Death Threads (8 page)

“How so?”

“Ella May’s man is about to become Ella May’s husband.”

“Are you serious?” Tori turned onto Tulip Lane, slowing the car enough to allow her gaze to focus on Debbie. “Details!”

“She came in to look at my catalog of wedding cakes. She doesn’t want anything too elaborate or too big and she wants me to use an organic frosting, of course. And, unlike my sewing circle sisters just now, Ella May was actually polite and friendly.”

She couldn’t help but notice the way Debbie’s voice cracked as Tori pulled to a stop in front of 15 Tulip Lane. Shifting the car into park, Tori turned and removed the key from the ignition before reaching out and gently patting the woman’s arm. “I’m sorry, Debbie. I truly am. But I think it’s the kind of thing that will die down. Sooner rather than later.”

Debbie turned her head and looked toward the pale yellow two-story home she shared with her husband and children—a home Tori herself would love to replicate one day. “Jackson cried so hard when he came home from the playground that I thought my heart was going to break in two. And just about the time we got him settled down, he started with one of his nosebleeds.”

“Nosebleeds?”

“Yeah.” Debbie waved her hand in the air as she continued to study her home from the passenger side window. “It’s no big deal. Colby gets them, too. But it was one thing after the other and it started him sobbing again. And Suzanna . . . she was crushed, too. Her very best friend uninvited her to a sleepover this weekend.”

“Oh, Debbie, I’m—”

“On top of all that,” Debbie continued, the words pouring from her mouth, “Colby was devastated. He kept saying he hadn’t thought the story out enough . . . that he never stopped to think how his need for honesty and truth might affect the kids and me.”

“I can only imagine how he’s feeling right now. But you have to respect him for taking a stand on something he felt was right.”

“I guess.” With a quick swipe of her hand, Debbie brushed away one lone tear as it made its way down her cheek. “I just hate to see the people I love hurting. And now, with that letter . . .”

“Idle threats, Debbie, idle threats. Remember that.” Slowly, the woman turned from the window, her lip quivering in the streetlamp light streaming in through the windshield. “I’m trying. I really am.”

“I know.” Removing her hand from Debbie’s arm, Tori reached into the backseat and hoisted her tote bag into her lap. “Want to see something?”

“Sure.”

“Ella May called in a stack of books she wanted us to set aside last week. And it got me thinking . . . about the people in the nursing home on the northern edge of town. I know they have an on-site library, but it’s mostly books that people have donated over the years—books that were first released decades ago.”

“Go on.”

Feeling a slight upward swing in Debbie’s demeanor, Tori continued on, anxious to do anything she could think of to restore a smile to her friend’s face. “The truly house-bound residents simply don’t have easy access to books with more recent release dates.” Sliding her hand into the tote, she pulled out the sample gift bag she’d intended to share with the circle before things got out of hand. “But, maybe, with the help of a few volunteers on a once-a-week basis, we could fill request orders for the residents.”

Debbie snatched the cloth bag from Tori’s hands and turned it over in her own. “And you want to deliver each resident’s requested books in a homemade sack?”

She nodded.

“Victoria, that’s a wonderful idea. Absolutely wonderful.” Opening the bag, Debbie slid her hand inside. “We’ll need to make them a little bigger—to accommodate several hardcovers if necessary.”

“I agree.”

“And this would be a wonderful project for the circle to do as a group—like the costumes we made for the dress-up trunk in the children’s room at the library.”

Again, Tori nodded, a sense of relief washing over her as a genuine smile returned to Debbie’s lips.

“Oooh, I think I even have some fabric that would be perfect for some of the sacks . . . cheerful colors that’ll make the whole experience even brighter for them.” Debbie dropped the bag onto her lap and clapped her hands.

“And, even if the circle never accepts me back, this is something I can do on my own here at the house. It might even be something Suzanna can help with as well.”

“They’ll come around, Debbie. I’m sure of it.” Tori nudged her chin in the direction of the house. “It’s kind of dark in there, is Colby home?”

Debbie quietly folded the sample bag and handed it back to Tori. “He wasn’t feeling very well when I left. He tried to pass it off on a persistent sinus infection, but I know better. He’s upset about the fallout of his article and it has him as low as I’ve ever seen him. So I encouraged him to take two sleeping pills. By the time I left for the meeting with the kids, he was passed out on the bed. I imagine that’s where he’ll remain until sometime tomorrow morning.”

“Then I’ll wait here until you get inside.” Tori stuffed the gift bag back in her tote and offered the woman a quick hug. “Try to stay positive, okay?”

“I’m trying, I really am.” Debbie wrapped her long slender fingers around the recessed handle and pulled, the door swinging open to the curb. As quickly as she swiveled her legs to the street, she stopped and turned back to Tori. “Why don’t you come in for just a minute? I’d like to show you the fabric I have in mind for some of the sacks . . . see if it’s okay.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to wake Colby.”

Debbie laughed. “Not even a freight train will wake him right now.” Stepping from the car, she leaned down and motioned Tori to follow. “C’mon. It’ll only take a moment.”

“Okay.” Tori set the tote on the now-vacant passenger seat before stepping from the car, her keys safely housed in her backpack purse. With a few quick strides she joined her friend on the sidewalk.

Falling into step with one another, they headed toward the house, the gathering dusk making it difficult to navigate the stretch of porch steps that didn’t benefit from the glow of a nearby streetlight. “I’m sorry, Victoria. I could swear I flipped on the porch light as I was . . .”

Tori cast a sidelong glance at her friend as the woman’s words suddenly trailed off. “Debbie, is everything okay?”

“The door.”

“What?”

Debbie pointed at the partially opened door in front of them, her voice a nervous whisper. “I pulled the door shut behind me . . . I know I did.”

