Death Threads (5 page)

“It can be. When it’s in your favor. But when it’s not, it can get mighty ugly.” He tugged her across the street, his nose lifting into the air. “Do you smell that?”

She couldn’t help but laugh. She smelled lots of things, heard lots of things, saw lots of things. In fact, it was safe to say all five senses were in overload as they stepped through the trellised archway to the town square—the site of every festival Sweet Briar held throughout the year.

“What smell would that be?” Looking up at Milo she grinned, her pulse quickening as his amber-flecked brown eyes locked with hers and tiny dimples appeared in his cheeks. “Wait, don’t answer that. Let me guess . . .”

Slowly she pulled her gaze from his, let it travel its way across the top of people’s heads in search of any and all food tents they could see from their vantage point. There was a Polish sausage tent that boasted the inclusion of pepper and onions on an easel-propped chalkboard. There were three different tents selling pork barbecue—one with corn on the cob as a side, one with hush puppies, the other offering straight barbecue with no add-ons at all.

“Look . . . right there.” Milo’s index finger shot into the air as he pointed at a blue and white striped tent a good hundred yards from where they stood. “It’s all I’ve dreamt about for days—well, except for when”—he looked down at the ground and then back at her, his cheeks sporting a slightly reddish hue—“I’m thinking about you, of course.”

“Nice save, Milo. For a minute I was worried you were going to say I fell below a slab of dough on your list of daydreaming subjects.”

His mouth gaped open. “Slab of dough?”

“Yeah. That’s what those people have on their plates, isn’t it?” she asked, pointing at a group of teenagers who’d come from the direction of the blue and white tent. “I’ve seen them before at fairs like this, but I’ve never thought they looked terribly appetizing.”

Milo raised his palms to his ears and covered them as his lips pursed into a whistle.

“What? Did I say something wrong?”

Slowly, he lowered his hands, his left claiming her right. “First, it’s not a slab of dough, Tori. It’s a funnel cake. Second, you must not have gotten a very good glimpse at their plates, because if you had your mouth would be watering.”

“Watering, huh?” she teased.

“Wa-ter-ing.”

“Okay. Lead the way.”

Squeezing her hand to his side, he led her through the seemingly endless crowd of residents from Sweet Briar and its neighboring communities—a sea of smiling faces that surely mirrored her own. “I could never get Celia to try the stuff. Mainly because it wasn’t green and didn’t grow in the ground. But you—you like your junk food so there’s hope.”

For a brief moment she thought about denying her propensity for unhealthy eating, but she let it pass. What was the point? Some things were just futile. . . .

But still, hearing Milo mention his late wife always stirred an overwhelming need to lighten the moment. Not because he wasn’t ready to move on after ten years—he was. But because she ached for the pain he endured all those years ago as he watched his wife succumb to cancer.

Sneaking a look at his face as they neared his destination of choice, she was pleased to see the face-lighting smile that had endeared him to her from the moment they first met. Whatever pain he still carried over his loss had been tamed by hope. And for that she was glad. Very, very glad.

“Oh, hey, would you remind me to grab a paper before we leave?” Milo tilted his head toward a small grouping of people huddled around the Sunday edition of the Sweet Briar
News Times
. “I like to read Colby’s columns and I forgot to pick one up on my way to get you this afternoon.”

She stopped, gestured toward the white tent just off to their right—a tent that appeared to rival that of any other at the festival in terms of a line. Only instead of food or trinkets, it existed solely to sell papers and subscriptions. “I could get one for you right now.”

He tightened his grip on her hand and shook his head. “Oh no . . . you’re not getting out of trying a funnel cake.”

“I’m not trying to get out of it,” she protested. “I just figured you could get in line for that while I get in line for a paper. When we’re done, we’ll just meet somewhere in the middle.”

“You won’t take off for the hills?”

“Not before I get your paper.”

“Hey!”

“I’m just kidding.” Tori jabbed a finger into his side and laughed. “Besides, finding a hill around here would be pretty tough to do. Perhaps the ocean would be better. It’s only an hour or so away. . . .”

