Sew Deadly (24 page)

Tori sighed. “Thank you, Debbie.”

“Look, you’ve been through a lot. And I’m not just talking about the gossip surrounding Tiffany Ann’s death. I mean, I couldn’t believe how nasty Dixie was at the library meeting Wednesday night. I was almost ashamed to call her my friend.” Debbie’s voice grew muted as she addressed someone in the background before continuing. “She was way out of line.”

Tori didn’t need any help remembering. In fact, she’d have to be an idiot not to realize she was on Dixie Dunn’s despised enemy list. The woman had flashed more than her share of dirty looks in Tori’s direction. She’d created a scene over a faded coffee stain in a library book. And she’d done her best to make Tori look like a fool in front of the library board.

“She’s just hurt, I guess,” Tori offered, the pick-me-up of her music beginning to descend—rapidly. “And it’s not like anything she’s done has swayed the community as a who—”

She stopped midsentence, her free hand leaving the steering wheel to cover her open mouth.

Oh my God. Did Dixie set me up?

It fit. All along she’d assumed Leona was the one feeding conversations to Investigator McGuire. But Dixie had been at the sewing circle meetings, too.

“At least the second and third one,” she mumbled as her hand returned to the wheel.

“What was that, Victoria?”

“What? Oh. Never mind.” Her thoughts rewound through the board meeting, stopping to replay each of the moments Dixie had tried her best to ruin. “Debbie?” She swallowed over the lump that sprang to her throat, willed her nerves to calm long enough to speak coherently.

“Yes?”

“Do you think Dixie hates me enough to set me up?”

“Set you up for what?”

“Murder.”

Debbie’s gasp in her ear was all the answer she needed and she rushed to smooth any rumpled feathers. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. I guess I’m just grasping at straws.”

“No, I understand. I’d probably be doing the same thing. But, Victoria, just because Dixie is hurt over losing her job to you doesn’t mean she’d kill an innocent young woman.”

“I didn’t mean to say she murdered Tiffany Ann.” She tightened her grip on the phone.

“But in order to set you up she would have to have done it herself, wouldn’t she?”

Feeling suddenly foolish she pulled over onto a short stretch of shoulder five miles outside Ridge Cove. “You’re right. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Silence filled Tori’s ear as she waited to see whether Debbie was truly okay with her misguided thoughts. But the longer the awkwardness continued, the more sure she was she’d alienated yet another member of the Sweet Briar community.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

“Really it’s okay. Anyway, Margaret Louise said you’re off to Ridge Cove to hit some flea markets?”

It was painfully obvious it wasn’t okay, but at least the woman was trying to make polite conversation. What she did once they hung up, though, was anyone’s guess.

“Nina mentioned two different places I should check out for the costume trunk. I’m hoping I find a really nice one for a steal.”

“Ridge Cove may be backwoods . . . and by backwoods, I mean
backwoods . . .
but they’ve got the best flea markets around.” Debbie’s voice faded momentarily only to strengthen once again. “Colby says it’s the only thing that makes him even consider making that drive.”

“So if the place is that bad, how could Tiffany Ann have seen it as a potential launchpad for her career?”

“I’m not sure. She said it was a start. Her enthusiasm the morning she was heading to Ridge Cove was contagious. She reminded me of myself when I got the idea to open my own bakery.”

Tori checked the side and rearview mirrors and pulled back onto Route 190. “She wanted to be a fashion designer, right?”

“No. An interior designer. She loved helping people put things together—whether it was as simple as a bouquet of wildflowers or the remodeling of an entire room. And it didn’t just start when she was a teenager. Oh no. Long before that child started designing floats for the annual Sweet Briar Sweetheart parade she was dabbling with presentation and style. In fact, from the time she was five years old, that child had a flair for color. Her bike was always the blue-ribbon winner in the Fourth of July fair each year. Forget about red, white, and blue streamers hanging from handlebars. This child had flags and sparklers and pictures hanging from every piece of metal she could find.”

“Wow.” It was all she could think to say at the moment. No wonder everyone loved Tiffany Ann. How could they not? She’d never even met the girl yet couldn’t help but feel as if she’d missed out on someone special.

