Needle and Dread (20 page)

Tori hit the power button on the computer tower underneath her desk and waited for her monitor to spring to life. All night long she'd tossed and turned, mentally trying to counter the holes Milo had poked in her remaining who-killed-Opal-and-why theories. Try as she might, she couldn't discard his comments.

Then again, she couldn't discard her theories completely, either.

Yes, Minnie's incessant crying could simply be about sadness. That's what crying usually meant. But
usually
didn't necessarily mean
always
. In fact, if Tori were a betting person, she'd place good money on the fact that prisons were probably littered with inmates who cried on occasion—some because they simply wanted to be free, and others, perhaps, because of guilt.

Minnie had no reason to be sad over Opal's passing.
Opal had been awful to her, humiliating her over everything from the way she shuffled her feet to her sewing-related questions that, to anyone truly listening, had been more about making conversation than needing an answer. So even if Milo's summation on crying was right 99 percent of the time, sadness didn't fit as the reason in Minnie's case.

As far as whether Opal's death could really change anything for Gracelyn's children, that would take a little research . . .

A peek at the monitor showed the aging computer was slowly springing to life, and she took advantage of her remaining downtime to work on the apple Milo had stuck in her lunch sack as they were parting ways in the driveway that morning. Not an apple eater by nature, she made herself eat one on occasion, especially if it came from her husband. They tended to taste better when they did.

A red light out of the corner of her eye distracted her from a second bite, and she picked up the main library phone. “Yes, Nina?”

“Hey, I'm sorry to bother you on your lunch break, but there's a call for you on line two. I think it's Rose, but I'm not positive.”

“Thanks, Nina.” She switched from intercom to the second phone line and set her apple down on her napkin. “This is Tori.”

“Nina says you're on your lunch break.”

She did her best to place the raspy whisper and decided Nina was right. “Rose? Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because she's here.”

Grabbing her apple off the desk once again, she leaned back in her chair and took a loud bite. “Who's . . . there? Wait . . . one . . . minute. I'm a mess.” She swapped her apple for the napkin and wiped the spray of juice from her chin. “Okay, I'm back. Sorry about that. Anyway, who's there? And where, exactly, is there?”

An exasperated sigh filled her ear as the whispering became a little less whisper-like and a lot more irritated-like. “I'm talking about Minnie. And she's here, in SewTastic. At this very moment.”

“And?”

“And I thought maybe you could stop by. After all, according to Nina, your break just started. That means you have a few minutes to get here, about ten minutes to do a little snooping, and a few minutes to get back. It's perfect.”

She fought the urge to remind her elderly friend of the thought process behind a lunch break, but kept it to herself. Instead, she opted to focus on the fact that Rose—a woman who rarely asked anyone for anything—was asking Tori to stop by the shop. “Do you think she'll still be there in ten minutes?” she asked.

“I see no signs of her hurrying to get anywhere.”

“Then I'm on my way. Keep her there.” Tori took one last look at the fully booted computer and switched between the outside and inside phone lines once again. When Nina answered, she told her where she'd be and when she'd be back and then headed toward the door with her apple in hand.

Down the hall, out the back door, and across the grounds she went, the slight chill to the air a welcome
change after being inside all morning. She vacated the library grounds and headed toward the town square and its array of matching business shingles, including the one belonging to SewTastic.

Sure enough, when she stepped inside, Minnie was at the counter looking through a sewing book with Rose. “Oh, that is a beautiful blouse, isn't it?”

Rose acknowledged Tori's entrance with a wink and then waved her over to the counter. “Victoria! Isn't this a nice surprise . . .”

She made a mental note to praise Rose on her acting ability at a later date and focused, instead, on Minnie's lack of skills in the same area when it came to Tori's presence.

“Hi, Rose. Hi, Minnie—it's good to see you out and about and feeling better.”

Rose took Tori's unintentional cue and ran with it. “You were feeling poorly, Minnie?”

