Pinned for Murder (29 page)

Leona shook her head. “No. Just six.”

She thought back to Martha Jane’s final day, to the conversation they’d had in the woman’s bedroom.

“There can’t be. Martha Jane said they added more. To emphasize the notion of strength in the town’s foundation.”

“They
did
add more,” Rose explained, as she pulled the needle and thread up through the underside of the flag. “And this
is
more.”

She closed her eyes, willed herself to return to the room she’d inventoried just the day before. “No, it’s not. You’ve got six bricks there and Martha Jane’s flag had six bricks, too. There’s no difference.”

“In order to make a difference from six, there would have to be ten and the section is not big enough to hold ten bricks,” Leona mused. “Or they’d have to make them so tiny no one would
know
they were bricks.”

Rose nodded. “Six is right.”

“There were three on the original flag and they increased it to six.” Leona scooted forward in her seat and then stood, her hand firmly wrapped around Paris. “I need to get him home. He needs his beauty rest.”

Rose snorted.

“Well he does,” Leona protested as she headed toward the door. “He gets bags under his eyes if I keep him out too late.”

Rolling her eyes, Rose snorted once again. “Do you hear this, Victoria?”

The sound of her name snapped her back to the here and now, all thoughts of bricks and flags leaving her dazed and confused. “Wha-huh?”

“Dear?” Leona asked, stopping at the door. “Are you okay?”

“What? Oh, yeah, I’m fine. This flag thing just has me a little perplexed is all. I really thought Martha Jane’s flag had six yesterday but”—she pushed her final hat and scarf off her lap and rushed to meet up with Leona—“I must just be confusing it with the one Rose is working on.”

“It happens to the best of us,” Rose said.

“Speak for yourself, Old Woman. My memory is crystal clear.”

“That’s more than we can say for your judgment.”

Leona turned, a knowing smile stretching her mouth wide. “No need to worry. I’ll be getting plenty of help in that department very soon.”

“What are you talking about?” Rose asked.

Tori dropped her head forward. “You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do.”

Tori inhaled deeply, shaking her head at Leona even as she laid out clues for Rose. “He sits at a table, waves a gavel, and . . . wears a uniform of sorts.”

Rose cocked her head to the right. “A judge?”

“That’s right, a judge.” Leona pulled the door open, then turned to help Paris wave good-bye. “Perhaps I can get him to go a little easy on Kenny.”

Chapter 27

She loved everything about her job—the books, the research, the ability to excite a reluctant reader, and the opportunity to get paid while doing it. Yet of all the things she loved about being a librarian, working with kids was her favorite. Their minds were like sponges, ready and willing to soak up a new fact or a different way of looking at something.

It was why the children’s room had been so important to her when she took the job at Sweet Briar Public Library. And it was why she made sure to include special children’s activities each and every month regardless of the time of year.

Having a chance to speak with them about becoming librarians was simply icing on the cake.

She looked around at the faces assembled around her, some hanging on every word she said, others picking at their friends, the carpet, their shoes, and whatever else they could find.

But that was okay. The world needed people in all sorts of careers.

“Have you read every single book in the library?” a little boy in the back row asked.

Eyes widened around him. “Have you?” echoed a few more voices.

“While it might be neat to say I have, I’m happy to say I haven’t.”

The students looked at one another in surprise.

“Why?” asked the same little boy.

She looked from Milo to his mom and then back to the children on the carpet. “Because I’d be sad if I didn’t have any books left to read.”

The little boy tilted his head a hairbreadth. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’d be sad, too.”

A redhead turned around. “You like books, Pete?”

Pete nodded. “It’s my favorite thing to do.”

The redhead’s mouth hung open.

“I like them even more than playing kickball or collecting bugs.”

“Me, too.” Tori smiled at Pete. “That’s why I became a librarian.”

“But boys can’t be librarians,” the redhead countered.

Milo pushed off the wall and stood in front of his class. “Of course they can. And if Pete decides to be a librarian one day, I think he’ll do a great job.” Turning to Tori, he smiled, his eyes saying more than his third graders were capable of understanding. “Well, class, shall we give a round of applause to Miss Sinclair for telling us a little bit about what it takes to be a librarian?”

His question was met with loud clapping and even a few whistles. “Thank you, class. I look forward to seeing your faces at the library.”

She left the rug in favor of the empty chair beside Milo’s mother, the woman’s pleased smile warming her from the inside out.

“You did wonderfully, Victoria. The children really enjoyed your talk,” Rita whispered as her son worked to quiet his students.

When they were silent once again, he pointed to the man who’d just entered the room. “I have another career for you to hear about that I think you’re going to enjoy as well. Mr. Doug here is going to tell you about what it takes to be a woodworker.”

“What’s a woodworker?” a little girl with blonde pigtails asked.

The redhead rolled his eyes. “Someone who works with wood, dummy.”

Milo opened his mouth to correct the student only to shut it again as Doug took charge of the room. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked the little girl.

The child looked down, embarrassment coloring her face bright red. “Cindy,” she whispered.

“Cindy,” he repeated. “That’s a beautiful name for a beautiful little girl.” Turning to address the redhead, his voice took on a slightly tougher tone. “Everyone has different gifts. Some have an ability to play sports, some an ability to write, some can fix just about anything that’s broken, and others can teach children like Mil—I mean, Mr. Wentworth, does.”

Heads nodded. “I’m no good when it comes to books. No one ever really taught me to love them like Miss Sinclair does, so being a librarian was out for me.”

