Death Threads (25 page)

A tear trickled down her left cheek as she held the phone still closer. “Done.”

“Really?”

The pure hope in his voice made her laugh. “Really.”

“Phhhew.”

“I heard what you did over the weekend,” she offered as she gazed out the window at the branches of the moss tree that swayed in the gentle breeze. “Thank you.”

“You mean searching?”

“Yes.”

“It was the right thing to do. We should have been doing it six days ago. I only wish we’d found something.”

“There’s a part of me that feels the same way. And a part of me that doesn’t,” she admitted, her voice cracking. “I want to believe that Dirk or Harrison or whoever pulled him from his home hasn’t harmed him. But blood doesn’t lie.”

“No, it doesn’t.” A moment of silence filled her ear before Milo’s voice returned. “But what’s this about Dirk Rogers and Harrison James? Have you heard something to indicate either, or both of them, were involved?”

She shook her head.

“Tori? You still there?”

“What? Oh . . . sorry. No, I haven’t heard anything official. I’ve just had private—and extremely heated—conversations with both men about Colby Calhoun. They both hate him for what he set in motion.”

“
Hate
’s a strong word, Tori,” Milo cautioned.

“You’re right. And I stand by it.”

“Tell me.”

Just the willingness in the man’s voice to listen—really listen—was all it took for Tori to share everything that had happened at both Harrison James’s law office and Dirk Rogers’s garage. She shared every word that was spoken, every threat that was hurled, every innuendo that was made.

“He trapped you against a wall?” Milo bit out as she got to the part about Dirk.

“He was just trying to intimidate me,” she said. “At no time was I truly trapped.”

“Perhaps I need to pay him a visit . . .”

“No. Please. He’s got a violent streak. But . . . Milo . . . do you think he’s right? About Chief Dallas looking the other way because of their friendship?”

“Nope. Chief Dallas is a man of respect. Truth and justice are paramount for him.”

She felt her shoulders relax just a bit. “Should I tell him about the dartboard? Let him check it out for himself?”

“Yeah, I think you should. But you said he threw one while you were there, right?”

She nodded, only to realize her mistake and put words to the unseen motion. “He threw it hard and with a whole lot of anger.”

Silence greeted her statement.

“Milo?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I think you should tell the chief about the dartboard to be safe but . . . I don’t know . . . I just think . . .”

“What?” she asked as she spun her chair toward the desk and leaned back, her eyes finding the digital clock. She really needed to get back out on the floor with Nina. . . .

“If Dirk was really involved, doesn’t it seem strange he’d still be angry enough to throw that dart at Colby’s picture? Wouldn’t killing him be enough to rid him of that kind of intense hatred?”

She sat up straight, Milo’s words tickling her own subconscious inquiry to the surface. It made sense. A lot of sense . . .

But if not Dirk, then who?

“I think it’s something that definitely needs to be looked into, but I gotta say, from what you’ve told me, Harrison has one heckuva motive for harming Colby.”

“I think so, too,” she echoed. “Leona agreed to try and see what she could find out under the guise of a date-type situation but now . . . after last night . . . I’m not sure that’s the man she’s after any longer.”

His heartfelt laugh filled her ear, made her smile in response. “Uh-oh. Who’s the poor victim this time?”

“William Clayton Wilder.”

“The magazine guy?”

“One and the same.” She rose from her chair and made her way slowly toward the office door, her heart protesting the end to a conversation her head knew was necessary. “Now that he’s not who we thought he was, Leona has him in her sights.”

“Who you thought he was? What does that mean?”

She waved her hand in the air. “How about I fill you in on all that over dinner tomorrow. I’ll make Italian.”

“Sounds wonderful. Though tonight sounds even better.”

“Tonight is our circle meeting.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot. Tomorrow sounds perfect then.”

She inhaled deeply, the pleasure she derived from having Milo in her life flooding her body with a much needed sense of calm. The stress that remained would be navigated together. “I’ll see you at six then. Have a great day, Milo.”

“Your call made it great, Tori.”