“No, I've been—”

“It was the other day, at the inn. You had to cut our conversation short because you were feeling tired.” She'd known it was a ruse at the time, but now, with Minnie's reaction, there was no doubt whatsoever.

“I—I don't sleep well when I'm not in my own bed,” Minnie said weakly.

Seeing her opportunity, Tori stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on Minnie's shoulder as she did. “I heard about your rough nights this past week. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Hot milk always helps me settle down at night.” Rose removed the book from possible distraction range and slid it to the opposite side of the counter. “I'm sure Hannah will make you some if you ask her.”

“Minnie has been upset, Rose.”

Minnie's mouth gaped. “H-how do you know that?”

“From a few of your fellow tour members. They're concerned about you, Minnie.” She stepped even closer to the elderly woman and hoped it didn't send the woman straight for the door. “We all are. What happened here on Saturday was awful. I know the difficulty
I've
had processing it, and you spent all that time on the bus with her that morning, too.”

Minnie's lip quivered and she looked away.

“Minnie?”

“I wasn't nice to her,” Minnie whispered. “My parents raised me to be a kind person and I wasn't that day.”

Rose shuffled her way around the counter and then led Minnie toward the hallway that linked the main room with the rest of the building. Halfway there, Minnie came to a standstill.

“I—I can't go in there again.”

It took a moment for the meaning behind the woman's words to register with both of them, but as soon as they did, Rose rushed to correct the impression she hadn't meant to give. “I want you to go sit down in my office. It's small, but it's private. And you can sit down for a spell.”

“Sitting down sounds good,” Minnie half whispered, half mumbled.

The telltale jingle of an arriving customer detoured Rose back to the counter while Tori took over as hallway escort. There was no denying the way Minnie's gait slowed as she neared the project room, but by the grace of God, she kept walking until she was in Rose's office.

“Sit here.” Tori moved Rose's favorite chair into the
center of the windowless room and held it steady as Minnie lowered herself onto its edge. “Can I get you a glass of water? Or a cracker? Rose keeps a supply of crackers in her drawer. She says it gives her a boost when she's feeling tired.”

“No. I'm okay. I just need to clear my head, I think.”

She pulled a folding chair from the narrow closet, opened it across from Minnie, and tried to ignore the ticktock of the clock on the wall behind her head. “Minnie, I think you're being awfully hard on yourself. I never heard you say so much as one unkind word to Opal the entire time you were here on Saturday. She poked at you all day long, and you took every shot with grace. If kindness was important to your parents, I'm quite sure they'd have been proud of you a million times over.”

Unless you killed her . . .

She started to shake the troubling thought away but kept it close, instead. After all, Minnie was a suspect.

“Just because no one heard the things I said to Opal, doesn't mean I didn't say them.
I
know I said them and so, too, does . . . Opal.” Hunching forward in Rose's chair, Minnie began to cry, her shoulders shaking back and forth as her cries turned to sobs and finally petered off into hiccups. “I . . . don't . . . know . . . why . . . I couldn't . . . let . . . it . . . go. Everyone knew she was . . . mean. But I guess it was . . . watching her be so nasty to Rose . . . got to me.”

Repositioning her chair so they were side by side rather than across from each other, Tori sat down and began to quietly rub Minnie's back. In time, all lingering effects of her sobs disappeared, leaving a completely spent woman in their wake.

“Minnie, I didn't like the way Opal spoke to Rose or anyone else, either. That's nothing to feel bad about. Nice people generally don't gravitate toward mean-spirited people. Not when that mean spirit is on full display as it was with Opal on Saturday.”

“Did you yell at her?”

“No. But neither did you.”

Minnie's chin dropped to her chest. “Yes, I did. When everyone was enjoying those lovely treats Rose and Leona put out for us, Miranda offered to get my project on her way back from the restroom. I thanked her but said I'd get it myself. I followed her down the hallway and then headed into the project room while she went on to the bathroom.”

