Death Threads (3 page)

Hence the sweaty palms.

“That barbecue you and Debbie threw last weekend was terrific. The chicken was absolutely mouthwatering and the . . . well, you’re quite a cook.”

“Grill master, maybe. Cook, no. But I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” Sliding a strong hand through his wavy dark hair, Colby drummed his fingers nervously on the counter. “Do you have anything on moonshine? Specifically its flammability?”

“I imagine we would. Let me check.” Pulling the stool closer to the computer, Tori tapped in a few words and waited as the sound of heavy breathing filled the air behind her. “Yes, here we go. There’s a book written by a Jake Bavaria in the Cooking section that will give you more information. But, based on the title, I’d say it’s quite flammable.”

“You should check with Gabe Jameson, Colby. He’s the resident moonshine expert,” Margaret Louise chimed in while Tori jotted the author and title on a slip of paper. “And he gives samples, too.”

“Margaret Louise!” Leona hissed in embarrassment.

“Oh please. Like you didn’t know that, Twin.”

Colby held up his hand as his frown deepened. “I just came from Gabe’s. It’s why I’ve been poring over those.” He gestured toward the books scattered across the table he’d just vacated, the corners of his mouth dipping even lower as he surveyed the aftermath of his research. “Look, I’m sorry I left things like that. I’ll just take care of that real quick.”

Tori stopped him with her hand. “It’s not a problem. Really.”

“If you’re sure . . .” His voice trailed off as he closed his eyes momentarily only to reopen them with rapid speed. “Man, I don’t know what to do. If I keep quiet I’m perpetuating a lie. But if I don’t—”

Cutting himself off midsentence, Colby Calhoun simply hiked the strap of his computer case higher onto his shoulder and made a beeline for the front door, five sets of eyes following his hasty retreat, the lust of earlier replaced by worry and concern for their friend’s husband.

“Colby, wait.” Margaret Louise took a few steps toward the door then stopped. “If you don’t . . . what?”

Slowly he turned around, eyes wide, his voice suddenly calm.

“If I don’t, I’m dead.”

If she hadn’t been waiting and listening, she probably wouldn’t have given the faint thud outside her window a passing thought. She’d have merely chalked it up to the evening paper skittering across the front stoop or an unexpected meeting between one of the resident chipmunks and the new porch furniture she’d added just that afternoon.

But she’d been waiting and listening. For two days.

Turning her sewing machine off, Tori slid out of the white lattice-back chair in the tiny alcove off her living room and tiptoed over to the front door. The last of the sun’s rays played across the wooden floor as dust particles danced in the light, reminding her of the housework she’d neglected while waiting for the woman on the other side of the door. A woman who prided herself on her southern manners yet failed to show up for a prearranged meeting or to offer any sort of explanation for her absence.

Though, really, Tori knew the explanation without hearing the words.

Leona Elkin loathed the idea of learning to sew.

Rose knew it. Margaret Louise knew it. Debbie knew it. The whole sewing circle knew it. Yet she, Tori Sinclair, had thought she could defy the odds and change the woman’s mind.

Grasping the knob as quietly as she could, Tori turned her wrist to the right and pulled the door open. “Ah ha!”

Leona Elkin straightened up, her hand quickly retrieving a white square box from the small circular wicker table that stood off to the side of the door. “Oh, Victoria, dear, you scared me half to death.”

“You’re late.”

“I uh—” Leona sputtered as a pinkish hue graced her moisturized cheeks.

“By two days.”

“Oh. That.”

“Yes, that. Must I remind you of your bet with Margaret Louise?” Tori placed her hands on her hips and tapped her foot against the wood floor. “Jake and Melissa have seven children, Leona.
Seven
.”

The woman daintily cleared her throat then shoved the box in Tori’s direction. “I brought chocolate.”

Tori stared at the box, her mouth beginning to water. “Did you say chocolate?”

“I did . . .”

Damn.

