Pinned for Murder (26 page)

If she played her cards right, she’d have a good thirty minutes to try and coax Rose into accompanying her into Martha Jane’s home. And what she couldn’t do with words she planned to achieve by way of her elderly friend’s mouth.

Rose Winters was pretty much a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of woman. She wore her emotions on her sleeve and put her expectations out in the open so there were no misunderstandings to be had. But if there was one weakness in her take-no-prisoners persona, it came by way of her sweet tooth.

A sweet tooth that was utterly helpless against the promise of pie . . .

Tori’s late great-grandmother’s pie recipe to be exact.

Grabbing hold of the foil-wrapped pie, Tori headed for her front door, her ankle boots making a soft clicking sound against the wood floor. There was a part of her that was dreading the task of walking through Martha Jane Barker’s house—the same part that made her cry while reading the news and send checks to every charity that came knocking via her mailbox. But there was also a part of her that was almost looking forward to it as a way to say good-bye—once and for all—to a task she had failed to complete.

She flung open her front door and stepped onto the porch, the poignant smell of mums from her neighbor’s yard filling the air. There were so many things she wanted to do around her place, little details and touches that would take it from the cozy place it almost was to the picture-perfect home she wanted it to be.

Maybe that afternoon, after inventorying Martha Jane’s home, she could do a little planting of her own. Then again, she still had another hat and scarf set to make . . .

“I was hopin’ I’d catch you before you ran off.”

Tori turned the key in the lock and spun around, a smile stretching across her face. “Margaret Louise, what a nice surprise.” She peeked around the woman’s plump frame. “What? No little ducklings in tow today?”

“Not until after school.” Pointing at the wicker chairs that graced her tiny porch, Margaret Louise flashed her most charming and irresistible smile. “Do you have a moment to sit?”

She glanced at her wristwatch. “Uhhh, a little, I guess.” “Good.” The woman plopped down in the rocking chair and crossed her swollen ankles. “Last night, before you left, you mentioned having only one hat and scarf set left to make after everyone else committed to a particular number.”

“That’s right. Why? Can you not make the extra two?” Tori leaned forward in her chair and squeezed the older woman’s knee. “That’s not a problem. You’ve done so much already.”

Margaret Louise shook her head firmly. “It’s not that. I’m still fixin’ to do the extra two.”

“Then I’m sorry, but I’m not following.”

“Please don’t make that last set.”

She looked a question at her friend.

“Please.”

“I don’t understand,” she protested. “Has someone else agreed to make another hat and scarf?”

“Sorta. Though,
agreed
isn’t really the right way to say it.”

“I don’t understand.”

Margaret Louise met her confused gaze with one that was impossible to read. “Just hold off making that last set, okay?”

“It’s okay to have an extra,” she said. “They won’t send it back.”

The woman shook her head firmly. “I don’t want this one to be an extra. It needs to be one you
need
. Please.”

She studied her friend for a long moment, questions firing through her mind in rapid-fire succession. Why couldn’t she make an extra set? Why all the secrecy? And could she coax her into coming to Martha Jane’s house
with
her?

The last question made her sit upright, all thoughts of hats and scarves gone. “Wow. I guess I didn’t realize how apprehensive I am about doing this,” she mumbled.

“Doing what, Victoria?”

“Going through Martha Jane’s house.”

Suddenly, the woman’s somewhat secretive aura was gone, in its place nothing but empathy. “Then don’t go. Tell Georgina she needs to find someone else.”

Oh how she’d love to be able to do that, to put the task off on someone else while she planted mums or read a book or readied the box for the women’s shelter. But she couldn’t.

“I can’t back out now. I told her I’d do it.”

“Tell her you made a mistake.” Margaret Louise stilled the rocker with her foot. “Frankly, I found it to be rather nervy of her to ask. You’re too busy as it is.”

She waved her friend’s worry off. “It’s okay. It won’t take all that long. It’s not like I’m actually packing anything up . . . just making a list. Besides, I’ll have some time to relax tonight when I have dinner with Milo and his mom.”

The woman’s eyebrows tilted north. “His mamma?”

She nodded.

