Let it Sew (19 page)

Chapter 27

They were all there, stationed around her dining room table waiting for instructions,
the nonstop chatter barely registering in Tori’s conscious mind as anything more than
background noise for the thumping in her ears. All day long, she’d batted around Ethan’s
words yet never got beyond where she was at that moment.

But living in a constant state of confusion didn’t do anyone any good. Not her. Not
Ethan. Not Brian.

Something was wrong. Charlotte had tried desperately to set the record straight where
her husband was concerned, but had died before she could be heard. And while that
notion was at once both frustrating and heartbreaking, it was also incredibly motivating.
Especially for someone like Tori, who hated to have a story without an ending.

“So are you going to tell us what you want us to do, or are we supposed to sit here
and guess?” Rose griped from her spot between Beatrice and Debbie.

“Rose!” Melissa shifted in her seat to accommodate a stomach Margaret Louise claimed
was growing faster than it had with any of the thirty-something’s previous seven pregnancies.
“If any of us ran around the way Victoria does on a daily basis, we’d be scatterbrained,
too.”

Scatterbrained . . .

Melissa’s description snapped Tori back to the present in time to look at each and
every face assembled around her—waiting.

Beatrice, although young, was on the go nearly all the time in her role as nanny for
the Johnson family. When Luke, her charge, was home, Beatrice was by his side, taking
him to parks, hosting play dates, and supervising his homework. When Luke was in school,
she was either volunteering in his class or cooking and preparing the house for his
return.

Rose was on the other end of the age spectrum, filling her retirement days with doctor
visits, gardening, bunko, and sewing.

Debbie was, for lack of a better description, a happy-go-lucky hardworking blur. If
she wasn’t at home caring for her school-aged children, Susanna and Jackson, or hanging
with her author husband, Colby Calhoun, Debbie was trying out recipes or organizing
the financial books associated with her wildly popular bakery.

Across from Debbie was Dixie, another busier-than-ever-now-that-I’m-retired member
of the Sweet Briar Ladies Society Sewing Circle. In fact, since Nina’s maternity leave,
Dixie put in nearly as many hours at the library as Tori did.

Georgina, the town’s mayor, was on call virtually twenty-four/seven, the invention
of cell phones making it impossible for her to ever truly take off her official hat.

Leona, although the epitome of a pampered pooch, managed to keep herself on a tight
schedule, too, between pop-ins at her antique shop on the square, weekly manicure
appointments, a busy dating calendar, and her devotion to one very lucky little bunny.

Melissa was, no doubt, harboring a second pair of arms somewhere because the effortlessness
with which she mothered seven children actually made it look easy when everyone in
the room knew it wasn’t.

And finally, there was Margaret Louise—a woman who could put the screws to one battery-plugging
bunny known for having nonstop energy. She kept up on her seven grandchildren without
the assistance of a calendar or an electronic planner, providing a third pair of arms
when Melissa’s first and second pair couldn’t be in more than two places at one time.
When all was quiet on the grandchild front, Margaret Louise was cooking her way through
the cookbook she hoped to submit for possible publication by summer, lending a hand
wherever she was needed—around town or with friends; visiting with her mother, Annabelle;
and now, most recently, volunteering at the Devereaux Center for the Mentally Challenged
in Tom’s Creek.

Volunteering . . .

Shaking her head against the too-easy path back into her jumbled thoughts, Tori met
Melissa’s eye and allowed the laugh that followed to relax the knot of tension in
her shoulders if only for a little while.

“You’re saying
I’m
busy during the day? Isn’t that like the pot calling the kettle black?”

Melissa ran the palm of her hand against her stomach and exhaled slowly, deeply. “We
all might be busy, but you—”

Tori held up her palms in opposition. “Oh, no. Don’t even go there.”

“It’s true. Victoria is just scatterbrained because she spent entirely too many years
breathing in all that Chicago air before finally finding her way here to civilization
that’s wrapped in a southern hug,” Leona mused before looking down at the floor for
a quick check of Paris’s whereabouts.

Tori considered arguing the scatterbrained tag but let it go. After all, her sewing
circle sisters had been sitting or standing around her dining room table for close
to thirty minutes and she hadn’t registered a single solitary snippet of gossip in
that time.

“So? What are we supposed to be doing?” Rose repeated.

“Well, we need to stuff the stockings we made so Mrs. Claus can hand them out to all
the little girls and boys on Saturday morning.” Dixie stood in front of her chair
and swept her hand toward the cartons of candy canes, stacks of look-and-find books,
mounds of cookies wrapped with plastic and tied off with red and green ribbons, and
piles of pencils with Santa Claus erasers. “Margaret Louise, the cookies look wonderful.
And Debbie, the pencils are a nice touch.”

