Pinned for Murder (12 page)

She raised her cup to her lips and took a sip, the warm liquid barely registering in her mind. When she set it down, she met Debbie’s gaze head-on. “First and foremost? The fact that Martha Jane wrongly accused Kenny of robbery.”

“She made a mistake.”

“You know that, and I know that. But neither of us experienced the humiliation Kenny must have felt when he was hauled down to the station for questioning in a crime he knew darn well he didn’t commit.”

“Ahhh, I get it now. Rose is concerned what that humiliation may have set off inside Kenny in terms of anger, right?”

Tori nodded, then reached out for her donut. Breaking off a piece, she popped it in her mouth, the donut’s former allure suddenly restored to its full glory. “Mmmm . . . wow. This is delicious.”

“I’m glad. But keep going. I miss so much being here all day long.”

She popped a second bite into her mouth and swallowed quickly. “Kenny was mad—spittin’ mad, as Margaret Louise would say. And to listen to everyone talk, he has a habit of getting nasty when upset.”

Debbie nodded her agreement.

“In fact, I saw him earlier that day at Rose’s house. Not only was he angry, he also—” She stopped and stared down at her food, her mouth unwilling to share what her mind knew to be true.

“He also what?” Debbie asked, her louder-than-normal voice causing more than a few customers to look in their direction. Forcing a smile to her lips, she waved them off before turning back to Tori. “It’s not fair to take me so far and then leave me hanging . . . So spill it, Victoria.”

Leaning forward across the table, she lowered her voice to a near whisper. “He threatened Martha Jane.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, positively sure.”

“When?”

“The day she was murdered.”

Debbie’s face paled. “Wait a minute . . .” She poked her head up and looked around the bakery, her pale blue eyes widening with relief when she spotted her youngest employee. “Emma? Victoria and I have some catching up to do. Can you handle things for a little while on your own?”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Calhoun. Take all the time you need.”

Tori watched as Debbie mouthed a thank-you in Emma’s direction before resuming their conversation. “Did Martha Jane tell the police?”

“No.” She wrapped her hands around her to-go cup once again, the lingering warmth doing little to dispel the chill that had plagued her all morning. “She—she didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know?”

“He didn’t threaten her to her face.”

“Then how . . . Oh, wait. I get it.” Debbie scooted a crumb across the table and into her hand. “He threatened her in front of other people, right?”

Her shoulders rose and fell. “Nope. Just me.”

“Did
you
tell the police?”

She closed her eyes against the sudden onslaught of tears that threatened to inundate the mental barricade she’d erected against them, Debbie’s wording a near-perfect match to the question she’d asked herself again and again throughout the night. Unfortunately, the light of day hadn’t changed the answer. “No.”

“Oh.”

Slowly, she opened her eyes, her gaze fixed on her friend’s face. “Honestly, Debbie, I thought it was just an idle threat. You know, something said in the heat of anger. I had no idea he meant it literally.”

“Maybe he didn’t.”

It was the same argument she’d considered while lying in bed staring at the ceiling. “Then how do you explain the fact that she was murdered not more than seven hours later?”

Debbie shrugged. “I don’t know.

“He told me she’d be sorry . . . for making people think he was a crook.”

“Wow.”

Reaching out, she picked up the rest of her donut only to drop it back onto the plate. “
Wow
is right.”

“Will you tell them now?” Debbie asked.

Her stomach lurched. “Who? The police?”

“Who else?”

It was a thought she hadn’t wanted to visit—her mind wrapped up in what she should have done, not what she still had to do. “But what about Rose? She’ll be even more crushed than she is now.”

For a moment, Debbie said nothing, her silence hovering above them like a thick cloud. When she finally spoke, her words were to the point. “Rose is one of the most honest people I’ve ever known. Sure, she loves Kenny. A person would have to be blind not to know that. But she wouldn’t want a murderer to walk free simply because he was a sweet and misunderstood kid thirty years ago.”