“Are you sure?” Tori asked as she forced her words to sound calm and reassuring. “Is it possible you were distracted by one of the kids? You have a lot on your mind, you know.”

“Not enough to be that careless.”

She knew Debbie was right. In addition to being a successful entrepreneur, Debbie Calhoun was also meticulous. About everything. Leaving a door half open at a time her family was under fire didn’t fit the bill. Not even close.

“I’ll call Chief Dallas.” Slipping her backpack purse from her shoulder, Tori unzipped it and reached inside, her hand closing over her cell phone. “I’m sure he can be here in a matter of minutes.”

“Wait.” Debbie stepped forward and turned her ear toward the opening. “I don’t hear anything. Do you?”

Tori listened for a moment as well. “No, but maybe we should still call. Just to be sure.”

“I don’t know, Victoria, maybe I was distracted. Jackson was still so sad . . . and Suzanna’s hurt had turned into anger by that point. And I was trying to juggle my sewing stuff and the cookie squares with Jackson’s little hand . . . Maybe I really did just leave it open.”

It sounded plausible when presented like that, but still, this was Debbie Calhoun they were talking about.

“Really, I think it’s okay.” Debbie pushed the door the rest of the way open and beckoned Tori to follow, her hand finding a wall-mounted light switch in record fashion. In an instant, the front hallway of the Calhoun home was bathed in light, the only sound coming from the grandfather clock that stood sentry beside the wood planked staircase. “See, it’s fine.”

Tori watched as Debbie’s shoulders drooped in relief, the same sensation running through her own body. “Phew. You had my heart starting to race there for a moment.”

“Mine, too.” The woman gestured toward the parlor on their left. “Make yourself at home, Victoria. I’m going to grab that fabric to show you and check in on Colby real quick.”

“Take your time.” Tori’s hand found the light switch for the parlor and stepped inside, her pulse beginning to slow to a near-normal rate as she stopped beside the mantel adorned with pictures of Debbie’s family. Jackson and Suzanna starred in just about every framed photo, each snapshot documenting various stages of their young lives. In some, they were photographed in posed fashion, in others they were caught in more random, candid moments. But in each and every one they sported genuine happy smiles, a perfect match for the one photo they didn’t grace—the one from their parents’ wedding day. In that picture, it was Colby and Debbie who were all smiles as the promise of a life together stretched before them.

Tori swallowed over the sudden lump in her throat as she leaned closer to the wedding day photograph. In it, Debbie’s dirty blonde hair was swept into a French braid that emphasized her high cheekbones. And Colby was as handsome as ever, though it was easy to see that the subsequent nine years or so with Debbie had served him well.

That was what she wanted one day. A good man to share her life with from that day forward . . .

“Colby? Colby?”

Debbie’s panicked voice preceded her down the staircase and sent Tori’s pulse racing once again. “Debbie, what’s wrong?”

“Colby . . . he’s not in his bed . . . he’s not upstairs anywhere.” Debbie rushed through the parlor and into the kitchen, lights flipping on in every room she entered. “With those sleeping pills I gave him he shouldn’t be wandering around. He shouldn’t even be a—”

A low guttural moan escaped Debbie’s lips as she stopped halfway through the kitchen, her feet moving backward as she bumped into Tori. “Oh no . . . oh no . . .” Her voice trailed off only to return in a shriek as she pointed at the floor in front of them. “Oh no!”

Stepping around her friend, Tori stared at the knife jutting from the linoleum kitchen floor with a hastily scrawled note beneath its handle. “What is that?”

“I th-think it’s the letter . . .”

She strained to hear her friend’s muted words as she dropped to the ground to examine the knife. “Letter?”

“The death threat.”

Careful not to touch anything, Tori leaned in as close to the note as possible, her stomach churning violently as her gaze fell on the faint red spatters that dotted the otherwise ordinary white stationery paper. Faint red spatters that mingled with the red waxy scribbles and looked a lot like—

“Oh my God. Debbie, call the police . . . now.”

If there was ever a time she wished she could hit the Pause button on her life, this was it. Sure she’d have opted to use Rewind—or, more accurately, Erase—during her temporary stint as a murder suspect a few months earlier, but Pause would suffice at the moment.

With Pause, she could mute the incessant whispered chatter of the teenage girls in the young adult section. With Pause, she’d be spared the needling guilt over all the little tasks that needed to be completed before lunch—shelving, returning calls, and planning a theme for the next installment of Toddler Time. And with Pause, she might have half a chance of collecting her thoughts after the roller-coaster ride she’d been on since the frightening discovery at Debbie’s house the night before.

“Miss Sinclair?”

From the moment she’d noticed the bloodstains in Debbie’s kitchen, all hell had broken loose. A hell that had included a hysterical friend, a probing police chief, a hurried phone call to Melissa’s home to head off Suzanna and Jackson’s impending return, and the undeniable presence of even more blood than first thought.

“Miss Sinclair?”

As grateful as she’d been that Debbie had heeded the chief’s instructions to stay downstairs as he searched the house, seeing the overturned chair and scattered books in their bedroom firsthand hadn’t been a whole lot easier for Tori. The condition of the room had answered questions she hadn’t really wanted to entertain even as she’d stared at the knife-pierced note.

Regardless of what had happened in the Calhoun home while Debbie and the children were at Melissa’s, one thing was certain. Colby had put up a struggle.

“Victoria!”

The sound of her name and the stamp of a foot made her head snap up from behind the computer monitor.

“I’m sorry, Miss Sinclair, I tried to get your attention.”

“What? Oh. I’m sorry, Nina, I guess I was woolgathering . . .”

“Miss Elkin wants a moment with you.” Her assistant’s hand rose into the air and pointed toward the hallway that led to their office and the children’s room.