Pinned for Murder (28 page)

“Get to it, son,” Rita said.

“Yes, please,” she agreed.

Raking a hand through his hair, he finally cut to the chase. “I need another career for Thursday. I have two lined up every other day, just not then. You’d only need to talk for about ten minutes and then take a few questions from the kids.”

“I’d love to,” she said. And she meant it. Nothing pleased her more than working with kids. To be able to pair it with Milo for a little while only made it better.

“Lovely,” Rita said under her breath. “It does a mother’s heart good to see her child surrounded by such wonderful people.” Pushing off the sofa, the woman reached her hand toward Tori’s. “Come see what Milo’s friend did for him.”

Looking a question at Milo, she stood and followed Rita to the bookshelf that ran the entire length of the living room wall. “My husband was a decorated veteran. When he died he had a full military funeral.”

She stopped beside Milo’s mother as the woman pointed to an upper shelf. “I wanted Milo to have the flag that had been on his father’s casket before it was lowered into the ground. Franklin would have wanted him to have it.”

Milo joined them by the shelf and picked up where his mother left off. “I kept it in that chest in my room with the intention of making a case for it eventually. Unfortunately, I never got around to it with work and all.”

She followed his gaze to the dark cherry and glass flag case propped on the top shelf. Inside it was the perfectly folded flag that served as a final link between father and son. “Oh, Milo, it’s perfect . . . But when on earth did you find the time to make that? You’ve been so busy with the collections booth.”

“I didn’t make it, that’s how. Sure, I could make something like it if I tried, but to track down the various parts he found in order to give it a true heirloom feel . . . I wouldn’t have a clue.”

“He?”

“His friend, Victoria.” Rita clapped her hands together. “Can you believe that?”

She dropped her eyes from the flag to Milo. “Who?” she repeated. “Who made it? It’s gorgeous.”

“Doug.”

“Wow. I had no idea he was so talented.”

Milo pulled her close, his mother grinning ear to ear from the sidelines. “I didn’t realize just how far his talent went, either. But we’ll both get to see his ability in greater detail on Thursday when you come for career day. He’s my other presenter that day.”

“If it’s okay, I’d like to come, too,” Rita said. “It’ll give me something to do. Sons aren’t supposed to be so”—the woman gestured around the room—“neat and organized. It leaves visiting mothers with nothing to do.”

Chapter 26

Tori walked up her porch steps, her arms heavy with papers and charts detailing the ins and outs of the library’s coming year—budget proposals, structure improvements, catalogue additions, and a request that would make Dixie Dunn a happy woman.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were having a rendezvous with Milo after work. And then I remembered his mamma is in town.”

Her foot froze on the top step. “Leona? Is that you?”

The woman, dressed in a hunter green pantsuit, stepped out from behind the shadow of the rocking chair, a furry mound cuddled in her arms. “It most certainly is.”

“What are you doing here?” The second the words were out, she braced herself for the lecture on southern etiquette she knew was sure to come.

Leona, of course, did not disappoint. “That kind of question might be normal in Chicago, dear. After all, you must be on guard at all times for fear someone will rob you blind.”

She rolled her eyes, a gesture that didn’t go unnoticed.

“Goodness gracious, Victoria. Don’t you know how perfectly backwoods an eye roll like that is?”

“And you’re going to stand there and tell me you don’t roll your eyes on occasion?”

“I don’t. I look skyward, for guidance . . . at times when my patience is tested.”

“Are belles known for impatience? Because you’ve led me to believe they smile twenty-four/seven in the hopes of landing a man.”

The woman’s eyes rolled upward.

She dropped her stack of papers to the ground and clapped her hands. “See? You just rolled your eyes.”

Leona shook her head. “No. I was looking for guidance.”

“For what?”

“To get through to you.”

She stared at her friend. “What are you talking about?”

“Belles don’t
land
men, dear. They’re simply the flower that attracts the bees.”

“The flower that attracts the bees,” she repeated. “Hmmm. And when that flower gets stung? What then, Leona?”

“You bloom brighter and prettier and attract an even bigger bee.”

“To make the first bee jealous?”

Leona made a face. “To show him what he’s missing.”

“What happens when the first bee is . . . I don’t know . . . maybe . . .
behind bars
?”

Even in the gathering dusk she was able to see the color drain from her friend’s face. She rushed to make amends. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it that way. It’s just, well, I’ve been wondering how you are.”

“We’re fine, aren’t we darling?” Leona looked down at Paris, sleeping soundly in her arms, then offered a barely discernable shrug. “I went to his hearing yesterday. His judge is very handsome.”

Her mouth hung open. She willed it to move long enough to voice the question screaming in her head. “You’re not . . .”

“His robes are really quite dashing.”

Shaking her head, she picked her papers off the ground and gestured toward the door with her chin. “Would you like to come in?”

“How refreshing. Of course, dear.”

She led the way into her cottage, their heels making soft clicking sounds on the hardwood floor. “What can I get you? Water? Soda? Tea?”

“Nothing right now.” Leona strode into the living room and lowered herself onto the plaid armchair. “So tell me about Milo’s mother. Margaret Louise told me you met last night.”

“We did. She’s wonderful.” She breezed across the living room and into the kitchen, depositing the stack of papers onto the table. “We seemed to hit it off well.”

“Just make sure you hold your position, dear. That’s extremely critical at this juncture.”

She poked her head around the corner. “Hold my position?”

“As Milo’s woman.” Leona lifted Paris up and gave him an air-kiss. “Trust me on this, dear. You give that woman an inch and she’ll take a mile.”

“You don’t even know her,” she protested.

“I don’t have to. Milo is an only child, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And her husband passed away, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t give her half an inch if I were you.” Pulling Paris back onto her lap, Leona ran a flawlessly manicured hand along his back. “When is she leaving?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging.

