Death Threads, page 3
part #2 of Southern Sewing Circle Mystery Series
“Of course I’ve noticed. Everyone’s noticed, dear.” Leona tilted her head to the side pensively. “But just because your halter dress wouldn’t work for me doesn’t mean it can’t work for you.”
“Wait. You lost me again.” She plopped back down on the sofa, this time grabbing the box of truffles and pulling it to her chest, her stomach pleading for a second piece and her sanity granting the request. “Obviously I’m going to make a dress that works for me.”
“I was thinking that perhaps I could make it for you.”
She stopped—midbite—and coughed, tiny remnants of chocolate shooting through her mouth. “Y-you?”
“Yes, me.” Leona sat up taller in her chair.
“S-seriously?” Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Tori couldn’t help but stare at the woman sitting to her left. Had she heard her right? Was Leona Elkin ready to take the proverbial bull by the horns and learn how to sew?
“Well, you’d make it of course, dear. We’d just tell everyone else that I made it.”
“Wait! I can’t do that!” Tori pushed the box off her lap and onto the sofa. “That would mean lying to Margaret Louise and Rose and Debbie and Georgina . . . and Melissa . . . and everyone else.”
“I don’t see the problem,” Leona said with a quiet sniff. “Believing I made it would make them feel good.”
“And it would make me feel rotten.” Tori slipped her hands down the outer side of her jean-clad thighs and sat on them, a maneuver she prayed would keep them away from yet another piece of Leona’s blatant bribe. “Besides, how would we explain the magazines you’d continue to read during circle meetings when you’re supposedly whipping up a dress for me?”
“I’m a temperamental artist? Someone who prefers to create masterpieces of cloth in the privacy of my own home?” Leona reached across the armrest of her chair and grasped the box of truffles in her hand, lifting it to Tori’s eye level. “No one would have to be the wiser, Victoria.”
“They would all be the wiser, Leona. There’s not one member of our circle that would believe you made that dress. Not one.” Tori diverted her gaze from the box the woman wielded in her face, determined to resist temptation at all cost. “If it were a lace-edged handkerchief, maybe. If it were a cloth gift bag, maybe. If it were an apron—for someone who actually cooks, of course—maybe. But a halter-style dress . . . as your first project? Never.”
Deflated, Leona set the box down and leaned her head against the back of the chair, her thick eyelashes mingling with each other as she closed her eyes. “Maybe if I made a few mistakes . . . crocheted a button in the wrong spot?”
Tori laughed as she reached for Leona’s hand and patted it gently. “You don’t crochet buttons, Leona. You sew them on. Or, rather, you could once you learn how. And once you do, you’ll be thanking me for teaching you.”
The woman’s eyes snapped open. “Don’t push it, Victoria.”
She laughed again. “Okay. You don’t have to enjoy it. You just have to try it.”
“I don’t see why on earth I should.” Leona lifted her head from the back of the chair and repositioned her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “If I want to give someone an apron, I’ll buy one. And if I want a”—the woman scrunched up her nose in distaste—“reusable gift bag, I’ll go—I’ll go wherever one goes to buy such a thing.”
Rising to her feet once again, Tori crossed to the sewing alcove and retrieved the wooden sewing box Leona, herself, had given her just a few months earlier. She set it on the coffee table and opened the top lid. “Sometimes it’s the effort of creating something with your own two hands that makes the gift more memorable.”
“Memorable, schmemorable. I didn’t make that sewing box and it made you cry.” Leona scooted forward on her chair just enough so as to peer inside the box at the plethora of colorful threads, laces, and buttons it held.
“True. But we’re talking about two completely different kinds of gifts. And besides, once you learn how to sew, you’ll have a freshly prepared meal delivered to your door every night for a month. A whole month, Leona.” Tori reached inside the box, extracted a handful of colorful buttons, then laid them atop the table for Leona to inspect. “Pick one.”
“Why?”
“Because you, my friend, are about to sew.”
“Here? Now?” Leona asked as she shrank back in her chair, a look of dread tugging her lips downward.
