Sew Deadly (17 page)

For as long as she could remember, she’d always viewed a trip to the bakery as something akin to nirvana. The kind of place where one’s choices were relatively painless—brownies with or without nuts, chocolate or vanilla frosted cakes, chocolate chip or macadamia nut cookies, chocolate or strawberry mousses—and the payoff was nothing short of mind-blowing.

Yet there was something about her impending meeting with Milo Wentworth that made her first visit to Debbie’s Bakery a little less inviting. It wasn’t that the desserts looked less scrumptious than they had in Chicago or that the shop wasn’t decorated in an enticing manner. They did and it was. It was simply a matter of nerves winning out over the urge to eat chocolate—a rarity in Tori’s life, and one that didn’t go unnoticed.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” A young girl in her late teens skidded to a stop behind the glass case Tori was inspecting and flashed a friendly smile. “The Long Johns are buy one get one free this evening. Though the black and white cookies are extra yummy today.”

“Uhhhh, I’m not sure. It all looks so good.” She meant it, she really did. Tori just didn’t have the heart to tell the girl the items she’d pointed out only served to make her stomach churn harder.

“Take your time. There’s a lot to choose from.” The girl reached behind her neck and tightened the straps of her apron. “I’ve never seen you in here before. Are you visiting?”

“Mmmm, something like that, I guess.” She knew she was being evasive, but she didn’t care. She wanted to be somewhere—even for just a little while—where people didn’t look at her with either curiosity or controlled rage. She wanted to just
be
.

“Sweet Briar is a nice town. Calm. Peaceful. Or”—the girl looked toward a closed door at the far end of where she stood and lowered her voice to a near whisper—“or at least it was until four days ago.”

So much for just being.

Tori leaned closer to the case, made a show of examining each and every item that graced the glass shelves inside.

“This girl, Tiffany Ann, she’s one of our regulars. Or, at least, a regular when she’s not in school. She shows up every morning between ten thirty and eleven like clockwork and gets a vanilla latte. It’s such a habit we start making her drink before she ever even reaches the register.” The girl looked toward the door once again, her voice dropping even lower. “Sometimes she takes it and sits right there”—she pointed to a stool on the other side of Tori—“and sometimes she gets it to go . . . like she did
that
day.”

That
day? Tori straightened up, her ears far more interested in the sudden conversation than her eyes were in anything behind the glass case.

Seemingly aware of the fact she had Tori’s full attention, the girl babbled on, her eyes big and luminous in the fluorescent overhead lighting. “Tiffany Ann is a belle through and through.”

“A belle?” Tori asked.

“A southern belle. All prim and proper and very into how she looks.” The girl stepped back, motioned to her floured apron. “Unlike me, who doesn’t look in a mirror more ’n once a day . . . as you can probably tell, huh?”

Tori smiled. “You look fine. A lot better than I would if I was baking desserts and working a register all day.”

“Thanks.” Scooting out from behind the counter, the clerk leaned against the corner of the glass case, stealing a peek at the door behind the counter from time to time. “Weird thing is . . .
that
day . . . Tiffany Ann wasn’t all belled up.”

A white linen dress with turquoise-colored sandals wasn’t belled up?

She bit her lip, waited for the girl to continue.

“I mean, sure, she looked pretty . . . Tiffany Ann makes—I mean—
made
everyone around her look like a total bow wow . . . but
that
day she seemed off. Her dress wasn’t pressed within an inch of its life, a few hairs were out of place . . . you know, that sorta thing.”

“Normal human things?” Tori asked, then regretted her words. Sometimes even the smallest comment could take a conversation in a different direction. And, judging by the time on the clock behind the counter, Milo was due any moment.

“
Abnormal
Tiffany Ann things.” The girl rested more of her weight against the case as her occasional glances toward the door grew few and far between. “She was kinda strange . . . up and down, up and down.”

“What do you mean?”

“One minute she was real jumpy, the next she seemed almost subdued. Then, just as a few new customers came into the shop, she got real jumpy again. Real impatient . . . like I couldn’t get her order made fast enough. When I set it down beside the register she hurled her money at me and took off in a sprint—nearly knocked the mayor’s husband off his feet. As it was, she made him drop his wallet and stuff fell out everywhere.”

