Needle and Dread (18 page)

“Is that the truth, Victoria?”

“One hundred percent.”

“You workin' tomorrow?”

Tori nodded.

“Nine o'clock?” Margaret Louise asked.

“Yup.”

“Then we'll meet at Debbie's at seven thirty.”

Seven thirty?

“And don't you worry none, Victoria. I'll swing by and pick up Charles on the way.”

Once she was sure Margaret Louise was out of earshot, Tori pointed at Charles's still-untouched cinnamon roll. “Hey. Are you okay? You haven't eaten so much as a crumb since you sat down.”

Charles took a moment to assess Margaret Louise's proximity to the table and then slumped forward, narrowly missing his plate with his elbow. “I adore that woman, I really do, but she shouldn't be allowed behind a steering wheel.” He lifted his head upward like a periscope and, when he was sure their friend had stopped to chat with someone over by the napkin dispenser, he brought his focus back on Tori. “We blew through two stop signs, ran over three curbs, and missed a squirrel by less than a centimeter . . . all before we left Leona's street.”

She knew it was wrong to laugh at someone else's misery, but with any luck the pat on his still-pasty-white hand helped soften any resulting sting. “If it helps, she's never had even so much as a single accident.”

“Says you.” Again, Charles looked at the counter, only this time, instead of talking, he followed it up with a quick inhale into the to-go bag Debbie had handed him on the sly.

“No, says everyone.” Tori nudged his plate closer to his chair. “When you're done hyperventilating, you really should take a bite. Debbie's cinnamon rolls cure all ails. Ask anyone.”

He took a few more breaths and then stuffed the bag underneath his thigh. “Last night was really fun, Victoria. Living in the city, I don't really get to many barbecues. Unless you count the hibachi my next-door neighbor uses on the fire escape every Fourth of July. But I'm not a fan of Polish sausage.”

“Noted.” Tori took a bite of her blueberry muffin and then raised the remaining muffin between them for emphasis. “You know there
is
a way you can go to more barbecues if you're so inclined.”

“Do tell, sugar lips . . .”

“You could move to Sweet Briar. Permanently.”

“Leona said the same thing to me last night. But as I said to her while we were eating popcorn in our jammies, McCormick's needs me.”

She swapped her muffin for a sip of hot chocolate. “McCormick's is a bookstore, Charles.”

“It's my job, Victoria. And one I'm rather good at, if I do say so myself.”

“I'm sorry I kept you two waitin' so long. I was just
talkin' to Lulu's teacher, Miss Applewhite.” Margaret Louise hoisted herself up onto the lattice-backed stool and then quickly handed out the napkins she'd gone back to the counter to fetch. “Seems Miss Applewhite is lookin' at Lulu for the spellin' bee this year. Makes a Mee Maw mighty proud, I tell you.”

Tori smiled at the mention of Margaret Louise's fifth grandchild. While she loved all eight, there was something about Lulu that had captured her heart from the moment they met, a bond that had only deepened as Lulu's love for reading grew. “That's great news, Margaret Louise! Does Lulu know yet?”

“Not yet. Miss Applewhite is plannin' to tell her sometime after Thanksgivin'. Why, our Lulu is going to be tickled.”

“I was in a spelling bee once,” Charles offered across his still-steaming mug of coffee. “I was in sixth grade. Lost to Rickie Meanypants Rogers in the third round.”

Tori laughed. “Rickie Meanypants Rogers?”

“You. Know. It.” Charles pushed his plate to the side and leaned forward. “He stole my meatloaf sandwich when I was in second grade, my favorite eraser in third grade, and chipped my tooth in fifth grade by pushing me into the water fountain . . . See?” He hooked his index finger into the side of his mouth and pulled, pointing to his top front tooth with the index finger from his other hand.

“Least he left you alone in fourth grade.” Reaching over, Margaret Louise helped herself to a bite of Charles's cinnamon roll and then moved on to Tori's blueberry muffin.

Charles pulled his finger out of his mouth and dropped
it onto the table. “He moved away the summer before fourth grade only to move right back the next summer.”

“So what was the word?” Tori asked.

“Word?”

“That you lost with in the spelling bee.”

