Pinned for Murder Read online

 
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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Sewing Tips

  Polarfleece Hat and Boa-Style Scarf Set

  Undone

  “Everyone has a temper sometimes. And Kenny Murdock is no exception.” Exhaling an errant strand of light brown hair from her forehead, Tori continued, her voice still quiet yet firm. “Branding him a killer because of it is simply ludicrous.”

  Problem was, she wasn’t buying what she was selling. She’d seen Kenny’s face the previous afternoon. She’d heard the blatant threat he’d hurled in Martha Jane’s direction. She’d felt the rage simmering inside him.

  And now the woman was dead. Strangled by a piece of rope that sounded a lot like the kind he’d been using that very day to bundle sticks in Rose’s backyard.

  “Victoria is right,” Beatrice said, her accent and her innate shyness making them all lean closer to hear. “What’s that expression? Just because it looks like a duck and acts like a duck, it doesn’t mean it’s a duck.”

  Margaret Louise laughed, her hand slipping around the nanny’s shoulders in a conspiratorial fashion. “They may say it like that across the pond . . . but here, in the States, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it is, in fact, a duck.”

  “Oh.” Beatrice flashed a look of apology in Victoria’s direction. “I’m sorry. I was only trying to help.”

  Tori reached out, patted the girl’s hand. “I know. But don’t worry. It will be okay. Martha Jane’s killer will be found.”

  What that would do to Rose when it happened, though, was anyone’s guess . . .

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Elizabeth Lynn Casey

  SEW DEADLY

  DEATH THREADS

  PINNED FOR MURDER

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PINNED FOR MURDER

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / October 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-44389-7

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  In memory of Paula Stech,

  a woman who taught me the true meaning

  of strength and courage in the face of adversity.

  Chapter 1

  As all reading enthusiasts know, books improve your life in unimaginable ways. They provide a momentary escape from the mundane, serve as food for the mind, and at times when humming isn’t a socially acceptable way of passing time with a less than interesting companion, books offer much-needed conversation starters.

  That these bound feats of literature also make excellent stand-ins for doorstops, posture correctors, and hand weights is simply icing on the cake. But, like nearly everything else in life, books, when put to the test, have an area where they fail to achieve.

  The ability to repel water is that area.

  A test they failed in red-inked spades if the bottom row of shelves in Sweet Briar Public Library was any indication. Hard covers, paperbacks . . . it mattered naught. If they were less than a foot off the ground, they fell prey to the effects of the season’s most impressive weather event to date, ushering in yet another undeniable fact. . . .

  Roger—of the tropical storm variety—was obviously not a reading enthusiast.

  Groaning, Tori Sinclair hoisted yet another saturated book onto the wheeled cart in the center of the narrow aisle and shook her head, the repetitive motion dislodging the last few strands of light brown hair from a ponytail that had seen better days.

  “Has this ever happened before?” she asked as she peered through the nearly empty shelf at the plump woman on the other side.

  “Sure as shootin’. Amelia paid us a visit ’bout three years ago but she was pretty easygoing as far as leavin’ a mess behind. Before that there was Tom an’ Richard an’ ”—Margaret Louise Davis wiped her hands down the sides of her black polyester pants and gestured to the dark-skinned girl two shelves to her left—“Gus. At least I reckon it was Gus. Though now that I say it out loud it doesn’t sound right. Nina, do you remember the one I’m talkin’ ’bout? The one that knocked the gazebo in the town square to kingdom come?”

  “How could I forget?” Tori’s assistant replied with a sigh, her petite frame slumping against the shelf of paperback mysteries that played host to authors with H names. “Gus was the worst . . . until this one blew into town, anyway.”

  “Land sakes these storm names are hard to remember. If I was naming ’em I’d give ’em good southern names that folks can recollect.”

  Tori smiled in spite of the d
estruction around them, her friend’s words a bright spot in an otherwise miserable morning. “You mean like yours, Margaret Louise? Because you’re right, it flows off the tongue like a champ. Much, much more easily than Tom or Gus.”

  Oblivious to the teasing tone in Tori’s voice, the woman nodded. “It does, doesn’t it? And that’s just the kind of name folks need to remember one storm from another.” With a huff and a puff, Margaret Louise rose to her feet, her assigned shelf now clear of all water-damaged books. “Though I’m bettin’ everyone on Rose’s street will remember Roger with not a dab of trouble. He left them the kind of mementos that make forgettin’ hard—name or not.”