“You’re meetin’ his mamma tonight?”

“I am.”

Slowly, Margaret Louise’s mouth stretched wide, an inner sparkle making her eyes shimmer with excitement. “You can’t be trekkin’ ’round that house, Victoria. You need to be here . . . gettin’ spit-shined.”

“Spit-shined? What am I? A shoe?”

The woman rolled her eyes, a gesture that did little to mar her excitement. “Meetin’ a man’s mamma is important. Why, I remember the first time I met Melissa. She was just pretty as could be even with the way her knees were clackin’.”

“Excuse me?”

Pushing herself out of the rocking chair, Margaret Louise took hold of Tori’s hand and pulled. “I reckoned she was scared. But, even so, it broke my heart to learn a few years later that she was afraid she’d worn the wrong outfit.”

The woman stopped at Tori’s door and held out her hand. “Keys?”

“Margaret Louise, I really have to get going.”

“Not yet, you don’t. What you’ve got to do is pick out your dress. It’s not every day you meet your beau’s mamma for the first time.”

“Margaret Louise, it’s really not a big deal.”

“Hush, Victoria.” Inserting the key into the lock, she turned and pushed. “Now let’s get somethin’ real purty picked out.”

Police Chief Dallas was waiting when she pulled up, his feet resting on the front railing, his backside in a narrow brown rocking chair. “Was beginnin’ to think you forgot all about this,” the man said as one foot and then the other dropped to the ground with a thud.

She stepped onto the sidewalk with the covered plate in her hand, the man’s presence all but eliminating any hope she had for roping Rose into the task at hand. “I’m sorry. Something came up as I was leaving the house.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Everythin’ okay, Miss Sinclair?”

“Everything’s fine,” she replied, a smile lifting her cheeks upward as she recalled the reason for her delay. There was no doubt Margaret Louise’s timing had been less than stellar. Yet there was also no denying the fact that she’d loved every minute of their unexpected shopping trip through her bedroom closet. It was the part of having girlfriends that she adored most. “But I don’t suppose there would be time for me to head next door to Rose’s house to see if she’d like to help?”

Rising to his feet, the police chief shrugged. “There’s time but it won’t do you no good.”

Her shoulders rose and fell beneath her maroon-colored sweater set. “Why not?”

“Last I saw her, she was sittin’ on a park bench in the middle of town square sewin’ on a Sweet Briar flag just as if she were Betsy Ross,” he said, chuckling at his own words. “If I knew how to paint, I’d have had to capture her in that very spot. She looked so peaceful.”

“Peaceful?” She dared to hope the man’s words were accurate.

“Looked that way to me.” He pointed at the covered dish. “Mind if I take a peek?”

“No. Not at all.” She held the plate steady as he worked at a corner of the foil. When he’d folded enough of the foil up to afford a look, a long low whistle escaped his lips. “Is that chocolate mousse pie?”

She nodded.

“I mean, is it
real
chocolate mousse pie?”

“If you mean real as in homemade . . . yes, it’s real. It’s my late great-grandmother’s recipe.”

He whistled again. “My mamma makes one just like that, bless her heart.”

“Do you see her often?” she asked as she caught sight of Doug and waved.

“She’s in a nursin’ home now. Don’t remember her own name, let alone mine. Why”—he stopped, scratched his head—“I think she was makin’ her pie when we finally realized she was losin’ her mind.”

He nodded before she could respond, his mouth continuing to move a mile a minute. “Yup, I remember now. It was Thanksgivin’ and we were all waitin’ for dessert . . . waitin’ for her pie. And when it was finally time, and we took a bite, we realized she’d made a mistake.”

“Forgot the eggs?” she asked.

“If only it were that simple,” he said, his laugh one of pain as much as humor. “She used the gravy packet from the chicken instead.”

She felt her mouth gape open.

He nodded affirmation of his story, his gaze leaving her face in favor of the pie in her hands. “Haven’t had a real one since.”

She, too, looked at the pie.

So much for bribery . . .

Inhaling deeply, she handed the pie to the police chief. “I decided to skip the gravy this time, so there’s no guarantee.”

