Sew Deadly (31 page)

Georgina was no more the key to Tiffany Ann’s demise than Tori was, the woman’s role as mayor no more a reason to cast blame than Tori’s status as an outsider.

“Tori?”

“I saw you in the mirror.” She gestured toward the pegboard hanging on the wall behind Emma. “I knew you were standing behind me.”

“I figured that but what does that have to do with that call and with Georgina?”

“Tiffany Ann saw him. She knew he was standing behind her and she took off.” All the clues had been there from the very beginning, only she hadn’t seen them. Until now. “He had time to poison her coffee because she left it behind when she ran out. He, like everyone else, knew her late morning routine. He
knew
she’d be here.”

Why hadn’t she seen it before?

“
Who
, Tori?”

She hadn’t left Stu’s parking lot because of a phone call. She probably hadn’t even realized the contract was a scam. She’d run because she saw him murder Travis. She was jumpy and nervous because she was scared for her life . . . not because she’d been on drugs as
he’d
insisted. She hadn’t told anyone because she feared no one would believe her. . . .

Flipping the phone open, Tori dialed the last incoming number, her heart and mind needing one last round of confirmation for something they already knew to be true.

“Stu, here.”

“Mr. Walker, it’s Tori Sinclair again. I need to ask you one more question.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“This representative who spoke to Travis while you were concentrating on Miss Gilbert . . . what was his name?”

“Thomas Hayes.”

“That’s all I needed to know.” She shut the phone inside her palm and rose to her feet. “I need to see Investigator McGuire.”

“McGuire? Already?”

Wrapping her hand around the white paper sack of cookies, she planted a grateful kiss on Milo’s forehead, the warmth of his skin beneath her lips bringing a much-needed sense of calm to her soul.

“I think the correct word is
finally
.”

Chapter 22

She’d envisioned this room for as long as she could remember—the basic details she’d wished for as a child firmly in place, the extra touches she’d dreamed of as an adult bringing it to life in a way she could never have imagined.

Slowly, she turned around and around, her gaze skirting across the child-drawn murals and easy-to-reach shelving, lingering momentarily on the small stage that held the promise of laughter and creativity for years to come, and coming to rest on the overflowing costume trunk. Starting that very night, Sweet Briar children could don clothing worn by a favorite storybook character, adding a whole new dimension to the world of reading—one where alternate endings could be tried and favorite parts could be relived.

But somehow, someway, those assembled outfits meant so much more now. They represented the kind of magic that happened when people worked together for a common goal. They represented what could happen when preconceived notions and outdated stereotypes were laid down in favor of basic human understanding and compassion. And they represented what genuine friendship could accomplish.

“Miss Sinclair?”

Tori spun around, the hem of her black ruffled skirt skimming across her knees. “Yes?”

“Miss Sinclair, I’m not sure if you remember me but”—the twenty-something man bowed his head momentarily before reengaging eye contact—“I’m Nina’s husband.”

“I know who you are,” she answered, her voice even despite the emotions coursing through her body.

“Then you know what I’ve done.” Again his head dipped only to lift high once again. “I realize I need to take whatever punishment comes my way even if it’s one I can’t bear to face. But”—he twisted his hands inside each other—“please know Nina had nothing to do with any of this. She didn’t help. She didn’t—and
doesn’t
—know.”

“Why? Why did you do it?” she finally asked.

“I thought Nina should have gotten Ms. Dixie’s job. She worked long and hard for that woman and got nothin’ but grief in return.”

“You’d never know it to hear Nina talk. She’s not had a bad thing to say about Dixie or anyone else since I’ve been here.” She tugged the pale pink sleeves farther down her wrists. “In fact, she may be one of the most positive people I’ve ever met.”

A smile lit his face as he nodded. “Nina is special. I’m a lucky man to have her in my life. I guess I just wanted people to see that. And I figured if you messed up she’d—”

“Look better?” Tori offered.

“Yeah. And then maybe they’d give her a chance.” Duwayne toed the floor awkwardly. “I just don’t understand why people can’t see her for who she is.”

She reached out, touched the man’s arm. “Some of us do. And we consider ourselves very lucky to have her in our lives . . . don’t we?”

He nodded.

“I don’t intend to press charges, and I don’t intend to tell Nina what you did, but”—she turned her head to the side to meet his eyes—“you need to do something for me.”

Surprised, he nodded again, this time even more emphatically. “Anything.”

“Have faith in your wife. She’ll get where she’s going. And trust me . . . when she does, it will mean so much more if she did it on her own. With you cheering her on from the sidelines
believing
she can do it.”

“You’re amazing, Miss Sinclair . . . just like my Nina says.” Duwayne grabbed hold of Tori’s hand and shook it gently, his throat moving fast to stifle the emotion she saw glistening in his eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

And then he was gone, a tiny squeak from his black dress shoes following him down the hallway and into the library.

Glancing at her wristwatch she couldn’t help but smile once again. She’d worked feverishly over the past few days trying to get everything done in time, anxious to unveil Sweet Briar Public Library’s brand-new children’s room. The after-hours event was by invitation only, a sneak preview of sorts for the people who’d contributed to its completion. The fact that some of those people had tried to undermine her job and her place in the community was irrelevant. At least as far as the children’s room went.

“Knock, knock.” Milo poked his head in the doorway, his eyes sparkling as he took in the room. “Oh, Tori, it’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.” He closed the gap between them with several quick strides, his hands finding hers and squeezing tight. “
You’re
beautiful.”

“Milo!”

“What? Did I say something wrong?”

She felt her cheeks warm, her hands moisten inside his. “No, but . . .”