“Yeah. It still gets me teary-eyed. The whole thing was just so senseless, you know? I can’t help but wonder if the poison hit real fast or if she felt funny first. And if she did, would she have asked for help? She was so determined to handle her own affairs . . . to try and become the kind of grown-up woman she hoped Milo would finally notice . . . to prove she’d outgrown her attention-seeking ways. It’s just so sad. All of it.” A raspy quality found its way into Debbie’s words, her genuine sadness impossible to overlook. “Anyway, I better head off. I’ve got a headache brewing.”

“Okay. Please extend my thanks to your husband for the projector. I’ll get it back to him in the next few days.” Tori slowed as she reached a four-way stop, her eyes sliding from left to right as she crossed. “And Debbie, thanks for listening. Even when what I’m saying makes no sense.”

“My pleasure. Have a safe trip home.” Debbie pulled the phone from her mouth and spoke to someone in the background, a tiny voice rising up in protest. “Oh. And make sure you check out Stu’s. His flea market is just off Route 190 on Clover Street. He seems to actually have some good stuff.”

“Stu’s on Clover Street—got it,” Tori repeated aloud, commending the name and street to memory. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Oh and Victoria?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t worry about the Dixie thing. She’ll come around.”

Tori snapped the phone shut in her hand, her spirits buoyed somewhat by Debbie’s final comment. Maybe she wouldn’t pass on Tori’s crazy accusation about a longtime member of the sewing circle, after all.

She could certainly hope, anyway. Because if Debbie
did
share that portion of their conversation, it was pretty much a safe bet Rose and Margaret Louise would disappear from her group of supporters.

Her meager four-person group of supporters.

But was it truly out of line to add Dixie Dunn to her potential suspect list? Sure, the woman was in her seventies, but that didn’t preclude her from tossing something into a person’s coffee and giving it a quick stir.

The key though would be whether she’d even been in Debbie’s Bakery on the day Tiffany Ann Gilbert was murdered. A question Emma Adams could surely answer.

Tori crested the top of a windy hill and proceeded down Route 190, the pavement becoming more and more rough with each passing mile. Debbie wasn’t kidding. Ridge Cove was barely a blip on the road, the occasional house she passed nothing short of dilapidated.

Who lived in a place like this? And what on earth did Tiffany Ann hope to accomplish—career-wise—in a spot so far off the beaten path? Would she have told Cooper or one of her girlfriends? Would she have mentioned it in passing to Milo?

Or did she want it to be a surprise? One she sought to shore up before telling a soul?

Stu’s Flea Market appeared on Tori’s right as she rounded a curve canopied by massive moss trees. The building itself wasn’t in awful shape but it wasn’t in a league with the series of newly constructed hutlike structures that stood not more than three hundred yards away. Each of the five smaller structures boasted the kind of storefront exterior not easily found in an age where the sterilized look and feel of big chain businesses was the norm.

Curious, Tori stepped from her car, bypassing the flea market in favor of a closer look at the old-fashioned shops.

“Interested in rentin’ one?”

Tori whirled around, her heart beating double time.

“Whoa. Didn’t mean to up and scare you, ma’am.” A man, standing about six feet tall, pulled a green John Deere hat from his head, revealing a receding line of salt-and-pepper hair. “I noticed you headin’ this way and figured I’d offer a little help.”

Holding her hand to her chest she inhaled and exhaled before finally answering. “I just wanted to take a closer look, maybe peek inside one of the windows.” She looked back over her shoulder at the charming outer buildings. “They’re really quite darling.”

The man replaced his hat and nodded, his flannel-clad arms crossing casually across his chest. “Thank you.”

“What are they for?” Tori asked as she resumed her path, the fifty-something man at her side.

“Whatever people want to use them for. A seasonal fruit shop, a place to sell jams and jellies, a small appliance repair shop.” He walked alongside Tori as she peeked in each building, her hand covering her eyes in an attempt to block the morning sun. “I actually have a renter for this buildin’. I tell you, Travis can fix just about everythin’ under the sun . . . no matter how bad broken it is. He’s sick and tired of his wife naggin’ him about parts being all over the house and yellin’ at him for grease stains on all the furniture. So he’s rentin’ this place to get away from her.” He waited as she peered inside, rubbed his chin between his thumb and index finger. “That is, unless he’s really run off the way his wife is squawkin’. Seems he disappeared about a week or two ago. Frankly”—he looked both ways, a gesture that was futile considering they were the only two people for miles—“I think he just needed to give his head a break from all that naggin’ and who can blame the fellow?”

