Death Threads (28 page)

A chorus of “Goods” shot around the room.

“When will you start the deliveries to the nursing home, Victoria?” Dixie asked.

“Tomorrow. Nina and I filled two orders this morning and then a few more came in during the afternoon.” Tori walked around the room slowly, stopping to look at everyone’s work, excitement for her latest project building once again. “And when the residents see these beautiful bags, I suspect the orders will increase tenfold.”

“I suspect you’re right. It’s a wonderful idea,” Georgina said. “What made you think of it?”

Finding her way back to her own chair, Tori sat down, pulling the fabric back onto her lap before situating one of the portable machines on the snack table. “Actually it came from Ella May Vetter.”

“Ella May?” several voices said in unison.

“How on earth did Ella May give you the idea?” Dixie questioned.

“She called in a few books she wanted us to set aside. Nina gathered them up in less than a few minutes and they were waiting for her the next chance she had to stop by the library.”

“And you should have seen the books she wanted. They were a mighty strange collection.” Margaret Louise sat on the edge of the single step that led from the kitchen to the large sunporch where they were all assembled. “Not that strange is strange where Ella May is concerned. Get it”—she shot her elbow outward despite the absence of anyone sitting next to her—“not that strange is strange?”

Laughter erupted around the room.

“Did you know she’s asked me to make her wedding dress?” Rose asked, her mouth twisted in a self-satisfied grin.

“I’m cookin’ her weddin’ dinner.” Margaret Louise clapped her hands together with glee. “And Debbie’s makin’ the wedding cake . . . or, at least, she’s been asked to.”

“Are you doing anything, Victoria?” Beatrice asked quietly.

“I don’t think—”

“Of course she is,” Leona interrupted. “She’s finding poetry that can be read during the ceremony.”

“Leona is making something, too,” Tori shot back, her lips twitching. “Isn’t that right, Leona?”

The woman made a face at Tori much to the delight of the rest of the women in the room.

“What are you making, Leona?” Rose asked.

“Nothing.”

“I’m sure Melissa and Jake will be happy to hear that, Twin. They’ve been wantin’ me to take them out to supper without the young-uns for a while now,” Margaret Louise taunted.

“Leona is babysitting? For children?” Beatrice asked, the look of absolute horror on her face priceless. “You can’t be serious . . .”

“Oh, I am.” Margaret Louise pushed herself off the step and gestured toward the kitchen. “I think it’s time for dessert, don’t you?”

A few heads nodded, others remained stalwart. “But we want to hear what Leona is making,” Georgina said, her machine still whirring along. “It’s not polite to keep such secrets.”

“She’s making a lace-edged handkerchief for Ella May,” Tori explained, as she scooted the snack table to the side in favor of a trip through the dessert line. “Isn’t that—”

“You mean
buying
, right?” Rose interrupted.

Tori shook her head. “No. Making.”

“C-can you make a lace-edged handkerchief with glue or Velcro?”

“Leona is sewing one, Beatrice.” Tori stood and walked toward the doorway, her hand gently tapping Leona’s shoulder as she passed. “And she’s doing a fabulous job so far.”

“Leona . . . sewing? And doing a fabulous job?” Rose struggled to her feet, pulling her sweater tighter to her body as she, too, made her way in the direction of the treats. “Everyone grab your blankets and coats, it’s happening again.”

“Happening?” Beatrice asked, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she joined the parade into the kitchen. “What’s happening, Rose?”

“Hell. It’s freezing over.”

She peeked inside the oven, her eyes instinctively closing as she inhaled the telltale aroma of pasta sauce and sausage. It had been months since she’d last made a baked ziti and her stomach wasn’t crazy about the idea of waiting another thirty minutes until it was done.

But patience was a virtue, as her great-grandmother always used to say, although it was a virtue Tori didn’t seem to have in bulk supply. Especially when so many other things around her were moving at a snail’s pace . . .

Like solving the mystery around Colby Calhoun’s disappearance. Like giving at least some semblance of closure to Debbie and her children.

“Tori?” Milo’s deep voice startled her, the oven door slamming shut as her hand flew to her side. “Tori? Are you here?”

Bobbing her head to the left, Tori consulted her reflection in the microwave door then hurried out to greet her dinner guest. “Milo, hi.”

A slow grin crossed the third-grade teacher’s face as his gaze roamed its way shyly down her body, taking in the pale yellow tank top and body-hugging jeans she’d opted to wear for their first date in a week. “I knocked. A few times. But you didn’t answer. I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in.”

“Of course not, don’t be silly.” She strode across the living room and stopped beside the tall, lanky man. Rising up on tiptoe, she brushed a gentle kiss on his cheek. “I couldn’t hear you over the gurgling of my stomach.”

He laughed. “That hungry, huh?”

She poked her index finger into his chest and made a face. “I haven’t had a baked ziti in much too long and the smell is driving me nuts.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to take your mind off it until it’s ready.” Milo wrapped his arms around her back and pulled her in for an embrace. Resting his chin on the top of her head she could hear him inhale. “Mmmm. You smell good.”

“I think that’s the sausage.”

“Nope. It’s you.” He held her for a long moment before finally releasing his hold and stepping back to tilt her face upward with his hand. “This past week without you really stunk.”

She searched his eyes, saw the genuine remorse behind the sparkle she’d grown to love. “I know. I’m sorry I wasn’t more understanding about your feelings. I just know that no matter what, Colby Calhoun is a good man.”

He pulled his hand from beneath her chin and brushed her cheek. “And that should have been my top concern as well. But it is now.”