Margaret Louise beamed. “Mrs. Claus wants all of the kids to have another one of her
special cookies before they go to bed that night. So they can remember her.”

“I don’t think they’ll forget, Mee-Maw.” Melissa reached out and gave her mother-in-law’s
hand a gentle squeeze, the love and admiration she had for the woman obvious to everyone
in the room. “How could they? Mrs. Claus is the best.”

“So what’s
our
jobs?” Rose tapped at the face of her watch. “Some of us are old and need to get
our sleep before the bladder alarm goes off at the crack of dawn.”

She stifled the urge to laugh and instead forced herself to get on with the task at
hand, moving in beside Dixie. “We need someone on stocking detail to make sure everything
looks good and there aren’t any missed stitches that were overlooked.”

Dixie grabbed hold of her chair and moved it to the head of the table beside the pile
of stockings. “I’ll take that job.”

“Thanks, Dixie, that’s a huge help.” Her gaze drifted to the box of look-and-find
books. “Who would like to be in charge of making sure a book finds its way into every
stocking?”

Margaret Louise raised her hand then positioned herself beside the box, ready to start
stuffing at the proverbial crack of the gun.

“And the candy canes?”

Rose reached across the table and pulled the cartons of red-and-white-striped candy
in her direction. “I’ve got those.”

“And I’ll do the pencils and erasers,” Debbie volunteered while Beatrice claimed the
homemade cookies.

“What about me? What can I help with?” Georgina spread her hands wide and glanced
up at Tori. “Do we have some sort of note to put inside from Mrs. Claus? I could put
that inside if we do.”

“Notes,” Margaret Louise remembered with the snap of her fingers. “I must be losin’
my mind. Melissa, did you see notes in the car just now?”

Melissa shook her head and offered an apologetic shrug.

“Well, don’t you worry none ’cause if they’re not, I can head home lickety-split and
be back before anyone even misses me.” Pushing back her chair, Margaret Louise gestured
toward the look-and-find books. “Georgina, how ’bout you sit in for me here and I’ll
be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Tori followed Margaret Louise out the front door and onto the porch, grateful for
the opportunity the woman’s forgetfulness had presented. All day long she’d replayed
Ethan’s words again and again, his adamant claim that Margaret Louise was being compensated
for time spent at the Devereaux Center simply not adding up.

“I can find my way to my car by myself, Victoria. You don’t need to worry none ’bout
me.” Margaret Louise lifted her hand and jangled her key ring in the air. “My car’s
right there.”

Tori pulled a deep breath of air into her lungs and took an extra moment to let it
back out. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“I know.”

She drew back. “You do?”

“Land sakes, Victoria. I didn’t fall off my Daddy’s turnip truck day before last.
Why, I’ve known you long enough now to know when you’ve got a problem.”

Slowly Tori nodded, unsure of how, exactly, to proceed.

“Most problems ain’t no bigger than the little end of nothin’ whittled down to a fine
point.”

“Do you get paid to work with the folks at the Devereaux Center?” She hadn’t meant
to be so blunt, but it was time for answers.

Margaret Louise’s eyes widened at the question. “Well, don’t that knock your hat in
the creek!”

“It’s probably none of my business but—”

“Can you lick that calf again, Victoria?”

She felt her mouth gape open as her mind raced for a translation it could not find.
“Lick a calf?”

Leona’s sister swiped her hand through the air in frustration. “What did you just
ask me, Victoria?”

Suddenly, Tori wished she’d stayed inside. If she had, she’d be preoccupied with the
makeshift assembly line rather than standing there, on her front porch, insulting
one of her very dearest friends. “You know what? Let’s pretend I didn’t ask that.
It was out of line.”

“That makes as much sense as tryin’ to sling a hammock ’tween two cornstalks, Victoria.
You asked it once, so just ask it again.”

Margaret Louise was right. If Tori asked the question once, she could ask it again.
“Okay . . . Do you get paid to work with the folks at the Devereaux Center?”

“Don’t know how gettin’ paid would be volunteerin’, but since you felt the need to
ask, I’ll just say it out so there’s no misunderstandin’. No. I don’t get paid.”

“Are you sure?” she whispered.

“I don’t chew my tobacco twice, Victoria.”

“And Frieda?”

Margaret Louise’s eyes narrowed. “What ’bout Frieda?”

“Does
she
get paid to be at the center?”

“You can keep puttin’ your boots in the oven, but that ain’t gonna make ’em biscuits.
Volunteerin’ is volunteerin’ and I reckon you know that. Ain’t no pay for volunteerin’
’cept maybe smiles and thank-yous.”

