Pinned for Murder (9 page)

“And research,” Dixie said. “Just as many people come to the library to research as they do to read for pleasure.”

Tori considered spouting a few statistics for discussion purposes but opted, instead, to let the former librarian have her moment in the sun. Besides, in many cases, she was right.

“Research,” Leona repeated in a quieter-than-normal voice.

Leaning forward, Margaret Louise rested her forearms on the counter and grinned. “Here we go . . .”

“Go? Go where?” Tori asked.

“Not me . . . her,” Margaret Louise said as she pointed at her sister on the other side of the counter.

Tori turned to find Leona’s eyebrows furrowed together in a dramatic show of confusion. Removing her hand from her throat, the woman—who had taken Tori under her bossy and somewhat ornery wing from the start—gestured toward the circular counter that housed a computer, a pencil holder, and several stacks of books waiting to be shelved. “This is the information desk, isn’t it?”

“Yes . . .”

“Well, that’s why we’re here, dear. To get information.”

Tori’s mouth gaped open as Margaret Louise snorted with pleasure. “Good one, Twin.”

“Consider it, dear,” Leona continued, her voice a study in poise and perfect articulation. “We’re here to gather information. Information that can only be gleaned by asking questions.”

“Who strangled Martha Jane Barker and why aren’t really the kinds of questions I can answer.”

“Then let’s try another question, shall we?”

Tori, too, leaned against the counter, amusement over her friend’s persistence temporarily winning out over sense of duty. “Okay, shoot.”

Leona gasped. “Shoot? Shoot what?”

“It’s an expression. It means go ahead.”

Closing her eyes, Leona shook her head, a soft
tsking
sound emerging through closed lips. When she finally opened them again, she threw her hands skyward. “I had hoped, by now, that you’d have abandoned your big city ways, dear.”

“Big city ways?” Tori repeated.

“I realize living in Chicago is akin to residing in a war zone, but we don’t liken words to dangerous objects or their actions here in the south.”

“War zone? What are you talking about?”

“Could Chicago function with a police department the size of Sweet Briar’s, dear?”

“No, but it’s Chicago . . . it’s bigger. Much, much bigger.”

“And much more dangerous.”

“Maybe in comparison, I suppose. But, really, it’s a safe city, Leona.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “They have alleys, dear.”

“So does Paris.”

“Oooh, she’s got you there, Twin.” Margaret Louise pushed off the counter, her smile stretching her face to a near breaking point. “But as fun as this is, I’d rather get back to the questions on everyone’s tongue right now.”

“Which are what?” Beatrice piped up, her charge momentarily distracted by a picture book on fire engines. “What else is there besides who killed Rose’s neighbor?”

“What
else
?” Leona asked, her eyes narrowed on the British nanny.

“Yes, Leona, what else?” Dixie echoed.

“Well, there’s the matter of whether Martha Jane’s killing was an act of revenge.” Leona jutted her chin upward and sniffed.

“Revenge?”

Tori swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat. She knew, without a doubt, where Leona was headed. It was the same place she, herself, had visited again and again over the past fifteen hours or so. And it was the same place that had caused the normally stoic Rose Winters to burst into tears in front of Tori and Milo just hours after the murder was discovered.

“Yes, revenge.” Resting her hands on their opposite upper arms, Leona peered at Dixie over the top of her glasses. “Kenny was furious with her. Everyone knows that.”

“Kenny?” Beatrice yelled, her voice drawing more than a few raised eyebrows from around the library.

Leona rolled her eyes.

“Kenny
Murdock
,” Margaret Louise corrected, making Beatrice’s shoulders slump downward.

“You think Kenny Murdock murdered Martha Jane?” Dixie brought her hand to her mouth, her eyes large and luminous. “He wouldn’t harm . . .” The elderly woman’s voice trailed off as she closed her eyes tightly.

“He has a horrific temper,” Leona reminded.