“If you don’t learn to sew, Leona, I’m going to have to tell your sister. You do realize that, don’t you?”

“Truffles to be exact, dear.”

She gulped.

“The freshest batch in Debbie’s bakery,” Leona continued with an angelic tilt of her perfectly groomed head. “Though, I must say, I didn’t catch Debbie in her usual sunny mood. Perhaps something is amiss in the water at the Calhoun home.”

Double damn.

“Okay, okay. You’re forgiven. Unless”—she glanced toward the little table where Leona had been standing when she flung open the door, reality dawning in an instant—“you were going to leave these out here and take off without knocking.”

Leona glanced down at the ground, shifted from foot to foot.

“You were, weren’t you?” Tori looked from her friend to the box and back again, disgust in fierce battle with desire.

“Truffles, dear.”

Damn.

“Okay, okay. Come in.” Stepping to the side, Tori motioned her reluctant student inside, shaking her head in mock repugnance as the woman passed. “Do you at least have an excuse? You know, like you got busy at the shop . . . or you were battling the flu . . . or you had to leave town suddenly to care for a sick friend?”

“No.” Leona swept into the cottage in her quietly sophisticated way, one pristinely manicured hand clasping a floral clutch, the other resting gracefully just below her neck. “The shop is fine. I don’t get sick. And I have low tolerance for sickly types—that’s what nursing homes are for, dear.”

Slowly, Tori shut the door and trailed the woman into her home, her lips torn between smiling and grimacing. Leona Elkin was a force to be reckoned with—plain and simple. A true study in extremes if there ever was one.

How she did it, Tori wasn’t sure, but somehow, some-way, Leona managed to wear an array of different hats, each one fitting her as perfectly as the one before . . . She was ornery, yet sweet. Proper, yet indulgent. Standoffish, yet loving. Intelligent, yet pigheaded. Well traveled, yet southern to the core.

And loyal to a fault . . . Unless a handsome man in uniform happened to cross her path.

But even then, her loyalty would return. Eventually.

“So why didn’t you show up Wednesday night like we’d planned?” She set the box on the maple coffee table in the center of the living room and slowly untied the pink string that held it closed. “We were supposed to have your first sewing lesson, remember? We even talked about it at the library that morning.”

“You talked, dear. And my sister and Rose did their cute little display of shock at the news.” Leona perched on the edge of the blue and green striped armchair Tori had purchased shortly after moving to Sweet Briar.

“But, Leona, we agreed. You said you’d come. You said you’d give sewing a real try.” She stopped fiddling with the box of truffles long enough to size up her guest.

“That was said in a moment of weakness—when I felt remorse for abandoning our friendship. But that was months ago, dear . . . the remorse has worn off.”

“But you still said you’d come,” Tori reminded her friend. “You accepted Margaret Louise’s bet.”

“That was before Daniel called, dear. A romantic candlelit dinner takes precedence over an evening of poking myself as I try to make some worthless scrap of frumpy clothes I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in the first place.”

She couldn’t help but laugh as she flipped open the box and reached for a truffle. “Ah yes . . . I get it now. That explains why you didn’t call. Southern manners go out the door when a man is part of the equation, right?”

“I don’t see a man right now, dear,” Leona said through pursed lips.

“What?” Tori looked from the box on the table to the half-eaten truffle in her hand, her face warming ever so slightly. “Oh. I’m sorry.” With one quick shove she pushed the rest of the truffle into her mouth and grabbed hold of the box, offering its contents to her guest. “Would you like a truffle?”

Leona shook her head. “A woman must be mindful of her figure, dear.”

“Oh.” She stared forlornly at the box in her hands. “Then why bring them in the first place?”

“Bribery.”

She cocked an eyebrow at her friend. “Bribery? Don’t you mean a peace offering?”

Leona’s hand swept its way down the armrest of Tori’s sofa, stopping every few inches to pluck a piece of invisible lint from its patterned upholstery. “Why on earth would I need a peace offering, dear?”

