Reap What You Sew (15 page)

Dropping her car keys onto the catchall table just inside the family room of her tiny cottage, Tori released a sigh to end all sighs. The intuitive side of her knew there wasn’t anything she could do about the situation at that exact moment. Time would tell what direction the circumstances surrounding Anita’s death would take. Unfortunately, it was the rest of her that couldn’t let it go. Especially when two of her favorite people stood to lose everything should those circumstances end up pointing a finger in their direction.

She wandered aimlessly around the room, stopping periodically to adjust a throw pillow, move a knickknack half a centimeter to the left or right, stoop to pick up a piece of lint from the floor. By the time she reached the sewing alcove off the far side of the room, she was desperate to do something real, something capable of chasing the worry from her thoughts if only for a little while.

She stopped beside the refinished desk she and Beatrice had picked up at a garage sale little more than three weeks earlier and ran her finger along the delicately carved horse and buggy design that graced the top of her antique sewing box. Ever since she’d first laid eyes on the box in Leona’s antique shop two years earlier, she’d thought of her grandmother, a woman who had taught her so much about sewing, and books, and life in general. Not a day went by she didn’t miss their time together or wish they could have just one more sewing lesson, one more hug. But just as each glimpse of the box made her think of her grandmother, so, too, did it conjure up thoughts of the woman who gave it to her as a gift.

There was no doubt about it, Leona Elkin was a force to be reckoned with. She was equal parts ornery and prickly, yet, for those who took the time to notice, she also had a pinch of sensitivity and generosity. The fact the sewing box was even present in Tori’s home was proof of that.

Shaking her head, Tori forced herself to focus on something else—something besides a path that would surely lead her right back where she’d been when she walked into the room. She removed the tray of thread from the box and set it on the table, reaching into the bottom section of the box with a practiced hand.

Rag quilts for the residents of Three Winds was sure to be a fun project and she found herself looking forward to Monday night’s meeting just so they could get started. Sure, the weekly meeting of the Sweet Briar Ladies Society Sewing Circle was already a highlight thanks to the priceless friendships she’d formed with its members, but when they came together to complete a project for someone less fortunate, it was even better.

Buoyed by the new image in her mind, Tori carried the box over to the sofa then returned to the desk for some fabric. Rag quilts needed squares, lots and lots of squares. And while she knew her fellow sewing sisters were more than capable of cutting fabric squares on their own, the task would save them time on Monday night and keep her busy until it was time to climb into bed for real.

When she reached the sofa once again, she plopped onto its comfy cushions and retrieved her scissors and tape measure from the box. Slowly but surely she began cutting squares—seven-inch by seven-inch sections that would eventually come together to create a homemade blanket for Annabelle’s new neighbors. The project itself would be fairly simple, but the result had the potential to be significant.

Tori was halfway through cutting her fourth square of fabric when her cell phone chirped to life, the familiar jingle bringing a knowing smile to her lips. No matter how tired or frustrated she was on any given day, one thing could always bring her clarity.

Milo.

Leaning forward, she plucked her phone from the table that housed her keys and snapped it open, her smile growing still wider.

“Hi Milo.”

“Hi yourself.” The rumble of his voice sparked a tingle of awareness down her spine. And, just like always, that tingle launched a butterfly brigade in her stomach. “What’s going on?”

She forced herself to focus on her fiancé’s voice, the way it warmed her heart and soul with hope for their future together. But just as surely as it did, she knew, too, that it was only a matter of time before that same warmth had her pouring out her fears to the one person who always made her feel safe.

“I’m cutting some fabric for a project the circle is going to start on Monday.”

“Oh? Tell me about it.”

Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the back of the sofa, Milo’s genuine interest in her hobby still surprising at times. Before he’d come into her life, she’d just assumed all men were like her ex-fiancé Jeff—a little self-absorbed, a little clueless.

But Milo had shown her otherwise. Or, at the very least, proved that molds could be broken.

“Remember Annabelle? Margaret Louise and Leona’s mom?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, her mouth just as eager as the rest of her to avoid talking about the elephant in the room. “Margaret Louise got a place for her at Three Winds and—”

A long, low whistle filled her ear. “Wow. I imagine that had to be hard for someone like Margaret Louise.”

“It was. And it still is, I suspect. But deep down inside she knows it’s for the best. Annabelle is going to get herself in trouble one of these days and Margaret Louise feels this is the best way to protect her from a world that isn’t always so quick to understand a mental illness.”

“I guess I can understand that.”

Shifting the fabric squares and scissors onto the coffee table, she snuggled into a corner of the sofa and pulled a throw pillow to her chest. “But even though she knows it’s for the best, she’s still worried. She doesn’t want Annabelle to feel lonely or, even worse, discarded.”

“So where does the circle come into play with all of this?”

She gazed at the squares she’d managed to cut so far, the enthusiasm for her idea intensifying. “Well, first of all, we’re going to see if the director at Three Winds will allow us to hold an occasional circle meeting at his facility. That way Annabelle can feel as if she’s hosting a meeting from time to time.”

“She’s going to be a member?”

Tori offered a futile nod. “I think she’ll be an honorary member… when she’s up to coming.”

She could hear Milo’s smile through the phone. “Nice.”

Buoyed by his reaction, she got to the specifics of the project. “We thought it would be nice if she was part of a group project that would benefit some of her fellow residents. So, we’re going to make rag quilts—if the rest of the circle is in agreement—that Annabelle can give out to her neighbors at Three Winds.”