It was a question Tori shouldn’t have had to ask. Especially of someone like Margaret
Louise, who was one of the least selfish people she had ever met. She rushed to explain,
hoping her words would smooth any ruffled feathers. “I don’t know why, but Ethan Devereaux
is convinced that you and Frieda—as well as others—are paid employees of the center.
He said he’s seen the invoices with his own two eyes.”

“Then someone’s tongue is waggin’ at both ends.”

Chapter 28

Somehow, one hundred Christmas stockings were stuffed and packed away in Tori’s car,
ready for distribution that weekend by none other than Mrs. Claus herself.

Somehow, eight friends had celebrated that feat with dessert, gossip, and only a handful
of odd looks cast in Tori’s direction.

And somehow, despite the dozens of forehead-slapping southern expressions Margaret
Louise had thrown out while being interrogated on Tori’s front porch, one had actually
stuck, making her rethink everything she knew about the players in Parker and Charlotte
Devereaux’s life.

For nearly five years, Charlotte had believed Ethan was responsible for her husband’s
death. Charlotte had been so convinced, in fact, that she’d kept quiet in an effort
to protect her younger son from prosecution and a life sentence behind bars.

But Charlotte had been wrong about Ethan just as Tori and Jerry Lee had been.

“You figure it out yet?”

Tori dropped her foot onto the wooden-planked porch and thwarted the gentle sway of
the swing. “Margaret Louise? You came back?”

“I did. Got Leona and Paris settled at their place, and Melissa inside with Jake and
the youngins, and all I could think ’bout was you frettin’ over hurtin’ my feelings.”

Scooting to the side, Tori patted the open spot to her left. “I’m sorry, Margaret
Louise, I really am. I didn’t mean to insult you with that question but I was confused.
I thought maybe
I’d
misunderstood about the work you and Frieda were doing at the center.”

“No siree, you didn’t misunderstand nothin’.” Margaret Louise backed into the swing
and came down with a thud next to Tori. “Oomph! Well, don’t I reckon I’m a bit heavier
than this contraption’s used to.”

Tori nodded but her mind was already on to something else, something Margaret Louise
had said not more than an hour or so earlier. “What did you mean with that saying
about somebody’s tongue wagging?”

The swing creaked beneath their combined weight, making Margaret Louise grab on to
the side arm with a steel grip. “What? I didn’t say nothin’ ’bout a—wait. You mean
the part ’bout someone’s tongue waggin’ at both ends? That one?”

“That’s it.” Tori braced the toes of her sneakers against the porch and brought the
swing to a slower, more even pace, the decrease in speed and subsequent creaks bringing
color back to her friend’s right hand. “But what does it mean?”

“It means someone’s lyin’.”

“Lying?” she echoed.

“You said Ethan saw these invoices with his own two eyes, right?”

“And so did I,” she finally admitted. “When I questioned whether he was sure you and
Frieda were being paid for your services, he took me to his computer and showed me
the expenditures for his dad’s company from just this past month alone. You’re on
there and so is Frieda.”

“We don’t belong on there,” Margaret Louise protested. “’Cause if someone’s gettin’
a paycheck for my volunteerin’, it sure ain’t me.”

Tori laughed at the thought. “Can you imagine sitting back, collecting an erroneous
paycheck for months on . . .” Her words trailed from her mouth as a sickening thought
took root, pushing all else from her head. “Wait! That’s it!”

Margaret Louise stopped the swing completely and began to struggle her way out of
it amid an array of grunts and groans. “What’s it, Victoria? You lost me.”

“Jerry Lee’s been essentially running the center since it opened six years ago. He
furnishes the rooms, gets all the equipment, hires the volunteers, and oversees the
general day-to-day of the outreach program. He even said Parker was so busy traveling
that operating the center was pretty much left to him.”

“If he’s doctorin’ the books, he’s takin’ one heckuva chance, don’t you think?”

“If Parker were alive, sure. But he’s not.”

Margaret Louise crossed Tori’s front porch and landed in a single, stationary wicker
chair. “But Jerry Lee didn’t know Parker was dead, right?”

“
Someone
knew,” she pointed out, her voice suddenly breathless. “
Someone
had to have helped Charlotte dig that grave. Why couldn’t it have been Jerry Lee?”

“Because Charlotte herself thought it was Ethan?”

Damn.

She’d forgotten that part.

“Back to square one . . . again,” she mumbled.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe someone
convinced
her Ethan did it.”

Tori considered Margaret Louise’s statement from a variety of different angles, with
one making her sit up tall. “Jerry Lee had pretty much convinced
me
he’d done it.”

