Sew Deadly (10 page)

She felt her mouth go dry.

“Me?”

“Yes, dear. You.”

Feeling the room begin to spin, she closed her eyes tightly. “Why would he be asking questions about me?”

“You’re new in town.”

“So?”

“This is the first murder Sweet Briar’s ever had.”

She swallowed back the bile that threatened to gag her where she sat. “And therefore
I
must be
a murderer
? Is that what he thinks?” She knew her voice sounded shrill, near hysterical even, but she couldn’t stop. This had to be some sort of joke.

“That’s what a lot of people are going to think, Victoria.”

Swiveling back toward the window, Tori stared out at the pockets of people standing around—virtually everyone either pointing or staring at her. They weren’t curious about the new librarian. They didn’t care about the changes she would bring to the library. And they couldn’t care less whether she was from Chicago or Beijing. They were there for one reason and one reason only . . .

To catch a glimpse of Tiffany Ann’s murderer.

“But
you
don’t think that . . . right, Leona?”

An awkward silence filled her ear as she waited, desperately, for the answer she needed to hear.

“Leona?” she repeated.

“Victoria, Daniel is a
trained
investigator.”

She blinked against the tears that accompanied her friend’s unexpected skepticism, willed them to fortify the tenacity she knew she possessed. Investigator McGuire didn’t know her. The residents of Sweet Briar didn’t know her. And, apparently, neither did Leona Elkin.

But she knew who she was. And she knew who she wasn’t.

Turning her back to the townspeople, Tori popped the pencil back into the wooden holder and tightened her grip on the phone. “Then perhaps he needs to investigate based on
facts
, Leona. Not on a person’s birthplace.”

Chapter 8

Try as she might, she simply couldn’t concentrate on her pillow. Not on the threading, not on the stitching, not on the pleasure she usually derived from a project so near completion.

In fact, for the first time since her great-grandmother had placed a needle in her six-year-old hand, sewing didn’t provide a comfort or a distraction. Though being a suspect in a possible murder investigation
was
a bit harder to gloss over than a grueling day at work or a pie recipe gone wrong.

Still, she could only justify knocking her head against the wall for so long before facing facts.

Setting the pillow on the end table beside the love seat, Tori looked around her cottage. In just two short weeks, she’d managed to unpack all but one box, finding a spot for each and every household item that had made the move from Chicago. Pictures were hung on the walls and even a few shelves had been arranged and rearranged to her satisfaction. But none of that seemed important anymore.

When push came to shove, it didn’t matter where her great-grandmother’s picture was placed or which lamp was best suited for her new sewing room. It didn’t matter if her bedspread was a perfect match for the wall color she’d chosen or whether the antique clock her parents had given her was better suited for the kitchen or the entryway. The only thing that mattered in a new home was whether you felt welcome and wanted—neither of which she felt when it came to Sweet Briar, South Carolina.

In just two weeks she’d gone from feeling like all eyes were on her every move to a brief sense of belonging. And then, just as she was starting to relax—WHAM!

Only
this
time the looks had nothing to do with being the outsider from up north and everything to do with the murder of Tiffany Ann Gilbert. A crime which—according to Leona Elkin—
she
was suspected of committing.

If the notion weren’t so upsetting she’d find it rather funny. As would anyone who’d ever known her—including her high school biology teacher who routinely won free lunch from other faculty members for knowing which bathroom stall she’d be hiding in on animal dissection days.

How could these people seriously think she’d hurt another human being? Especially someone she’d never even met? What could possibly be her motive? Some insidious desire to take over the town of Sweet Briar, one person at a time? A deep-seated need to rebel against the confines of acceptable southern belle behavior? A calculated move to eliminate all potential competition for the eligible bachelors in town—

She gripped the armrest of the love seat.

“This can’t be about Milo Wentworth,” she whispered as reality dawned in her mind.

Was
that
why she was considered a potential suspect? Because of Tiffany Ann’s infamous attraction to the elementary school teacher and her own rumored flirtations with the man?

“No. No, it
can’t
be.”

Surely the residents of Sweet Briar couldn’t be that
out
of touch with reality. . . .

Or could they?

Besides, if that was the motive, wouldn’t
she
have been the one slumped against the Dumpster?

“Okay, okay.
Enough
.” Tori pushed off the love seat and headed in the direction of the one unpacked box that remained: a refrigerator-sized carton that contained a wide range of supplies she hoped to use in her job at Sweet Briar Public Library.

Unpacking the various plastic containers would keep her mind engaged, her energy channeled. The woolgather ing she was engaging in simply wasn’t cutting it anymore.

Milo Wentworth’s class was due at the library at ten the next morning. And while she’d set aside numerous picture books that would showcase Egyptian pyramids, she’d learned enough in her early library years to know kids retained more when actively engaged.

Which, in the case of third graders, meant a little hands-on time with Popsicle sticks and glue.

Both of which she had ample supplies of in the lone unopened box that sat against the wall in the small entry foyer. Or, rather, the lone box she didn’t remember opening despite the telltale broken seal.

Reaching into the box, she extracted the first two plastic containers she could reach most easily. The first held colored pom-poms; the second contained a large assortment of crayons and colored pencils.

Strike on—

A firm knock on the door pulled her attention from the search and deposited it squarely on the butterflies that took flight in her stomach at the sound. Despite their last conversation, she couldn’t help but hope Leona Elkin had come to her senses.

And to Tori’s front door—with a much-needed apology in tow.

The woman’s comments, or lack thereof, had hurt Tori more than she’d been willing to admit to herself. It had tugged at her heart since the moment they’d hung up.

