Needle and Dread (6 page)

“I know more about Lucinda than just her interest in sewing,” Debbie protested as Margaret Louise retrieved a pen from her bag and leaned forward, preparing to write. “I know she loves to read and that she has an extensive collection of signed first editions. In fact, she showed me a picture of her most prized shelf, and I forwarded it on to Colby because I knew he'd be impressed.

“And when I offered to get her a signed first edition of Colby's very first blockbuster, she was beside herself with joy.” Debbie snapped her finger. “Which reminds me . . . I still have to drop that off for her when I finish up here today.”

“We could bring it by for you if you'd like,” Tori offered. “We're heading out that way when we're done here.”

Debbie's smile was back. “Oh, Victoria, that would be a lifesaver. I'd really like to get home to Colby and the kids sooner rather than later. And I know that if I deliver it myself, Lucinda and I will get to talking again, and an hour will go by without me realizing it.”

“I'd be happy to.”

Margaret Louise looked up. “Do you know if Lucinda has money?”

“Money?” Debbie parroted as her smile slipped away. “Why? What difference would that make?”

Tori rested a quiet hand atop Debbie's forearm and waited for the bakery owner's attention to swing back to her. When it did, she flashed what she hoped was an understanding smile. “It might not make any difference at all. Or, it could.”

“In what way?”

Charles finished chewing and shifted on his stool. “Let's say Opal was very wealthy and Lucinda wasn't. Maybe she thought by killing her, she could get some for herself.”

“I doubt sincerely that Opal was carrying enough money in her purse to justify her murder,” Debbie argued.

“We're just contemplating
motives
for murder right now, Debbie. And seeing if any of them jive in relation to the suspects.” Tori quickly showed her friend the other pages in the notebook and then brought it back to Lucinda's. “We're not saying Lucinda did anything wrong. We're just saying we can't be sure she didn't.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

Margaret Louise leaned forward, her pen poised and waiting above the notebook. “So what else can you tell us, seein' as how you spent the most time with Lucinda?”

Debbie pondered the question in silence before meeting Tori's gaze head-on. “I think money was tight for her.”

Charles and Tori sat forward in tandem. “Oh? What makes you say that?”

“She said she was having to downsize to a studio apartment in her hometown because she could no longer afford the rent.”

Margaret Louise jotted the information onto the page. When she was done, she gave voice to the question forming in Tori's thoughts. “Why doesn't she sell some of those special books?”

“I don't know. I didn't ask.”

Tori considered Debbie's answer and then moved on. “Debbie? Do you know if Lucinda knew Opal prior to this tour?”

“I'm sorry, Victoria. I don't know that, either.”

“Don't you worry none, 'bout that, Debbie,” Margaret Louise interjected. “Your not knowin' just means more investigatin' for us.”

Debbie nodded and then leaned against the back of her stool. “I really like Lucinda. She was interesting and funny and . . .
nice
. I—I don't want to find out I'm wrong about her.”

“And neither do we.” Tori tapped the notebook and then gestured toward the door. “Charles? Margaret Louise? Should we head out? I'd like to get back to Milo at a reasonable time, myself.”

“I'm always ready for investigatin', Victoria. You know that.” Margaret Louise scooted off the edge of her stool,
closed the notebook, and placed it back in her tote bag along with the pen. “The new pie was delicious, Debbie.”

“I'm glad. Now, if I can only decide whether to stay with the powder blue to-go bags or try something new . . .”

Charles gasped so loudly he drew the attention of a few customers on the other side of the dining area. “You wouldn't . . .”

“Bad idea?” Debbie asked.

“Powder blue is so
you
, Debbie.”

Tori stepped in beside the now-standing Charles, nodding as she did. “I agree with Charles, Debbie. The color is as much a part of the Debbie's Bakery logo as the logo itself. Even little kids at the library who can't yet read know a Debbie's Bakery to-go cup by sight because of the color scheme. It's your signature, your—”

“Why, Debbie, in the words of the now-deceased Opal Goodwin, bless her heart, it's your
fingerprint
!” Margaret Louise said. “So don't you go changin' it, you hear?”