Tori looked again at the clock, prayed Milo would get detained along the way by an overfriendly dog or a handful of students out for a Sunday night stroll. “Any chance she was on drugs?”

The girl’s mouth dropped open. “Tiffany Ann? On drugs? Uh—no. She was way too clean, way too perfect.” The girl eyed her closely. “If you hadn’t already told me you were new to the area, I’d have known all on my own based on that one question. Even without your funny accent.”

Funny accent?

“Okay, so then what happened?” Tori prompted.

“Wiiiittthhh . . .”

“With
Tiffany Ann
. Bumping into the mayor’s husband.”

“Oh. Yeah. Okay. Anyway, I was so busy picking his money and credit cards up off the floor I didn’t even notice she’d left her coffee behind. By the time the next customer handed it to me, Tiffany Ann was already out the door and halfway across the parking lot. Debbie went running after her.” The girl shoved her hands into her apron pocket and wandered back behind the register. “Me? I wouldn’t have bothered bringing it out to her. That one was just a little too pampered for her own good.”

A jingle from the other side of the bakery made them both look up, the customer it ushered in bringing an added flutter to Tori’s stomach.

Milo.

Waving a quick hand at the schoolteacher, she looked back at the young salesclerk. “By the way, I’m Tori.”

“I’m Emma. Emma Adams.” The girl’s face broke out into a mischievous smile as she looked from Tori to Milo and back again. Lowering her voice to the level it had been when she first started talking, she added, “He’s way cute.”

Milo?

She spun around, mentally prayed he didn’t hear the salesclerk. It wasn’t that it wasn’t true—Milo Wentworth was most definitely a good-looking man. He was tall and lanky, his arms sporting just enough muscle to make a woman feel safe. His hair was just long enough to explore with gentle fingers. His eyes had a wonderful ability to smile before his lips did. . . .

Not that she’d noticed or anything.

The last thing she needed was a man in her life. Especially one that gave the local police some bizarre motive in the death of Tiffany Ann Gilbert.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I got waylaid by Jonathan’s parents.” Milo approached the counter, gave Tori’s arm a brief and gentle squeeze. “Were you waiting long?”

“Not—”

The door Emma had been watching throughout their conversation opened, and out came Debbie holding a small tray of miniature pudding pies. “Emma, we’re just going to set out a few of these now and—” The shop owner stopped, a slightly pink hue coloring her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we had customers. Victoria . . . Mr. Wentworth . . . how are you this evening?”

“Fine. How are you, Debbie?” Tori clasped her hands inside one another, unsure of how to read Debbie’s reaction to seeing her.

Debbie waved her free hand in the air, her long ponytail bobbing with the sudden movement. “Busy. It’s my evening with the bakery’s books, which means I’ve been staring at numbers for the past two hours. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m cross-eyed.”

Tori leaned forward, made a point of studying the bakery owner’s face with all the drama she could muster. “Nope. No crossed eyes yet.”

Debbie laughed, a genuine happy laugh. “Thank heaven for small favors.” The woman set the tray down on a back counter and began shuttling the miniature pies between the counter and glass case. “Let me get this stuff taken care of and then I’ll stop by your table and visit for a little bit. That is if”—she looked from Tori to Milo and back again—“you’re staying.”

“We are,” Milo answered. As Debbie focused on her task, he turned his attention back on Tori. “You were saying . . . ?”

“Um, I don’t remember.” Tori shrugged an apology.

“About my keeping you waiting . . .”

“Oh, that’s right. You didn’t.” She looked in Debbie’s direction then winked at Emma. “I only beat you by a few seconds and it gave Emma a chance to show me some of the day’s specials. She’s a very good salesperson.”

Emma’s head dropped but not before Tori caught the pleased smile that spread across her face.

“In fact, after talking to her, I think I’m leaning toward a black and white cookie. They look pretty yummy.”

Milo nodded and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Two black and white cookies, please.”

Tori shot her hand out. “No, please. I can get mine.”

“Women don’t pay for dates. Not in the south they don’t.”

A
date
?

Uh-oh.

“But I—”

“Don’t argue, Victoria.”