“Refrigerator. R-e-f-r-i-g-e-r-a-t-o-r.” Charles ran his finger across the cinnamon drizzle on his plate, inserted it into his mouth, and then popped it out again. “Looking back now, I realize Rickie Meanypants Rogers had the same signature as Opal Goodwin. They were both mean for the sake of being mean.”

“Only instead of stealin' 'n' pushin', Opal was more 'bout throwin' her weight 'round 'n' yankin' people's legs out from under 'em.”

“The thing I can't figure out though, is why,” Tori said between sips of her drink. “I mean, why would she buy a building she wasn't going to use just to make sure no one else would use it? And why would she stick her nose in someone else's personal crusade? It makes no sense.”

“She did it, because she could.” Charles took one last finger swipe of the drizzle and then slid the remaining roll in front of Margaret Louise. “It's the same reason why Rickie Meanypants Rogers did all of that stuff to me. Because he knew I wasn't going to fight back.”

“But
I
know you're not going to fight back and
I
don't push you into a water fountain.” Tori swished the rest of her hot chocolate around in her cup and then finished it off. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

“That young man was striking out against somethin',” Margaret Louise mused over her newly acquired breakfast treat.

Charles leaned forward on his elbows. “Yeah—me.”

“I'm talkin' 'bout the thing that stirred up all that meanness in him. There must've been somethin'.”

“No, his father was mean, too,” Charles said. “He came by it honestly as you're always saying, Margaret Louise.”

“He may have come by it honestly, but that don't mean he was just takin' notes. Maybe he was at the receivin' end of that kind of meanness.”

Charles teed his hands in front of his chest. “Time out!
I
was on the receiving end of his meanness and I didn't turn around and do it to someone else.”

“Did you have a lovin' family, Charles?” Margaret Louise asked.

“The best.”

“What did they say when you came home tellin' them 'bout what this young boy did to you?”

“My mom sat me down at the kitchen table and told me I was special. And that nothing anyone else can ever do or say will change that. Unless I let them.”

“Somethin' tells me, no one was sittin' Rickie Meanypants on any chair, tellin' him to believe in himself.”

For several long moments, Charles said nothing, his gaze moving from Margaret Louise, to Tori, and finally to the empty space in front of him at the table. Eventually, Tori broke the silence. “I hear what you're saying, Margaret Louise, I really do. And I suspect it has merit in some cases. But so, too, does the fact that two wrongs don't make a right.”

“That's why teachers like your Milo are so important, Victoria. Because he can be the positive role model kids like Rickie don't get at home. That's the only way some of 'em can ever taste the difference between right and wrong.”

It was conversations like these that made Tori a better person. They made her think. Yet even knowing there was a measure of truth in Margaret Louise's words, they weren't a one-size-fits-all kind of thing, either. “Some kids are treated like gold and they're still mean,” she said. “I see it in the library sometimes.”

“That's 'cause folks who spend their time spoilin' their kids don't see how they act when they're not lookin'. Kids who grow up with spoilin' expect the rest of the world to spoil 'em, too. I love my grandbabies with all my heart and that's why I avoid spoilin'. Because spoilin' only hurts them in the long run.”

“You need to write a book on raising children, Margaret Louise. And it needs to be required reading for anyone even thinking about procreating.” Charles wiped his mouth with his napkin and then pointed it at Tori. “Penny for your thoughts, sugar lips?”

Slipping off her stool, Tori gathered up the empty plates and tossed her own dirty napkin on top. “If Margaret Louise is right, and there's a reason for a person's meanness, I guess I'm wondering what Opal's reason was.”

Tori placed the last book back on the shelf and tried to resist the urge to change her squat into a full-fledged sit. Then again, wasn't that why she'd saved a bottom-shelfer for last?

She glanced over her shoulder, noted the absence of any patrons in her aisle, and rocked back onto her bottom for what she promised herself would be a momentary break. The morning had been nonstop busy with a mom and me reading group, an assisted living field trip, a book delivery, and the standard duties that came with checking in and shelving the night depository's take.

“Sitting on the floor is not at all ladylike, dear.”

Leona?