Tori leaned against the station wagon and took a moment to study the Victorian-style home with its large front porch and gingerbread trim. There wasn't a chair in her line of vision that she didn't long to curl up in, book in hand. Then again, depending on the chair, maybe she'd prefer conversation or a quiet cuddle . . .

“Why, Victoria, you look like one of my grandbabies on Christmas mornin' right now.”

“It's just so beautiful, isn't it?” she said, pointing at the home. “I remember the day I drove into Sweet Briar for the very first time. I nearly ran off the road looking at this place.”

Charles pulled his mouth from the bag Debbie had thrust into his hand as they left the bakery, and slumped into place beside Tori, his breath slowly returning to its
pre-car-ride cadence. “Is the inside as pretty as the outside?”

“In my imagination, yes. In reality, I don't know.”

“You've never been inside?” Charles asked.

“I've never had a reason to.”

“'Til now,” Margaret Louise supplied. “And just wait 'til you do. It's magical in there, Victoria. Though, I declare, it'll be at its purtiest once Thanksgivin' is over and Nathan and Hannah start decoratin' for Christmas.”

Charles refolded the bag for use during the drive home and stuck it in his fanny pack. “Who are Nathan and Hannah?”

“Nathan and Hannah Welch. They own this place.” Margaret Louise hooked her thumb in the direction of Sweet Briar Bed-and-Breakfast. “I say we quit standin' out here yakkin' and get to our investigatin'.”

Margaret Louise was right. The longer they stood in the parking lot talking, the longer it would be before she could bid her friends farewell for the remainder of the day and head home for a little alone time with Milo. So much of their time together since the wedding had been about getting the house organized. But now that everything was the way they wanted it, they could actually focus on each other again.

Pushing off the car, Tori followed Margaret Louise and Charles across the landscape-bordered walkway and onto the front porch she'd long admired, her gaze soaking in the kind of details she'd only been able to guess at from the road. To her left was a grouping of four chairs, their placement in relation to one another perfect for conversation among guests. Behind them by a few feet was a single chair angled in favor of the view of
downtown Sweet Briar in the distance. To her right was a cushioned lounge chair perfect for an afternoon nap, and a porch swing that made her wish Milo was there, too.

“I reckon if you want to sit out here, Victoria, that would be okay.” Margaret Louise paused her hand on the door knob and peered over her shoulder at Tori. “Charles and I can take care of gettin' Colby's book to Lucinda and followin' it up with any askin' we need to do.”

She was tempted, no doubt, but really, she just wanted to get their task for the day done and get home. Sighing, she followed her friends into the inn's front hallway and then waited as Margaret Louise tapped the bell on the reception desk.

“Would you look at that purty paintin' on the wall. It looks like you could step right into it, don't it?”

Tori followed the path forged by Margaret Louise's index finger just as Charles sucked in his breath. “I think that's a Hans Marcus original!”

“You know art?” Tori took a step closer to the framed painting, her gaze riveted on the many details that made her feel as if she was standing on the beach with the painting's lone figure, staring out over the horizon.

“If it's a Hans Marcus original, I do.” Charles reached out, stopping short of actually touching the painting. “He's known as the Painter of Life, and I'm sure you can see why.”

“I feel as if I'm on that beach, too. Like I'm . . .” Not wanting to sound ridiculous, she let her sentence trail off.

But Charles continued right where she left off. “Like you're the person in the picture?”

She nodded.

