Needle and Dread (21 page)

She grabbed her laptop from its temporary resting spot atop her vanity and climbed into bed beside Milo. “So? How's the book?”

“I keep telling myself just one more chapter, but then I can't stop.” Lowering the thriller to his lap, he took in her computer and the brochure resting on its keyboard. “I thought you were caught up with work for the day.”

“With library stuff—yes. With this whole who-killed-Opal thing—not so much. But I'll quit when you quit, deal?”

“Deal.”

She waited for him to return to his book and then settled against the headboard with her computer atop her lap. Positioning her hands on the keyboard, she entered the website address located on the back of the brochure into the search bar and hit enter.

“What's that?”

She followed her husband's eyes back to the computer screen and the exterior shot of the Jasper Falls Sewing Museum. “I thought you were reading.”

“You're a bit of a distraction.”

“I could go into the living room with this.” She scrolled halfway down the welcome page, only to find herself staring at a professional headshot of Opal.

“Don't you dare.” He flipped his book upside down across his own lap and pushed up on his hands until he was sitting more than reclining. “Who's that?”

“The building is a sewing museum located in Jasper Falls. And this woman?” She pointed at the screen. “That's Opal Goodwin, the woman who was murdered in Rose's shop on Saturday.”

“May I?” At her nod, he lifted the computer off her lap and took a closer look. “She looks a little younger than I imagined.”

“It's a headshot, it's been airbrushed—a lot.” When he was done inspecting the photo of the woman he'd only heard about until that moment, he returned the machine to its starting point. “So that's her museum up at the top? The one you say she started?”

She scrolled down to the bio beneath the picture and began to read aloud.

“‘Opal Goodwin, founder of the Jasper Falls Sewing Museum in Jasper Falls, South Carolina, has never taken anything at face value. Guided by a curiosity about sewing, Opal sought to learn every nuance of the craft. When she was done, she realized she'd pieced together a historical trail her fellow sewing enthusiasts would love.
The Jasper Falls Sewing Museum is the very embodiment of that trail—stretched out for all to enjoy.'”

“Wow. Sounds like that place is right up your alley.” Lowering himself back down to his reading pillow, he resumed control of his book. “Maybe we should check it out some weekend.”

“That's sweet, and I appreciate the offer, but I wouldn't subject you to that. Besides, Charles and I think it might make a really fun field trip for the sewing circle one day.” She leaned over, kissed Milo on the top of his head, and then settled back into place.

“If it interests you, it interests me, Tori. But yeah, you're probably right. A field trip sounds like it's definitely in order with this place, assuming, of course, it doesn't fold now that its founder is gone.”

It was a point she hadn't necessarily considered before, but that didn't make it any less valid . . .

With Milo's attention back on his novel, Tori returned the cursor to the top of the page and clicked on the heading devoted to interior shots of the museum. When the page appeared, she scrolled down to the first picture and the assortment of antique sewing tools it featured.

Sewing shears . . .

Wooden thread spools . . .

Real china and ceramic buttons . . .

A once white but now yellowed measuring tape . . .

A delicately carved wooden box with a pincushion top . . .

A sterling silver thimble . . .

“Oh, Milo, my great-grandmother would have loved this.”

He looked up from his book and squeezed her hand. “That's why you're going to make the time to go. So you can enjoy it for her.”

“And I will.” She scrolled down to the next picture and sucked in her breath. “Oh. Wow. That's an antique Singer sewing machine. It has to be almost a hundred and fifty years old!”

Her gaze strayed down to the next shot. “Oh, and look at that one. It has golden-colored details. Wow. Surely that belonged to someone with wealth . . .”

“Why is that one in a case?”

She followed his finger to the next picture and the mint green sewing machine packed neatly into a handled case with additional storage for thread and other assorted sewing needs. “Oh, that's a vintage Bell sewing machine like Leona was asking about the other day. It was predominantly used by tailors.”

Slowly, she made her way through the rest of the pictures designed to entice visitors to the museum. When she reached the bottom, she returned to the menu and clicked on the page devoted to special exhibits, both past and present. A banner near the top heralded the upcoming label exhibit, while smaller banners beneath it paid homage to past events.

Again, she scrolled her way down the page, stopping periodically to read an occasional tidbit or visitor-relayed quote. The final quote, from Opal herself, accompanied a picture depicting a half dozen hand-sewn labels. She recognized two of the signatures from outfits she herself had worn as a child, before scrolling back to the exhibit's banner and its teasing nod to “the labels of the famous and infamous.”

“Infamous, huh?” She clicked on the next page, read through the museum's hours and pricing, and then exited off the site completely. “Opal may not have been a very nice person, but there's no doubt she's put together an amazing tribute to something that's been a huge part of my life, as well as that of my friends. I hope someone finds a way to keep it going without her.”

