Pinned for Murder (27 page)

She spun around, determined not to let her thoughts travel to the man she’d been so certain was the answer to all Rose’s problems. What good did it do? Curtis stole the money. He didn’t murder Martha Jane.

Kenny did.

Pulling her notebook from under her arm, she readied her pencil above the empty page, her hand meeting the paper as she scrawled the name of the room at the top.

1. Full-size bed. Mahogany.

2. Two matching nightstands.

3. A Victorian lamp.

4. A mahogany-trimmed mirror. Oval.

5. A mahogany six-drawer dresser.

6. A dark cherry jewelry box.

She slid each drawer of the jewelry box open, taking time to document each and every piece of jewelry it contained—pearl necklaces, a silver charm bracelet, diamond stud earrings, a tennis bracelet, and so it went, each item nicer and more elaborate than the one before.

When she was finished recording a description of each piece, she slid the drawers shut, her gaze lingering on the details of the box before moving on to the next item. The pine and glass flag case hung just off to the side, its pale blue contents drawing her eye, as they had that first day.

She marveled at the embroidered detail on the flag—the way the sun’s golden rays bathed the picket fence in warm light, the ferociousness of the flames, the sturdiness of the six bricks . . .

“Beautiful,” she marveled aloud. It was the kind of work she hoped to start doing thanks to Rose. Watching her friend begin the process of duplicating the town’s flag the other night had inspired her to take her own sewing to the next level.

Now if only she could find an extra hour or two a day . . .

“And while I’m at it, maybe I can find a few flying pigs.”

“Miss Sinclair?”

She whirled around, the sound of footsteps in the hallway catching her by surprise. “I’m back here, Chief. In her bedroom.”

He poked his head around the door. “Almost finished in here?”

“I am. I just have to write down the contents of each drawer.”

“
Clothes
is sufficient. Especially now that the money is gone.”

Sliding the capped pen into her mouth, she nodded, the man’s words filtering their way into the recesses of her mind. “Do you know how much, exactly?”

“We know that from the false report she filed just before her death.”

“Did he donate it all?”

The man nodded. “What he didn’t donate, he used on Leona Elkin.”

She stifled the urge to laugh. “Will she have to testify?”

“Probably. Though, between you and me and these four walls, she brought every last thing he bought her to the station last night. Tried to heave it in through the bars of his cell.”

“He didn’t give her any knives, did he?” she quipped.

“Nah. Seems he tried to do good with the money he stole . . . a modern day Robin Hood of sorts.”

She closed her eyes against the image of Curtis in the children’s room, pure joy on his face as he spied the Robin Hood costume. It was nothing short of a shame that a man who seemed so gentle in spirit could travel down such a wrong road.

“How’s he doing?” she asked, the question surprising her as much as it seemed to the chief.

“Okay, I guess. He’s a real quiet fella’. Just sits on the bench and writes in a notepad he asked for. We let him have it because it seemed harmless enough.”

“And Leona? How did she seem beyond the heaving incident?”

Shrugging, he shook his head. “I reckon she’ll land on her feet.”

She made a mental note to call Leona all the same. A shock was a shock no matter how tough you pretended to be. The fact that the shock came in such a public way only increased the disappointment factor.

“You ready to go?”

Looking around the room one last time, she nodded. “Yeah. I think I got everything.”

The chief pulled his hands from their resting place above his belt and led the way to the door, his heavy footsteps echoing through the room, nearly drowning out the hammering in the background.

“Wait. I need to shut the window.” She hurried over to the back wall and slid the window into place, locking it at the top for good measure before heading back across the room. “I opened it to get a little fresh air.” Pausing midway, she met the chief’s eyes. “Where did you find her?”

He pointed just in front of her feet. “Right there.”

She stared at the spot he indicated, the dead woman’s face suddenly clear in her mind. “It’s a shame,” she whispered. “A real shame.”

Chapter 25

Somehow she’d managed to fool herself into thinking dinner at Milo’s would be nothing out of the ordinary. That the presence of his mother—albeit for the first time—would merely provide an extra person for conversational purposes. . . .

However, the moment she peered into the full-length mirror on the back of her bathroom door, she knew otherwise.

Who had she been trying to kid? She was meeting Milo’s mother.

Mothers could make or break a relationship with a mere look—a raised eyebrow, a twitching nostril, pursed lips, you name it. And how she’d been able to convince herself otherwise was a complete mystery.

Then again, trying to get sixty hats and scarves made while juggling a full-time job with her pathetic attempt at helping Rose and, well, overlooking the importance of this particular dinner made sense.

In a roundabout, I-didn’t-see-it-coming kind of way.

But now that it was here, she was freaking out. Big-time.

Willing herself to remain calm, she buttoned her blouse all the way up to the neck only to unbutton the top three and then button them again.

The peal of the phone from the other room made her jump and she rushed to answer it before it went to voice mail. Snapping it open, she held it to her face.

“Hello?”

“Victoria? How ya holdin’ up?”

She exhaled a far louder sigh than she intended. “Do you think this outfit is really okay?”

“I most certainly do,” Margaret Louise said, her voice morphing into a laugh that helped ease some of Tori’s tension. “That color sets off your eyes real nice like.”

“But what about the shirt? Do I button every last button?”

“Do you want to look uptight?”

“No.” Looking down at her chest, she undid the top three buttons. “Okay, I undid some.”

“How many?”

“Three.”

“Three? Are you tryin’ to offend Milo’s mamma?”

She buttoned another.

“What happens if she doesn’t like me?” she asked, the question bothering her more than she’d admitted up until that point.

“Then she needs her head examined.”

