Sew Deadly (8 page)

“The children are going to love it.” Nina bridged the gap between them with sheepish steps. “I have a few old beanbag chairs from when I was a child. They’re bright colors—reds and blues—but they’re still in good shape. Maybe you could use those.”

She squeezed her assistant’s hand. “Nina, that would be perfect!” Looking around the room she continued speaking, her mouth trying desperately to keep up with the images flitting through her mind. “The best way I’m going to be able to convince the board tonight to let me do this is to show them a project that’s not going to cost a lot of money. Donated beanbag chairs help tremendously. So will the fact that I’ve had experience painting murals and am willing to donate the time and the paint to get it done.”

“I’ll help, too,” Nina offered. “I’m not the best painter, but my daddy always said I was a great taper.”

“Good. You’re hired.”

“And I see those kinds of trunks you’re talking about for the costumes at the flea markets around Sweet Briar all the time.”

“Are they expensive?”

Nina shrugged. “Not really. I’ve seen some for as little as five dollars, a few for closer to twenty-five.”

The board could do twenty-five . . .

“And your sewing circle is going to make the costumes, right?”

That, she wasn’t so sure about anymore. Monday’s sewing circle had come and gone with not so much as a question about Tori’s project. At the time, she’d understood, even grudgingly agreed considering Dixie’s presence and everyone’s sensitivity to her feelings. But wasn’t it time for the woman to accept reality? Shouldn’t she love the library enough to want to help make it better?

“The costumes will get made.” Tori motioned to the box once again. “I wanted the room to be empty when the board members came for the meeting tonight. So they could see the potential and visualize my plans. But now I’ve got to go through this surprise addition—separating the ones we can sell in the fall from the ones that need to go straight to the dump—”

“Nina? Are you coming?” A man with dark skin and even darker eyes stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders and chest contained beneath the football jersey he wore. “Your workday ended five minutes ago.”

Five minutes ago?

“Miss Sinclair, this is my husband, Duwayne.”

“Oh, Duwayne, it’s so nice to finally meet you.” She stepped out from behind the box. “Your wife is an amazing asset to this library.” Tori extended her hand to the man, a gesture that went unacknowledged as Nina’s husband took hold of his wife’s arm protectively.

“My wife is the heart and soul of this library—has been for the past few years.”

Surprised by the tension in the man’s voice and stance, Tori rushed to smooth feathers she hadn’t been aware of rumpling. “I can see why. The patrons love her.”

“Tell that to the board.” Duwayne looked around the room, his gaze fixing on the final box in the center of the room before dismissing it in favor of his watch. “It’s time to go, Nina.”

Nina shifted from foot to foot, her mouth turned downward. “I will be right with you, Duwayne. I need a moment with Miss Sinclair.”

Tori sensed the man was about to protest, but was grateful when he didn’t. Although she knew it was ridiculous, she couldn’t help but feel as if she’d done something to irritate her assistant’s husband.

When he left, Nina rushed to apologize, her words hesitant and shy. “I’m sorry about that . . . Duwayne is a good man. I-I guess he listened to my unhappiness with Ms. Dunn more than I realized. He just wants me to be happy and he wanted something for me I simply wasn’t ready to have . . . I see that now.”

“It’s nice to have someone believe in you like that, isn’t it?” Tori reached out and patted Nina’s arm. “Anyway, he’s right. It’s after five.”

“But your meeting,” she offered.

Tori glanced at the box and then back at Nina. “The meeting doesn’t start until eight. That gives me three hours to get through these books and get cleaned up before the show starts. That’s plenty of time.”

“I’m sorry—I’d stay if I could.” Nina looked down at the floor, her body moving slightly.

“Don’t you worry about it. You get going.” Tori waved her assistant toward the door, a smile plastered on her face. “We’re closed now so there shouldn’t be any interruptions to slow me do—”

The branch phone in her office began to ring.

“I’ll get that for you, Miss Sinclair.” Nina backed toward the door.

“No, you go on home. I’ll get it.” Tori followed the woman into the hallway then turned in the opposite direction—Nina toward the back parking lot and she toward her office. She caught the phone on the fifth ring.

“Sweet Briar Library, how may I help you?”

“Hi, dear, it’s Leona.”

A wave of appreciation washed over her and she loosened her grip on the phone. “Leona, it’s nice to hear a friendly voice.”

“Friendly voice? Is something wrong?”

She plopped into her office chair and stretched her legs outward. “Nothing specific, other than the fact the gods are conspiring against me.”

Leona’s soft laugh filled her ear. “How so, dear?”

Tori spun her chair a hairbreadth to the right and looked out her lone office window at the town of Sweet Briar—a white picket fence community that had grown deserted in honor of the dinner hour. “They’ve commandeered my appointment book, let the air out of all four of my tires, and developed an affection for watching me replace missing lightbulbs on my front porch. And just when I think they’re done . . . they deliver boxes.”

“Deliver boxes?”

“Well, maybe
deliver
isn’t quite the right word. They essentially
appear
out of thin air.”

Leona laughed. “Sounds like you could use dinner out.”

The clock on her desk confirmed dinner was not an option.

“As tempting as that sounds, Leona, I have to decline. The board meeting is tonight.”

“Oh, I forgot. Are you going to tell them about your idea? For the children’s room?”

“I am. The room is all cleared out—or will be by the time the meeting starts. I’m just going to have to hope that my ability to help people visualize is in tip-top shape.”

“You’ll be fine, dear. If the reaction from everyone at the sewing circle is any indication, you’ll get your room.”

“I hope so.” Tori leaned her head against the seatback and closed her eyes. “I was disappointed no one asked about the costumes Monday night. I’d really hoped we could have divvied them up.”