“Is there someone you can call and ask?”

“Not at ten o'clock at night there isn't.” Leaning over the edge of the bed, she set the computer on the floor and then rolled into place next to Milo. “So, you still finding that book impossible to put down?”

He met and held her gaze for all of about two seconds before he tossed the book onto his nightstand and pulled her close. “Not anymore, I'm not.”

*   *   *

The smell of bacon frying pulled her from the bed at eight thirty. Her hair was tousled and her eyes were still hazy with sleep, but it didn't matter. There was bacon to be had.

Maneuvering her way around an unfamiliar box in the middle of the living room, Tori headed toward the kitchen. “You do realize you've hit upon the second-best way to wake me up, don't you?”

She stepped through the kitchen doorway and stopped as the man she expected to see turned out to be a sixty-something woman in a polyester running suit and an apron. “Margaret Louise?”

“Good mornin', Victoria. Don't you look all cute in your nightie and slippers.” Margaret Louise picked up the tongs she'd placed on the counter beside the stove
and carefully flipped each of the seven crackling strips of bacon. “The French toast is finishin' up, and we should be sittin' down to eat in 'bout two or three minutes. You want orange juice or milk?”

“Milk.” She liberated her empty glass from the carefully set table and headed toward the refrigerator before reality made her stop. “Um, Margaret Louise? I love you to pieces, but why are you here? Making me breakfast?”

“Oh, I'm makin' it for Milo and me, too, Victoria. That's why there's three places set at the table.”

She glanced back at the table and noted the three forks, the three knives, the two glasses . . . Unsure of whether she was dreaming, she rubbed her eyes.

Nope, Margaret Louise is still here . . .

“Do you happen to know where my husband is, by chance?”

Margaret Louise stopped pushing bacon strips around the pan and pointed the tongs at Tori. “Your
husband
. Ain't that a mighty fine thing to say, Victoria?”

She continued on her path to the refrigerator but detoured toward the counter at the last minute thanks to Margaret Louise's tongs. Still confused and a little bit tired, Tori filled her glass under her friend's watchful eye and then carried the carton back to its preferred spot on the top shelf of the refrigerator. “Milo? Do you know where he is?”

“He's outside, fetching the last of the two boxes from my station wagon.”

“Oh, so that box out in the dining room is yours?” She took a sip of milk and tried not to think about the bacon-induced hunger pains that were making it hard to completely focus.

Margaret Louise stepped away from the stove long enough to remove the perfectly cooked French toast slices from the griddle and transfer them onto Tori's favorite serving plate. “I'm hopin' you'll go through them and decide to keep 'em yourself, but if you don't, I'll take 'em on to Goodwill.”

Shaking off her lingering confusion, Tori accepted the serving plate from Margaret Louise's outstretched hand and carried it to the table. “You brought me clothes?”

“I brought you some clothes. The rest I brought over to Melissa's last night.” With a flick of her wrist, Margaret Louise shut off the burner and carefully removed each piece of bacon from the skillet to a secondary serving plate. “She sure was tickled 'bout them clothes. You'd have thought I'd given her a million dollars in gold the way she carried on.”

The screen door smacked open against the pantry, and Tori turned to find a box-holding Milo smiling back at her with a mix of surprise and pleasure. “Oh, hey there sweetheart, you're awake?”

She stole a piece of bacon from the serving plate as Margaret Louise passed by en route to the table. “I smelled
this
.”

“Yeah, I know. It got me, too.”

Margaret Louise stepped back, stole the piece of bacon right out of Tori's hands, and placed it back on the plate. “I let myself in with that key you gave me. But don't worry none, I brought all of this food from home so I wouldn't be emptyin' your cupboards.”

Shifting his arms from the sides of the box to the bottom, Milo made his way through the kitchen, stopping to kiss Tori as he passed. “You want me to just put this
with the other one, right?” At Margaret Louise's nod, he disappeared into the dining room.

“He's mighty accommodatin', Victoria. I think you should keep 'im.” Margaret Louise waited for Milo to return and then motioned them both to sit down. “Orange juice or milk, Milo?”

“I can get it.” He started to stand up again, but his progress was thwarted by Margaret Louise's pudgy hand.

“No. Sit. This breakfast was my idea.” The woman crossed to the refrigerator, held both choices up for Milo to see, and then filled his glass to the top before doing the same with her own. When she was seated beside them, she handed the bacon plate to Tori and smiled broadly. “
Now
you can have your bacon, Miss Impatient.”