“He’s been known to snap things in two.” Margaret Louise pushed off the counter only to lean against it once again. “Do you remember that time he busted the Heritage Days sign in half a few years ago? He was angry because no one let him work a booth.”

“And don’t forget that time he came into my shop and knocked one of my antiques onto the floor by accident.” Leona looked from one member of the sewing circle to the next, her bent toward the dramatic heightened tenfold in the presence of a captive audience. “He flew into a rage because of something
he
did. Can you imagine what he would do if
someone else
triggered that rage?”

Dixie nodded.

Margaret Louise shook her head.

Beatrice grew paler.

Tori held up her hand. “Wait a minute. So the guy has a temper . . . big deal. You have a temper, Leona. And so do you, Dixie.”

“I most certainly do not,” Leona argued, followed by a sniff of indignation.

“Yes, you do. Your claws come out every time Rose calls you old.”

“Because
I’m
not old.
She’s
old,” Leona hissed through clenched teeth.

“If you don’t have a temper, Twin, why are you turnin’ beet red?” Margaret Louise took a few steps in her sister’s direction, only to halt when she was given the stare down. “I rest Victoria’s case.”

“You’re right about Leona, Victoria, but
I
certainly don’t have a temper.”

Tori turned her attention on her former predecessor-turned-nemesis. “You don’t? Then what would you call all those nasty barbs you hurled at me during my first meeting with the library board?”

Dixie’s cheeks turned crimson.

“Look, I’m not trying to make anyone feel bad. Everyone has a temper sometimes. And Kenny Murdock is no exception.” Exhaling an errant strand of light brown hair from her forehead, she continued, her voice still quiet yet firm. “Branding him a killer because of it is simply ludicrous.”

Problem was, she wasn’t buying what she was selling. She’d seen Kenny’s face the previous afternoon. She’d heard the blatant threat he’d hurled in Martha Jane’s direction. She’d felt the rage simmering inside him.

And now the woman was dead. Strangled by a piece of rope that sounded a lot like the kind he’d been using that very day to bundle sticks in Rose’s backyard.

“Victoria is right,” Beatrice said, her accent and her innate shyness making them all lean closer to hear. “What’s that expression? Just because it looks like a duck and acts like a duck, it doesn’t mean it’s a duck.”

Margaret Louise laughed, her hand slipping around the nanny’s shoulders in a conspiratorial fashion. “They may say it like that across the pond . . . but here, in the States . . . if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck it
is
, in fact, a duck.”

“Oh.” Beatrice flashed a look of apology in Victoria’s direction. “I’m sorry. I was only trying to help.”

She reached out, patted the girl’s hand. “I know. But don’t worry. It will be okay. Martha Jane’s killer will be found.”

What that would do to Rose when it happened, though, was anyone’s guess.

Squaring her shoulders, she grabbed hold of a stack of books and began thumbing through them, her hands sorting them into smaller piles based on where they were shelved around the library. “So what do you think? Can you tell we were semiflooded just two days ago?”

Four heads turned to scan the main room of the Sweet Briar Public Library.

“You mean other than the fact that the bottom shelf of every section is empty?”

She ignored Leona and grabbed a second stack, sorting those books into the correct piles. “I was referring to the carpets and the walls . . . though right now all I have on the wall is a special paint that covers water marks. If all goes well, I’m hoping we’ll get a fresh coat of paint up in the next few weeks.”

“Did you take pictures of the damaged books?” Dixie asked.

“I did. I dried them out the best I could and then boxed them up and put them in the basement until a claims specialist can make it in.”

“Very good, Victoria, you’re on the ball. And the carpet looks good.”

She smiled at the woman. “You picked a good one, Dixie. It held up well. Just needed a few power fans to dry it out.”

Dixie beamed at the praise.

“How is Rose’s place doin’?” Margaret Louise asked.

“Better.” And it was. In just the first twenty-four hours since his arrival, Doug had made rapid progress, repairing damaged shingles, removing downed trees, and boarding broken windows. Despite his efforts though, Tori was still worried about her elderly friend.