“I know, dear. But we need to give Dixie time. She’ll come around.”

“If the glares and comments I got the other night are any indication, I don’t see that happening.”

“Victoria, she can’t stay mad for long.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am. Now finish your room and show the board why they hired Victoria Sinclair. We’ll do dinner another night.”

“That would be lovely, Leona. I look forward to it.” She was just about to hang up when a question formed in her thoughts. One that had been gnawing at her subconscious since Monday night.

“Leona?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember the conversation the other night? The one about that teacher at the elementary school?”

“His name is Milo, dear.”

“It surprised me.”

“What did?”

“Georgina’s summation of something that wasn’t anything more than a brief exchange between a new librarian and a teacher.”

“It was essentially what I’d heard as well.”

Tori pulled the phone tighter to her ear. “What you’d heard? From whom?”

“I can’t recall. But it’s making the rounds.”

Making the rounds? As in gossip?

“I don’t understand.”

“Victoria, dear, you’re in the south now. You’re new. You’re an outsider. It’s only natural they’re looking out for one of their own.”

Looking out for Milo? From her? They couldn’t be serious. . . .

“Leona, we greeted one another. We spoke briefly about Lulu’s shyness and fear of reading. And we said good-bye at the end. That’s it.”

“Whatever you say, dear. You could certainly find a lot worse than that man—he is quite the looker. Just know Tiffany Ann won’t take kindly to competition for his affections.”

“I’m not looking.” Tori dropped her head into her hand, massaged her left temple with the tips of her fingers.

“That’s a good tactic. You don’t want to appear too easy.”

Good grief.

“Anyway, I really must let you get back to your work,” Leona said. “Good luck tonight.”

“Th-thanks.” She replaced the phone in its cradle, stared at it for several long moments before heading back to the storage room and away from thoughts of Milo and the Sweet Briar rumor mill.

With finely tuned efficiency she assembled two piles on the floor—a sale pile and a garbage pile. Once the piles were complete and the box was broken down, she tackled the sale pile.

The books that were deemed to be in reasonable enough shape were stored in the library’s basement. According to Nina, the books were then sold at an outdoor event in the town square each fall with proceeds benefiting the library. And if some of the proceeds from last year’s sale could be used for new shelving in the children’s room, it would show the annual book sale patrons where their money was going.

A win-win for everyone.

Unless she blew her pitch to the board . . .

After stowing away the sale books, Tori forced her tired legs back up the basement steps for the final time. If her calculations were correct, the remaining books wouldn’t require more than three—
maybe four—
trips to the Dumpster before she could head home for a much-needed shower.

Quickly she grabbed the first pile and headed out the back door, the early evening sun making it difficult to see much of anything. Squinting against the glare, she glanced over at her car, relieved to see all four tires in tip-top shape.

No delays there. . . .

She swung her gaze back toward the Dumpster and was grateful to see the trash collectors had replaced her step stool after their rounds earlier in the afternoon. Carefully she stepped onto the first step and then the second, the pile of books making her balance a bit awkward.

Pulling her arm backward, Tori winced at the soreness in her muscles, a tribute to the countless Dumpster trips she’d made over the past ten days. But she was almost done. Finally.

With a toss, she released the books from her arms, all but one making their aim. The other—Shakespeare’s
Julius Caesar
—slipped to the ground.

Mumbling to herself, she stepped off the ladder and reached down, her hand closing over the tattered book. She took three giant steps backward and threw with all her might, the muted thud that followed proof she’d overshot her target.

“Good one, Tori.” She made her way around the side of the Dumpster, sidestepping an overturned coffee-to-go cup from Debbie’s Bakery. “At least I’m not the only one with rotten ai—”

A single wedge-heeled sandal peeked out from the backside of the Dumpster. New shoes with turquoise straps and matching toenail polish . . .

Curious, Tori peered around the corner, nausea racking her body as her gaze fell on the lifeless girl slumped against the metal container. A girl with hair the color of spun gold and a copy of
Julius Caesar
in her lap.

Chapter 7

If there was one thing she wasn’t prepared to handle that morning, it was Dixie Dunn. Not after wit- nessing a crime scene investigation up close and personal. And certainly not after being the one who made the gruesome discovery.

Tori glanced out the window of her tiny office, her head throbbing, her gaze barely registering the cluster of people standing on the sidewalk staring in her direction.

“Ms. Dunn is bound and determined to talk to you. I’ve tried every which way to get her to talk to me instead, but gracious plenty she’s close to having a hissy. I think it would be best if—”

“Step aside, Nina.” Dixie Dunn threw an elbow into the assistant’s side and shoved her way into Tori’s private office, her eyes blazing, her hand waving a hardbound book in the air. “You’re not here more ’n two weeks and you already don’t got the sense that God gave you, child. And to think they thought
I
was the one who should go.”

“Miss Sinclair, I’m sorry. I tried to—”

“It’s okay, Nina, I’ll take it from here.” Tori rose from her chair to offer the young woman a reassuring pat on the arm. “Can you cover things out in the library while I have a moment with Ms. Dunn?”

“Yes, ma’am—I mean, Miss Sinclair.” Nina’s eyes, round and worried, met Tori’s as her hands nervously clenched and unclenched the sides of her ankle-length summer skirt. Dropping her voice to a near whisper, she peered over her boss’s shoulder before reengaging eye contact. “Be careful.”

Inhaling deeply, Tori closed the door and turned toward her uninvited guest, determined to keep her cool at all costs. “Ms. Dunn, what can I do for you?”

The five foot three cotton-topped woman slammed her book down on Tori’s desk. “You can tell me why taxpayers should have to buy another copy of what
was
a pristine book.”

Confused, Tori reached for the book, turned it over in her hands.