Death Threads (26 page)

“Rose?” she whispered as the elderly woman’s words continued, their frail raspy quality echoing inside her ears . . .

She slapped her hand over her mouth as the enormity of the woman’s words hit her with a one-two punch.

Was it possible? Was there a chance Colby’s disappearance was nothing but a publicity stunt?

“Nina, I need you to hold down the fort.” She ran around the desk, grabbed her purse from the ground beside Nina’s, and headed toward the hallway, her heart slamming against her chest as a week’s worth of torturous questions faded to the background in favor of one.

But was it really possible?

Tori sat in her car and stared up at the Calhoun home—a home that was envied for the happiness and love it witnessed on a daily basis. Everything, from the wide front porch with the cluster of rockers to the swing that dangled from a moss tree in the front yard, screamed family. And closeness. Yet in a week’s time, that happiness—that closeness—had all but faded into a memory as the present became inundated with unimaginable heartache.

On the drive over, she’d done everything she could to discount the thoughts running through her head. Tried to chalk them up to lack of sleep and increased self-pressure to bring at least a small sense of closure to Debbie and the children.

But try as she might, she couldn’t shake the troubling picture that had assembled itself in her mind—the first few pieces forming at the library, the rest falling into place as she maneuvered the streets of Sweet Briar. The only saving grace, though, was the completed picture that emerged.

A picture she couldn’t share with Debbie until she was absolutely certain of its reality.

Summoning up every ounce of courage she possessed, Tori pushed the car door open and stepped out onto the pavement, her legs uncharacteristically wobbly. There were so many things she needed to ask Debbie, little bits of information that could mean all the difference in the world.

The problem was whether she could glean what she needed without tipping her hand in the process—a mistake that could serve to reshatter an already broken heart.

Tori walked around her car and stepped onto the sidewalk, her feet instinctively stopping as she stared up at the house and swallowed. Her poker playing skills had always been atrocious thanks to the very thing Nina had pointed out that morning—Tori wore her heart on her sleeve.

A quality that was completely unacceptable at the moment.

Inhaling deeply, Tori willed her legs to follow the stairs that led to the Calhouns’ front porch, her heart pounding with each step she took. As she reached the top, she stared at the door—the same door she and Debbie had found ajar just one week earlier.

She knocked, her tiny fist barely making a dent amid the afternoon sounds of a neighborhood teeming with children. She knocked again, louder.

A curtain to the left of the door inched aside, revealing Debbie’s ashen face and red swollen eyes. Unsure of what else to do, Tori waved.

Seconds later, the sound of a lock disengaging echoed through the door just before Debbie’s face peeked around its corner. “Victoria, how are you?”

She reached out, pulled her friend into an embrace. “How are you holding up?”

“Okay, I guess.” Debbie stepped back and motioned Tori inside. “When I need to cry—like now—my mom takes the kids to her house. When I need to be strong, she brings them back.”

“If now is a bad time, I-I could come back.” She stopped just inside the front entryway and eyed her friend with concern. “I don’t want to force a visit on you if you’re not up to it.”

Debbie pushed her hand through her unkempt hair and leaned against the wall. “I’m not sure there will ever be a good time again. For anything.”

“I’m so sorry, Debbie. So very, very sorry.” She knew the words were useless but it was all she could think to say, to do. “If there’s anything at all I can do . . . you have to tell me.”

The woman managed a wan smile as she pushed off the wall and gestured for Tori to follow her into the parlor. “It’s nice to have someone who cares regardless of what they think of Colby.”

“You haven’t heard, have you?” she asked as she sat down on the chair Debbie indicated, a navy armchair that looked as if it could swallow her whole.

“I haven’t heard anything. I haven’t really wanted to,” Debbie said, her voice cracking as she claimed the cream-colored sofa across from Tori. “Colby was my husband. He was a good husband, a good father, and a good man no matter what anyone in this town says.”

“They’ve been looking for him. They spent the entire weekend searching.” She studied her friend as the woman twisted her hands inside her lap, her shoulders hunched forward in sadness. “I think most of them realize they were wrong.”

Debbie’s hands stilled momentarily as she looked up through tear-filled eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“The residents. The men, really. They’ve been walking the woods. Knocking on doors.” She leaned forward, engaging Debbie in eye contact. “They’ve been looking for Colby.”

One by one, tears trickled down the woman’s flawless skin. “Who?”

Rising to her feet, Tori walked around the coffee table in the center of the room and sat beside her friend, her hand pulling the woman’s from her lap and holding it gently. “Pretty much everyone. Duwayne Morgan, Carter Johnson, Milo, Chief Dallas.” She continued rattling off names as Debbie’s tears fell more rapidly. “And that’s not all. There are others who are determined to make amends as well . . . to help you and the kids.”

Debbie swiped her cheeks with the back of her hand as she waited for Tori to continue.

“In fact, right now”—she glanced at her watch—“Margaret Louise and Rose should be greeting the after work crowd at the bakery and getting ready to turn things over to Emily so they can get ready for our sewing circle later this evening.”