Unsure of what she was about to hear, Tori pulled her hand from Minnie's back and waited. On one hand, she wanted closure for Rose. On the other hand, she didn't want Mrs. Claus to be guilty of murder.

“I didn't have any intention of speaking with Opal. I just wanted to get my holiday apron and return to the main room to try one of Margaret Louise's hushpuppies. But the second I walked into the room, Opal got mean. She said it was people like me who gave old folks a bad name.”

“People like you? Are you kidding me? Did she not see how every one of us gravitated toward you from the moment your group arrived?”

If Tori's words registered in Minnie's head, it didn't show, as the woman continued her story in the same defeated tone. “I tried to ignore her just like I had to that point. I even hummed a little song my mother used to sing to me as a small child. But while I hummed, she
started quizzing me on sewing terms. Most I knew, but a few I didn't recognize. When I would say I didn't know one, she'd roll her eyes and laugh. She even brought up that signature thing again. Only this time, she started quizzing me on famous designers and asking me if I'd know their label by sight. A few I knew and a few I didn't. Those I got, she ignored. Those I didn't, she hung over my head as yet another example of how I was letting my generation down. By the time she was done, I was shaking. And that's when I snapped.”

Uh-oh . . .

“I told her she was a mean, nasty woman and that no one cared about her any more than they cared about some stupid bell on the label of a shirt. I told her if I had the choice between knowing everything and being liked, I'd take being liked any day of the week.” Minnie stopped, took a deep, shaky breath, and did her best to power through yet another round of tears. “And that's when I said it, Victoria.”

She started to brace herself for the inevitable confession, but stopped as Minnie's choice of words hit her with a one-two punch.

That's when I said it . . .

“Wait. That's when you
said
it?” she clarified in her own shaky voice.

Minnie's gaze dropped to the floor. “Yes.”

“Said
what
?”

“I told her that when she died, no one would attend her funeral.”

Tori stood in front of her window and waited for the inner calm that usually came whenever she looked out at the moss-draped trees canopying the library grounds like an old southern plantation. She tried to help it along by imagining a sprinkling of children—some reading under trees or at picnic tables, and others engaged in a spirited game of duck, duck, goose. But none of it made any difference. The unease that had settled over her the moment she realized Minnie's big secret wasn't so big after all showed no signs of going away.

She was back to square one with the exception of Gracelyn Moses. And while part of her wanted to believe that meant Gracelyn was the killer, the other part—the part that had waded into similar waters before—couldn't shake the feeling that she was missing something. What that something was though, she had no idea.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap . . .

Yanking her eyes to the left, she spotted Charles between the shrubbery and the window, looking down at the ground and using his finger on the glass to complete his chosen song: “Jingle Bells.” Recognizing the tune, she took care of the next line for him.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap t-app.

Charles's head snapped up to reveal the infectious smile she'd grown to love as much as the man who sported it. “Can I come in, sugar lips?”

She considered feigning an inability to read lips as a joke, but when she finally found her calm, the last thing she was going to do was risk sending it away in a huff. Instead, she nodded and pointed him toward the back door that would serve as their meeting place.

When she reached the door, she made sure to push it open slowly thanks to past complaints from Leona that still echoed in her ears. “Charles?” she called, looking around. “Where are you?”

“I'm. Right. Here.” She turned toward the triangle of snaps and motioned her friend inside, meeting his lips with her cheek as he passed. “Another week and your choice of songs will be spot-on.”

“‘Jingle Bells' is spot-on no matter what time of year it is, love.” He waved a manila folder in the space between them and then marched ahead of her into the office. “So why are you still here? Shouldn't you be home spending time with Milo?”

She pointed him toward Nina's desk chair and sank
down onto her own. “Well, let's see. First up, I cheated Nina out of her lunch break, so I made up for it by letting her go home an hour early. Second, I had to make up for all the work I didn't get done because of my extended lunch break. And finally, I didn't get to what I wanted to do during my break, so I figured I'd do that now, only I'm not.”