She ducked her head to the left, the large wooden counter and bay of shelves reminiscent of a mom-and-pop style market she used to visit with her parents. “Aren’t people worried about getting business out this far?”

He shrugged. “I do pretty well on Saturdays.”

“But people are coming here specifically for your flea market.” She wandered to the next building, a more cottagelike version of the two on either side.

“And they’ll come specifically for whatever is offered in these here buildings, too.” He pulled his hat off with one hand and scratched the top of his head, his face contorted in a momentary grimace. “I’ve got a young woman who’s planning on taking this one and turning it into one of those fancy home places. You know, the kind that people can visit to get ideas for fixin’ their homes up all pretty like. I told Travis the last time I saw him that I had a woman comin’ in to rent a place that very day—one who could help him smooth his wife’s feathers. Though, come to think of it, if his wife had seen Miss Gilbert she’d be squawkin’ about a helluva lot more ’n a dirty house.”

She froze.

“Did you say, Miss
Gilbert
?”

“I sure did.” He popped his hat back on his head and rubbed his hands down the sides of his worn jeans. “Do you know her?”

“I—uh—no, not really.” She knew she should probably tell him Tiffany Ann was dead, but she didn’t. Why, she wasn’t quite sure.

“She sure is a pretty one. Sweet, too. When I asked if she thought she’d get customers out here, she said she was confident she would. Even said something ’bout setting up one of those computer things so she could reach even more customers.” He pulled a key from his back pocket and gestured toward the door. “I can’t let you have this one because it’s Miss Gilbert’s, but you can take a look-see if you’d like.”

“Uh—yeah, okay, sure.” She followed the man into the building, her eyes drawn to the sun-filled front room and wide-open space. It wasn’t hard to see what had drawn Tiffany Ann to this building, why she’d felt it a perfect place to begin her career. But could a business—even one that was website accessible—survive in the middle of nowhere? “Did Miss Gilbert actually sign papers on this place?”

“Not quite. She took a walk down by the creek out back so she could think. ’Bout the time I went to check on her she was peelin’ out of my parking lot like a world-class race car driver. Guess somethin’ came up. But she’ll be back. Miss Gilbert was so excited that day, so full of plans. She reminded me of my own daughter, though Maria felt New York City was the only option if she wanted to be someone. But I think that’s baloney.”

“How come Ridge Cove isn’t more developed to begin with . . . even to the degree of what Tom’s Creek or Sweet Briar has achieved?”

“Businesses don’t want to come where there isn’t any po-lice.”

“You don’t have a police department?” she asked, her thoughts flitting between the man’s words and her sadness for Tiffany Ann.

“We fall under county jurisdiction out here, which is ’bout the same as having no po-lice. But I’m gonna change that, one step at a time.”

“How?”

“By buying me some po-lice.”

“Buying police? I don’t understand—do you mean hiring a security guard or two?” She pulled her thoughts from Tiffany Ann and focused them on the man standing on the other side of the dead girl’s dream.

“No, ma’am. I mean buying po-lice. Gun-carryin’, car drivin’ po-lice.”

“Can you do that?”

“Of course I can. I already have. And it’s why Travis and Miss Gilbert are taking these buildings seriously. Heck, Travis asked me that last day I saw him if he could see the paperwork.” He peered out the large front window and pointed at two new additions to the parking lot. “We best be heading back, I got some customers to take care of.”

She followed him into the bright morning sun. “Can I ask one last question?”

“Rent for the first year is just two hundred dollars a month. After that it will double.” He strode toward the larger building, Tori half jogging to keep pace. “You thinkin’ about rentin’ one? Because we’d sure love to have you.”

“Two hundred dollars? How can you survive on that?”

“It’s about faith, ma’am. I believe Ridge Cove is going to take off now. And I need to be willin’ to pony up a little money to back up that faith.”

She considered his words. “Actually I wanted to ask about the police. I mean, who are you buying police from?”