  “Rose?” Tori grabbed the last three books on her shelf and stood, her feet guiding her around the local history section and into the fiction aisle Margaret Louise and Nina had been culling through all morning. “Is she okay?”

  “Physically, yes. Though that cough she’s had for the past six months or so doesn’t seem to be getting better. Makes her sound like a sea lion most days.” The woman motioned to Tori and Nina to follow, her sandal-clad feet making soft squishing sounds as she wound her way through cart after cart of damaged books en route to the information desk in the center of the library. “I’ve been after her to see a doctor for months now but that woman is as stubborn as a mule.”

  Margaret Louise was right. Rose Winters, the oldest in their sewing circle, was stubborn on a good day and downright ornery the rest of the time. But still, everyone loved the retired kindergarten teacher, not the least of which was Tori. In fact, aside from Margaret Louise—and her opposite-in-every-way twin sister, Leona—Rose was one of Tori’s favorites. Especially when the eightysomething’s bristles retracted in favor of a softer, more mist-inducing edge that reminded Tori of her own great-grandmother. Her late great-grandmother.

  Blinking back an unexpected tear, she cut her hand through the air, the gesture successfully thwarting the inevitable ten-minute discussion about Rose and her failing health. It wasn’t that she didn’t care. She did. Very much. But the elderly woman’s cough had nothing to do with the storm or the accompanying damage Margaret Louise had alluded to at the start. “We’ll get her in to a doctor one way or the other, even if it means calling in reinforcements from the rest of the Sweet Briar Ladies Society Sewing Circle. But we can talk about that later. Tell me about Rose and her neighbors. . . .”

  Margaret Louise cocked an eyebrow of confusion. “Rose and her neighbors?”

  “You just said they wouldn’t forget Roger anytime soon.” Tori shot an exasperated look at Nina, her assistant’s trademark shy smile giving way to all-out amusement at the spectacle that was Margaret Louise Davis. Rolling her eyes skyward, she shrugged, her words willing her friend to get back on track. “You know . . . that he left them souvenirs . . .”

  “Mementos. I said, mementos.”

  She moved her index finger in a rolling motion. “And those would be . . .”

  “Busted windows, leaky roofs, damaged porches, snapped trees, no power.”

  Tori’s gasp echoed against the walls of the library. “Busted windows? Leaky roo—but how?” She gestured around the library, her gaze skirting the bottom layer of shelves within range of the information desk before coming to rest on her friend’s face. “I mean, I get that there was damage—we have a hundred-plus books to serve as proof of that. But structural damage like you just said? How? Why?”

  “The older parts of town weren’t made to sustain Roger’s anger,” Nina explained, her quiet tone making Tori draw closer. “Duwayne said those homes—like them ones Ms. Winters and her neighbors live in—never would have been built today. They wouldn’t pass code. But . . . back when they were built . . . it wasn’t an issue. Add that in with decades of age and, in many cases, lack of upkeep and, well, they’re the perfect playground for a storm like Roger.” As if realizing she’d taken over the conversation, Tori’s assistant looked at the floor, her dark hair slipping forward to cover her face as her words grew even more hushed. “ ’Least that’s what Duwayne says, anyway.”

  “And your Duwayne is exactly right,” Margaret Louise said as she picked up the conversation and ran with it. “Jake went over there first thing this mornin’ to see if everyone was okay and he was shocked. Said he hasn’t seen that much damage from a storm in a long time. He offered to help Rose but she refused . . . said she’d wait for Kenny to get to her.”

  “Kenny?” Tori asked.

  “Murdock. Kenny Murdock. He’s one of Rose’s former kindergarten students. Only now he’s ’bout Jake’s age and minus the wife and kids.”

  Jake Davis was Margaret Louise’s son and the husband of fellow sewing circle member Melissa. He owned a successful garage in Sweet Briar, which enabled him to put food on the table for the couple’s seven children, Margaret Louise’s pride and joy.

  “Kenny’s a bit of a strange bird. Might even call him a bit slow,” Margaret Louise continued. “But Rose has championed that boy since he was no bigger ’n a corn sprout. Gets madder ’n a hornet when people dismiss him as being dumb. After she settles down she’s quick to point out he has a different kind of smarts.”