“Oh dear.”

“What?”

“That’s not a good sign.”

“She’s coming to his classroom on Thursday to hear me speak with his class about being a librarian.”

“It’s starting already, dear. Be firm. Be very, very firm.” Leona looked around the room, her gaze skirting the sewing alcove and the dining area. “I suggest you find a crisis around here . . . something that needs Milo’s help. Just to get him from her clutches for a while. Show her who really makes him run.”

Tori held up her hand. “Enough. Rita is a sweet woman. She doesn’t have her clutches on Milo. She wants him to be happy.”

Leona’s eyes rolled skyward. After a long moment, she simply shook her head. “That’s what they all say, dear.”

Any thought she had toward protesting never made it to her lips thanks to a gentle knock at the door.

“Are you expecting someone?” Leona asked as she looked toward the door.

“No.”

“It never ceases to amaze me how rude people can be . . . simply dropping by unannounced.”

She bit her tongue over the desire to make an observation about pots and kettles, deciding, instead, to simply answer the door. When she reached the front entry, she peeked out through the sidelight that ran the full length of the door.

Rose.

Feeling a sense of relief bubbling up, she pulled the door open. “Rose . . . what a wonderful surprise,” she said as a snort rose up from the living room. “Is everything okay?”

The elderly woman pulled her arm up, a bag swaying from her hands. “I have a few hats and scarves for you.”

She reached out, took the bag from the woman’s hand, and motioned her inside. “I can’t wait to see them.”

“I made them in a mint green and pale yellow combination.” Rose stepped into the living room and stopped, her feet rooted to the ground. “Oh. It’s you,” she sniffed as she made eye contact with Leona.

“Yes it is.” Leona’s eyes traveled down and then back up Rose’s frail frame. “How are you, Old Woman?”

Rose shuffled across the room and over to the sofa. “You really must quit talking to yourself. People might think you’re a little”—she held her index finger to her temple and moved it in a circular motion—“crazy. They might even think you need to be locked up like that young man you were mooning over.”

“I don’t moon over anyone,” Leona proclaimed as she tightened her grip on Paris. “I don’t need to.”

Tori sighed at the first sign of a smile on Rose’s face in entirely too long, the woman’s words bringing a similar expression to her own face as well.

“So you’ve finally accepted the unavoidable?”

Leona stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

“You ignored the part about you being old.”

“And crazy,” Tori chimed in.

Leona turned her fiery look in Tori’s direction. “I’m sorry, dear, I don’t believe I heard you correctly.”

Rose chuckled. “Hearing is the first to go, Leona.”

Tori laughed out loud, much to Leona’s chagrin.

“Victoria, I was hoping we could sew together for a little while . . . if you don’t have any”—Rose stole a glance in Leona’s direction, the woman’s fuming breaths further deepening the smile on her wrinkled face—“other plans, of course.”

“I can sew and talk at the same time. In fact, now that you mentioned it, I could really use the chance to slow the day down a little.” She turned back toward the kitchen. “Can I get you anything, Rose?”

“I’m fine. But perhaps Leona would like a good stiff drink.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth, Old Woman.”

An hour turned into two and then three, dusk morphing into night as their needles continued to move in and out of their respective projects while Leona filled the room with idle chitchat and compliments for Paris’s every twitch.

When Rose had completed her final hat and scarf set, she pulled a familiar piece of pale blue material from her bag and carefully unfolded it on her lap.

“So Ellie sold a flag?” Leona asked.

Rose nodded. “Gives me something to do to take my mind off things.”

“I’m sorry about Kenny, Old Woman. I know he meant a lot to you.”

Tori met Rose’s eye before they both turned and looked at Leona. “Why, Leona, that sounded almost . . . almost genuine.”

Leona made a face at Tori. “I know she believed in him. And I know it hurts when someone disappoints you.”

“Then I’m sorry about your young man—even if he was too young for you,” Rose said with a garbled voice. Bending slightly at the waist she coughed, the sound rattling her chest. When she was done, she simply sat up tall as if all was well. “For what it’s worth, I liked that young man. At first I thought he was quiet because he was unfriendly. But as the days went by and I saw him working around Martha Jane’s and then Adelaide’s, I came to realize he was just the kind of man who liked to process before he spoke.”

“He had aspirations of being a writer,” Leona explained.

“Ohhh, okay, that makes sense now.” Tori looked up from her final hat and scarf, her shoulders weary from being hunched over her lap for hours on end. “That explains the notebook he kept so close while he was working.”

Leona nodded. “He wrote down snatches of conversations he heard, sounds that caught his attention, mannerisms people had. He said they’d help him one day.”

“Such a shame the way this generation seems to think things should just be handed to them instead of earning it.” Rose slipped her embroidery hoop into place and sealed it tight. “Forty years ago, people didn’t steal money. They earned it. And they didn’t kill people because they got their feelings hurt.”

Tori rolled her shoulders forward and then backward, Rose’s words solidifying the fact that the woman was on the road to recovery as far as Kenny Murdock was concerned. “I went through Martha Jane’s house today and jotted down every item inside. And while I was doing that, I realized this whole thing shouldn’t be about Kenny. It should be about Martha Jane. We owe her that much.”

Rose nodded. “Working on this flag helped me accept that as well.”

“How?” Leona asked.

“Because it calms me in a way that allows my head to be heard over my heart.” Rose pulled the brick-colored embroidery floss from her bag and threaded her needle. “I’ve got just one more brick to go. . . .”

Tori sat up tall, peering at her friend’s latest project from across the coffee table. “I see . . . you’re adding the top one now.” She mentally counted the rectangles. “Wait. There’s six. Aren’t there supposed to be more?”