Pinned for Murder (2 page)

“Physically, yes. Though that cough she’s had for the past six months or so doesn’t seem to be getting better. Makes her sound like a sea lion most days.” The woman motioned to Tori and Nina to follow, her sandal-clad feet making soft squishing sounds as she wound her way through cart after cart of damaged books en route to the information desk in the center of the library. “I’ve been after her to see a doctor for months now but that woman is as stubborn as a mule.”

Margaret Louise was right. Rose Winters, the oldest in their sewing circle, was stubborn on a good day and downright ornery the rest of the time. But still, everyone loved the retired kindergarten teacher, not the least of which was Tori. In fact, aside from Margaret Louise—and her opposite-in-every-way twin sister, Leona—Rose was one of Tori’s favorites. Especially when the eightysomething’s bristles retracted in favor of a softer, more mist-inducing edge that reminded Tori of her own great-grandmother. Her
late
great-grandmother.

Blinking back an unexpected tear, she cut her hand through the air, the gesture successfully thwarting the inevitable ten-minute discussion about Rose and her failing health. It wasn’t that she didn’t care. She did. Very much. But the elderly woman’s cough had nothing to do with the storm or the accompanying damage Margaret Louise had alluded to at the start. “We’ll get her in to a doctor one way or the other, even if it means calling in reinforcements from the rest of the Sweet Briar Ladies Society Sewing Circle. But we can talk about that later. Tell me about Rose and her neighbors. . . .”

Margaret Louise cocked an eyebrow of confusion. “Rose and her neighbors?”

“You just said they wouldn’t forget Roger anytime soon.” Tori shot an exasperated look at Nina, her assistant’s trademark shy smile giving way to all-out amusement at the spectacle that was Margaret Louise Davis. Rolling her eyes skyward, she shrugged, her words willing her friend to get back on track. “You know . . . that he left them souvenirs . . .”

“
Mementos
. I said, mementos.”

She moved her index finger in a rolling motion. “And those would be . . .”

“Busted windows, leaky roofs, damaged porches, snapped trees, no power.”

Tori’s gasp echoed against the walls of the library. “Busted windows? Leaky roo—but how?” She gestured around the library, her gaze skirting the bottom layer of shelves within range of the information desk before coming to rest on her friend’s face. “I mean, I get that there was damage—we have a hundred-plus books to serve as proof of that. But structural damage like you just said? How? Why?”

“The older parts of town weren’t made to sustain Roger’s anger,” Nina explained, her quiet tone making Tori draw closer. “Duwayne said those homes—like them ones Ms. Winters and her neighbors live in—never would have been built today. They wouldn’t pass code. But . . . back when they were built . . . it wasn’t an issue. Add that in with decades of age and, in many cases, lack of upkeep and, well, they’re the perfect playground for a storm like Roger.” As if realizing she’d taken over the conversation, Tori’s assistant looked at the floor, her dark hair slipping forward to cover her face as her words grew even more hushed. “ ’Least that’s what Duwayne says, anyway.”

“And your Duwayne is exactly right,” Margaret Louise said as she picked up the conversation and ran with it. “Jake went over there first thing this mornin’ to see if everyone was okay and he was shocked. Said he hasn’t seen that much damage from a storm in a long time. He offered to help Rose but she refused . . . said she’d wait for Kenny to get to her.”

“Kenny?” Tori asked.

“Murdock. Kenny Murdock. He’s one of Rose’s former kindergarten students. Only now he’s ’bout Jake’s age and minus the wife and kids.”

Jake Davis was Margaret Louise’s son and the husband of fellow sewing circle member Melissa. He owned a successful garage in Sweet Briar, which enabled him to put food on the table for the couple’s seven children, Margaret Louise’s pride and joy.

“Kenny’s a bit of a strange bird. Might even call him a bit slow,” Margaret Louise continued. “But Rose has championed that boy since he was no bigger ’n a corn sprout. Gets madder ’n a hornet when people dismiss him as being dumb. After she settles down she’s quick to point out he has a different kind of smarts.”