“Right here. Right now.”
“This is why I wanted to simply leave the chocolates and then follow them up with a pleasant phone call, dear. So this wouldn’t happen.”
“What?” she asked.
“Th-this sewing nonsense.”
“You mean the sewing nonsense you agreed to?”
“You northerners sure are pushy.” Leona stamped her foot against the wood floor and reached for a truffle, her hand disappearing into the box. “And here I thought you were a kind and thoughtful young woman.”
“Well, we could forget it if you really want to. I’m sure Margaret Louise’s seven grandchildren would enjoy your undivided attention for a whole evening.”
“Where do we start?” Leona mumbled grudgingly.
“Pick one.” She grinned as she scooted the buttons closer to her friend. “We’re going to start at the very beginning—with buttons.”
“Buttons, dear?” Leona peered at her over the top of her glasses. “Isn’t that what a tailor is for?”
Ignoring her friend’s comment, she handed her a needle, a spool of thread, and a pair of scissors. “Okay, let’s take it from the—”
A staccato knock at the front door cut her off midsentence.
“Oh thank heavens.” Leona clapped her hands together then smoothed back her hair with unadulterated glee. “A box of truffles to whoever that is.”
“You are not off the hook, Leona. Not by a long shot.” She stood, walked around the coffee table, and headed toward the front door. Grasping the knob, she looked back over her shoulder at the woman in her living room—a woman who looked as if she’d been handed a winning lottery ticket. “This is a temporary reprieve. Nothing more.”
“I’ve been thinking, dear. Perhaps I do have a sickly friend who needs me after all.”
“I’m not buying that one, Leona. I’ve heard your take on the sickly, and Florence Nightingale you’re not.” With a turn of her wrist she pulled the front door open, her cheeks rising skyward as Leona’s accidental knight in shining armor came into view—all six foot one of him. “Milo, hi! What a wonderful surprise.”
“Hi, yourself.” Flashing the shy smile she loved more with each passing day, Milo held up a stack of DVDs with one hand and a splay of theater-sized candy boxes with the other. “I was hoping maybe we could watch a movie or something.”
“That sounds wonderful but . . .” She nibbled her lower lip inward as she tilted her head to study him, her gaze playing across the burnished brown hair he kept short on the sides yet a little longer on top. “Leona finally showed up and we’re just now getting started on her sewing lesson.”
“A lesson we can put on hold, dear.” Leona breezed past Tori and gestured the young widower inside. “You’ve both put in long hours at work this week and now it’s time to relax—together.”
“Leona, it’s just a button for crying out loud.” Tori folded her arms across her chest. “It’ll only take us thirty minutes.”
“I could just sit outside here and wait. It’s a beautiful night—”
“You’ll do no such thing, Milo Wentworth. You’ll come in now.” Leona reached her arms onto the porch and yanked Milo inside, smiling sweetly at Tori as he acquiesced and stepped into the house. “We’ll do buttons tomorrow.”
“I work tomorrow,” Tori protested.
“Then we’ll do buttons on Sunday.”
Tori’s left eyebrow rose upward. “Sunday is Re-Founder’s Day, Leona. It’s all anyone’s talked about at our circle meetings for weeks now, remember?”
“It’s all Rose has been talking about,” Leona corrected with a well-timed eye roll.
“It’s all Rose and Georgina and Dixie have talked about, too. And don’t forget your sister. Margaret Louise has been working on her recipe for the cook-off for weeks now.”
Waving off Tori’s words, Leona simply shook her head. “The others might be looking forward to the festival, dear, but it’s Rose who’s gaga about it. To hear that woman talk, Sweet Briar is the Cinderella of southern towns.”
“It kind of is,” Milo interjected quietly. “This place was incinerated by the Yankees during the Civil War. And now look at it—it’s thriving and has been for many, many years. It’s almost hard to believe, really.”
Shrugging, Leona crossed the living room and retrieved her clutch from the floor beside the armchair. “I guess Sunday is out for buttons, too, then. Such a shame.”