Pushing off the ground, Tori took a moment to brush off any lint she'd accumulated from her painfully short pit stop on the floor and headed in the direction of the
information desk. Sure enough, Leona and Paris were waiting. “Leona. I didn't hear you come in.”

“I'm not sure
why
. I came through the door just like that gentleman that's over by the computers now.”

“Gentleman? What gentle . . .” The words died away as she turned toward the computer bank and the lone figure tapping away at the first of six desks. “Wow. I didn't hear him, either.”

Leona carried Paris over to a nearby table and sat down. “This is what happens every time you decide to play Nancy Drew. You become distracted and ornery. Ask anyone. Especially that handsome man you're married to.”

“Milo doesn't think I'm ornery.”

Dipping her head forward, Leona pinned Tori across the top of her glasses. “Oh? Have you asked him?”

“No. Because I'm not ornery.”

“If you say so, dear.” Leona stilled her hand midway down Paris's back and sniffed. “I don't want Charles to leave.”

Lulled by the empty chair to Leona's left, she wandered over to the table, verified that the man at the computer was doing fine on his own, and then dropped onto the chair with a thump. “Oh. Wow. You have no idea how good this feels.”

“Where's Nina?”

“It's her day off. Yesterday was mine.” She propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin atop her palm. “So what's this about Charles? Did Chief Dallas give him the all-clear to go home or something?”

“No, but it's only a matter of time. Even
Robert
will have to figure out what happened to that old hag at some
point.” Leona smiled down at Paris and then turned the bunny so she was facing Tori. “Unless that's why you're taking so long to figure this out, dear . . . so we can keep Charles here as long as possible?”

“While that's a wonderful by-product, it's taking a long time for several reasons. First, I have three viable suspects at this moment—two with actual motives, and one who is acting oddly. Second, I don't know any of these people. This means I have to do a little snooping around to figure out things about each person, including Opal herself.”

“As the owner of SewTastic, I wish you'd hurry. As Charles's biggest fan, I'm hoping you hit detour after detour.”

Without really thinking, Tori dropped her hands down to the table and reached for Paris. When the rabbit accepted her offer, she took over petting duty. “We met Charles less than six months ago, Leona, and he's already been to Sweet Briar twice.”

“And both times I've felt more culturally satisfied than I have since my sister talked me into moving here seven years ago.”

“Culturally satisfied?” she echoed.

“When Charles is in town, I go to plays and attend concerts. We seek out all the best restaurants within an hour's drive, try their most popular items, and then critique them all the way home in the car.”

She circled her fingers around the base of Paris's left ear and slowly followed the soft, velvety feel all the way to the top before repeating the same motion on the opposite ear. “You and I have done those same things, Leona.”

“Once in a great while, yes. But with Charles, we do those things nearly every day. And on the days we don't,
we go to the spa or the salon or wherever else we choose to go to better ourselves.”

“It's easier for Charles to do those things because he doesn't live here, Leona. If he did, he'd have to turn down some of your suggested outings because of work, too.”

Leona reached over, plucked Paris from Tori's arms, and stood. “Must you rain on my parade, dear?”

“Rain on your—wait. I'm not saying I wouldn't love to have Charles living here, too. Because I would. Very much. I'm just—”

“Then help me find a way to convince him, dear.”

“How? He loves his job at the bookstore.”

“I don't know, I—oh good heavens, who is calling me?” Leona slipped her hand into her purse and pulled out her phone. When the Caller ID screen revealed a New York phone number, she handed Paris back to Tori and took the call. “Yes? Yes, this is Leona Elkin . . . oh yes, Margot Pritchard, Charles has told me so many lovely things about you . . . A TV crew? Of course, we can accommodate that. I don't know if Charles told you, but I have my own television show on our local cable station, so I'm quite familiar with the things your crew will need . . . yes, yes. Your former co-anchor? No, no I'd not heard of that . . . What a shame . . . Trust me, knowing how to sew doesn't make a person a saint . . . yes, yes, exactly. What? . . . Oh. Well I can't speak for other areas of the country, of course, but I can say that sewing is not becoming obsolete in this area. In fact, there's a whole museum devoted to the craft in Jasper Falls. Yes, Jasper Falls is here in South Carolina, as well. It's a little over ninety minutes north of us here in Sweet Briar . . . no, I've never been . . . okay, yes, I'll
pencil off Monday for your crew . . . Will you be coming as well? . . . oh how lovely. I look forward to meeting you . . . thank you, Margot . . . Charles sends his love.”

