Pinned for Murder (20 page)

“Remember Leona?”

The woman made a face. “Oh. Yes. Well, she’s her own entity entirely. I believe she’s what they call a fluke of nature.”

She knew she should protest, defend her absent friend in some way, but she couldn’t do anything other than laugh. When she finally got herself under control she pulled her hair into a ponytail only to set it free once again. “You have a way of snapping me out of a funk, you know that?”

“So I
was
right.”

“Well, technically it wasn’t a funk. It was more a case of that pesky voice chattering away in my head once again.”

“The Kenny voice?”

She nodded.

“What got it started this time?”

“The eerily perfect donation that covers exactly what I wanted with less than two dollars to spare.”

Margaret Louise’s mouth gaped open. “What are you talking about?”

She told her about all of it. The donation amount, her gut feeling that something didn’t fit, Rose’s claim that Kenny had no concept of money, and finally the total of the items she wanted in comparison to the anonymous donation everyone seemed to be tying to Kenny.

“Can I see?”

Tori retrieved the catalogue, scratch pad, and calculator from the top of her desk and brought them back to Margaret Louise. “Here you go.”

One by one, the woman set each item on her lap, her hand pausing above the catalogue. “Dixie gets this, too. I saw it in her hand the other day at the post office.”

“That’s not a surprise. Once you’re on this company’s list—as a library and/or a librarian—you’re on it forever. I get a copy at home, too.”

“For Leona, it’s men and trips. For Beatrice, it’s Kenny Rogers. For Dixie, it’s libraries. Land sakes, I swear she spends her days decoratin’ one of those—those”—the woman snapped her fingers in frustration—“oh, good heavens, what do they call it when they make it on the computer so you can see it plain as the nose on your face?”

“Virtual?”

“Yes, that’s it! She spends her days decoratin’ a virtual library with all the things she’d do if she had the funds. Funny thing is, it has a children’s room very much like the one you created in reality.”

The news made her smile. So Dixie really did approve . . .

“Anyway, you’ll have to ask her ’bout it next time we have circle at her place. She’ll drag you over to that computer faster ’n you can say barbecue. Heck, she’ll tell you ’bout it whether she’s got her computer nearby or not. I don’t think she was out of that post office more ’n five feet and she was stoppin’ and showin’ the first body she could find all the things she’d buy and why. Least he was a good sport ’bout it. My Jake would have likened it to torture no doubt.”

Margaret Louise flipped to the dog-eared page and found the circled item number. “Oh, Victoria, this is perfect. The kids are goin’ to love it.”

“I hope so. But”—she reached over and pressed the calculator’s On switch—“add it up. You’ll see what I mean.”

The woman slowly plugged the cost in, her head bobbing between the catalogue and the calculator and back again. When she was done, she looked up. “What else?”

Tori retrieved the catalogue and replaced it with the pad of paper containing the costs associated with the brackets and curtain. “Add this in, too.”

“Where’d you find the curtain?” Margaret Louise inquired as she plugged in the additional numbers.

“Leona found it online one day while she was placing an order for her shop.”

When the numbers were all inserted into the calculator, Tori’s friend pressed the equal sign.

$1,498.50

A long, low whistle escaped the woman’s mouth. “Wow. I see what you mean.”

Tori stared down at the calculator, the reaffirmation of what she already knew nagging her all over again. “So, either Kenny has an uncanny knack for shoving just the right amount of bills into an envelope, or he’s a psychic mind reader who not only knew everything I wanted to buy for the children’s room but also how much they’d cost down to almost the penny.”

“Ah-ha! He forgot the taxes.”

“No, he didn’t. Libraries are not for profit, therefore they’re tax exempt.”

“Oh.” Margaret Louise looked at the calculator one last time, then swung her gaze upward to meet Tori’s. “You’re right, Victoria. Something smells mighty funny. Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Unless the donation has nothin’ to do with Martha Jane’s money whatsoever.”

Damn.