“Rose is helping at . . .” The woman’s voice trailed off as sobs racked her athletic body—gut-wrenching sounds that brought tears to Tori’s eyes.

“Yes. Rose. And Georgina’s taking the afternoon shift tomorrow.”

“B-b-but they w-w-were so ang-angry at Colby at the l-l-last meeting.” Debbie spoke through the tears as she rested her head on Tori’s shoulder.

“And they were wrong to put that on you the way that they did. They realize that now.” Tori swiveled her body toward Debbie as the woman picked up her head. “They love you, Debbie. We all do. We want to help you.”

“Then bring Colby home . . . alive,” she whispered as the sobbing began again.

Seconds turned to minutes as Tori simply held her friend, her shirt growing wet against her shoulder. But it didn’t matter. Being there, did.

When the crying finally stopped, Debbie leaned her head back against the couch, her nose red, and her eyes puffy. “I can’t get it out of my mind. Not any of it. The letter. The blood. The knife. The mess in our room.”

Tori nodded in understanding. “I know. I can’t either.”

“Thank you for being there with me that night.” Debbie raked a hand through her hair and looked at Tori through eyes that were suddenly hooded. “I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.”

She patted the woman’s hand. “I’m glad I was there, too.”

“Chief Dallas doesn’t seem to have any leads at all. The only prints on the knife were mine, which doesn’t help, and the only prints on the letter were mine and Colby’s.”

“Are you serious?” She mulled over the information, tried it on for size. “Then doesn’t that mean there’s a good likelihood that whoever wrote the note was also the one who took Colby?”

Debbie lifted her shoulders only to let them fall downward once again. “Why would you say that?”

“No prints on the knife . . . no prints on the letter . . . seems to me the same smart person was responsible for both. Though why someone would bother to write a threatening note prior to killing someone is beyond me.”

Unless the whole thing was a ruse from start to finish. To create a better story . . .

“I don’t know what we’re going to do, Victoria. I do okay at the bakery, but it’s not enough to raise two children in”—she raised her hands into the air—“a home like this by myself.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“William has been so nice. He’s checked in every day on the phone and he even stopped by yesterday after he met with Margaret Louise.”

“You mean William Clayton Wilder? The publisher?”

Debbie nodded.

“He was here the day of the festival because of Colby, wasn’t he?”

Again, Debbie nodded, the slight motion one of great effort for the distraught woman.

“What can you tell me about him? Why did he come to see Colby in the first place?”

“He was on his way from point A to point B and stopped here. They had a bit of a powwow regarding publicity and marketing.”

“Is that normal for a publisher to do with an author of Colby’s level?” She prayed the question didn’t offend, as that wasn’t her intent.

If Debbie noticed though, she said nothing. “Apparently the stop enabled William to write off a pleasure trip. You know, a moment of work amid a week of fun in the sun.”

“How’d the meeting go?”

“I don’t really know. By the time we met up after the festival, the fallout from the article had already started. His meeting with William was the least of our worries.” Debbie stared at her hands, her words taking on an almost wooden quality. “You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“The publicity Colby is getting now . . . because of, well, because of this week . . . that’s the kind of national exposure William wanted. Ironic, huh?”

Ironic
is one word for it . . .

She willed her thoughts to stay with Debbie, right there in the present conversation rather than in the newly awakened conspiracy-theory corner of her brain.

“H-has Mr. Wilder been working hard to reassure you?” She hated putting the question out there, but it had to be asked. She only prayed Debbie didn’t put much thought into the inquiry.

“Some, I guess. But the money part wasn’t very reassuring.”

“Money part?”

“About having to give Colby’s advance back.”

She stared at Debbie. “Give it back?”

“Colby was paid an advance for his next book. He never finished it.” Debbie’s voice grew weak as her body seemed to shrink into the sofa. “That money was given on good faith.”

“Colby didn’t know he was going to die!” She slammed her mouth shut as tears rolled down Debbie’s cheeks once again. “Oh, Debbie, I’m so sorry . . . I just . . . I’m sorry.”

“I-I-I have to get used to it, Victoria. Colby is dead. He’s not coming home.” Her voice eked out each word with a pain so tangible Tori could almost reach out and touch it. “And William is r-r-right. That money has to g-g-go back.”

Tori fought the urge to scream, to vent her anger and frustration over the publisher’s insensitivity at such a trying time. But as much as she wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, too.

The notion of paying back an advance shot a huge crack right through the middle of her latest theory—a theory that had Colby holed up in some four-star hotel room while the nation grew infatuated with his name. Because if she’d been right, there would have eventually been a book . . .

In the absence of any credible evidence to support her suspicion though, Colby was still dead. And Debbie was still heartbroken.

Margaret Louise’s home was bright and colorful with alphabet letter magnets, a dollhouse, a bucket of miniature cars, and more finger painted pictures hanging on the wall than Tori had ever seen in one place.