A smile that rivaled the sun broke out across the man’s face as he took the pie from her hands. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“That’s mighty sweet of you, Miss Sinclair.” Motioning toward the door with his chin, he stepped onto the sidewalk and headed toward his car. “I’ll just wait in my car until you’re done.”

“You don’t want to come with me?” she asked.

“Nah, I’ve got some eatin’ to do.” He bobbed his head in her direction. “I owe you one.”

“Let’s hope I don’t have to collect.”

She watched as he set the pie on the roof of his car and peeled back the foil, her mind playing through the million reasons she shouldn’t be there. Unfortunately, it was the one reason she should that propelled her through the door.

“This is the last time I agree to a favor,” she muttered under her breath as she stepped into the entryway and looked around, the sterility of the plain white walls coming as little surprise.

For as rigid and full of herself as Martha Jane was, her attitude was an indication of unhappiness—the kind of unhappiness that often came with living a colorless life. Pulling a notepad and pen from her purse, she began walking from room to room, jotting down everything she saw.

First came the front parlor, a room she’d missed during her one and only trip into the house thanks to the back-door entrance she’d taken. A floral sofa protected by a plastic covering sat at an angle to the window, an old record player gracing a nearby table. Pictures and books, spread across four separate wall-mounted shelves, completed the room.

She moved on to the kitchen. A china service for eight, silver for ten, crystal stemware for twelve, and an oak table for one were the highlights of the room, rounded out by a cabinet with barely enough to keep a fish alive.

Room by room she made her way through Martha Jane’s house, evidence of the woman’s solitary life alive and well around every corner—a single glass next to her reading chair, a stack of dog-eared crossword books beside the couch, a single dirty plate in the dishwasher.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that Martha Jane Barker had died in the same manner she’d lived her life—by herself. But knowing that didn’t make it better. The woman may have been rude and, at times, downright nasty, but no one, not even Martha Jane, deserved to have their life snuffed out because of someone else’s rage.

She blinked back a tear that threatened to make its debut down her face, Georgina’s words filtering through her mind with startling clarity.

“Maybe seeing Martha Jane’s home and her things will make you feel less guilty about Kenny. He murdered an elderly woman, Victoria. He needs to pay for his crime.”

Georgina was right. Kenny had done something wrong, something that simply couldn’t go unchecked. Sure, she hated that his crime and his impending punishment were such a source of grief and sadness for Rose. But, in the end, it was a reality that needed to be played out. For Martha Jane, first and foremost.

Peeking into the three-season room off the back of the house, she stopped, her eyes imagining the way the homeowner had looked just one day before she was murdered. The woman had been so uptight, so judgmental, her scorn for the storm workers as tangible as the tattered screens in the window.

What made some people so disdainful of others? What made them think they were better than other people simply because of the house they owned or the clothes they wore?

They were questions for which there were no answers. None that made sense, anyway.

She jotted down a few notes—flower cart, three ceramic pots, a single dark brown wicker chair with matching ottoman, one yellow throw pillow, and a radio that had seen better days—before moving back into the hall.

As she approached the last room, she felt her feet slow, memories of her final conversation with the victim juxtaposing themselves with the conjured image of a lifeless body, a thick outdoor rope wound around its neck.

“Oh, Kenny, don’t you see? You proved her crazy ranting to be right.” She shook her head against the spoken words, their presence almost deafening in a house that was much too quiet.

She drew her hand up in a fist when she reached the closed door only to pull it back down when she realized there was no one to answer a knock. Inhaling sharply, she turned the knob and pushed the door open, the smell of stale air assaulting her nose as she stepped into the room.

Bypassing the assorted contents, she strode over to the window and slid it open, the addition of fresh air in the room a welcome reprieve. For a moment she simply stood there and looked out, the thin line of trees that separated the home from its closest neighbor offering a sense of peace and tranquility hampered only by the near-constant hammering somewhere in the distance.

Hammering done by men Martha Jane had called lazy. Like Doug and Curtis.

Curtis.

“That man should be up on the roof patching holes instead of writing notes in that notebook of his. Writing doesn’t fix things. A hammer and nails does.”