She felt the corners of her mouth tug upward. Just a little.

“What do I say?”

“Just be yourself. The same exact girl her son fell in love with in the first place.”

A thought struck her from left field, making her clutch the phone tighter to her face. “Margaret Louise? What happens if she adored Celia so much I simply fall short?”

The ensuing silence in her ear made her pull the phone back to check their connection. When she was satisfied they hadn’t been disconnected, she held it to her ear once again. “Margaret Louise? Are you still there?”

“I’m here. I was just tryin’ to imagine how I’d feel if Jake lost Melissa and then started datin’ again ten years later.”

She swallowed. “And?”

“I’d be happy for him. I’d reckon that whoever she was, she must be mighty special to reach his heart.”

Nodding, she stepped back into the bathroom and peered into the mirror. She’d pulled her shoulder-length brown hair into a clip at the base of her neck, tiny tendrils of hair escaping to frame her heart-shaped face. The green of her blouse pulled out its matching shade in her eyes, just as Margaret Louise had said, the effect bringing a smile to her lips.

“Okay,” she said into the phone. “I think I’m ready.”

Balancing the plate of raspberry tortes in her left hand, she knocked on the door, the butterflies she’d managed to corral back at the house taking flight once again. The sound of footsteps inside did little to help the situation.

“Tori, you’re here,” Milo said as he flung open the door. Reaching for the plate with one hand, he leaned forward for a kiss, his lips brushing her forehead before meeting hers. “Mom is so excited to meet you.”

Nerves made her glance at the floor only to be thwarted by her feelings for the man standing just inches away. “I’m excited . . . and a little nervous . . . to meet her, too.”

He slid his free arm around her shoulders and tugged her close to his side. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. She’s going to love you just like everyone else does.”

“From your mouth to—”

A woman of similar size and stature to Tori rounded the corner, her eyes glistening. “You must be Victoria.” She reached around her son and clasped Tori’s hand inside her own. “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you I feel as if I already know you.”

Her eyes grew misty as she met Milo’s eyes. “Thank you. Your son is a very special man.”

“That he is. Now, come sit with me so we can get better acquainted.” The woman stopped midstep and turned. “Oh, forgive me for being so dense. My name is Rita. Rita Wentworth.”

It didn’t take long to realize Margaret Louise had been right. Rita had watched her son suffer the grief of losing his wife and then pick his way through the years that followed, his steps aimless with the exception of his job.

“I always knew Milo would make a fine teacher. His cousins looked up to him as if he was some sort of super-hero. They loved to play with him, creating adventures they’d continue each time they saw each other. But, even more than playing, they loved to spend quiet time with him. Reading. Talking. Learning.”

Tori stole a glance in Milo’s direction, the man’s cheeks slightly pink. “What?” she teased. “This is fun for me. Your mom is filling in all the gaps I can’t know.”

“I just hope she doesn’t fill in a gap you don’t
want
to know.” He made a face, then reached across the sofa and entwined his fingers with hers. “Enough about me, Mom. I think it’s time you get to know Tori a little better.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I called you Victoria earlier. I hope I didn’t upset you.” The woman worried her brows.

Tori held up her hand. “Not at all. In fact, all of my friends here in Sweet Briar call me Victoria.”

Rita looked surprised. “I didn’t realize there were many women your age in this town.”

“There aren’t. Not many, anyway.” She met the woman’s eyes across the coffee table. “My friends range in age from twenty-three to eightysomething and I wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world.”

Milo nodded. “You remember Rose Winters, don’t you, Mom?”

“Rose Winters . . . Rose Winters . . .” The woman tapped her index finger on her chin for a moment. “Oh yes, of course. She’s the woman who retired the year you started at the school, isn’t she?”

Again, Milo nodded. “She’s one of Tori’s closest friends.”

“Really?” Rita asked as she returned her undivided attention to Tori. “How do you know her?”

“Through my sewing. I was invited to join the Sweet Briar Ladies Society Sewing Circle when I first moved here. The women in that group have become my dear friends.”

The woman beamed. “How lovely that you don’t see age as a stumbling block.”

Tori shrugged. “Friends—true friends—are hard to find. I’d be foolish to close myself off from one simply because we were born at different times.”

“I can see that you were right all those years, son.” Rita swiped at a tear as it made its way down her gently lined face. “You always said you’d know when you found the right one. And you most certainly did.”

Milo rose from his spot beside Tori and made his way around the coffee table, his tall lanky form sinking onto the cushion beside his mother. “Thanks, Mom.”

For a moment she didn’t know what to say, the raw intensity in the room almost too much to take in all at once. Eventually, though, the pair looked up, their matching smiles trained on her face.

“You two are going to make me cry,” Tori whispered.

“Too late.” Rita pulled her hand from her son’s grasp and gestured for Tori to join them, the woman’s welcoming arms doing little to stop the flow of emotion that threatened to make her face blotchy and her nose run. “So tell me more about you. Milo says you’re a librarian?”

And so they talked about everything. Her job. Her hobbies and interests. The children’s room at the library. Ideas she had for future expansion. And her nearly complete project for the women’s shelter in Chicago. When she was done, she inhaled deeply, the experience of meeting Milo’s mother nothing less than wonderful.

“See? She’s Wonder Woman,” Milo touted.

Tori waved him off. “Hardly. I just like to keep busy even when I probably should slow things down every once in a while.”

“I know. Which is why I’m afraid to ask you a favor.”

She stared at him. “You’re different. What do you need?”

He looked from Tori to his mom and back again, his shoulders drooping a smidge. “I wouldn’t ask if I had another option. Not because I don’t want you there—I do. But because you have too much on your plate already.”