“That's Mrs. Impatient now.” Milo dodged Tori's playful swat and then helped himself to a few pieces of bacon, too. “This was awfully nice of you to do, Margaret Louise. Especially when I have to head out of here in less than fifteen minutes to help John Peter pack up Calamity Books' entire inventory.”

Margaret Louise beamed. “It's my pleasure. I just know how hard you two are always workin', and I wanted to do somethin' special. Uncoverin' all them boxes in my attic yesterday just gave me the nudge to do it now rather than later.

“I reckon I would have been here even sooner if I hadn't run into Charles at the grocery store. When that one gets his gums a-flappin' it's hard to get away.” Margaret Louise took a momentary pause from eating to point her fork at Tori. “So tell me 'bout this sewin' circle field trip that's got that boy happy as a calf in clover . . .”

Tori was just opening the first box when Leona breezed into the living room with her favorite cameraman in tow. “Charles told me my sister unearthed a few boxes of clothing in her attic and that she was on her way here to foist them on you, dear.”

“I ain't foistin' nothin' on anyone,” Margaret Louise protested. “I'm just seein' if Victoria wants anythin' before I head to Goodwill.”

Leona shuddered, once, twice, and then pinned Tori with a stare capable of melting flesh. “Tell me I've at least gotten through to you regarding the horrors of hand-me-downs.”

“I—I . . .”

Something that looked a lot like disappointment dulled Margaret Louise's smile as she turned her nearly identical brown eyes on Tori. “We don't have to go
through this stuff if you don't want to, Victoria. I just thought maybe you'd like to see if there's somethin' you might want to keep is all.”

“And I do.” She threw out her hand in anticipation of Leona's reaction and reached into the box with the other. “Your sister went to a lot of effort to bring these things to me, and I'm going to look at them.”

“As long as looking doesn't lead to wearing, we're fine.” Leona snapped her fingers in the direction of her cameraman and summoned him to come closer. “Skip, I want you recording all of this. It may spawn a future episode of
Leona's Closet
.”

Skip's wink disappeared behind his shoulder-mounted camera. For a moment, Tori considered jockeying for Skip's removal, but she let it slide. Skip was only doing his job, and she could always demand the tape be deleted at a later date.

Outfit by outfit they made their way through the box, with Leona coaching Skip to pull in tight on anything she found to be extremely appalling. Halfway through the box, however, Leona gave the cut sign and lowered herself onto a chair for a closer look.

“Is that French silk?”

Margaret Louise nodded. “It sure is.”

“Since when have you ever owned a scarf made out of French silk?”

“Since you gave it to me for Christmas a few years ago.”

Leona gasped in horror. “You're getting rid of a gift I
gave
you? How—how
could
you?”

“I told you, when you called me that day, that I didn't need nothin' so fancy. But you didn't listen. Not that you ever do.”

“I listen, Margaret Louise. I just choose to do what I know to be best.” Leona reached into the box, pulled out the scarf, and spread it carefully across her lap. “Which, in this case, was to gift you with something that could make you look less like a hillbilly.”

“I ain't ashamed of bein' a hillbilly, Leona. Never have been, never will be.”

“But you should be.”

Tori leaned across the empty chair between them and ran her hand across the scarf. “Did you get this in Paris, Leona?”

“No. I purchased it in a specialty shop when I was in New York one year. In fact, truth be told, I bought one for myself, as well.”

“You mean you and me could have been matchin', Twin?”

Leona glared at her cameraman until his smile disappeared, and then waved off her sister's notion with a flip of her freshly manicured fingers. “No. That's precisely why I got mine in royal blue.”

“Well it sure is purty, Twin, but it's collectin' dust in my attic when it could be makin' someone else feel fancy.”

“Victoria?”

“Yes, Leona?”

“I can count on you to give this a good and appreciative home, can't I?”

It was Tori's turn to gasp, and gasp she did while holding a hand to her throat. “Leona? Are you encouraging me to wear a hand-me-down?”

“I ain't never worn it, Victoria. See? It still has the price tag my twin left on it so I could see how much money she spent.”

“But it was yours first,” Tori protested. “Which makes it a dreaded hand-me-down. I've been warned about such horrible atrocities.”

“Oh, shut up, dear.” Leona carefully folded the scarf and then held it to her cheek. “So lovely. Makes me want to wear mine again.”

Tori tried not to laugh when Skip winked in her direction, but she was grossly unsuccessful. She, in turn, tried to pass it off under the guise of happiness. “You know what, Leona? You should wear your scarf when that news crew from New York comes to the shop on Monday. You look fabulous in royal blue, and it'll really make you pop.”

“They're not coming, dear.” Leona reluctantly pulled the scarf from her face and handed it to Tori.

“Not coming? Why not?”