  Tori drank in the information, adding it to her ever-growing mental book of Sweet Briar facts. She may not have lived there long, but—thanks to her sewing sisters and their penchant for gossip—she was figuring out how and where everyone fit in record fashion. Kenny Murdock was simply another name to process.

  “Is he close to her as well?” Tori asked.

  Margaret Louise nodded. “Slow, dumb, missin’ a few marbles . . . whatever you want to call it . . . there’s no denying the fact that Kenny cares ’bout Rose. And if Kenny don’t like you, you know it. That one can hold a grudge like there’s no tomorrow. Trust me . . . I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.”

  Huffing and puffing, the woman hoisted herself onto one of the two stools that perched behind the information desk. “Anyway, over the past few months, I’ve been noticin’ that it’s harder for Rose to maintain that little flower garden she has along her walkway. All that bendin’ and pullin’ is gettin’ too much for her. But the one time I said that, she nearly bit my head clear off my neck.”

  “She’s still doing a good job, though,” Tori pointed out, her thoughts traveling back to the last time they’d had a meeting at Rose’s house. “Her mums looked spectacular, and there wasn’t a weed anywhere. She puts the rest of us—or, at least, me—to shame.”

  “That’s ’cause Kenny took over. He shows up when she’s out there workin’ and just quietly goes about the task of helpin’ her . . . though his helpin’ has become the lion’s share of doin’.”

  “Then I like him.”

  A smile spread across Margaret Louise’s face as a mischievous twinkle lit her eyes. “You haven’t even met him, Victoria.”

  “I don’t need to. Any man in his early thirties who shows up and helps an elderly woman with a garden is A-okay in my book.” She took a few steps into the local history section and grabbed hold of a cart, the normally squeaky wheels muted somewhat by the saturated carpet. “I sure hope he’s gotten there by now, though. I hate to think of Rose walking around in less than ideal conditions.”

  Margaret Louise waved off her concern. “Oh, he’d already been there. Even ’fore I sent Jake over. But you know how Rose is . . . she insisted he help Martha Jane Barker first. Seems her place was even worse off than Rose’s.”

  Nina stiffened behind the counter.

  “Nina? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Miss Sinclair.”

  She bit back the urge to correct her assistant’s tendency to use her surname rather than her first name. It was simply no use. She’d been trying for months. “Do you know Martha Jane?”

  Nina busied herself with the books on the cart, her head shaking slowly with each damaged novel she stacked on the counter. “Yes. I know Ms. Barker.”

  Tori looked a question at Margaret Louise only to receive a shrug in return.

&nbsp
; “Am I missing something?”

  “I’m black.”

  “I knew that, Nina,” she said, the ensuing smile disappearing as quickly as it came as the reality of her assistant’s words took root. “She has a problem with that?”

  “Martha Jane grew up quite wealthy. And by wealthy I mean w-e-a-l-t-h-y. With servants. Colored servants,” Margaret Louise rushed to explain as something resembling understanding spread across her face. “She’s been known to snap her fingers around people of color when out and about.”

  Nina snorted.

  Tori looked from Margaret Louise to Nina and back again. “Then what’s she doing living next to Rose? That’s hardly the kind of house that screams money.”

  “She don’t trust nobody,” Nina said. “She thinks everyone is out to get her money . . . to rob her blind. And when something goes wrong—either real or in her head—people of color are top on her list of suspects.”

  “Is that true, Margaret Louise?”

  Her friend nodded. “She lives in that house as a way to throw people off . . . to think she’s broke. But she ain’t. And everyone knows it. Most folks suspect she’s so paranoid she keeps her money hidden in her house for fear a bank would lose it.”

  “And she thinks that’s safer?”

  “Paranoia tends to multiply with age, Victoria.”

  “And she’s turned that paranoia toward people like Nina?” She knew her voice was sounding shrill but she couldn’t help it. The notion that someone would judge a person like Nina simply because of the color of her skin bothered her. Deeply.

  Margaret Louise shrugged. “There might be something to that. But I think it goes deeper. I really do. Martha Jane doesn’t like nobody—dark skin or not. Take me for instance. When I won that contest with my sweet potato pie, I brought some over to her. Rose asked me to . . . said Martha Jane wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t make the Re-Founders Day Festival.” Shifting her weight more evenly across the stool, the woman continued. “So I did. But was she grateful? Was she happy that someone remembered her? No. She hollered at me for bringing a plastic fork instead of a real one.”