Stepping back into his arms, Tori pressed her cheek to his chest, the frustration and the fear and the worry of the past week escaping through her mouth. “I just don’t know what to think. At first I was so sure Carter Johnson was a viable suspect only to realize that, like you, his town pride was hurt and he had a knee-jerk angry reaction. And then I was sure Gabe Jameson was our man because Colby’s article unleashed a secret his family had guarded for over a century. But he didn’t care . . . in fact he’s the one who verified Colby’s suspicions.”

Wordlessly, Milo released one of his arms from her back and guided her toward the love seat in the center of the living room, his body the first to sink into the cushions before pulling her down beside him. “Okay. And so where are you now?”

She pulled back just enough to search his eyes once again. “It doesn’t bother you that I’m trying to solve this? That I’m sticking my nose into police business?”

He shook his head. “Why would it? You’re not doing it to be a busybody. You’re doing it because you love Debbie. How can I fault that?”

Swallowing over the sudden lump in her throat, Tori looked quickly down at her lap. “It’s more than that, though.”

“I know that, too.”

She looked up at him once again, her head tilting to the side as her eyes narrowed on his expression. “What do you know?”

“That you don’t have a lot of faith in our police.” Pulling her into the crook of his arm, Milo raked his free hand through his hair. “And after the way things went down during Tiffany Ann’s murder investigation I can’t say as I blame you. But I do truly believe that Chief Dallas is looking at everyone and everything.”

“Even his friends?”

His head nodded against her hair. “Even his friends.” His nod turned to a nuzzle as his chin grazed her ear. “So come on, who else are you looking at?”

She shrugged. “Well then I was sure it was Dirk Rogers. You’d told me how furious he was at the festival, Margaret Louise told me about some of his underhanded ways, and then I saw the dartboard. And”—her voice dipped lower as another thought—one she’d missed until that moment—hit her like a ton of bricks—“the crayons . . .”

“Crayons?”

“In his supply closet . . . he had crayons,” she whispered.

“So?”

“Don’t you see?” she asked as she pushed back to see his face. “The death threat Colby received was written in crayon.”

“I have crayons.”

“You’re a teacher, Milo.”

“And Dirk is an uncle.”

An uncle . . . It made sense.

Lots of people had crayons. Margaret Louise had some for the grandkids, she had some for the children at the library. . . .

She felt her shoulders slump along with her resolve. “I guess you’re right. Besides, what you said about him still throwing darts at it has some merit. If you’ve killed someone, you wouldn’t display anger like that in front of someone else. And it stands to reason that most of his anger toward Colby would have been satisfied by killing him.”

“Okay . . .”

“Which leaves me with Harrison James—aka Hank Jameson. A man who is absolutely furious at Colby for reminding Sweet Briar who he really is . . . the offspring of moonshiners. Town-incinerating moonshiners.”

Milo was quiet for a moment as he seemed to consider her words. When he finally spoke, his voice was gentle yet firm. “But have you seen Harrison?”

“I went to his office.”

“He’s not the killer type, Tori.”

She sat up, swiveled her body to afford a better view of the handsome man. “What is the killer type, Milo?”

He spread his hands out, palms upward, and elevated them just above his lap. “Tough.”

“What about furious? And vengeful? Don’t those count?”

“If they’re inside someone who’s tough, yeah.”

She considered his words, realized they meshed with Leona’s almost perfectly. “I’m not ready to discount him, too.”

“Then don’t. But keep looking.”

“I was. Especially earlier today.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “What happened earlier today?”

She leaned back against his arm and sighed. “A dead end involving Colby’s publisher.”

“You thought William Clayton Wilder had killed Colby?”

She heard the disbelief in his voice, tried not to take it too personally. “No. For that brief shining moment I actually let myself believe Colby was still alive . . . that his disappearance was some sort of publicity stunt to put a little extra zip in his career.”

His lips met her forehead, lingered there for a moment before moving in time with his words. “What made you ditch that theory?”

“He wants Colby’s advance check back.”

“Are you serious? The guy’s been missing a week and that millionaire is already hassling Debbie for money?” Milo’s head jerked back as his hand fisted at his free side. “What nerve.”

She placed a calming hand on his thigh as a beep from the kitchen signaled the completion of the ziti. “Can we table this long enough to eat? Maybe try to catch up on other things we’ve missed this week?”

He raked a hand through his hair once again, his shoulders sagging just a little. “Yeah, that sounds good. Can I do anything to help?”

“Nope. Just take a seat at the table”—she gestured toward the small dining room table she’d carefully set with a white linen tablecloth and her great-grandmother’s special china—“and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be out in just a minute.”

“Will do.”

She felt his eyes on her as she strode toward the kitchen, a smile tugging at her lips. As much as she liked to think she was independent and completely fine without a man in her life, having Milo around just made things nicer. Lighter.

As her stomach had suspected, dinner was wonderful. The cheese had bubbled to perfection atop the noodles and bits of sausage bathed in homemade pasta sauce. The wine she’d chosen was a perfect complement to the meal as was the salad and bread she served as well. The best part of all though was the companionship, the easy camaraderie between two people who genuinely fit well together.

“So how was your circle meeting last night?” Milo lifted his wineglass to his lips and polished off the last sip.

Reaching for the bottle in the center of the table, she refilled his glass before pulling her napkin from her lap and setting it on the table beside her near-empty dinner plate. “It went well. I’ve decided to start a book delivery to the nursing home and I asked everyone to help make some homemade bags. In less than a week, I now have more bags than I could ever hope to fill.”

Milo grinned. “Those ladies love you, Tori.”

She felt her face warm. “I think they’re just nice women who want to do their part.”