“I know I shouldn't have followed that, love, but I did.” He wiggled his fingers between them and let loose a little squeal. “I'm on fire today.”

“Dare I ask?” she said, grinning.

“How about I just show you, instead?” He held out the manila folder and waited for her to take it. “I'm quite sure my genius will speak for itself.”

“Genius, eh?” She set the folder on her desk and flipped it open to find a pile of single-sheet questionnaires. “What are these?”

“Only personal information about each and every one of the people on Miranda's tour.”

“Are you serious?” She liberated the pile from the folder and laid each page across her desk so she could see them side by side. “Okay, wait, I sort of recall you mentioning something about these before the bus showed up that morning. Only I thought you were kidding.”

“Nope. Leona wanted to make sure no one was allergic to Paris so when we talked on the phone two weeks ago, I proposed adding it to the questionnaire Miranda was drafting for the tour participants. Which is why, if you look at the fourth question on the sheet, you see the specific question regarding known allergies. Unfortunately, because Lucinda noted an allergy to cats, dogs, and rabbits, Paris had to stay back at the condo under my constant video surveillance.”

“Ah yes, I remember. I'm surprised Leona didn't have Lucinda thrown off the tour the moment that questionnaire came back in.”

“She thought about it, but, in the end, she decided to let it slide this one time.” Charles rode Nina's wheeled chair across the floor to Tori's desk and pointed at the series of papers. “I'm not sure any of the questions or their corresponding answers can help fill in any real blanks for us, but I figured it's worth a look, don't you?”

“Absolutely.” She read the first question regarding everyone's sewing experience and found that virtually everyone had picked up the craft during their teenage years except Opal. Opal hadn't picked up a needle and thread until her forties—an interesting curiosity considering her attitude toward Minnie . . .

“I like the question regarding their commitment to the craft. Lucinda and Samantha both say they make time to sew because it grounds them. Minnie and Gracelyn say they sew because they like making things for other people. And Opal pointed to the sewing museum she opened in Jasper Falls as her testament to a dying craft.”

“Sewing is
not
dying,” she argued.

“Opal was dramatic. We know this, Victoria.”

“True.” She leaned in for a closer look at Opal's sheet. “What else do we know about her from this?”

Charles's finger moved down the row of questions while his mouth narrated. “She reported no allergies. Her favorite sewing project thus far was a blouse she sent to her friend—the governor's wife—and she visited Sweet Briar one time about twenty years ago. So, in answer to your question, we still know nothing.” He slumped forward on the desk in a classic pout, lip and
all. “I'm sorry, Victoria. I was hoping there'd be something useful here.”

“It was worth a try.” She glanced at the answers on the rest of the questionnaires and then inserted them back into the folder. “We could do what I was planning to do when Rose dragged me off to talk to Minnie.”

Charles rescinded his lip and stared at Tori. “You talked to Minnie?”

“I did. And she's officially off our list of suspects.”

“I could have told you that.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“No, I'm serious. I did a lot of thinking over the last few days, and I remember seeing Minnie come back from the project room, too. And yes, she looked a little shaken as Rose described, but I knew she couldn't have killed Opal because I checked on the old bat after that, and she was alive and well when I went in. Just ask Miranda.”

“But why didn't you say something sooner?” she asked.

“Because I didn't want to be wrong in the event she slipped back in when I wasn't looking. And when you mentioned that book she checked out, I had to consider the fact I was wrong on the timing.”

“The book was a mere curiosity. She felt so guilty—and still does—over the last few things she said to Opal, that she wanted to know how it could have happened. How someone could kill Opal like that and get away with it.” She swiveled the chair around to the computer monitor but stopped short of actually turning it on. “You know what? I need a treat—something chocolaty.”

“You're speaking my language, sister.”

“Debbie's?” she teased.

