Elizabeth Lynn Casey - Southern Sewing Circle 08 - Remnants of Murder (8 page)

She sat up tall. “Hurting? I’m not hurting, Margaret Louise. I …” Her words trailed off as her brain finally caught up with the reason behind her friends’ reactions. “Wait. When I said Milo and I weren’t together, I didn’t mean we’d broken up! I just meant he’s at his house right now and I’m here. At the library.”

“Thank heavens!”

“I wouldn’t be thanking the heavens so quickly, Margaret Louise. After all, if Victoria keeps choosing books over that man of hers, there
will
be a breakup,” Leona quipped in a voice tinged with a mixture of reproach and relief.

“Oh, shut up, Twin.”

Closing her eyes, she increased her count to twenty and then let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I’m not picking a book over Milo, Leona. I’m just trying to see if there’s any possibility Dixie could be right.”

If it was possible to hear ears perk, Tori heard it times two. “Did you say ‘Dixie’?”

She nodded as if Margaret Louise were in the room rather than on the other end of the phone. Then, realizing her mistake, she replaced the gesture with the appropriate word while shifting her gaze back to the specifics of chronic liver disease and its link to alcohol.

“How well did either of you know Clyde Montgomery?” she asked on a whim.

A snort from one was quickly followed by a more reasonable response from the other. “Clyde’s been a fixture in this town for as long as I can remember,” Margaret Louise explained. “He was always around even if he wasn’t.”

Tori left her finger at the start of the second paragraph as she focused on her friend’s account. “I don’t get what you mean.”

“That man didn’t have to say much or even be around, everyone just always knew he was there.”

A pause allowed her to try and make sense of what she was hearing but it was no use. She simply didn’t have the background with the people of Sweet Briar the way Margaret Louise did. “I still don’t understand …”

“People around here looked up to Clyde. He kept to himself, he had a long, healthy marriage to his wife, Deidre, he loved this town, and he wore it all with the air of someone important.”

“Deidre?”

“She died ’bout four years ago. But oh, how he adored that woman. She was the envy of every woman in Sweet Briar.”

A second, louder snort made its way across the line. “I didn’t envy that woman. I pitied her, quite frankly.”

“Oh, shush, Twin. Your green is showin’.”

“My green?” Leona snapped. “I have no green. For anyone.”

She forced herself to remain on topic despite the urge to offer a needling response. “Why did you pity her, Leona?”

“Because she looked at that man like he was the cat’s meow, that’s why.”

“Did you see the way he took care of her? The way he looked at her, Twin? Anyone in Deidre’s shoes would have looked at him the same way. Including you.”

A third snort was followed by a heavy sigh. “I saw it. Did you?”

“I just said I did, didn’t I?” Margaret Louise challenged before Tori could point out the same thing.

“He may have loved her … he may have even adored her … but that don’t mean there wasn’t some guilt mixed in—”

“Oh, quit your constant bellyachin’ ’bout men, will you? Just because you got blindsided when you were young don’t mean every man out there is the same, Twin.”

“Why, I never—”

“Was Clyde Montgomery a heavy drinker?” Tori interjected before the brewing fight between the sisters brought an end to a call that could provide some valuable insight into a man she simply hadn’t known.

“Clyde? A drinker? Why on earth would you ask that, Victoria?”

She took a deep breath as she glanced, again, at the description beneath her fingertip. “Because I’m wondering if his rapid decline in health could have been a result of alcohol.”

“Aside from the fact that Clyde didn’t drink, alcohol is a slow killer … There ain’t nothin’ fast ’bout drinkin’ yourself into a grave.”

Moving her finger from side to side across the page, she realized that Margaret Louise was right.

“So much for that one,” she mumbled before flipping back to the index and the next disease on the list. “Do either of you know much about Wilson’s disease?”

“Wilson’s disease?” Margaret Louise echoed. “What on earth are you doin’ over there, Victoria? Trainin’ yourself for gettin’ a medical degree?”

“No. I’m just—”

Leona’s sigh cut through the line. “You’re at it again, aren’t you, dear?”

“At what?”

Leona ignored her sister’s question and continued on. “You just can’t ever leave well enough alone, can you?”

“I just—”

“Just because murder is a routine thing in your hometown doesn’t mean that’s the way it is everywhere else. Because it’s not. People
do
simply die from old age around here, dear.”

For a moment Tori considered defending the years she’d spent living in Chicago, but opted, instead, to let it go. After all, it didn’t matter what she said. Leona’s mind had been made up about Chicago long before they’d ever met. No argument she could give would ever erase the heartbreak her friend had endured while living in the lakefront city as a young woman.

“I realize that, Leona. It’s just that—”

“Wait a minute. Are you sayin’ you think Clyde died of somethin’ other than old age?”

Leona groaned. “Welcome to the party, Margaret Louise. Of course that’s what she’s saying. But the notion is preposterous. He was ninety-something, wasn’t he?”

“Ninety-one,” Tori supplied. “But he was also in terrific shape until a month ago.”

“Of course he was in terrific shape. He was the center of his own universe.”

“Ignore my sister, Victoria. She chipped her nail ’bout ten minutes ago and she’s still in a tizzy.” Then, without more than a moment’s pause, the grandmother of eight brought the conversation back to the topic at hand. “I think it’s time you switch to some women’s fiction, Victoria. Or maybe some romance novels.”

She located the page for Wilson’s disease and flipped to its entry. “Romance novels? What are you talking about?” she asked as her eyes began scanning the page.

Clumsiness. Difficulty speaking. Difficulty swallowing …

“I’ve been to your house, Victoria. I see what you read at night.”

“What does she read?” Leona asked.