Leona ended the call and set the phone down on the table. “Charles is right, she has a very whiny voice. Between that and that odd little cowlick she has in all her pictures, it really isn't any wonder why she can't keep a man.”

“I think a man could overlook a cowlick, Leona.”

“If there aren't any better prospects, perhaps . . .”

“Sheesh. No wonder I've stopped looking in mirrors since I moved here.” Tori scratched Paris between her ears and handed the rabbit back to Leona. “Anyway, moving on . . . It still strikes me as odd that a morning news program—even a national one—would have any interest in spotlighting a small sewing shop in Sweet Briar, South Carolina. Don't get me wrong, I think it's fantastic. But the unbiased side of me is left wondering
why
.”

“I have experience on camera, dear,” Leona reminded.

“On a small cable television show, yes. But even that's not enough to explain this interest.”

“Maybe they simply want to help a little guy—a mom and pop, so to speak.” Leona pulled a tube of lipstick from her purse, read the color on the bottom, and tossed it back into her bag. “Is there a reason why you're trying to look a gift horse in the mouth, Victoria?”

“My antenna is just up a little, I guess.”

Leona rolled her eyes. “I see that, dear. But why?”

“Because I'm afraid all it's going to do is put an even bigger spotlight on what happened at the shop on Saturday afternoon.” Tori pushed back her chair and stood. Her yawns were starting to multiply, and she still had a solid
five hours left in her workday. “It just seems counterproductive to what Rose and Miranda are trying to do.”

“Rose is all for a national feature story,” Leona said.

“And Miranda?”

Leona waved Tori's question aside with an air of boredom. “I haven't told her. I'm every bit as capable of enticing media coverage as she is. And as for this notion that all they want to do is sensationalize what happened to Opal, you're wrong. Margot was asking me whether I know any statistics concerning the craft of sewing and whether it's more prevalent here in the southeast or not.”

“Hmmm . . . okay, then maybe there isn't anything to worry about. If they can build a feature story around sewing alone, that could be really good for you and Rose.”

“Did you hear that, my precious angel?” Leona asked, lifting Paris up to eye level. “Victoria has given us her blessing.”

Tori stifled yet another yawn, shaking her head as she did. “It's not about giving my blessing or not giving my blessing, Leona. It's your shop. I just didn't want to see a bad situation made any worse, you know?”

“Miss? I think I might have messed up the printer somehow.”

Bobbing her head to the left, she met the eyes of the only other patron in the library, and smiled. “I'm on my way.” Then, to Leona, she pointed in the direction of the computers. “It's time to get back to work. Talk later?”

“Charles and I are going to a movie this evening if you'd like to join us.”

Retracing her steps back to the table and the now-standing Leona, Tori planted a kiss on her friend's cheek. “I have plans with Milo tonight, but I'd love a
raincheck if that's okay.” At Leona's shrug of indifference, she moved on to kiss Paris and then hooked her thumb toward the computer bank and the man patiently waiting for her assistance. “Anyway, I better go. Enjoy your movie.”

“Victoria?”

She stopped mid-step and turned back to Leona. “Yes?”

“What does a bell have to do with sewing?”

“Why Leona, are you finally showing interest in sewing after all these years?” Tori teased.

This time when Leona rolled her eyes, it was accompanied by an exasperated groan. “Is it asking too much to get a simple answer to my question?”

“Miss? The printer?”

“Leona, I'm sorry, I have to help this gentleman. But to answer your question, Bell sewing machines were designed primarily for use by tailors in the nineteen fifties, I believe. You can still find them on some of those bidding sites on the Internet. Why? Do you have a customer who wants to track one down?”

“No. It's just something Margot mentioned that I didn't quite pick up.” Leona secured Paris inside the crook of her left arm and then looped her free arm through her purse. “Last question. Could you kill someone with a sewing machine?”

Confused, Tori drew back. “You mean like whoever just killed Opal?”

“Touché, dear.”