Tori drank in the information, adding it to her ever-growing mental book of Sweet Briar facts. She may not have lived there long, but—thanks to her sewing sisters and their penchant for gossip—she was figuring out how and where everyone fit in record fashion. Kenny Murdock was simply another name to process.

“Is he close to her as well?” Tori asked.

Margaret Louise nodded. “Slow, dumb, missin’ a few marbles . . . whatever you want to call it . . . there’s no denying the fact that Kenny cares ’bout Rose. And if Kenny don’t like you, you know it. That one can hold a grudge like there’s no tomorrow. Trust me . . . I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.”

Huffing and puffing, the woman hoisted herself onto one of the two stools that perched behind the information desk. “Anyway, over the past few months, I’ve been noticin’ that it’s harder for Rose to maintain that little flower garden she has along her walkway. All that bendin’ and pullin’ is gettin’ too much for her. But the one time I said that, she nearly bit my head clear off my neck.”

“She’s still doing a good job, though,” Tori pointed out, her thoughts traveling back to the last time they’d had a meeting at Rose’s house. “Her mums looked spectacular, and there wasn’t a weed anywhere. She puts the rest of us—or, at least,
me
—to shame.”

“That’s ’cause Kenny took over. He shows up when she’s out there workin’ and just quietly goes about the task of helpin’ her . . . though his helpin’ has become the lion’s share of doin’.”

“Then I like him.”

A smile spread across Margaret Louise’s face as a mischievous twinkle lit her eyes. “You haven’t even met him, Victoria.”

“I don’t need to. Any man in his early thirties who shows up and helps an elderly woman with a garden is A-okay in my book.” She took a few steps into the local history section and grabbed hold of a cart, the normally squeaky wheels muted somewhat by the saturated carpet. “I sure hope he’s gotten there by now, though. I hate to think of Rose walking around in less than ideal conditions.”

Margaret Louise waved off her concern. “Oh, he’d already been there. Even ’fore I sent Jake over. But you know how Rose is . . . she insisted he help Martha Jane Barker first. Seems her place was even worse off than Rose’s.”

Nina stiffened behind the counter.

“Nina? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Miss Sinclair.”

She bit back the urge to correct her assistant’s tendency to use her surname rather than her first name. It was simply no use. She’d been trying for months. “Do you know Martha Jane?”

Nina busied herself with the books on the cart, her head shaking slowly with each damaged novel she stacked on the counter. “Yes. I know Ms. Barker.”

Tori looked a question at Margaret Louise only to receive a shrug in return.

“Am I missing something?”

“I’m black.”

“I knew
that
, Nina,” she said, the ensuing smile disappearing as quickly as it came as the reality of her assistant’s words took root. “She has a problem with that?”

“Martha Jane grew up quite wealthy. And by wealthy I mean w-e-a-l-t-h-y. With servants.
Colored
servants,” Margaret Louise rushed to explain as something resembling understanding spread across her face. “She’s been known to snap her fingers around people of color when out and about.”

Nina snorted.

Tori looked from Margaret Louise to Nina and back again. “Then what’s she doing living next to Rose? That’s hardly the kind of house that screams money.”

“She don’t trust nobody,” Nina said. “She thinks everyone is out to get her money . . . to rob her blind. And when something goes wrong—either real or in her head—people of color are top on her list of suspects.”

“Is that true, Margaret Louise?”

Her friend nodded. “She lives in that house as a way to throw people off . . . to think she’s broke. But she ain’t. And everyone knows it. Most folks suspect she’s so paranoid she keeps her money hidden in her house for fear a bank would lose it.”

“And she thinks that’s
safer
?”

“Paranoia tends to multiply with age, Victoria.”

“And she’s turned that paranoia toward people like Nina?” She knew her voice was sounding shrill but she couldn’t help it. The notion that someone would judge a person like Nina simply because of the color of her skin bothered her. Deeply.