Snapping the phone closed in her hand, Tori slipped it into the front pocket of her off-white slacks and stepped back into the hallway, her feet turning toward the library’s main room as if they were equipped with an autopilot feature. Fixing things with Milo didn’t lessen the heartache over Debbie and the kids, but it did make her feel less alone. In fact, if she were honest with herself, his support served to reignite the strength she’d felt wilting the past few days—a strength that had been challenged by the inability to find answers.

But one thing was certain. A killer was out there. Somewhere. And it was only a matter of time until she put the pieces together . . .

 

 

She looked up from the computer as Nina returned from lunch. “Good break?”

“It was. I got a few errands taken care of for Duwayne. That’ll make him real happy when he gets home from work.” Nina came around the counter and set her purse on the ground beside the stool. “Did I miss anything?”

“Nope. Sally Colter was in here earlier with her triplets. Those boys are so well behaved. She’s doing an amazing job with them.” Tori looked back at the screen, her fingers tapping out the names of a few just-released paperback titles for the mystery shelves. “I’m almost done here and then I’m gonna get our first few orders together for the nursing home.”

“Do you have any of your bags yet?”

“I do. Just three. All from Margaret Louise. But I’m sure I’ll get a bunch tonight at circle.” She closed out of the ordering screen and reached for the order slips she’d placed inside a small wicker basket under the counter. “It works though, because—as of right now—we only have two orders. One for Eunice Weatherby and one for”—she looked at the sheet of paper—“a man named Milton Gregory.”

Nina extended her hand. “I could fill one if you’d like.”

“Okay, sure. How about you do”—she looked down at the two order forms in her hands, felt her throat constrict at the sight of Colby’s name on Eunice’s sheet—“Mr. Gregory. I already know Eunice’s list. I read through it yesterday.”

“I’m not sure I ever told you, but I think takin’ these orders from the nursin’ home is a neat idea.” Nina looked down at the sheet in her hand. “My granddad was in a nursin’ home ’fore he died and it was sad how many people there never had visitors, never got home baked treats, never got a present. And puttin’ the books in special homemade bags just makes it even more special.”

She tried to follow Nina’s words but it was no use. Nothing seemed to stick in her mind for very long these days except thoughts of Colby Calhoun. A whole week had gone by since the night she and Debbie discovered he was gone. And still, there were no answers. As much as she hated to lower Dirk’s position on her possible suspect list, Milo had had a point. If Dirk had harmed Colby, why would he still be throwing darts at the man’s picture?

“I hate to see you so upset, Miss Sinclair.”

Tori looked up, forced her mouth to turn upward in some semblance of a smile. “I’m okay, Nina. It’s just . . .” She stopped, looked back at the list in front of her, her shoulders slumping of their own volition. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it, I guess.”

Sliding her dark and slender arm behind Tori’s back, Nina gave a gentle squeeze. “I can. You feel other people’s hurt. I saw it the first time we met. Do you realize you look downright stricken every time a child cries in the library—not stricken because they’re loud but because you want to fix things. And back when that whole mess with Tiffany Ann Gilbert was goin’ on, you thought about me instead of yourself.”

She set Eunice’s list down and peered up at her assistant through long, thick lashes. “Thought about you?” she asked, her voice raspy and unsure.

Nina nodded. “Duwayne told me what happened.”

“He did?” She shifted on the stool, unsure of what to say in the event they weren’t on the same page.

Nina nodded again. “All those things that happened to you? Duwayne told me they were his fault. He told me he was just tryin’ to help me get ahead. And he told me how you simply encouraged him to believe in me.”

“Wow,” she whispered. “That took a lot of courage for him to do. I hope you know that.”

“I do. But it all just goes to show the kind of person you are. So it makes perfect sense why Mr. Calhoun’s disappearance has upset you the way it has.” Nina’s hand dropped to her side as she looked down at the book order in her hand once again. “I also have faith you’ll figure it out. I only wish I had half of your motivation.”

Tori watched the petite woman exit the information desk area in favor of finding the first book on Milton Gregory’s list. Her words, however, stayed right where she’d left them—in Tori’s heart.

