Pinned for Murder (8 page)

Milo, however, proved her wrong. Time and time again.

He leaned in through the open doorway, his hand holding the flowers in her direction. “I figured a splash of yellow might be cheerful.”

Margaret Louise’s laugh bellowed down the hall. “Yellow, red, pink, purple . . . or
wilted
. . . it don’t matter none. Just rememberin’ us in that way makes our hearts get downright mushy. Isn’t that right, Victoria?”

Gazing down at the flowers in her hand, she had to agree. Though having them come from Milo upped the mushy factor tenfold. She peered up at him through thick lashes. “They’re perfect, Milo. Thank you.”

A flash of red appeared in his cheeks. “I’m glad.”

“I brought somethin’, too,” Margaret Louise chimed in. “Only mine is brown, dark brown.”

Her gaze ricocheted off Milo’s face, pinning her friend’s.
“Brown?”

The woman nodded, her eyes taking on a mischievous gleam. “Perhaps it would be more accurate to say brown with a hint of white. Because there
is
some white.
Ribbons
of white.”

Tori swallowed. “Ribbons? Of white?”

Milo clasped his arms across his chest and rolled his eyes skyward. “So much for my flowers now . . .”

“No. The flowers are beautiful,” she said as she reached out and pulled him in for a hug. “Really, they couldn’t be more perfect.”

“I agree.” Margaret Louise swept her hand in the direction of the wicker furniture that graced Tori’s front porch. “So let’s get them in water and set them on the table out here with us while we have some brownies.”

“Show off,” Milo groused playfully, his chin bobbing against Tori’s head.

She laughed, the sound a welcome respite to a day that had held more than its fair share of tension. “Quit it you two. I love them both.” With one last squeeze she stepped back, the warmth of Milo’s body lingering against her skin. “And I love both of you.”

Clutching the flowers to her chest, she turned toward the kitchen only to stop halfway down the hall. “Can I get you something to drink? Some tea or wine?”

“Got milk?” Milo asked as he followed her down the hall, Margaret Louise two steps behind.

“Sure. That sounds perfect to me, too. Margaret Louise?”

“Wine works.”

“Wine it is.” She rounded the corner into her tiny kitchen, her hands instinctively seeking the cabinet that held her one and only vase—a gift from Milo when they hit their three-month dating anniversary. Looking over her shoulder, she flashed a grin at him. “We were so busy the other day with Rose that I forgot to ask how the school fared in the storm. Any major damage?”

“Nah.” Milo crossed the room and plucked two glasses and a wine goblet from the cabinet to the left of the stove. “A few broken windows and some overturned playground equipment is all. None of which was big enough to keep the kids out longer than that first day.”

“Thank heavens.” Margaret Louise opened the refrigerator, studied Tori’s meager wine selection, and extracted the best of the lot. “And the collection booth for the Autumn Harvest Festival? How’d that hold up?”

Tori paused in the middle of arranging daisies. “Collection booth?”

Raking a hand through his hair, Milo exhaled in frustration. “It’s seen its last festival, that’s for sure.”

Margaret Louise clucked.

“What collection booth?” Tori repeated as she popped the last daisy into the vase and leaned against the sink. “You’ve lost me.”

“Every year Sweet Briar hosts the Autumn Harvest Festival. It’s held in early November, just after Halloween. In many ways it’s not much different than Heritage Days and the Re-Founders Day Festival, which you’ve already seen,” Milo explained.

“There’s food, games, music, and rides,” said Margaret Louise, taking the ball from Milo. “Only there are more than just carnival rides at Autumn Harvest. There’re hayrides, tractor pulls, and pony rides, too.”

“Okay . . .”

“Unlike the other festivals though, Autumn Harvest is a way to share our blessings with other people. The collection booth is where that happens.”

She looked at Margaret Louise, then Milo, her mind working to fill in the gaps. “And the storm destroyed the booth?”