Glancing apologetically at Milo with his stack of movies and boxes of candy, Tori joined Leona in the middle of the room. “We still have now.”
“No, dear. This wonderfully special gentleman has traveled miles to see you!”
“Blocks,” Tori corrected in amusement.
“Don’t belittle his efforts, dear. That undermines his manhood,” Leona whispered from the corner of her mouth. To both, she said, “He’s traveled all the way across town to spend some time with you, dear. I wouldn’t dream of interfering with that.” Leona grasped the clutch with her long, delicate fingers. “The buttons can wait.”
“Why do I feel as if I’m being used as a scapegoat?” Milo asked, the sparkle of amusement in his eyes belying the seriousness of his face.
“Because you are,” Tori said as her disapproving gaze met Leona’s triumphant one. “But at least you’re getting a box of truffles out of it.”
“Truffles? I don’t need truffles.”
“Oh yes you do.” Tori shot a gentle elbow into Milo’s side before turning to her friend who was fairly tiptoeing toward the door in an effort to escape. “And as for you, Mizz Elkin . . . we will pick up where we left off. Soon.”
“Of course, dear. I can hardly wait.” Leona grabbed hold of the doorknob and pulled, the sounds of crickets and katydids filling the tiny cottage. “I’ll see you both at the festival, yes?”
Tori looked at Milo for confirmation just as his arm slid around her shoulders and pulled her close, an unexpected public display of affection that sparked a surge of warmth through her body. Grinning, she looked back at Leona and nodded. “We’ll be there.”
“Perhaps I’ll pack some earplugs.”
Tori looked a question at the woman—the same question Milo spoke. “For the fireworks?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of Rose’s incessant town cheerleading. It gets worse on Re-Founder’s Day.” Leona stepped onto the porch and looked around, the slight nod of approval at Tori’s new wicker furniture barely discernable in the gathering dusk that seemed to envelop their surroundings in mere minutes. “Though I suppose they’ll be useful for fireworks as well.”
“I love fireworks,” Tori offered as she peered up at Milo, the corners of her mouth tugging upward in anticipation of both the movie night ahead and the Re-Founder’s Day Festival on Sunday. “Especially the ones that look like fairy dust when they’re raining down.”
“I was kinda surprised to hear they were doing them at all. Everyone’s super paranoid about fire around here . . . even after all this time. But I ran into Colby Calhoun as he was leaving the newspaper office this afternoon and he said the fireworks on Sunday were going to be huge.”
“Oooo, yay,” Tori said with a squeal. “The bigger the better.”
“Was he okay?” Leona asked quickly.
“Who?”
“Colby.” Leona shifted her clutch to the other hand and peered over her glasses at Milo. “He seemed rather concerned when we saw him in the library on Wednesday morning. And then today, at the bakery, Debbie wasn’t her usual bubbly self either.”
Milo shrugged. “Can’t comment on Debbie but Colby seemed fine to me. At the time, anyway. Though, now that you mention it, he did seem a little . . . I don’t know . . . edgy, I guess. And he didn’t ask about school getting ready to start up soon like he normally would . . .” Milo’s voice trailed off briefly. “I don’t know, maybe he’s working through the plot for his latest novel. I’ve always heard writers can get a little distracted when they’re at that stage.”
“Colby wasn’t just distracted on Wednesday. He was worried . . . scared, even.” Leona raised her hand in farewell only to return it to her side just as quickly. “Something is off with Colby Calhoun—you mark my words. That man is rattled to the core about something. And for a man that good-natured and that calm to get rattled . . . well, I think it’s safe to say that whatever is brewing is big. Very, very big.”
Chapter 3
There was no doubt about it, there were simply days she missed living in Chicago. Missed the sound of the El in the distance and the general hustle and bustle of the city streets. Missed lounging outside Millennium Park on the first warm day of spring or daydreaming her way down Michigan Avenue on a snowy day. Missed the first bite of an Italian beef sandwich and the smell of the city’s infamous stuffed pizza around virtually every street corner.