Tori thought back to her visit with Rose the day before, recalled the way the elderly woman had begun to see the possibility that Kenny was, indeed, involved. But what Tori couldn’t convey to Debbie with any justice was the look of deep-rooted sadness that had swept across Rose’s face as the visit progressed.

Did she really want to be the person who eliminated any remaining hope her friend still had in Kenny’s innocence? Couldn’t she just leave it to the cops to figure it out all on their own?

Sure, Rose would still be crushed when Kenny was carted off to jail for Martha Jane’s murder, but
Tori
wouldn’t be the one who delivered the final blow.

“Mrs. Calhoun? Mayor Hayes is on the phone.”

Pushing back her chair, Debbie stood up. “I’ll be right back, Victoria.”

Looking at the plate in front of her, she forced herself to pick up the donut, to take a bite or two in an effort to calm the butterflies in her stomach. It would be okay. It had to be. The truth would come out on its own. Rose would be crushed, but she’d get over it. Tori and the rest of the sewing circle would make sure of that. . . .

“Victoria?”

She glanced up, saw the worry in Debbie’s eyes. “Is everything okay?”

“There’s going to be an emergency sewing circle meeting at Georgina’s house tonight.”

“An emergency meeting? Why?”

“To brainstorm ways to help Rose.”

“There’s proof?” she whispered past the lump in her throat.

“There’s proof,” Debbie repeated as her gaze locked on Tori’s. “The rope that was used to strangle Martha Jane is the same rope Kenny was using to bundle limbs in Rose’s yard.”

Chapter 10

They’d had them before, last-minute sew-athons designed as a way to get together, to help each other through personal crisis or even to sample one of Margaret Louise’s latest culinary concoctions. Emergency meetings, as they were fondly called, were usually held at the home of the member who requested the gathering, while regular weekly meetings cycled their way through the circle’s roster.

Since Georgina Hayes, in her official capacity, had her finger on the goings-on in the Sweet Briar Police Department, it made sense that she’d call the group together in light of the latest development in Martha Jane’s murder. One by one the dominoes were beginning to fall, each subsequent tile leading the way to Kenny Murdock’s front door.

Which meant one thing. Rose Winters’s heart was about to be broken. There was really no stopping it. But if the group banded together, perhaps they could find a way to help their friend pick up the pieces.

Tori said as much to Leona as they waited for Georgina’s housekeeper to answer the door. “And maybe, if we can find something to distract her, she can get through this faster.”

Wrapping her fingers around the chocolate-colored clutch in her hand, Leona tilted her head downward and peered at Tori over the top of her glasses. “What do you propose, dear?”

She slid one of her tote straps down her arm and motioned inside the bag. “I could really use some help making hats and scarves.”

“I thought Margaret Louise had already offered to help.” Leona shot an impatient glare at the door and then rolled her eyes. “It’s almost impossible to find good help these days.”

The words were barely through the woman’s lips when Maria, Georgina’s longtime housekeeper, opened the door and welcomed them inside. Quickly and efficiently, the woman took the plate of homemade marbled brownies from Tori’s hand before addressing Leona. “May I get your plate from the car, Ms. Elkin?”

“The bakery was closed by the time I heard about the meeting,” Leona said as she brushed past Maria and into the foyer. “So I don’t have anything.”

“The
bakery
, Leona?” Tori said with a grin as she followed her friend inside. “I thought you told me so long ago that only homemade treats were allowed at these meetings.”

“They
would
be homemade if I bought them from the bakery, dear.” Leona pulled her latest travel magazine from under her elbow and then looked around, her gaze skirting across the freshly waxed wooden entryway flooring and down the long chandelier-lit hallway that eventually led to the study.

“How do you figure that?”

“Debbie would have made them. So, therefore, they’d be homemade, yes?”

She considered arguing but opted, instead, to let it go. Some battles just weren’t meant to be won, especially those that had her questioning Leona’s personal rulebook on southern etiquette. “So how’s Paris?”