Tori walked around the coffee table, tucked her leg underneath her, and dropped onto the love seat. “For not showing up when you were supposed to.”

Pulling her attention from the armrest, Leona peered at Tori over the top of her glasses. “I already explained that. I had dinner with Daniel.”

“O—kay. Then I give up. Why are you trying to bribe me? With truffles, no less? And how is leaving them outside bribery?” She grabbed the fringed throw pillow from the corner of the sofa and hugged it to her chest. “C’mon, Leona, what gives?”

“What
gives
?” Leona huffed. “Many things give, Victoria. Gumball machines give. Postal carriers give. Wealthy widowers give.”

Tori snorted a laugh. “Wealthy widowers?”

Leona waved the question aside as she jogged her head to the left and pointed at Tori’s sewing machine. “What are you working on?”

“Working on?” She sat up, looked over her shoulder quickly, and then sunk back into the sofa, her arms still wrapped around the pillow. “Oh. That. Eventually it’ll be a halter dress like I saw in a celebrity magazine a few weeks back. The price tag for the store-bought version was outlandish. So, I walked over to Grace’s Cut & Sew and found a similar pattern I can make on my own for less than a quarter of the price.”

“Have you cut it to your size already?” Leona asked.

Surprised by her friend’s sudden interest in sewing, Tori released the pillow and nodded. “Would you like to see it?”

“That’s okay. You tend to favor peekaboo dresses more than I do anyway.”

“Peekaboo dresses? I’m sorry, I’m not following.” Tori pushed off the sofa with her leg and wandered over to the alcove in the corner of the room, her thoughts trying desperately to keep up with a conversation she’d somehow lost along the way. “What’s a peekaboo dress?”

“Dresses that show too much bosom, dear.”

“Why, the very first time I met you, you were wearing a sundress that attempted to show cleavage.”

“Leona! I don’t own an inappropriate item of clothing.”

Leona clasped her hands together and laid them in her lap. “How perfectly awful for Milo.”

Shaking her head against the ludicrous turn of their discussion, Tori simply laughed. “I was referring to dresses . . . you know, attire viewed by the general public. All of which is appropriate for someone my age. And, in case you haven’t noticed”—she motioned at the neckline of her pale blue Henley style shirt—“I wasn’t exactly blessed with much bosom to begin with.”

“Of course I’ve noticed. Everyone’s noticed, dear.” Leona tilted her head to the side pensively. “But just because your halter dress wouldn’t work for me doesn’t mean it can’t work for you.”

“Wait. You lost me again.” She plopped back down on the sofa, this time grabbing the box of truffles and pulling it to her chest, her stomach pleading for a second piece and her sanity granting the request. “Obviously I’m going to make a dress that works for me.”

“I was thinking that perhaps
I
could make it for you.”

She stopped—midbite—and coughed, tiny remnants of chocolate shooting through her mouth. “Y-you?”

“Yes, me.” Leona sat up taller in her chair.

“S-seriously?” Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Tori couldn’t help but stare at the woman sitting to her left. Had she heard her right? Was Leona Elkin ready to take the proverbial bull by the horns and learn how to sew?

“Well, you’d make it of course, dear. We’d just tell everyone else that I made it.”

“Wait! I can’t do that!” Tori pushed the box off her lap and onto the sofa. “That would mean lying to Margaret Louise and Rose and Debbie and Georgina . . . and Melissa . . . and everyone else.”

“I don’t see the problem,” Leona said with a quiet sniff. “Believing I made it would make them feel good.”

“And it would make me feel rotten.” Tori slipped her hands down the outer side of her jean-clad thighs and sat on them, a maneuver she prayed would keep them away from yet another piece of Leona’s blatant bribe. “Besides, how would we explain the magazines you’d continue to read during circle meetings when you’re supposedly whipping up a dress for me?”