But there was also no denying the fact that Sweet Briar felt more and more like home every day. Her job at the library was fulfilling, her ever-deepening bonds with the sewing circle members brought a welcome sense of inclusion that extended well beyond the confines of their weekly Monday night meetings, and her relationship with Milo Wentworth was progressing better than she could have imagined. Yet, deep down inside, she knew it was more than a dream job, new friends, and a great guy that had allowed the small southern town to grab hold of her heart. It was the pervasive feel of pride and closeness that its residents not only felt but also shared. Readily.
“It’s funny how things can change so fast, isn’t it?” Tori slipped her hand inside Milo’s as they rounded Leeson’s Market and headed toward the town square, the sound of voices and laughter growing louder with each passing step. “At Heritage Days in the spring I couldn’t have felt more out of place here. But now . . .”
“You belong.” Milo stopped walking long enough to raise her hand to his lips for a quick kiss, the daffodil yellow sleeve of her ribbed V-neck shirt slipping down her wrist with the motion. “I hate to sound like a broken record but I knew this town would come around . . . start to judge you on who you are rather than where you’re from. You handled the fallout from Tiffany Ann’s murder with grace and honesty. And you kept your head held high every step of the way. What’s not to love about that?”
She shrugged. “At the time, it was heartbreaking to have everyone pointing at me for a crime I didn’t commit simply because I was an outsider—an unknown. But now that that’s behind me, I see the loyalty for one another as something rare. Even special.”
“It can be. When it’s in your favor. But when it’s not, it can get mighty ugly.” He tugged her across the street, his nose lifting into the air. “Do you smell that?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. She smelled lots of things, heard lots of things, saw lots of things. In fact, it was safe to say all five senses were in overload as they stepped through the trellised archway to the town square—the site of every festival Sweet Briar held throughout the year.
“What smell would that be?” Looking up at Milo she grinned, her pulse quickening as his amber-flecked brown eyes locked with hers and tiny dimples appeared in his cheeks. “Wait, don’t answer that. Let me guess . . .”
Slowly she pulled her gaze from his, let it travel its way across the top of people’s heads in search of any and all food tents they could see from their vantage point. There was a Polish sausage tent that boasted the inclusion of pepper and onions on an easel-propped chalkboard. There were three different tents selling pork barbecue—one with corn on the cob as a side, one with hush puppies, the other offering straight barbecue with no add-ons at all.
“Look . . . right there.” Milo’s index finger shot into the air as he pointed at a blue and white striped tent a good hundred yards from where they stood. “It’s all I’ve dreamt about for days—well, except for when”—he looked down at the ground and then back at her, his cheeks sporting a slightly reddish hue—“I’m thinking about you, of course.”
“Nice save, Milo. For a minute I was worried you were going to say I fell below a slab of dough on your list of daydreaming subjects.”
His mouth gaped open. “Slab of dough?”
“Yeah. That’s what those people have on their plates, isn’t it?” she asked, pointing at a group of teenagers who’d come from the direction of the blue and white tent. “I’ve seen them before at fairs like this, but I’ve never thought they looked terribly appetizing.”
Milo raised his palms to his ears and covered them as his lips pursed into a whistle.
“What? Did I say something wrong?”
Slowly, he lowered his hands, his left claiming her right. “First, it’s not a slab of dough, Tori. It’s a funnel cake. Second, you must not have gotten a very good glimpse at their plates, because if you had your mouth would be watering.”
“Watering, huh?” she teased.
“Wa-ter-ing.”
“Okay. Lead the way.”
Squeezing her hand to his side, he led her through the seemingly endless crowd of residents from Sweet Briar and its neighboring communities—a sea of smiling faces that surely mirrored her own. “I could never get Celia to try the stuff. Mainly because it wasn’t green and didn’t grow in the ground. But you—you like your junk food so there’s hope.”
For a brief moment she thought about denying her propensity for unhealthy eating, but she let it pass. What was the point? Some things were just futile. . . .