Fatigue. Drooling. Involuntary shaking …

“Mysteries. Mysteries. And more mysteries. But really, Victoria, just ’cause a chicken has wings don’t mean it can fly.” Margaret Louise’s voice filtered through her thoughts at the same time as she lost interest in yet another disease. “I mean, I enjoy me a good whodunit now and again, too, but no matter how much I love investigatin’ with you, Victoria, the likelihood someone in Sweet Briar will be murdered during a magic trick or poisoned with curry is probably ’bout as likely as Leona datin’ men her own age.”

“And why would I? I need someone who can keep up with me.” Leona released the yawn she made no effort to hide. “Curry is dreadful.”

This time, Tori had to laugh. It was the only way she could think of to deal with the train wreck the phone call had become. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, ladies.” She glanced up at the clock and tightened her grip on the phone. Dixie would be calling soon …

“You can pretend those books you’re readin’ aren’t seepin’ into your subconscious, Victoria, but I know better. Why else would you be thinkin’ Clyde died of anything but old age?”

“Because five or six weeks ago, he was fine. Now, he’s dead. And in between that time he went from looking like he was twenty years younger to looking like he was twenty years older … complete with yellowed and sagging skin, incredible weight loss, and a hollowness to his eyes that was nothing short of haunting.”

“Had he been eating curry?”

Margaret Louise’s booming laugh brought a second and wider smile to Tori’s face. “Good one, Twin!”

“Inside joke between sisters?” she asked. “Or are you going to let me in on why curry is so funny?”

“There ain’t no curry joke, Victoria. Leona was just referrin’ to what I said earlier. You know, ’bout that mystery novel where the guy is poisoned after eating curry. I think it was arsenic or somethin’ like that.”

“Arsenic? Hmmm … And there we were waiting on the hands of time.” Leona’s voice grew quiet, only to rebound back to its normal authoritative level. “Oh well, it happened our way anyway.”

“What are you babblin’ ’bout, Twin?”

“Clyde Montgomery. His time finally came just the way we hoped it would.”

“We?” Tori abandoned Wilson’s disease once and for all and flipped back to the index and its listing for arsenic poisoning. “Who is
we
, Leona?”

“The members of the Sweet Briar Business Association—the same people Clyde Montgomery hurt every time he chose his precious view over the livelihood of everyone in this town.”

She swatted at Leona’s words as her focus came to rest on the description of arsenic poisoning. Line by line she read the details of a death that could easily masquerade itself as something other than what it was.

• Yellowed skin—check.
  

• Rapid weight loss—check.
  

• General weakness and fatigue—check.
  

The beep of an incoming call brought her gaze back to the clock.

Dixie.

“Ladies, I’ll have to call you back. Dixie is on the other line.”

Without waiting for a response, she pressed the green button on her phone. “Dixie? Did Clyde have any sort of rash that you know of?”

“He mentioned something about a rash on his stomach that first day.”

She stared down at the book.

Rash on trunk of body—check.

“Any—anything else about his skin?” she whispered.

“No. Not that I can recall. Except, of course, for some bizarre white lines across his nails.”

“White lines across …” Her words petered off as she skipped ahead two lines.

Mees’ Lines (white bands traversing the width of the nail)—check.

She swallowed once, twice.

“So why did you need my camera, Victoria?”

She closed her eyes in time with a deep inhale. She’d asked for an hour, and an hour was all she’d needed.

“I—I just wanted to see if you might be right.”

“About what?” Dixie asked.

“Clyde’s death.”

A long pause gave way to an indignant sniff. “You mean his murder?”

Opening her eyes, she looked down at the book once again and nodded. “Yes, Dixie … his murder.”

Chapter 8

For as long as she could remember, Tori had always
found it fascinating that people traveled far and wide to find solace through difficult times. Mountain retreats were the clarity-seeking destination of choice for some, while lake homes and beach houses fit the bill for others. When travel wasn’t an option, long walks, nature sounds, support groups, and when necessary, a therapist’s couch became the remedy of choice.

Tori, on the other hand, always headed straight for her desk, a habit that began in her childhood bedroom, stuck with her through her school years, and remained unchanged in adulthood. The desk, of course, had undergone its share of face-lifts over the years, morphing from the typical white lacquer spindle-leg style favored by all females under the age of ten, to the metal and rather nondescript version currently housed in her office. But no matter the color, no matter the style, when it came to working through a problem, her desk was still the ultimate destination.

The only thing that could make it better was the inclusion of her fiancé—whether live and in person, or via modern technology, as was the case at that moment.

“So are you ready?”

She braced the tip of her pen against the desk and slid her fingers down its shaft, flipping it over and repeating the process each time she reached the end. It was a diversion tactic and she knew it, but somehow it still seemed a more alluring use of her time than addressing Milo’s question.

No matter how many times she’d run through her thought process with him on the phone the night before, she knew she was facing an uphill battle when it came to sharing those same suspicions with Robert Dallas. In the police chief’s eyes, Tori was nothing more than a pesky fly he’d love to smash into oblivion.

In just the two years since she’d moved to Sweet Briar, she’d single-handedly made him look like a fool on a number of occasions and he was just waiting to do the same to her. That’s why she had to have her ducks in a row before she showed up on his doorstep with a murder allegation in tow.

“Tori? Are you still there?”

Dropping the pen from her hands, she spun her chair around until she was looking out over the library grounds, her favorite trees guiding her gaze toward the town’s main thoroughfare beyond. As was always the case at that time of the morning, the bulk of the people she spied were either jogging or enjoying a leisurely stroll around the town square. She took a moment to breathe in the peaceful setting before giving Milo her full attention. “I’m here, Milo. I just—I don’t know …” She stared out at the same elderly man who read his paper on the same bench at the same time each and every morning, the routine of it juxtaposed against the roar in her head making her more than a little aware of the lack of sleep she’d gotten during the night.