, Tori crossed the wide concrete garage floor and stopped just inside the doorway of the office, her mouth gaping open. For a man who played with grease for a living, Dirk Rogers was a certifiable neat freak. The large metal desk that stood in the center of the room was void of anything except a blotter-style calendar, a wooden pencil box, and a computer. Across from the desk stood a metal folding chair she assumed was for customers to utilize while filling out paperwork for their cars. A lone three-drawer filing cabinet stood in a far corner, a framed photograph of an old-fashioned car perched atop its dark gray metal surface.

She took a step farther into the room, scanned the certificates and various mechanic licenses hung with careful precision on each and every wall. A small window, designed to offer a view into the car bays, was covered by a set of wood paneled mini blinds that had been left in the closed position.

Peering quickly over her shoulder to confirm the garage owner’s whereabouts, Tori examined the room once again, her attention coming to rest on a door slightly recessed into the back wall. Did it lead to a bathroom? A storage closet? The outdoors?

“There’s only one way to find out,” she mumbled under her breath as she rounded the corner of the desk and grabbed hold of the recently polished silver knob, twisting her hand to the right as she pulled. She stepped back and peered up at the series of shelves that ran from top to bottom—shelves filled with auto supply boxes and tools she couldn’t identify. A second set of shelves on the bottom housed various office supplies—paper, pens, pencils, paper clips, Sharpies, and a plastic bin with crayons and colored pencils. Shrugging her shoulders, she reached for the door again, her eyes scanning their way up its interior side.

“Oh my G—” She clamped her mouth shut as a wave of nausea racked her body. There, just inches from her face, was a picture of Colby Calhoun—the same glossy black and white author photograph she’d seen countless times since moving to Sweet Briar. Only instead of the unobstructed view of Colby’s dark brown hair, smoldering gray eyes, and disarming smile that she was used to, this version was chock full of holes—hundreds of holes that covered every inch of the man’s handsome face.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Tori jumped backward, her hand instinctively slamming the closet door as she spun around to face a very angry Dirk Rogers. “I-I had to go to the bathroom. I figured that’s where this led.” She knew the words sounded pathetic, feared he’d see right through them, but she had to try. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Snoop?”

Planting her hands on her hips, Tori forced a scowl. “Of course not. Why on earth would I be snooping around a garage?”

“I don’t know. How about you tell me,” he thundered as he kicked the door shut behind him. “Your car no more needs an oil change than you were looking for a bathroom. So what gives? Who are you?”

Squaring her shoulders, she inhaled deeply, willed herself to remain calm and in control. “I’m Tori Sinclair, just as I said.”

“Why are you here?”

She ignored his question, opting instead to reopen the closet door. Pointing at the photograph, she matched his intimidating tone with one of her own. “I think the better question is this . . . why are you using a picture of Colby Calhoun as your personal dartboard?”

Clenching his teeth as his lower jaw jutted left, Dirk stepped around the desk, closing the gap between Tori and himself with a threatening presence. “It seemed fitting under the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?” she asked as she backed into the door-frame. “What kind of circumstances could possibly justify mutilating someone’s picture like that?”

“What kind of circumstances?” He propped the heel of his left palm on the wall as he leaned his face mere inches from hers. “What kind of circumstances? How about his high-and-mighty attitude, his I’m-famous-you’re-not strut for starters.”

With a burst of energy she ducked out from beneath the man’s outstretched arm. “Colby Calhoun has never lorded his fame in anyone’s face.”

He turned around, his breath playing across her bare shoulders as his gaze inventoried her body once again. “That’s because you’re probably one of those women who fall for it hook, line, and sinker.”

“On the contrary sir, it’s because I believe it.” She gestured toward the dartboard once again. “So basic male jealousy made you do that?”

The man snorted. “Jealous of a blowfish like Calhoun? Puh-lease.”

“Then why?” she persisted despite the little voice in her head jockeying for an escape route rather than answers.

“Because he ruined everything. He stuck his nose where it didn’t belong and fixed it so everyone who’s ever taken pride in this town’s history is nothing short of a laughingstock now.”

“Oh c’mon. You can’t really believe anyone outside the town limits of Sweet Briar gives a hoot whether this town was burned by Yankees or a moonshine mishap, can you?”

“I can’t, huh?” He yanked open the top drawer of his desk and extracted a brick with white lettering spray painted on each side. “Then how do you explain this?”

“What is it?”

“Why don’t you take a look for yourself?” He extended his hand, placed the reddish brown brick in between hers as his voice took on a taunting quality. “Still think no one cares?”

She stared down at the brick, turned it over in her hands as she read each side . . .

 

SWEET BRIAR

HOME OF DRUNKIN

FOOLS TOO STUPID

TO USE A HOSE

 

“How did you get this?” she asked as she reread each side once again.

“Right through the middle window of my garage door, that’s how.”

“When?”

“Sunday night. After everyone within a day’s radius knew about that piece of trash Calhoun wrote.” Leaning over the top of his desk, Dirk pulled a dart from his pencil box and hurled it at the dartboard, the point hitting his intended target with the same accuracy he’d obviously maintained for quite some time. “I swear I—” The man clamped his mouth shut midsentence, opting instead to kick the leg of his desk.