“You could learn to like them,” Pete said.

Doug nodded. “You’re right. And I think I’ll start workin’ on that once I get back home to my kids. In fact”—he leaned against the edge of Milo’s desk—“I’m considerin’ a book on Sweet Briar’s history as a souvenir for my son.”

“Don’t bother,” the redhead said. “The history is all wrong anyway. Moonshiners destroyed the town, not Yankees.”

Doug looked a question at Tori across the room. She shrugged and gestured toward Milo with her head.

“Derrick, now is not the time.”

The redhead crossed his legs and sulked as Milo nodded at Doug to continue.

“I work with wood. I fix things that are broken.” He looked around the room, his knack for keeping kids interested more than a little impressive. “That’s why I’m here in Sweet Briar, you know. To help people fix their homes after the storm you just had.”

Cindy frowned. “My house had a broken window. But Daddy fixed it right up.”

“See? That’s the kind of stuff I do . . . ’cept I tend to do more with wood than glass.”

Doug held up his finger and then walked into the hallway only to return with a small table in one hand, a window shutter in the other. “Anyone know what these things are?”

Pete raised his hand. “That one”—he pointed to Doug’s left hand—“is a table . . . like the kind that goes between chairs or next to a bed.”

Doug grinned, dimples carving holes in his cheeks. “Very nice.” He looked around, then nodded at Cindy as he lifted his right hand in the air. “Do you know what this is?”

“One of those things that covers the window before a storm.”

“A shutter. Very good.” He set them both on an empty desk. “Does anyone know where I got them?”

The redhead popped up, his demeanor a bit more humble. “The hardware store?”

Doug shook his head.

“Leeson’s Market?” another child asked.

Again, he shook his head.

“Ebay?”

The adults in the room laughed, including Doug.

“Anyone else?” he finally asked.

“You made them,” Cindy stated.

“Very good. I made them.” He wandered back out into the hall, this time reappearing with his tool belt.

The little boys in the room leaned forward.

“Wow.”

“Those are so cool.”

“My dad would go crazy over that.”

One by one, Doug pulled each tool from his belt as he told its proper name and gave a brief explanation of its function. When he was done, he took a few questions and then looked toward Milo to bring his portion to a close.

“Class . . . you’ve seen a table and a shutter that Mr. Doug has made. And they’re all special and all important things that people need. But sometimes, people who work with wood can make something extra special. And it’s called a keepsake.” Milo skimmed the faces of his class. “Does anyone know what a keepsake is?”

A brunette in the front nodded. “It’s something that means a lot to a person. Something they keep forever and ever.”

Milo smiled. “Very good, Stacy. It’s something a person keeps forever and ever.” Stepping into the middle of the circle, he motioned to the children to turn and face him in the center. When they’d done as they were told, he continued. “My father was in the military my whole life. And when he died, he had a special funeral service. When it was over we were given a flag to honor his service to our country.”

The children nodded, their eyes wide on their teacher.

“For a long time I didn’t have a place to keep the flag . . . somewhere I could display it for people to see.” Milo waved a hand in Doug’s direction. “Then Mr. Doug made me a very special case so I could display that flag.”

The students turned to look at Doug.

“Would you like to see it?” Milo asked.

Sixteen little heads bobbed up and down.

He stepped back out of the circle and around to the back of his desk. “I have it right here.” He reached behind his chair and pulled the dark cherry wood and glass case into the air. A smattering of
oohs
and
ahhs
erupted around the room, followed by sixteen sets of hands clapping.

Doug’s face grew red. “Thank you. Now I better hit the road and let you guys get back to work.” He waved to Tori, then headed toward the door, Milo on his heels.

“Can you keep an eye on the case while I walk Doug out?” Milo asked.

She nodded, then turned toward the flag case in time to see the little redhead barreling toward it at top speed. “Would you like to see it up close, everyone?” she asked, jumping to her feet.

“Can we?” Cindy asked.

“Absolutely.” Lifting the case from the desk, she walked over to the circle of seated students and squatted down to their eye level, holding the case out for them to see.

“What’s that?” Pete asked.

She looked at the little boy standing beside her. “What’s what?”

“That.” He pointed at three letters crudely carved into the back of the case.

Pulling the box closer, she examined the carving more closely. “It looks like an
M
. . . and a
T
. . . and a—”

“
B
!” Pete added. “
M.T.B.
”

“I think you’re right,” she said as she studied the letters. “
M.T.B.
it is. . . .”

“What do you think it stands for?” the little boy asked as more heads peeked around the back of the case to catch a glimpse at the letters.

“Mark . . . Thomas . . . Bughead,” Derrick said. “Yeah, that’s it. Mark Thomas Bughead.”

She couldn’t help but smile. Third-grade boys were an entity all their own.

Pete rolled his eyes, then lowered his voice so only Tori could hear. “What do you think, Miss Sinclair?”

She read the letters again . . .

M.T.B.

“
M.T.B.
,” she repeated. “
M.T.B.
Hmmm, you’ve got me, Pete. I have absolutely no—”

In a flash she was standing in the middle of Martha Jane’s bedroom, the elderly woman practically smacking Tori’s hand for getting too close to her prized possessions . . .

“My great-grandfather, Matthew Tucker Barker, made that box, his initials are even carved into the bottom.”

“His initials are carved into the bottom,” she whispered as sixteen sets of eyes trained on hers.

Chapter 28