Margaret Louise shrugged. “There might be something to that. But I think it goes deeper. I really do. Martha Jane doesn’t like nobody—dark skin or not. Take me for instance. When I won that contest with my sweet potato pie, I brought some over to her. Rose asked me to . . . said Martha Jane wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t make the Re-Founders Day Festival.” Shifting her weight more evenly across the stool, the woman continued. “So I did. But was she grateful? Was she happy that someone remembered her? No. She hollered at me for bringing a plastic fork instead of a real one.”

Tori’s mouth gaped open. “Couldn’t she have just gotten one from her kitchen?”

“There weren’t any colored folks around to fetch it for her,” Nina interjected with an uncharacteristic edge to her voice.

“I think she’s just plain rude. Regardless of color.” Margaret Louise reached a reassuring arm across the counter and patted Nina’s hand. “Then there was another time when Jake was out walkin’ with Jake Junior. They were passing Martha Jane’s house when Jake Junior—who wasn’t more ’n four or five at the time—dropped his ball in her yard. When he went to fetch it, Martha Jane poked her head out the door and started yellin’ at him for trespassin’.
Yellin’
. . . at
my grandbaby
. Can you imagine?”

“Then why would Rose send Kenny over to help her first?” Tori asked.

“Because even as cantankerous as Rose is, she still has a heart filled with gold. You know that, Nina knows that, we all know that. Besides, it won’t be long before the drifters sweep into town. They’re not more ’n twelve hours behind these nasty storms. And when that happens, that street will be good as new in no time. At least from a standpoint of looking all neat and tidy.”

“Drifters?”

“The folks that move around, chasing work. They have no ties anywhere. They just show up, get work fixin’ things, and then shove off to the next town, the next tragedy.”

Tori considered her friend’s words, her mind trying them on in various ways. “I guess that makes sense. I just wish there wasn’t so much to do
here
.” She waved her hand around the room, her shoulders slumping at the sight of the empty shelves and the water-stained walls.

As if sensing her sadness, Margaret Louise stepped down off her stool and offered Tori a body-squashing bear hug. “Don’t you worry, Victoria. It’ll all work out.”

She supposed Margaret Louise was right. But still . . .

Stepping back, she nodded in spite of the quandary raging in her head. She loved the library, she really did. It was not only her source of income but her passion in life as well. But Rose? Rose was her friend. Shouldn’t that take precedence?

“I—I just wish she hadn’t refused Jake’s help . . . or sent this Kenny fellow off so fast. She needs him, too. Even if her place isn’t as bad off.”

“As I just said, don’t you worry ’bout Rose. If Nina is right, Kenny won’t be at Martha Jane’s place for long, anyway. In fact”—Margaret Louise glanced at the clock on the far wall—“he’s probably workin’ on Rose’s place right now.”

“But I thought you said her place was even worse off than Rose’s.” Tori flipped through the pages of several books and sighed. In the grand scheme of things, the library had gotten off lucky. Only the bottom row of books had been affected by the rain that had found its way through the building’s less than perfect windows. It could have been worse. Much, much worse.

“I did . . .”

Grabbing a notebook from the shelf under the computer, Tori began jotting a list of things that needed to be done in Roger’s wake—phone calls to make, damage to document, and a rug to dry. All things that could be done at varying times throughout the day
while
helping Rose . . .

“Because it
is
worse.”

The calls she could make from her cell phone. The damage could be documented fairly quickly with the help of her camera. And, if she could get her hands on a power fan, the carpet could be drying all on its own. . . .

“
Much
worse.”

Her friend’s words filtered through her thoughts, suspending her list-making task momentarily. “Then how could this Kenny person be at Rose’s already?”

“Because Ms. Barker wouldn’t have let him in the door,” Nina offered.

“Why on earth not?”

“Because he’s black. Like me.”

Chapter 2

As always, Debbie Calhoun’s home was an oasis of southern hospitality, with its warm yellow walls, welcoming nooks and crannies, potpourri of delectable smells, and happy chatter of children playing in the background. It was, in a word, the epitome of home.