In an instant, the aloof and slightly irritated demeanor Leona seemed to wear like a badge of honor disappeared, in its place a smile that rivaled the sun on a warm summer day. “He is getting to be such a big boy. I have a picture . . .” The woman tucked her magazine back under her arm, opened her clutch, and extracted a three by five print of Paris, the garden-variety bunny she’d pilfered from former Sweet Briar resident Ella May Vetter. “See? Isn’t he just the most handsome little thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Handsome?”

“Yes, handsome.” Looking down at the picture in her hand, Leona’s smile widened. “His little nose is just so well proportioned on his face and his eyes could melt a block of ice in a matter of seconds. And do you see his ears? They have such a perfect shape . . . so sleek and long.”

“A perfect shape?” Tori stared at the picture, the rabbit’s ears no different than those on any other bunny she’d ever seen before. “Well, I guess that means you won’t be having to worry about expensive cosmetic surgery on the little guy, huh?”

Leona pulled the photograph to her chest while raising an eyebrow at Tori. “Are you mocking me, dear?”

Tori tugged her tote higher on her arm and leaned forward, planting a kiss on her friend’s cheek. “Of course not. He’s precious. Really.”

The woman held the picture out once again. “He is, isn’t he?”

Footsteps in the foyer made them both turn. Georgina Hayes’s tall, slender form filled the open archway that separated the foyer from the hallway. “Leona . . . Victoria, I’m so glad you could make it.” Waving off her housekeeper, the mayor looped her arms through theirs and led them toward the study and the near constant background chatter. “Did you bring anything to work on, Victoria?”

“I did. I brought material for hats and scarves. If I don’t get moving, I won’t have enough to send to the shelter in Chicago before winter sets in.” She patted the tote with her free hand. “Margaret Louise has committed to making some, as has Dixie. Between them, that’s fifteen. That still leaves me with forty-five.”

“
Forty-five
hats and scarves?” Leona asked as her nostril rose along with her lip.

She nodded. “And the shelter can use every last one of them, I’m sure.”

“So you’re hoping to find some reinforcements?” Georgina teased.

“How did you guess?” Tori looked past Georgina to Leona, a grin tugging her lips upward. “Leona? Any chance?”

“Will they be silk scarves, dear?”

“No.”

“Cashmere?”

“No.”

“Egyptian cotton?”

“No. Why?”

“Just trying to gauge how big my donation check should be.”

She rolled her eyes in time with Georgina. “We’re making the scarves, Leona, not buying them.”

“Making? As in sewing?”

“Land sakes, Leona, why do you think we get together for these meetings as often as we do?” Georgina asked as they stopped outside the study.

“To talk.”

“And?” Georgina released her grip on their arms and crossed her own.

“To critique one another’s baking ability.”

“You don’t bake, Leona. You buy, remember?” Tori teased.

“I buy what Debbie bakes.”

Georgina extended her right index finger and pointed. “Do you see that machine in front of Beatrice? Do you know what that is, Leona?”

“A sewing machine, of course.”

The mayor’s finger shifted left. “And those objects in Debbie’s lap?”

“Thread.” Leona straightened her shoulders with pride. “
Stools
of thread.”

“Spools,” Tori corrected.

“And that?” Georgina asked as she pointed to a table on the other side of the room.

“A table?”

“I was referring to the pile on top of the table, Leona.”

“Fabric.”

Georgina nodded. “So let’s see . . . we have women in a room with a sewing machine, spools of thread, and a pile of fabric. What do you suppose we do here?”

“Waste your time,” Leona huffed as she marched into the study in pursuit of the leather armchair to the right of the massive stone fireplace that graced the entire back wall.

“Waste our time?” Georgina repeated.

Whirling around, Leona lowered herself onto the chair and crossed her stocking-clad legs daintily. “That’s right.
Plastic
is for clothes.”