“Cute. Very cute.” He leaned over, planted a gentle kiss on the top of her head. “I’ll meet you back here in a few.”

“I’ll be here.” She waved as he started across the matted grass in search of the artery-clogging treat that appeared to be a staple at Sweet Briar’s festivals. Why people wanted to eat a plate of fried dough was beyond her, but she’d give it a try if it meant something to Milo.

Pulling her gaze from the back of his head as he disappeared into the crowd, Tori turned and headed toward the ever-growing line at the newspaper tent. Many of the faces she recognized as library patrons, others were simply people she glimpsed at the market or church or a variety of other spots around the small white picket fence town.

She smiled at the forty-something woman in front of her as she took her place at the end of the line. “I can’t believe this line. Is the news tent always this busy at a festival?”

The woman shook her head, the emphatic motion dislodging a few strands of red hair from the casually pinned bun at the nape of her neck. “But it’s hard not to notice them there folks.” She pointed to various clusters of people peering over the shoulders of others to read the paper. “Everyone sure seems to be hankerin’ for one, don’t they? I reckon there’s somethin’ good goin’ on.”

Tori glanced at a group of men standing to the right of the tent as they waited for their buddy at the front of the line to get his copy. He’d barely exchanged money for a paper before they were ripping it from his hand and flipping through the contents with a mixture of determination and dread on their faces.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” she asked the woman.

Again, the redhead shook her head, her green eyes widening as she did. “Not a clue. But I’m guessing—hey! Watch where you’re going, mister.”

Carter Johnson, the owner of Johnson’s Diner, shoved his way between the two of them, his lips making an angry slash mark across his face as he balled up his newspaper and threw it into a nearby trash receptacle.

“Do you think it’s really true, Papa? Do you really think everybody’s been lying?”

“I most certainly do not. That kind of talk is rubbish, nothin’ but pride-stompin’ rubbish.” The man, seemingly oblivious to the fact he’d nearly knocked the redhead to the ground, grabbed hold of his grandson’s upper arm and fairly dragged him across the grass. “I have half a mind to come back here with a match and set those papers on fire. And while I’m at it, maybe my rifle wouldn’t be such a bad idea either.”

If the boy responded, Tori didn’t hear, as the pair moved so quickly through the crowd they disappeared before her eyes.

“Wow. Ain’t he ill as a hornet,” the woman said with disgust before waving the man’s actions off. “Eh, don’t pay him no mind, he’s just bein’ rude is all.”

Without waiting for an answer, the woman stepped forward just as an additional worker sat down at the table and beckoned them to form the start of a new line. Mechanically, Tori followed along, her thoughts a few steps behind. Carter Johnson wasn’t a rude man. A little loud at times, yes. A little bit of a know-it-all at times, yes. But rude, no.

And certainly not violent . . .

“One copy or two?”

“Huh, what?”

With a bored roll of his eyes, the teenager behind the counter repeated his question, this time pointing to the stack of newspapers sitting on the table beside him. “One copy or two?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Forcing her attention back to the task at hand, Tori reached into her purse and pulled out two singles. “One copy is fine, thanks.”

The worker dropped two quarters, a dime, and a nickel onto a paper and slid it across the table at her. “Page three.”

“Excuse me?”

Again he rolled his eyes, this time adding a smirk for the benefit of the young girl sitting beside him manning the other line. “Page three. The story is on page three.”

“What story?”

“Page three,” he repeated before turning his attention to the person behind Tori. “One copy or two, sir?”

Stepping to the side, Tori glanced in the direction of the group of men she’d seen earlier, their mouths now distorted in rage as they, too, balled up their paper and disappeared into the crowd, leaving nothing but a trail of mumbled threats in their wake.

“What on earth . . .”

“Is everything okay, Victoria?”

Startled, Tori looked up, her mind racing to put a name to the rounded face in front of her.

“Everything is fine.” Her mind continued to cycle through names as she tried to buy herself some time. “I guess I was just lost in my own little world.”

The woman reached out, touched her forearm with long slender fingers. “I do that sometimes, too. Mostly when I’m reading though.”