“And how is
Rose
?” Leona asked, her ornery streak of earlier gone.

Tori shrugged.

“How many times must I tell you not to shrug like that, dear? Your forehead has this nasty little habit of wrinkling when you do and wrinkles are most unattractive.”

Leave it to Leona to bring any topic back to beauty tips. Men would be next . . .

“In fact, if you keep doing that, your forehead will prematurely wrinkle,” Leona continued as she pulled out a chair from a nearby table and sat down, her ankles crossing in regal style. “And if there’s one thing men don’t like, dear, it’s a face that looks like a wrinkly old elephant.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she mumbled.

Margaret Louise looked at the ceiling and shook her head. “Ignore my twin, Victoria. You’re lovely just the way you are. Milo thinks so, too.”

Just the mere mention of Milo’s name turned the corners of her lips upward.

“The wrinkles aren’t permanent yet. We’ll see if he still thinks so when they are.”

“Leona!”

All eyes turned to Dixie Dunn.

“Good heavens, did I just hear you defend Victoria?” Margaret Louise teased.

Dixie blushed but said nothing.

Tori laughed and mouthed a thank-you in her predecessor’s direction before turning back to Leona. “In a
verbal
reply to your question, Leona, Rose is having a tough time right now.”

“Oh?”

She nodded at Dixie. “She’s heartsick over the notion Kenny”—she shot a look at Beatrice—“
Murdock
might be responsible for Martha Jane’s murder.”

“Have you seen her?”

She nodded once again. “When Margaret Louise left to pick up Jake Junior from football practice, Milo and I headed over to check on Rose. We were worried about her when we heard what had happened. But she had very little to say to either of us.”

“What
did
she say?” Leona asked.

“Just that she couldn’t believe Martha Jane was gone . . . that she was afraid for Kenny . . . and that she would talk to him first thing this morning to see if he was responsible.”

Margaret Louise grabbed hold of the counter. “She was goin’ to talk to him?”

“If he hasn’t been arrested, yes.”

“We have to stop her.”

“Why? Kenny wouldn’t hurt Rose,” she protested even as her heart began to pound. “He—he worships her.”

“That may be true, Victoria. But when backed into a corner, rage can be mighty blindin’ I reckon.”

Chapter 7

“Are you sure this is okay?” Tori asked as she led the way through the employee entrance and into the back parking lot. “The Johnsons won’t mind you driving the three of us over to Rose’s house?”

Beatrice reached into her purse, extracted a set of keys, and aimed it at the navy blue minivan closest to the door, a series of lights and sounds responding in kind. “Luke will be just fine during story time with Dixie looking after him.”

“Did you see Dixie’s face when you asked if she could hold down the fort for a little while, Victoria? She was glowin’ like a firefly on a warm summer night.” Margaret Louise fell in step beside her sister, her mouth moving a mile a minute. “I don’t think it matters no more whether she’s runnin’ the place or not. I think she likes the changes you’ve made even if she’ll no more utter that aloud than Leona will admit she’s old.”

“I’m not old.”

Margaret Louise waved her sister’s protest aside. “Dixie just likes feelin’ like she’s still needed once in a while.”

“And she is. With Nina being off today, there’s no way I could be going to Rose’s right now without Dixie.” Tori slowed as she approached Beatrice’s van. “Leona, why don’t you ride up front? Margaret Louise and I can sit in back.”

Feeling a hand on her arm, she looked up, Margaret Louise’s smile wide as the woman tugged on the handle of the sliding door and motioned Tori inside. “Consider yourself warned.”

“Warned?” Tori echoed.

“Warned.”

“Okay . . .” Her voice trailed off as she slid across the middle bench, her mouth frozen in the open position. Everywhere she looked there were images of Kenny Rogers. Pictures, drawings, album covers, internet printouts, an assortment of buttons, and even a dashboard bobblehead came together to create a shrine-on-wheels to Beatrice’s favorite country crooner. “I—I . . .”