Fantastic.
Now Debbie was under the impression it was a date as well.

“What would you like to drink?” Milo asked as he extracted a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. “They have flavored coffees and teas.”

And deadly vanilla lattes.

She scanned the menu above Emma’s head. “I’d love a small hot chocolate. With just a little whipped cream if you could.”

“You’ve got it.” Emma took Milo’s money, counted back his change, and then pointed to a table by the windows. “I’ll bring it out to you in just a second.”

Milo led the way to one of two turretlike alcoves that overlooked a tiny park on the northern edge of the town’s square. The tables in this section of the bakery were round with wiry legs, the chairs cushioned and wire-backed. The comfortable chairs and private feel of the room invited patrons to linger over coffee and a piece of chocolate cake as they read the paper or to share a friend’s birthday over cupcakes or to enjoy a date—

She met Milo’s gaze as she sat down, swallowed over the dryness that enveloped her mouth.

“
I, uh—” She dropped her hands to her lap and looked out the window, her eyes searching for something, anything, her mouth could talk about. She skimmed the park grounds in search of a familiar child to discuss or a now-familiar library patron she could reference, but there was nothing. Nothing except emptiness. . . .

“I can’t believe the fair was less than twenty-four hours ago.” She swept her hand through her hair before returning it to her lap. “There’s not a single ride still up, or a booth that hasn’t been taken down, or even a piece of litter to be seen.”

“Georgina is a stickler for cleanliness and order.” Milo rested his elbows on the edge of the table and leaned forward. “And, come to think of it, she’s the same about safety.”

“I know.” Tori felt her shoulders begin to relax as she focused on a topic she could address—one that had nothing to do with whether this was a meeting or a date. “She was after me the very first night we met about getting a bulb into my porch light.”

“I could do that for you,” Milo offered quickly, his eyebrows furrowed.

She pulled her hands from her lap and set them on the table. “I can do it. In fact I have . . . many, many times.”

“You’ve only been here a few weeks, right? They shouldn’t be burning out that quickly unless maybe you’ve got a bad fuse. I’d certainly be happy to take a look.”

She shook her head softly. “I wish it were that simple. The bulbs work just fine. Until they disappear.”

“I don’t understand.” Milo leaned back as Emma set their cookies and drinks on the table.

“Thanks, Emma. It looks great.” Despite her still unsettled stomach, Tori placed a napkin on her lap and broke off a bite of cookie as the girl walked away. “I put the bulb in at night and by morning—and sometimes even sooner—it’s gone.”

Milo stopped drinking mid-sip. “Gone? As in no bulb?”

“No bulb. It’s the strangest thing.” She popped the piece of cookie into her mouth then took a quick sip of her hot chocolate, retrieving her napkin in order to wipe whipped cream off her nose. “If I let myself believe all the talk around here about me, I might actually start to think I’m losing it, too. But I know I’m not . . . so there must be another reason for the bulbs disappearing.”

He set his cup down. “Teenagers?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s just someone who hates me.”

“I can’t imagine that,” he said, his voice softening.

She shrugged. “Before I came here, I couldn’t either. But, honestly, disappearing bulbs are the least of my worries these days. Does it make me angry? Sure. Do I want to wring someone’s neck every time I walk outside and another one is missing? Absolutely. But those emotions tend to fade away rather quickly when they’re up against the kind that come with being the town’s favorite murder suspect.”

Milo reached across the table and patted her hand. “C’mon. The talk will die down.”

“I hope you’re right.” She wrapped her hand through the handle of the ceramic bakery mug and inhaled slowly, deliberately. “The only way I want my name coming into conversations around town is in regards to feedback—positive feedback—on the children’s room. Assuming it gets approved, of course.”

“Tell me about it.” Milo pushed his chair from the table by a few inches then leaned against the wire back, brought his right ankle to rest across his left knee.

“Tell you about what?”

“The children’s room. The way you envision it looking when it’s all done.”

Any remaining tension or apprehension she felt was magically gone as she took him through her proposal one step at a time. She told him about the various storybook scenes she wanted to paint on the walls, the beanbag chairs that would be scattered throughout the room, the small wooden stage she intended to construct in the corner of the room.