“I wanted to thank you for setting aside those books for me the other day. I’m not normally quite so lazy.”

“I’d fallen behind on feeding my bunnies and wasn’t sure I’d have time to locate all of the books on my own before you closed for the evening.”

As her identity came into focus, Tori placed her free hand over the woman’s and gave it a gentle pat. “It was absolutely no problem, Miss Vetter. That’s what we’re there for. I’m only sorry I didn’t have more time to chat when you stopped by to pick them up. I was giving a tour of the new children’s room to a reporter from a national library publication.”

Ella May Vetter clapped her hands together. “A national publication? How wonderful.”

“It really is,” Tori agreed, studying the woman as she did. There was no doubt about it, Ella May Vetter was a tad peculiar. One only needed to see the petticoat-style dress and Little Bo Peep-curled hair to know that. But just because she did things a little differently didn’t mean she was a lost cause as Rose, Margaret Louise, and Leona made it sound. If anything, Tori found her to be sweet and unassuming. “Did you enjoy your selections?”

“Very much. Thank you.”

“There you are!” Milo flashed a warm smile at Ella May as he stopped beside Tori with a paper plate in his hand and a hint of powdered sugar on his upper lip. “Hi, Ella May. Are you enjoying the festival?”

The woman nodded as a smile broke out across her face as well. “It’s lovely.”

“Couldn’t wait, could you?” Tori looked from Milo’s lip, to the plate, and back again.

“I waited . . . see?” Milo held up the plate, a perfectly formed latticework of powder-topped golden fried dough shimmering in the sunshine.

“Then what’s this?” She reached out, swiped a finger across his upper lip, and then held it where he could see.

“I—er.”

“Busted!” She tucked the newspaper under her arm and rocked back on the heels of her tennis shoes.

Ella May laughed as Milo’s cheeks reddened. “You two are so cute, you remind me of the way Billy and I are together.”

“Who’s Billy?” The moment the words were out of her mouth she knew the answer. Billy was the guy—the smart, charming, intelligent, well-traveled Mystery Man no one in Sweet Briar had ever seen.

“He’s simply the most amazing man ever.” The woman sighed.

“Does he buy and hide second helpings of things, too?” Tori asked as she eyed Milo accusingly.

“I did not buy a second helping. I swear. I just”—he looked down at the plate and back up again—“happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“Translation, please?” Tori prompted as she winked a smile at Ella May before looking back at Milo and waiting.

“Dirk Rogers’s nephew didn’t care for his funnel cake. And Dirk was in a foul mood.”

“Dirk Rogers? Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Dirk owns the garage out on Plantation Lane.”

Tori nodded. “Okay, so what does his nephew’s dislike for funnel cake and his foul mood have to do with you?”

“Someone had to eat it,” Milo pleaded. “Wasting food is a sin.”

“Ohhh. I see now.” Tori crinkled her forehead as she looked at Ella May. “He simply couldn’t stand by helplessly as an innocent plate of funnel cake faced an uncertain fate.”

“Milo Wentworth is a true philanthropist in every sense of the word.” Ella May’s near-perfect crack at a straight face, coupled with the words she’d chosen to speak, set Tori into a fit of giggles—giggles that only intensified as Milo rolled his eyes.

“Mock me all you want, ladies. You’ll change your tune once you try a bite.” Carefully, Milo tore a piece of dough from the creation in front of him and extended it toward Ella May. “Would you like some?”

“No, thank you.”

Milo shrugged and held it toward Tori. “You promised.”

“I did.” She took the sprinkled dough from his outstretched hand and took a bite. “Mmmm. Wow.”

“See? I told you.” He fixed his gaze on her face for a moment before letting it travel slowly down her soft yellow T-shirt and formfitting stonewashed jeans. “And with your body, you can eat this stuff all day and not worry.”

She felt her face redden with a mixture of flattery and embarrassment. Flattery because he liked what he saw and embarrassment because Ella May was still standing there, soaking it all up. “Yeah, but do you hear that sound?”

Milo shook his head, his brows furrowing. “No. What sound?”