“I like that. A lot.” Milo’s voice deepened. “You came up with this idea, didn’t you?”

Her face warmed at the accuracy of his assessment. “I suggested it, but Margaret Louise agreed right away.”

“That’s because the two of you are cut from the same cloth.”

“The two of us?”

“The two of you,” Milo confirmed. “You’re both nurturing and caring, you both put others before yourselves, and you’re always trying to come up with ways to make people feel welcome.”

“You certainly nailed Margaret Louise.” She plucked a piece of lint off the pillow with her free hand. “I swear, that woman—”

“I nailed you
both
.” Milo made a stretching sound in her ear and then sighed. “Oh, sorry about that. I didn’t get my run in after work and my body is protesting a bit.”

She felt her cheeks inch upward at the image that formed in her head. “If you’d feed it a little chocolate it might stop protesting.”

He laughed. “Seems to me, when you eat chocolate, all your body does is demand more.”

Realizing an argument would be useless, she skirted his statement, bringing their conversation back to him. “Why didn’t you get to run?”

“I couldn’t get my mind off you and that note, for starters.”

She closed her eyes. Somehow, between work, bringing Leona up to speed on Anita’s death, and Margaret Louise’s worries about Annabelle, Tori had almost forgotten about the note that could, in the eyes of the police, incriminate
her
in the crime.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. What happened to that actress is not your fault. It just bothers me that Leona worded that note in such a way as to implicate you in what happened.”

She swung her legs to the side and sat up, her mind suddenly churning too many things to stay still. “She didn’t know.”

“Who didn’t know?” Milo asked.

Rising to her feet, Tori meandered her away around the room, no destination to be had. “Leona.”

“You lost me.”

She tried again. “Leona didn’t know about Anita’s death until this evening… when I told her.”

“Why didn’t she pick up her phone one of the million times you tried to call?”

“She was at a day spa in Tom’s Creek.”

“A day spa?” he echoed.

“She was playing hard to get.”

“Hard to get for who?”

Tori rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped in front of the cookie jar, her stomach fairly pleading a junk food sanity check. She reached for the cap and twisted. “Warren.”

“Warren?” A pause of disbelief was followed by raw confusion. “But I thought the whole reason she wanted to get rid of Anita was to have Warren to herself.”

“It was. And it worked. But then she had to make sure he didn’t take her for granted.”

“Didn’t take her for…” Milo’s voice trailed off only to return to its original disbelief. “Wow. Women like Leona never cease to amaze me, you know?”

She understood what he was saying, she really did, but, still, she rushed to defend her friend. “Leona’s been hurt. Her way of dealing with that is to never give the upper hand to another man ever again.”

“And by holding every man to the yardstick created by the guy who hurt her, she’s only hurting herself.”

Milo was right. She knew it. He knew it. And everyone who’d ever found a new and better love the second time around knew it. But putting your heart back together only to put it on the line once again wasn’t always easy. Some, like Leona, never could. Others, like Tori, might give it a chance yet take the whole process in slow motion, second-guessing reality at every major turn in the road.

She gazed down at the ring finger of her non–cookie holding hand, the diamond solitaire presented months before she’d found the courage to accept it and the question that it accompanied shimmering in the light.

“Not everyone has someone like you on the other end of a second chance,” she whispered, as much to herself as to the man on the opposite end of the line.

“Not everyone has someone like you on the other end of a second chance, either,” Milo said, referencing his late wife, Celia. “But had I not leapt, had you not leapt, we’d both be casting about in a life that would be far less special.”

“I love you, Milo.” It was all she could think to say. Yet it fit. Perfectly.

“I love you, too. Which is why that note Leona left on your desk has me so worked up. It makes you sound as if you were in on what happened to that actress.”

She nibbled a bite of chocolate chip cookie, Milo’s concern suddenly seeming less worrisome. “Yeah, but Leona wrote that note before she even knew Anita was dead. Therefore there was nothing to imply.”

“That’s assuming the police believe Leona in the first place.”

“She wasn’t anywhere near Anita’s trailer,” Tori protested, the cookie-induced calm disappearing all too quickly.

“That’s what she
says
.”

“Milo,” she gasped. “Are you saying you don’t believe her?”

“No. But I’m not sure the police will. She baked the brownies.”

“Margaret Louise did,” she corrected.

“And whose idea was it to make them in the first place?”

She opened her mouth to protest only to shut it just as quickly, the picture Milo was trying to create suddenly crystal clear.

Chapter 13

Tori turned east onto Main, instinctively lifting her face to the early morning sun. If the forecasters were right, the day promised to be a beauty with nary a cloud in the sky. But, try as she might, she couldn’t seem to shake the lingering fog that had rolled in during her conversation with Milo and lingered throughout the night, wreaking havoc on her sleep as well as her psyche.

It was only a matter of time before questions about the brownies began.

Where did they come from?

Who baked them?

Why were they given to a woman so highly allergic to one of their key ingredients?

And, last but not least, did the person who gave them to Anita know that she was allergic to nuts?

They were questions the police would ask.

With answers she could already answer…

They came from Leona.

They’d been baked by Margaret Louise.

The intent behind them had been to keep the victim at bay.

And, unless you were deaf, it was impossible
not
to know. Everyone on set knew Anita was allergic to nuts.

Tori stopped in her tracks, a slight breeze plucking a few stray tendrils from her updo.

“Everyone on set knew,” she mumbled.
“Everyone.”

Todd…

Margot…

Glenda…