Elizabeth Lynn Casey - Southern Sewing Circle 08 - Remnants of Murder (31 page)

“One and the same.”

“You know him? As in actually
know
him?” Kate gasped with more emotion than Tori had seen from the woman all day.

“Sure.”

Kate reached down to the floor and plucked a leather-bound journal from inside her handbag. “These are some of my most recent short stories. Clyde thought they were really good.”

Tori took the book from Kate and eagerly turned to the first page, the handwritten inscription on the inside front cover distracting her from the short story she was anxious to read.

My dearest Kate,

The best lives are the ones spent fulfilling dreams. May this book be a starting place for yours just as finally telling you the truth was a starting place for mine.

All my love,

Your father, Clyde

She felt the color drain from her face as the enormity of the inscription took root in her heart. Clyde hadn’t waited to tell Kate about their connection. In fact, the date he’d written just above his note showed the knowledge of her paternity coming only a few short weeks before the start of Clyde’s rapid deterioration.

So why the audible gasp while reading Clyde’s letter that morning? Why the façade? Why the games?

“You know what’s ironic, Victoria?”

At the sound of her name, she willed herself to look up, to smile politely. She needed to think, to consider her options without tipping her hand prematurely. “What’s that, Kate?”

“The kid who grew up here with the intact family is the kid who was more than willing to turn over the keys without so much as a look backward.” Kate’s voice took on an almost rambling quality as she looked past the lake to some unforeseen point in the distance. “And the kid who grew up listening to her mother cry after church every Sunday is the one who actually wants it … even though it belonged to the person responsible for those tears.”

She made what she hoped were appropriate noises for the dichotomy Kate presented, a dichotomy that had no doubt driven the woman to take drastic measures when it came to Clyde and his land.

Clyde and his land.

Suddenly it all made sense.

Beau had expressed to his father on any number of occasions how hard it was to visit a home where his mother’s face, his mother’s laugh, was around every corner. He had no desire to keep the house, no desire to keep roots in Sweet Briar.

For Kate, the house forged a connection to a man with whom she and her mother had been cheated time. If Clyde had died naturally, the house and the portion of land Beau stood to inherit would be his to sell, and sell he would.

Killing Clyde and setting Beau up for the inevitable finger-pointing that was sure to follow put Kate in the driver’s seat for what might very well be the first time in her life. Unfortunately, the only direction in which Clyde’s daughter could rightfully go was to jail.

For murder.

Swallowing over the lump that rose inside her throat, Tori quietly retreated her way back to the living room and the relative privacy it afforded for her second and final call to Chief Dallas.

Chapter 31

Tori set her notebook alongside the pile of bridal
magazines and settled back into the crook of Milo’s arm, the warmth of his nearness quieting the nagging voices that had plagued her from the moment Chief Dallas had arrived at Clyde’s house.

It wasn’t that she’d second-guessed her decision to call the police, because she hadn’t. Murder was murder no matter how you sliced it. And Beau no more deserved to pay for a crime he didn’t commit than Kate deserved to get away with one.

But somehow it all still left an unsettled feeling inside the pit of her stomach—even with Kate’s reported confession to the chief that confirmed the motive and supplied a second cup of tea during each of her visits with Clyde as the means.

“You did the right thing, Tori. You really did.”

She felt the smile before it crossed her lips. Milo knew her better than she knew herself sometimes, and it still surprised her even now. “I’m that transparent?”

“Transparent—no, not always. But you’re always sensitive. You know what’s right and you know what’s wrong, but that doesn’t mean you are blind to the gray in between.” He tightened his hold on her and brushed a kiss against the back of her head. “And that’s okay. You just need to remember that when it comes to something like murder, it’s wrong regardless of motivation. No one gets to decide when someone’s time has come. No one.”

Tipping her head back, she allowed herself a moment to simply study the man who meant more to her than anything else. “I know you’re right, Milo, I really do,” she finally said. “And regardless of how all of this turned out, it’s
over
.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

“If you’re thinking I’m finally going to focus on our wedding—then yes, it does.”

His lips moved on to her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth before finally engaging the dimples that made her heart melt. “So what’s first?”

“I have an appointment for a dress fitting with all nine of my bridesmaids next weekend.”

Milo’s laugh rumbled against her head as she liberated her notebook from the opposite end of the couch and reclaimed her spot against his chest. “Did you warn the lady at the shop that the dress selection process alone could go on for days with Leona in the mix?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t you think it might be a good idea?”

She flipped open her notebook and looked at the first item on her to-do list for the month ahead. “I’ve narrowed the style of dresses to six they can select from. I’m also allowing them to choose from a few distinctly autumn-like colors. With any luck, the limited selection of both styles and colors will nip some of Leona’s shenanigans in the bud.”

Moving her finger to the next item on the list, she tapped the page. “Georgina has offered her yard for the reception, as has Rose. There are benefits to both settings—Georgina’s is large, Rose’s is gorgeous.”

She moved on to number three. “While I can’t pick out specific bouquets until I know exactly what everyone’s dresses will look like, I can look through some floral books for ideas. So my plan is to stop by the florist in town after work next Friday and see what kinds of options are available.”

“Wow.”

She smiled as she looked at the fourth item on her list. “And if it’s okay with you, I’d like to hire Dixie to help with the invitations. I mean, she’s thrilled at today’s outcome, and pleased as punch that Home Fare is adding to her route and thus, keeping her busy … but, still, I want to include her in our plans. Besides, Dixie has such lovely penmanship.”