Surely the woman had come to her senses. Or been helped there by Margaret Louise . . .

Setting the crayon bin on the floor, Tori bridged the gap between the packing box and the front door, smoothing the lines from her khaki cargo pants as she walked. “I was so hoping you’d come b—” The words drifted away as she yanked open the door and came face-to-face with her visitor.

Police Investigator Daniel McGuire . . . in full uniform.

She swallowed.

“Good evening, Miss Sinclair, how are you this evening?”

“Uhhhh, I-I’m fine.” She knew her voice sounded forced, nervous even. But it was virtually impossible to feign otherwise.

This man—this police officer—considered her a
suspect
. In a
murder investigation
.

“I was hoping to have a few moments of your time.” The man tugged his hat more firmly into place as his eyes surveyed the foyer before coming to rest on her face. “That is unless you’re too busy
packing
, Miss Sinclair
.
”

“I’m not packing.” She turned, her gaze sweeping across the cardboard box that had claimed her attention just moments earlier. A box that was obviously in the officer’s line of vision. She hurried to explain. “I’m not packing, Investigator. I’m
un
packing. Or trying to, anyway.”

The second the words left her mouth, she regretted them. This man wasn’t standing at her door in an effort to be sociable. Or to welcome her to Sweet Briar.

Squaring her shoulders with every semblance of courage she could muster, Tori met the officer’s intimidating gaze head-on. “Is there something I can help you with, Investigator McGuire?”

“Why Miss Sinclair, I believe you can.” He gestured toward the door, his eyes never leaving hers. “May I?”

“You want to come in?”

“Is that a problem?” His gaze traveled over her head once again, roamed around the portion of the cottage he could see from his vantage point. When he’d completed his visual inventory he simply looked at her and waited.

She swallowed again. “No. I—uh—of course it’s not. Please. Please come in.”

As she stepped aside to grant the officer entrance, she couldn’t help but recall all those mystery novels and detective shows she’d seen over the years. The ones where suspects retained counsel
before
talking to police.

But she hadn’t done anything that warranted a paid watchdog. She hadn’t stolen anything. She hadn’t offered or accepted any bribes. And she most certainly hadn’t murdered anyone.

So, really, what harm could come from talking to the man?

“Nice place you have here,” he commented as he strode past the box and into the living area, the late afternoon sun filtering through the back window and reflecting off his gun belt as he removed his hat and placed it on the armrest of the love seat. “Must be a big change for a city girl like yourself.”

She shrugged. “In some ways, I suppose. Having my own place rather than an apartment has been nice.”

Daniel McGuire’s steel gray eyes flickered across the pictures on the wall to the knickknacks and flowering plants scattered on bookcase shelves and assorted table-tops. “Bet the people are different here.”

“A little more closed-minded perhaps but that’s all I’ve noticed so far.” The words were barely out of her mouth before she realized her mistake. The burly uniformed shoulders tensed immediately, the probing gaze now searching her face.

“Closed-minded?”

Feeling her hands begin to tremble she returned to the box she’d been unpacking when the man arrived. “Do you mind if I continue what I was doing as we talk? I’ve got a classroom of children due at the library tomorrow morning and I’m trying to locate a few supplies.”

The man nodded, his gaze never leaving her face.

Al-righty then.

“You always wanted to be a librarian, Miss Sinclair?”

“Always.” Reaching into the box she extracted two more plastic containers. One with colored pipe cleaners, the other filled to the top with a rainbow of colored sequins.

“You never considered anything else? No science or maybe chemistry?”

“Science or chemistry—uh, no. I tend to favor the right side of my brain.”

“The right side?”

Tori stopped her search long enough to shrug. “You know . . . the creative side. The side that doesn’t need black-and-white answers.” She turned back to the box and retrieved two more containers.

Hmmmm. Would buttons make pyramids?

“Have you ever been
curious
about a subject like chemistry? Ever wished you’d gone that route?”

Where on earth were those darn Popsicle sticks?

“I’m sorry, Investigator. You asked if I ever wished I’d gone that route? No. Not at all. I love what I do.” She peeked over the edge of the box once again, the next layer of covered supply bins just out of reach. “As for being curious about a particular subject . . . that’s one of the many reasons I wanted to be a librarian. You can find the answer to just about any question simply by knowing which book to open. Chemistry included.”

She stood on tiptoe, leaned over the side, her reach just as futile. “I guess I better find a step stool.” Glancing up at the officer, she motioned toward the kitchen with her head. “Would you like a glass of water or lemonade?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll be right back. My stool is in the pantry.” Tori started across the living room in the direction of the kitchen, the intensity of the officer’s eyes nearly burning a hole in her back.

What did he want? And why all the questions about her career choice?

“No. It’s not.”

She turned. “Excuse me?”

The man dropped his arms from his chest and pointed toward the box. “Your step stool is right there.”

“I didn’t—” She stopped, swallowed again. “That’s odd. I don’t remember getting it out.”

“You seem mighty nervous, Miss Sinclair. Is there something wrong? Something you’d like to get off your chest?” Hooking his thumbs inside the loops of his belt, the officer spread his stance ever wider.

“Nervous? I’m not nervous. I just don’t know how the stool got there.”

“I imagine you put it there, Miss Sinclair.”

Ooooh. An investigator
and
a rocket scientist. Could she get any luckier?

Tori returned to the task at hand, scooting the small stool to the right roughly eight inches before stepping up and reaching into the box once again. Empty milk cartons, glue bottles, and X-acto knives filled the next three or four containers she removed.