He peeked around the room, glanced at the empty doorway. “No one heard.”

“
I
heard,” she whispered.

“Good.” He released her hands and motioned toward the walls. “My students are going to love this.”

“Oh, I hope so. This room wouldn’t look near as special if they hadn’t drawn the pictures for the walls.” She brought her hands together and let out a little squeal. “Can you imagine how
you’d
have felt if a picture you’d drawn was painted onto a wall—to stay?”

“I’d have been pumped, that’s for sure.”

“
Pumped?
” She narrowed her eyes at the handsome man standing in the middle of her room. “Aren’t you supposed to say something about fire in Sweet Briar?”

“Fire?” He cocked his head to the side, confusion disappearing from his face as he pondered her words. “All fired up?”

She clapped her hands. “Yes! That one.”

He laughed. “I suppose. But I’m trying to feel a little more familiar.”

“Familiar? For what?”

“You mean,
to whom
.”

“Okay. So who are you trying to be familiar to?”

“You.”

She felt her cheeks redden even more. “By saying
pumped
?”

He shrugged impishly. “Well, I know the southern expressions have to be mind-boggling at times.”

Reaching out, she loosened the knot of his tie just a bit and then retightened it against the collar of his white dress shirt. “I can get used to them.”

“You can?”

“Maybe even find them endearing.”

Now it was Milo’s turn to blush. “Really?”

She patted the knot of his tie and then whispered a quick kiss on his chin. “Really.”

He reached up and touched his hand to the spot she’d gently kissed, a silly grin stretching from one end of his face to the other. “Cool.”

“Yeah, cool.” She walked across the room and stopped beside a table stacked with frames. “Come see.” The original artwork each student had drawn was featured in a frame, a small gold-colored plaque in the bottom right corner sporting the child’s name and date, along with the title of the book they’d chosen to highlight with their illustration.

“Oh, Tori, they’re going to love that.” He looked from her, to the frames, and back again. “Where do you get the energy for all of this? I mean, to go through the garbage you’ve been through the past few weeks and still be able to do this . . . with a genuine smile on your face?”

“Mistakes were made. It happens.” She scooted the stack to the corner of the table and straightened a small pile of index cards to their left. “The important thing is they were corrected.”

He studied her for several long moments, a visual inspection that didn’t bother her in the slightest.

“Did he apologize?”

“Whom?” She glanced down at the top card, mentally ran through her opening remarks.

“McGuire.”

“He did. He truly had no idea that potassium cyanide can be used to remove tarnish from silver coins. Though, to hear him talk, he was starting to put two and two together.”

“And get what? Ten?”

She laughed. “Maybe he’s one of those people who use the right side of his brain—like I do.”

“Well, the way he settled on you—for no other reason than you were new in town—doesn’t bode well for his creativity either.”

“Yeah, but he looks good in a uniform.” Turning, she leaned against the table and smiled up at Lulu’s teacher.

His brows furrowed. “You really think so?”

“No. But Leona Elkin does.”

Milo swiped a hand dramatically across his forehead, mock relief on his face. “You had me worried for a mom—”

“Miss Sinclair?”

She pushed off the table and sidestepped Milo. “Yes, Nina?”

“People are starting to arrive.”

Looking down at her wristwatch she nodded. “Did you set up the cookies and lemonade?”

“I tried to. But I was shooed away.”

She shrugged a question in Milo’s direction. “Shooed away? By whom?”

“Your friends.” Nina rolled her eyes upward and placed her hands on her hips. “I was informed that there’s a right drink and a wrong drink and—”

Tori felt her throat constrict as she recalled lesson number three aloud. “Southerners drink
tea
. Sweet tea.”

“That was it . . . word for word. How’d you
know
that?”

She swallowed back the sadness that threatened to emerge for all to see. “Let’s just say a little birdie told me.”

“Well did that little birdie also tell you that store-bought cookies are not acceptable?”

Uh-oh.

She grabbed Milo’s arm. “Can you stop by the bakery?”

“Of course. What do you wa—”

“There’s no need, Miss Sinclair. We’ve got enough food to feed a small nation and not a one is store-bought.”

So her sewing buddies had descended in force. She closed her eyes briefly against the tears that threatened to fall. Milo had been right. Things would get better.

“Thank you, Nina. Feel free to send people in as they arrive.” As her assistant left the room, she smoothed a hand through her hair, the soft waves she’d added falling gently across her shoulders as she looked at Milo. “Do I look okay?”

“
Okay
is not a word that will ever be used to describe you.
Gorgeous
fits much better.”

She stopped her eyes midroll. “I never realized you were such a sweet-talker, Milo Wentworth.”

“You were kind of preoccupied.”

“Being a murder suspect will do that to you.” She flashed a smile at the man as the hallway outside the children’s room grew noisy, invited guests making their way toward the reason for the evening gathering. “But no more. This is a fresh start. For me. For the sewing circle. And for Sweet Briar as a whole.”

“Then let’s get to it.” Milo moved to the other side of the room as the first few guests entered, the subsequent
oohs
and
ahhhs
bringing a smile to her heart. She’d pulled it off. She’d taken what had been cast aside as unusable and turned it into a gem no one had ever imagined.

It was just like what happened every time she purchased fabric. A piece of cloth could be anything—a pillow, a hat, a skirt, a shirt, a dress, a wall hanging. And, by the same token, a box-filled storage room could be transformed into a room that would take a child to places they’d never dreamed possible.

Winston Hohlbrook, Lincoln Porter, and James Polk were the first to enter, their enthusiasm for the room more than she could have hoped for—their words of praise reaf firming what she’d hoped was true.