Milo nodded. “That it did. Though, really, it wasn’t a surprise. That booth has been around since Debbie Calhoun was a little girl. It’s been assembled and dismantled year after year and stored in a shed out on Colten Granger’s property.”

“And the shed was destroyed, too?”

Milo’s nod turned to a shake. “No. I’d taken the various pieces of the booth out of the shed about a week ago. I wanted to assemble it and give it a fresh coat of paint before the festival.” He poured milk into each glass and handed one to Tori. “I guess Roger wanted to save me a can of paint and a few paintbrushes.”

“What do you collect in this booth?” she asked, her thoughts suddenly far from daisies and brownies.

“Canned food, old coats, gently used toys, you name it,” said Margaret Louise. “Anything and everything people are willin’ to part with.”

“Where do the items go?”

“Some stay here in Sweet Briar, some get shipped around the county.”

She studied Milo as his words took root in her head. “Are there needy folks in Sweet Briar?”

He took a long sip of milk, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’d be surprised.”

And he was right. She was.

She peeked into the living room, her gaze picking out the piece of pink fleece she’d left on the table. There was still so much to do, so much sewing that had to happen if she was going to make her goal for the shelter. But there were always enough hours to help, weren’t there?

“Can we rebuild the booth?”

Closing the gap between them in two long strides, Milo cupped the back of her head with his hand and tilted her face up to his. “Yes, and I will. But I don’t want you worrying about it. Get those hats and scarves done. Help is help no matter where the people who receive it happen to be living. I’ll get a new booth built between now and the festival.”

“But I—”

“Listen to the man, Victoria.” Margaret Louise replaced her sip of wine with another, then tossed the empty bottle in the recycling bin. “In the meantime, I’d like to help with the hats and scarves. Count on me for ten by the end of the week. Dixie for another five.”

“Dixie?” She knew her voice was bordering on shrill but she couldn’t help it.
Dixie?

Margaret Louise nodded. “You’re winnin’ her over, Victoria.”

Sliding an arm around her waist, Milo pulled her close. “I knew she’d cave in time. No sane person could ever have a lasting issue with you.”

She considered his words. Maybe he was right. Maybe people could soften over time, their edges smoothed by the power of reality to win out over the fear of change.

“Do you think Martha Jane Barker might finally cave where Kenny Murdock is concerned?” The question surprised her, the words leaving her lips before they were fully formed in her conscious thought.

“Stranger things have happened so I s’pose it’s possible,” Margaret Louise mused as she lifted her wine goblet to her lips and took another sip. “But Dixie loves the library, it’s her passion. The two of you have that in common. So every time you do something to benefit that shared passion, she takes notice and appreciates it. Martha Jane, on the other hand, doesn’t have any outside passions.”

It made sense. But still . . .

“And I’m not sure Kenny can handle the tension with the same grace you have. That makes a difference, too.”

She looked at Milo. “But she accused him of a crime he didn’t commit. He has a right to be—” She stopped, shook her head against the memory of Kenny’s chilling words earlier that day. “He has a right to be hurt. Even a little angry.”

“A lot depends on how he handles that anger,” Milo explained. “He has a reputation for having a temper when he’s wronged. If he exercises that temper too much, sympathy will fall toward Martha Jane, not Kenny.”

Margaret Louise set her glass on the countertop and peeled the cover from the brownie tin. “It don’t matter what Kenny does. Martha Jane will never change. I suspect she was born ornery and I’m right sure she’ll die ornery as well. Those types usually do.”

Eyeing the brownies as Margaret Louise began to cut, Tori shrugged. “Seems kind of silly to live your life being so paranoid about people, don’t you think?”

“I agree.” Milo pulled three plates from the cabinet and placed them beside Margaret Louise’s right elbow. As each plate was graced with a brownie, he handed them around. “I guess there’s always a chance she’ll change but I wouldn’t put any money down on it.”

She laughed. Even if it
was
a sure thing, Milo wouldn’t gamble. He was a stand-up kind of guy, one who played life by the book.