“Charlotte may have coddled Prince Ethan for far too long—lookin’ the other way every
time he did somethin’ stupid and rushin’ to clean up his mess so he could go on pretendin’
he did nothin’ wrong. But she wasn’t blind. She knew Ethan was—”

Tori leapt up, the force of her jump smacking the edge of the swing into the backs
of her thighs before she could clear its path. “Say that again! Please!”

“Which part? The part ’bout Charlotte not bein’ blind or—”

“Before that!” she yelled. “About the mess . . .”

Margaret Louise hesitated as her eyes rolled up in recollection. “You mean ’bout her
always rushin’ to clean up his mess so he could go on pretendin’ he did nothin’ wrong?”

“That’s it! That’s why Charlotte thought Ethan had killed his father. Because Jerry
Lee had convinced her it was true! And with Ethan’s track record, she had every reason
to believe it was so. Especially if the relationship between father and son was at
a breaking point when all of this happened, as both Jerry Lee
and
Ethan have implied!”

“So you think Jerry Lee led Charlotte to believe Ethan had killed Parker?”

She nodded even before the question had truly sunk in. It all fit. Even the story
Charlotte had told everyone to explain her husband’s sudden disappearance. Parker
leaving wouldn’t set his will in motion. Only death would.

To that end, Jerry Lee had put himself in the role of cherished friend by helping
Charlotte dispose of the body, and by looking after her special needs son while she
quietly mourned the loss of her husband and tried to sweep her younger son’s betrayal
under the proverbial carpet in an attempt to keep at least part of her family intact.

Ethan’s journal entry to his father, though, had changed everything. Suddenly, the
story Charlotte had believed for so long was wrong. Her son hadn’t killed her beloved
husband . . .

“But someone did,” she whispered into the night before grabbing hold of the porch
railing for support as reality sprang into focus once and for all. “She tried to tell
Frieda she’d been wrong . . . but since Frieda didn’t know Parker was dead, Charlotte’s
words made no sense!”

“Thank heavens for that sketch pad, huh? Or else Parker’d still be buried outside
the library and no one would be the wiser.”

Except one . . .

*   *   *

Despite having outlined her theory a half-dozen times at least, Tori held Police Chief
Robert Dallas’s gaze rock steady as she took her theory from the top one more time.
When she was done, and his expression hadn’t changed, she tried a different tactic.

“Look, all I’m asking is to see the picture my friends and I used to locate Parker
Devereaux’s body.” When he didn’t react, she leaned still closer to the man who’d
made her life a living hell a time or two over the past two years. “You do still have
it, don’t you?”

“Of course we still have it, Miss Sinclair. It’s evidence.”

That’s what I’m counting on . . .

Shaking the thought from her mind long enough to plead her case, she infused as much
sweetness into her voice as humanly possible. “I don’t even have to touch it. You
can just set it right here on your desk and I can give it a simple once-over.”

For a moment, Chief Dallas said nothing, the only audible indication he was even still
in the room coming from the staccato tap-tap of his fingers atop his desk. When he
finally did speak, however, his words nearly sent her into shock.

“Okay. You can look at it. But you keep your hands to your side, do you understand?”

Her emphatic nod and promise to behave were followed by a press of the chief’s intercom
and a request for the evidence officer to deliver Charlotte’s sketch. Seconds turned
to minutes as they waited, but finally, mercifully, the picture arrived and was placed
in front of Tori.

Hunching herself over the picture so as to afford the best view, Tori studied the
broad details—the fireplace, the framed photographs along the mantel, and even the
broken clock. Everything was as she remembered it, both in the sketch and from the
vantage point she’d experienced firsthand in Charlotte’s chair.

Next, she studied the finer details—the tiny crack in the third row of bricks from
the bottom, the picture Charlotte had drawn for Ethan lying faceup on the hearth where
it had fallen, and the roughly twenty-five percent of a nearby end table that was
showing. Reaching into her purse, Tori pulled out the leather-bound sketchbook that
had belonged to Charlotte and flipped it open to one of the many sketches that was
a near-perfect copy of the one on the chief’s desk—save, of course, for the drawing
within the drawing that was lying some three feet below the mantel in this particular
rendering.

Like the sketches in the notebook, Charlotte’s vantage point never changed from picture
to picture, though occasionally, details did. Aware of the chief’s eyes studying her,
Tori pointed to some of the subtle changes from picture to picture. The water glass
in one became a stethoscope in another. The lone bookmark in one became Brian’s storybook
in the next. Brian’s storybook in that one became a full glass of wine, a clip-on
pearl earring, and the binding of what appeared to be a high school yearbook from
nearly fifty years earlier in the sketch she’d been banned from touching.

A glass of wine . . .

And a clip-on pearl earring . . .

“Oh my God.” Tori steadied herself against the chief’s desk as everything she’d figured
out to that moment was suddenly blown to smithereens right before her very eyes.