“Is there any other choice even worthy of consideration?” He raked the folder over to the edge of the desk but left it there for a moment as he double-checked the knot in his accessory scarf. When he deemed it acceptable, he grabbed the folder but remained seated. “You sure about this, love?”

“About needing a treat? Absolutely.”

“No, I was referring more to wrapping things up here prematurely.”

“I'll get it done. I always do. Right now though, I just want some fun time with you before you have to head back to New York. After all, Chief Dallas can't keep you here forever.”

*   *   *

They were about a bite away from finishing the sampler plate Emma had put together for them when Debbie dropped a stack of color travel brochures on their table and kept walking.

“Hey, what's this?”

“Excess.”

Charles craned his head around his extra-tall coffee and helped himself to half the pile, cycling through the material in record speed. “Did it, did it, did it, didn't do it, did it, did it.”

She took his stack back and looked down at the top brochure. “When did you go to the Tom's Creek Butterfly House?”

“Tuesday.”

“And the Jackson Family Ice Cream Factory?”

He sucked in a breath and let it out with his answer.
“Tuesday afternoon, on the way home from the butterfly house.”

“You've really done all of these things?” she asked, holding out his stack.

“Everything but the ziplining. I don't look good in ropes.”

“But you've only been here twice . . . for less than two full weeks in total.”

He started to shrug but got distracted by a hangnail on his left thumb. “Leona is a wonderful hostess, what can I say?”

She separated his pile into two separate piles—one for those attractions that fell in the must-do category, and one for those that didn't. When she reached the end, she moved on to the second stack.

“Kayaking on Reiner Lake—must do. Wolf sanctuary—must do. Jasper Falls Sewing Museum—must . . . wait. This has to be Opal's place, right?” She turned the brochure so Charles could see it, too, and then took a good hard look at the cover. A collage of colored pictures filled the top half of the front page while the museum's address and hours claimed the space underneath. Inside, they saw more pictures and a list of fourth-quarter exhibits.

T
HE
Y
ESTERYEAR
OF
S
EWIN
G
:
A
LOOK
BACK
AT
THE
TOOLS
OF
THE
TRADE
THROUGH
THE
DECADES
.

S
EWING
TO
L
IVE
:
FOR SOME, SEWING IS A PASSION. FOR OTHERS, IT'S A WAY OF LIFE
.

S
IG
NATURES
D
ON
'
T
L
IE
:
THE HISTORY OF THE PERSONALIZED LABEL.

When she came to the end of the last line, she doubled back and read it a second time. “Ahhh, so that's why she was so horrid over the whole label fingerprint thingy. She was preparing an exhibit and wanted to fling her knowledge around.”

“I wonder if I could talk Leona into going to this with me,” Charles mused. “Maybe if I bill it as a way to reach more customers for the shop, she'll consider it.”

“If she doesn't, you and I can go the next time you're in town. We could make a whole day out of it with lunch on one end, and a stop for frozen custard on the other. Maybe some of the others might want to join us.”

Charles's gasp was faint but still noticeable. “You mean like a real live sewing circle field trip?”

“Sure. Can't you see Margaret Louise and the others lapping something like that up?”

“Please, please don't let her drive,” Charles pleaded. “Please?”

“We'll need a few drivers to get everyone there.”

“I get that, Victoria. I'm just calling dibs on any car she's not driving.”

Her laugh filled the space between them and she reveled in the moment, the stress of the past few days evaporating like water droplets on a hot day. “You know there's a movement under way to keep you here permanently, yes?”

“I know. You mentioned it the other day.”

“Okay, but did I also happen to mention the beat is getting louder and louder?”

“Trust me, sugar lips, I hear it, too. Leona is becoming downright relentless on the subject. Her latest tactic, you ask? Using Paris to guilt me into making the move.”

“She's used Paris to guilt you? How?”

“Well, she likes to drop the fact that my departure after your wedding upset Paris so much she had to see a therapist for a few weeks.”

“Is—is that true?” she stammered.

“She showed me the bill.”