“You weren’t kidding when you said you’d get back to planning the second you figured out what happened to Clyde, huh?” Milo reached across Tori’s chest and plucked the notebook from her lap. “I think you have enough things on your list for the coming week. Add much more and you’ll be a blur outside my window.”

“I thought that would be a good thing,” she protested.

“In moderation, yes. In overdrive, not so much.” He pulled her onto his lap and buried his head in her hair. “You have to realize that in addition to not having time to plan our wedding, you haven’t had a whole lot of time for me, either. And at the risk of sounding too corny, I’ve missed you, Tori.”

She reached up and touched the side of his face, relishing the feel of his skin against hers. “I’m sorry, Milo. Sometimes I have a hard time saying no to the people I love. But know that even when I’m wrapped up in Leona’s latest trial and tribulation, or worrying about Rose’s latest arthritis flare, you’re always foremost in my mind. I don’t see that ever changing.”

“I’m glad. But that doesn’t mean I’m not already counting the days until we go off on our honeymoon.”

“Oh?” She tilted her head and peered at him through her long lashes.

“Aside from the cabin I can’t keep from thinking about, just the simple fact that Leona won’t be ringing the doorbell with tales of her latest conquest is exciting.”

She had to laugh. “It’s a good thing she’s not here right now.”

“Agreed.” He released his hold on her long enough to gesture toward the pile of magazines still sitting on the end of the couch. “Still hunting for another dress?”

She lingered her gaze on the nearly twelve-inch stack and shrugged. Try as she did, the image of her great-grandmother buttoning the back of the dress she could never afford flooded its way into her thoughts for the umpteenth time. “It’s hard now that I found the ultimate gown. I know I have to find something else, but suddenly nothing I see holds any appeal whatsoever.”

“Give it time.” He pointed at the television on the other side of his living room and then kissed her cheek. “Want to see if there’s a movie on? I could make some popcorn.”

At her nod, he aimed the remote at the screen and pressed the power button. Slowly, he scrolled through the channels, their options revealing little beyond news and reality shows neither were interested in watching. “It’s looking a lot like a DVD night—”

A flash of Leona’s face, smiling out at them from the twenty-four-inch screen, brought them both up short. “Um, Tori? What’s Leona doing on cable TV?”

She slapped her hand over her mouth and stared at the screen, Leona’s pageant-perfect smile rendering her incapable of forming any sort of coherent response.

“Tori?”

Slowly, she let her hand slide down her chin and into her lap. “Uh … she said something about a show but …”

Milo pulled his gaze from the screen long enough to focus on Tori. “But what?”

“Everyone thought she was talking hypothetically.”

“Doesn’t look like that.”

They turned back to the screen as the commercial that allowed them a moment to breathe ended and Leona reappeared on screen sitting in a red velvet chair, a closet of clothes her only backdrop. “Have you always wanted to dress like a princess? Have you always wondered how you can turn heads by merely choosing the right outfit? If so, you’ve come to the right place.

“Likewise, have you been to a party when someone’s walked in wearing something too tight, too colorful, or simply so awful you couldn’t look away?

“Well, I have and it’s not pretty.”

Tori scooted off Milo’s lap to claim the empty cushion to his left. “Milo?” she whispered, staring at the screen, waiting for the proverbial train wreck she knew was coming.

“All over this county,” Leona continued, “people are dressing in ways that embarrass not only
them
but also those of us who are forced to look at them across the office … across the restaurant … across the street … across our very own living room.”

“Oh no …”

“But I say, no more!” Leona crossed her ankles like the royalty she believed herself to be and batted her false eyelashes at the camera and the male operator surely standing on the other side. “It’s time to take a long hard look at what we put on our bodies and what those choices really say about us.

“So be sure to join us this fall when I debut my brand-new show—
Leona’s Closet
. If you pay attention to what I teach you, you can rest assured knowing you won’t be featured in our extra special segment—‘Who Dresses You Anyway?’ And believe me, you don’t want that.”

And just like that, Leona and her red velvet chair disappeared from the screen.

“I don’t believe it,” Milo mumbled.

“I wish I could say the same thing … but I can’t. We are, after all, talking about Leona.”

“Wow.”

“
That
, I’ll second.” She flopped back against the couch, the description of Leona’s show making Tori more than a little uneasy.

“Um, Milo?”

“Don’t say it. Talking about Rose on cable TV would be low even for Leona.”

Oh, how she hoped Milo was right.

For Leona’s sake more than Rose’s …

A knock at the front door brought her to her feet just as she realized she was in Milo’s house rather than her own. “Oh, sorry. Do you want to get that?”

“No, I think you should.”

Shrugging, she made her way across the room and over to the door, a friendly face on the other side of the glass taking her by surprise.

“Rose?” she asked as she yanked open the door. “Is everything okay?”

The retired schoolteacher shuffled into the room, a familiar magazine page clutched inside her wrinkled hand. “Everything is fine. Or it will be if you don’t argue.”

She caught the wink that passed between Rose and Milo and knew something was afoot between the two. “Okay, what’s going on? Why do you have a picture of the dress I want?”

“Because I’d like to make it for you if you’ll let me.”

“M-Make it for me?” she stammered. “You can’t be serious. Rose, a dress like that will take you months.”

“I can do it, Victoria.”

She rushed to explain her words. “Oh, Rose, I don’t doubt you can do it. Your sewing is beautiful, you know that. But … it’s too much to ask. Especially with your—”