“All of his paintings do that.” Charles motioned toward the squiggled signature in the bottom-right corner. “He's so good at it, in fact, true fans don't even have to see his name to know it's his work. If you feel like you're the person depicted in the painting, it's a Hans Marcus original. “

“Kinda like my sweet potato pie is with me, I reckon.” Margaret Louise pulled her hand from its resting place next to the bell and shifted her ample weight from her left leg to her right leg. “Why, if I put four different sweet potato pies next to each other on a table, there's not a person in this town who couldn't tell you which one was mine.”

“That's because yours in the best,” Tori mused.

“The moonshine is my signature ingredient. I'm the only one who uses it—”

“Mrs. Davis . . . and Miss Sinclair . . . isn't this a wonderful surprise!” Hannah Welch strode over to the desk, her warm smile a perfect accompaniment to the inn's pervasive aura. “And you brought a friend . . .”

“Victoria is Mrs. Sinclair-Wentworth now,” Margaret Louise said with the kind of pride generally reserved for her son and his family. “Has been for 'bout six weeks. And this is Charles. He's from New York City.”

Hannah Welch tucked a strand of gray-streaked hair behind her ear and then extended her hand to Charles. “Welcome, young man. Are you looking for a room?”

“I'm actually all set with a place to stay while I'm in town, but this place is”—Charles readied his snapping fingers—“To. Die. For.”

“Charles stays with my twin when he's in town,”
Margaret Louise offered. “The two of them stay up all night gabbin' 'bout clothes and celebrities.”

“Sounds like fun.” Hannah stepped out from behind the desk and spread her arms wide. “So how can I help you, then?”

Tori transferred Colby's book from the crook of her arm to her opposite hand and held it up for Hannah to see. “We'd like to give this to one of your guests if she's in—Lucinda Penning?”

“I believe she is, but I'll need to check.” Hannah led them into the parlor and waved them toward a small buffet-style table to the left of a massive stone fireplace. “Why don't the three of you enjoy a warm cookie and a glass of sweet tea while I ring Ms. Penning's room and see if she's available to come down.”

“Thank you, Hannah.” Tori waited until the woman had left the room, and then turned to face her cookie-eating cohorts. “How either one of you can even look at those cookies, let alone eat one is beyond me. That said, how are we going to do this?”

Charles licked a sliver of melted chocolate off his lower lip and reached for another cookie. “Do what?”

“Pump her for information without looking like we're pumping her for information.” Tori waved off Margaret Louise's wordless offer for tea but gave in to the pull of the cookie plate. “The problem is, she really doesn't have to answer any of our questions if she doesn't want to.”

Margaret Louise poured herself a glass of tea and then took a long sip, declaring it perfect by way of a brief but happy moan. “She'll want to.”

“You sound awfully sure of that,” Tori mused.

“Because I am. Who doesn't like to talk 'bout themselves?”

Charles lifted up the remaining half of his second cookie in toast-like fashion. “A murderer, perhaps?”

Margaret Louise nodded her acknowledgment of Charles's reasoning but held fast to her theory nonetheless. “If she quits talkin', we'll know we've got our killer.”

“Maybe. Or maybe we've got someone who doesn't feel like answering questions from three strangers,” Tori proposed.

“We ain't strangers, Victoria. Why, we spent four hours with this woman yesterday afternoon. And you've even got a present to give her.”

“A present from
Deb
—”

“Victoria . . . Margaret Louise . . . Charles . . . is everything all right?”

The threesome turned as one toward the doorway with Charles stepping forward first to surrender an air-kiss. “Lucinda, darling, how are you? Did you sleep okay last night after—after everything that happened?”

Before Tori could speak, Lucinda squeezed Charles's hands and then glided over to the burgundy-colored sofa situated at a right angle with the fireplace. “I wish I could say I slept like a baby, but I didn't. I couldn't stop thinking about that dreadful woman.”

Margaret Louise's head snapped up. “You mean Opal?”

Lowering herself to the sofa, Lucinda released a tired sigh. “Who else?”

Tori rounded the back side of the opposing sofa and sank onto the cushion directly across from Lucinda. “Finding her dead like that kept me awake most of the night, too.”