“Maybe Doug or Curtis could help you with the collection booth. I don’t think either will be at their job long based on how thoroughly they work.” She closed her eyes as she bit into the brownie, the white chocolate drizzle making her moan in delight. “Oh, Margaret Louise, these are amazing.”

The woman grinned. “Why thank you, Victoria. You’re always a pleasure to bake for. As long as it’s chocolate, I can be fairly certain you’ll like it.”

“Hey! I’m not that easy, am I?” She looked from Margaret Louise to Milo and back again, their playful jabs at one another’s sides making her laugh out loud. “Okay, so I am. Is that really such a bad thing?”

When the laughing subsided, Milo’s eyebrow arched. “Who’s this Curtis fellow you just mentioned? The one you said might be able to help with the booth?”

“The man working over at Martha Jane’s. He’s not nearly as friendly as Doug but he is a hard worker.”

“I wonder how much the two of them would charge to help me make a new booth.”

“You can always ask.” Margaret Louise popped her entire brownie into her mouth, her cheeks puffing momentarily, only to shrink down to size as she chewed and swallowed. “And I’m sure there’d be more than a few of us in town who’d be willing to help foot the bill to get that booth up and runnin’ in time for Autumn Harvest.”

“Okay. I’ll look into it. . . .” His words trailed off as a police siren echoed its way through the windows, the sudden and unexpected sound making them jump. “I wonder what’s going on.”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Margaret Louise pulled her cell phone from her pants pocket and flipped it open, her finger pushing a few buttons before bringing the contraption to her ear. “Georgina? It’s me. Everything okay?”

Tori took the opportunity her friend’s phone call afforded to sidle up alongside Milo for a hug, the feel of his lips on her forehead warming her from the inside out. “Thank you for the flowers, they really are beautiful.”

“Like you,” he mumbled against her skin.

“I’m glad you stopped by.”

“So am I.” He reached down, hooked a finger beneath her chin, and lifted it until their eyes met. “How’s the sewing going?”

She exhaled a whoosh of air from her lungs. “It’s not. But it’ll be okay. Having help from Margaret Louise and Dixie will make a big difference.”

“I’d help if I knew how to sew.”

“I know you would. But you need to concentrate on this booth. It’s every bit as important as what I’m doing.”

A gasp from Margaret Louise brought them up short. “Margaret Louise? Are you okay?” Tori asked.

The woman lowered the phone to her side, her face ashen.

In an instant Tori was at her side, pulling the phone from her friend’s hand and snapping it closed. “Margaret Louise? What is it? Are Jake and Melissa okay? The kids? Leona?”

Margaret Louise nodded, her hand waving off the notion. “Fine. They’re all fine. But Martha Jane . . .”

“What about Martha Jane?” Milo asked, his deep voice cutting through the hushed tones.

“She’s . . . she’s been strangled.”

Chapter 6

It was official. The library had replaced the backyard fence when it came to the members of the Sweet Briar Ladies Society Sewing Circle and their penchant for gossip. And it made sense.

Unlike its clichéd counterpart, the library was far less prone to weather constraints, was void of flying insects and their constant competition for attention, and sported a more favorable proximity to bathroom facilities—all plusses when half the members were looking at sixty-five in their rearview mirror.

The only snafu, really, was the presence of other people—people who came to the library looking for quiet only to find five women huddled around the information desk shaking their heads, clutching their throats, and peppering their not-so-quiet conversation with loud gasps of shock.

“Ladies, we really need to keep this down. My patrons are trying to read,” Tori pleaded as she caught not one but two disapproving looks from the research corner of the library.

“Perhaps they should find somewhere else to read, dear,” Leona drawled as she brought a freshly manicured hand to rest at the base of her throat. “We have things to discuss.”

Rubbing her eyes free of the sleep that threatened to overtake them, she lowered her voice still further. “This is a library, Leona. Its main purpose is reading.”