She looked back down at her own list, lingered her sights on Colby’s name. “Nina’s right you know,” she whispered. “I will figure out what happened to you.”

Shifting Dirk’s name lower on her list was a minor set-back in the grand scheme of things. Harrison James was still very much on the top.

Shaking her thoughts free of potential murder suspects and their motives, Tori headed toward the mystery section and Eunice Weatherby’s first choice.
A Cry in the Night
was one of her favorite suspense novels as well.

Colby’s novel brought her to the true crime section and the large display she’d assembled months earlier in honor of the local author. As she neared the face-out display, Tori’s feet slowed. The static display featured four shelves, one for each of Colby’s novels. With each successive book, the man’s name had grown larger and larger on the cover. Yet no matter how big the font, his name had still failed to supersede the title in prominence. It was a goal she knew he’d been working toward . . .

A goal he’d never get to reach now.

Sighing heavily, she grabbed the copy the elderly woman had requested and simply held it, her fingers tracing the author’s name as if it were lettered in gold.

“Colby,” she muttered, as her fingers fanned out over the book’s title and impressive cover art. Slowly, carefully, she turned the book over, examined the back cover, read the blurbs from fellow authors, scanned the Web site address of the pub—

She pulled the book closer to her face, her gaze reading and rereading the name in front of her.

“Lions Publishing . . . Lions Publishing. That’s”—she searched her memory bank for the correct name—“William Clayton Wilder’s company.”

“Miss Sinclair?”

Had he known one of his authors lived in Sweet Briar?

Nina popped around the end of the aisle. “Miss Sinclair, you okay?”

She held the book upward. “Did you know Colby’s books were published by Lions Publishing?”

Her assistant shrugged. “I didn’t ’fore last weekend. I guess I don’t pay much mind to anything besides the title and author most times.”

“What was last weekend?” She pulled the book back into her arms and studied the publisher’s Web site address once again.

“Last week . . . on the mornin’ of the festival . . . Mr. Calhoun was here with some man from Lions Publishin’.”

She stared at the woman. “He was?”

“Yes, Miss Sinclair. Mr. Calhoun was showin’ him the display you set up and the man was wavin’ his hands ’round and talkin’ ’bout the importance of promotion.” Nina pointed at the tiered shelf and smiled proudly. “He said your display, Miss Sinclair, is what they needed everywhere—bookstores, too.”

“Did you happen to hear the man’s name?” she asked, the woman’s words circling her thoughts wildly.

“Mr. Calhoun introduced me. It was some big long name and sounded very important.”

Closing the gap between them, Tori stopped in front of Nina, her hands tightly gripping the books in her arms. “William Clayton Wilder?”

Nina clapped her hands together. “Yes, yes. That’s exactly right, Miss Sinclair. Did you meet him, too?”

“No . . .” Her words trailed off as she strode past Nina and over to the information desk.

“Is somethin’ wrong, Miss Sinclair? Should I have called you that day?”

She waved her hand in the air. “No, of course not.” She replayed the woman’s words again, words and a voice that morphed into Debbie’s . . .

Only to be cut off by Georgina.

William Clayton Wilder hadn’t simply been passing through Sweet Briar on the day of the festival. And he hadn’t been there to see Ella May Vetter, either. He’d been there to meet with Colby.

“Nina? How did Colby seem that morning?”

“Unhappy. Distracted. I’d thought maybe he didn’t like that William Clayton fella. He was kind of pushy. I mean, I wasn’t trying to listen, Miss Sinclair—I really wasn’t. But he was houndin’ Mr. Calhoun about doin’ everything he could to be a household name from here to California.”

“Well he got his way, didn’t he? Colby’s death has probably landed him on television sets across the entire . . .” She stopped, her mouth gaping open as a rush of thoughts flooded her mind simultaneously. Bit and pieces of ideas flitted to the foreground only to disappear before she could assemble them into some sort of order.

“Miss Sinclair?”

She held up her finger as she tried to keep up with the path her thoughts had chosen.