“I just don't understand how a person can be so—so nasty, so hateful.” Lucinda pushed at the air with her hands. “But that's for her to answer for now. The rest of us just need to put her out of our minds. After all, she can only ruin what we allow her to ruin. And I, for one, am determined to enjoy my final day here in Sweet Briar.”

Charles stopped nibbling his thumb nail long enough to look up from his reclaimed spot by the cookie table. “The chief is letting you leave?”

Lucinda's eyebrows arched. “Chief? What chief?”

“Sweet Briar Police Chief Robert Dallas.” Margaret Louise wiped her hands down the side of her polyester running suit and settled onto the couch beside Tori.

“What would he have to do with me leaving?” Lucinda asked in a voice etched with confusion.

Again, Charles stopped his nibbling. “He's going to want all of the suspects to stay, including me—although with me, it's really just in the interest of fairness.”

“Suspects? Suspects in what?”

Margaret Louise started to answer, but stopped as Tori held up her hand. “So the chief hasn't been out here to speak with you yet today?” Tori asked.

“No. Why would he?” Then, like the flash of a summer storm, Lucinda's eyes widened in horror. “Good heavens, he can't think I had anything to do with that woman's death, can he? I—I hardly knew her!”

Tori pushed to a stand and then crossed the oval hook rug to sit beside Lucinda. “He has to question everyone involved with the store that day. It really doesn't mean anything.”

Lucinda cocked her head back against the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. “I don't know what to say.”

Sensing Charles gearing up to ask one of the handful of questions they'd set aside for Lucinda, Tori thrust Colby's book in the woman's direction. “Debbie is sorry she couldn't bring this out herself, but she's tied up at the bakery for a while longer and wanted to make sure you got this sooner rather than later.”

After a moment or two of silence, Lucinda lowered her gaze back to Tori and, finally, Tori's hand. “Is this her husband's book? The one that was a blockbuster?”

“The
first
blockbuster,” Margaret Louise corrected proudly. “He's got lots of 'em now. But that one right there is the first one that had people talkin' 'bout him outside of Sweet Briar.”

With careful, almost reverent hands, Lucinda took the book and brought it to her nose in tandem with a deep inhale. “There's no better smell in the world than a new book . . .”

“You sound like I do 'bout that first sniff of a new grandbaby.” Margaret Louise reached into her tote bag and pulled out her small leather album. “Victoria? Do you mind if we switch spots? I'd like to show Lucinda all of my grandbabies.”

“How many do you have?” Lucinda asked.

“Eight. They belong to my son, Jake, and his sweet wife, Melissa.” Rising to her feet, Margaret Louise snapped open the album and let a veritable accordion of pictures rain down to the floor. “There's Jake Junior, Julia, Tommy, Kate, Lulu, Sally, Molly, and the baby—Matthew. Aren't they just the cutest grandbabies you've ever seen?”

“
There
you are, Lucinda!” Miranda Greer stepped into the room, her forehead lined with worry. “I missed both you and Minnie at breakfast this morning and—oh,
I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were busy.” Miranda pressed her clipboard to her chest as the identity of Lucinda's visitors clicked in her eyes. “Oh. Hello. You're Ms. Winters's friends . . . From the shop . . .”

“That's right. I'm Victoria, and this is Margaret Louise and—”

“Charles. Yes. I remember.” Miranda spotted the pitcher of sweet tea on the table next to Charles and headed in that direction. “So what brings you by the inn?”

Lucinda lifted Colby's book off her lap and held it up for Miranda to see. “That author's wife I was telling you about last night? Debbie? She sent a signed copy of her husband's first blockbuster over with these wonderful people.”

“That's awfully nice.” Miranda poured herself a glass of tea but waited a moment to take a sip as her focus narrowed in on her tour member. “Are you all right, Lucinda? Were you not feeling well this morning?”