She hadn’t really thought of that angle. Not since the notion it was tied to the missing money came into play to start with. But even now, hearing the possibility Margaret Louise laid out, she knew her friend’s suggestion was wrong.

“You ever have a gut about something, Margaret Louise?”

Her friend nodded. “I had one ’bout you, for starters.”

Her throat tightened with the memory, the woman’s loyalty at a time she desperately needed it making all the difference in the world when she’d been a suspect in the murder of Tiffany Ann Gilbert. Without it, she wasn’t sure what she would have done.

“Well, I have one now. About this money . . . and Kenny.”

“Then we’ll follow it until we know, one way or the other, whether it’s right.”

Chapter 18

It was as much a tradition as the sweet tea in their glasses and the barbecue on their plates. In fact, if push came to shove, she’d almost bet the people of Sweet Briar would give up their southern fare in a head to head toss-up with one of their prized festivals.

Heritage Day, Re-Founders Day, and Autumn Harvest all had their chance to shine in the town square each year. And shine they did with all the trappings that made them popular—rides, game booths, car shows, entertainment, and every kind of southern delicacy known to mankind.

“You like fish, right?” Milo asked as he slipped his hand into hers amid the jostling crowd.

“I like shrimp best.”

“Have you had Calabash style yet?”

She sneaked a look at him as they maneuvered their way around a line of teenagers waiting for the opportunity to board a ride billed as the human slingshot.

“Calabash style? What does that mean?”

“Calabash is a place just north of Myrtle Beach. And they have this little restaurant that people come from miles to visit and the lines are long. They have boats to bring in the seafood and you can get just about anything you want. Their specialty, though, is in how they prepare the fish—drenched in flour and deep-fried. It’s known far and wide as Calabash style.”

“Sounds yummy.” She felt his hand propelling her forward through the crowd, a small yellow tent in the distance growing closer and closer. “I take it we’re going to try some?”

“Absolutely. Gotta get something real in you before you catch sight of a treat booth.”

“As if food drenched in flour and then deep-fried is considered
real
.”

“It’s real good. That’s all that matters.” He stopped at the end of the line, his nostrils pinching inward with an inhale. “Mmmm, do you smell that?”

She nodded.

“That, my lovely Tori, is Calabash-style cooking.”

Her tummy grumbled.

“Hi, Victoria.”

She looked up, her mouth stretching outward in a face-splitting smile. “Hi, Debbie, hi, Colby. How are you?”

“We’re good. The kids are on the mini roller coaster and we’re taking advantage of the momentary lull in the can-we’s.”

“Can-we’s?”

“Can we do this, can we do that,” Milo explained. “I get it in the classroom all the time.”

“Though, in all fairness, it’s still better than what we heard at the Re-Founders Day Festival a few months ago.” Colby nuzzled his wife’s ear with his chin, the temporary pain that flitted across her face squelched by the tenderness of his touch.

“You can say that again.” Milo pulled Tori closer. “But Colby . . . in the future . . . it might be wise to let sleeping dogs sleep.”

“But what if they’re sleeping off a moonshine hangover?”

Debbie rolled her eyes while Tori laughed out loud. “Come on now, Colby. It’s onward and upward, right?”

“If onward means all lingering talk about me will finally die out in favor of the next Sweet Briar crisis, I’m all for it.”

The next Sweet Briar crisis . . . like Martha Jane’s murder and Kenny’s likely guilt . . .

As if reading her mind, Debbie tucked her hand inside Tori’s arm and tugged her off to the side. “Any news on Rose? I haven’t seen her in the bakery in days.”

“No. She’s staying close to home, claiming she’s tired.” She exhaled a sigh from deep in her chest. “But it’s more than that. I know it is. She’s heartbroken. She doesn’t want to face the inevitable scuttlebutt she’ll hear about Kenny and the case if she’s out and about like normal.”

“Poor Rose,” Debbie clucked. “We have to do something.”

“I’m trying.”

Debbie patted her arm as they rejoined the men. “I’m sure you are. She’s lucky to have you as a friend, Victoria. We all are.”