“Because I told them not to.”

Tori looked for all of Leona's tells to see if her friend was kidding, but none of the usual suspects were there. “Why would you do that? I thought you were all excited about the boost that kind of coverage could give to SewTastic's online presence.”

“I was. But, in subsequent conversations with Margot, I began to realize they were looking to exploit the shop, and we simply can't afford that after what happened there on Saturday.”

“Ah, so you think they were going to zero in on Opal's murder after all?”

“No. Margot was far more interested in her late co-anchor's murder.”

“What are you talking about, Leona?”

Leona pulled a few more items from the box and held
them up for Skip to film. “This skirt is dreadful, Margaret Louise. Please tell me you never actually wore this in public.”

“I didn't, Twin.
You
did.”

Leona dropped the skirt onto the table as if it were diseased, and leapt to her feet. “I did no such thing!”

“You're darn tootin' you did. Mama even has proof in her photo album. You wore it to a dance when we were in ninth grade. No one danced with you.”

“I did no such . . .” In a flashback evidenced by the slow draining of all color from her face, Leona's words trailed away.

“Now you're rememberin', ain't you?”

Seconds turned to minutes as Leona said nothing. Eventually, she cleared her throat and turned to Skip. “If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will blackball you in this industry, do you understand?”

He peeked at Leona over the top of the lens and then lowered the camera down to his side. “I'll get rid of the proof the second I get back to the station.”

“No, you'll sit down on that chair and you'll get rid of it now.” Then, as if nothing happened, Leona dropped the skirt back into the box and pushed it to the side. “Now, Victoria, where were we?”

It took a moment to get back on point, but with a mumbled cue from Margaret Louise, she found her way. “Yeah, you mentioned something about Margot's former co-anchor having been murdered?”

“Oh, yes, that's right. Bad fashion always throws me.” Leona sat up tall and took a deep, cleansing breath. “Anyway, the co-anchor. Yes, from what I was able to gather during my conversations with Margot, her former
co-anchor at the station was murdered by his wife six months ago.”

Margaret Louise stopped picking through the second box of clothes. “Was he caught philanderin'?”

“I don't know. Margot didn't address that. Though, if he was, his wife shouldn't have stopped with poison.”

“So she's been charged?” Tori asked.

“They can't charge a woman who's disappeared off the face of the earth.” Leona reached past her sister for a closer look at a patterned sweater, and then dropped it back into the box with disgust. “But that's not my problem. SewTastic is.”

She knew she was missing something in translation, but no matter how hard she tried to figure out what it was, she kept coming up empty. Eventually she gave up and opted to risk the wrath of Leona in order to piece it together. “I realize I'm probably setting myself up for a glare to end all glares with this question, but what does SewTastic have to do with this man's murder?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Well, alrighty then . . .

Halting the conversation with a bejeweled hand, Leona stood and made her way over to Skip. “Did you erase that last little bit of tape, handsome?”

Skip's Adam's apple gave away his swallow. “I sure did.”

“Excellent.” Leona playfully walked her fingers along the cameraman's shoulders and then motioned to the camera. “I'll be sure to let the station manager know what an asset you are to me.”

“Thanks, Leona.”

“No, thank
you
, Skip.” Leona peeked around the
table at the second box and then batted her false lashes at the man. “You've done such a fine job this morning, Skip, I think you should head home. If something comes up, I'll give you a ring.”

He gathered up his camera and his bag but remained seated. “Are you free tonight, Leona? Maybe we could catch a movie or something?”

“I'm sorry, Skip, but I have plans.”

Defeated, he stood, hooked the camera bag strap over his arm, and disappeared into the kitchen. Seconds later, the screen door banged shut.

“One of these days, Twin, I'm gonna figure out what you're doin' to make men swoon.”

“It's quite simple, Margaret Louise.” Leona slowly ran her hands down the edges of her body. “
This
makes men swoon.”

“Leona?”

Holding her pose, Leona's eyes narrowed on Tori. “Yes, dear?”

“I'm not trying to sound dense here, but I'm still stuck on the thing about Charles's friend—the TV reporter.”

“Margot.”

“Right, Margot. Why did you turn her coverage down?”

“Because I know how people think, dear, and I don't want people coming away from a feature story associating SewTastic with yet another murder. One is more than enough, don't you think?”

“No, I agree with that completely,” Tori said. “You've just lost me on how this Margot woman could possibly
tie a sewing shop in Sweet Briar, South Carolina, with the murder of a morning show co-anchor in New York City. It doesn't make any sense.”

“It's not SewTastic, per se, dear. It's the fact that SewTastic is a sewing shop.”

“And that matters because . . .”

“His wife was a gifted seamstress.”