“Trust me, the lucky part goes both ways.” And it did. She was confident of that.

As the roller coaster Suzanna and Jackson were riding came to a stop, Debbie and Colby bid their farewell, their backs disappearing into the swarm of parents clamoring to claim their children.

Tori looked up at Milo. “Could we skip the Calabash stuff for just a little while? Maybe just take a walk and look around first?”

“Uh, okay. Yeah, sure.” He glanced toward the booth and then back again, any sign of disappointment well hidden. “So, which way do you want to go? The rides are pretty much in this area, the game booths are more that way”—he pointed to the east, his finger traveling around as he continued listing off various areas—“and then the car heads are that way . . . and the food booths are scattered all over the place.”

“How did parent-teacher conferences go?”

“Okay.”

“And that career week is starting up soon, right?”

He stopped, midstep, turning her to face him. “Look, I appreciate the interest in my job, I really do. And yes, career week starts up Monday. But what’s this about? You seem . . . I don’t know. Troubled or preoccupied or . . . I don’t know. Are you okay?”

She shrugged. “I’m not conscious of anything. If there
is
anything, I guess it’s just this feeling of having way too many loose ends.”

A smattering of applause rang up around them as a local band took the floor of the pavilion. “Like what?”

“I still have about thirty more hats and scarves to get done in the next week, I’m meeting with the insurance adjuster about the storm-damaged books later in the week, I’m trying everything I can think of to coax Rose out of her home to no avail, and then there’s that nagging feeling that something is very wrong where Kenny Murdock is concerned.”

He guided her toward a bench off to the side and pulled her down beside him, his hand finding and then kneading her shoulder. “One at a time, Tori, one at a time. Can anyone else from the circle contribute some more hats and scarves?”

“Dixie hasn’t turned hers in yet and neither has Beatrice. So that should help that number I just gave you decrease somewhat.”

“See? That’s good.” Waving at a student who came running up only to stop about ten feet shy of the bench, Milo continued. “The visit with the insurance guy should go smoothly. You documented everything with your camera and even saved the damaged books, right?”

She nodded.

“Okay, one less thing to stress about. As for Rose, all you can do is try, Tori. Maybe you could slow it down a little more.”

She looked a question at him.

“Instead of trying to coax her out, why don’t you just spend some time with her there, instead?” He sat up. “That’s it! Why don’t you bring some of the fabric for the hats and scarves
to
Rose? Spend a couple of hours together sewing and talking. Baby steps, you know?”

Bring the fabric to Rose. . . .

She had to admit, it was a good idea, a very good idea. And maybe, just maybe, during the course of the conversation, she could pump Rose for some more information about Kenny’s many challenges in life. Specifically those relating to his knowledge of money and research . . .

Cuddling close, she couldn’t help but marvel at her good fortune in finding this man. While Jeff had been selfish and arrogant, Milo was sensitive and humble. Where Jeff had often put her at the bottom of his list of priorities, Milo put her at the top. Where Jeff had seemed to belittle her interest in sewing, Milo had not only encouraged it but also accepted its place in her life, asking real questions about her projects and seeming truly interested. “Thank you, Milo. You’re such a blessing.”

“Not nearly as much as you are.” He kissed her head, then stood, offering his hand to her. “Want to check on the booth with me? See how things are going?”

“Absolutely.” She’d been so busy the past few days worrying about things that weren’t hers to worry about she’d not gotten to see the final product. “So you got it done with time to spare?” she asked as they turned left and made their way through the crowd.

“We sure did, thanks to Curtis and Doug. I’m not sure we would have if it hadn’t been for them.” He gestured right as they reached a tent featuring dozens and dozens of homemade pies. “Curtis is such a hard worker, fast yet thorough. And Doug, his detail work is really amazing. The kids are going to be so excited when he shows up later in the week to talk about what he does for a living. He made me a chest for some of my dad’s stuff . . . a case for the flag they placed on his coffin, a case for his saber, and even a case for his medals.”