Elizabeth Lynn Casey - Southern Sewing Circle 08 - Remnants of Murder by Elizabeth Lynn Casey

snorts, made its way out from between Dixie’s lips as the woman crossed out the offending word and replaced it with Tori’s. “When did you become so literal, Victoria?”
    Ignoring the woman’s comment, she found herself replaying something Dixie had said—something that actually made sense. “Why did you say that thing about females and poison?”
    Dixie looked up, the flash of irritation suddenly gone. “Because it makes sense, that’s why.”
    “Then help me understand your thinking.”
    A waitress from the other side of the diner appeared beside their table with their dinner plates. “Who’s got the pot roast?”
    Dixie shoved her notebook to the side to open up the spot directly in front of her body. “I do.”
    “Then the meatloaf must be yours …” The middle-aged waitress backed up a step and motioned to their table. “Anything else I can get you?” At their collective head shake, the brunette headed back toward her own section.
    “We’ve got him running scared, don’t we?” Dixie mused before swapping her pen for a fork and taking the inaugural bite. “Mmmm. Pretty good …”
    Tori blinked once, twice, her focus torn between the sauce-drenched meat on her own plate and her companion’s cryptic words. “Him? Who?”
    Dixie moved on to her rice, sampling it quickly. “Why, Carter, of course.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    Dixie looked up from the carrot she’d just pierced. “Are you going to tell me you haven’t noticed that Carter brought orders to all of the tables around us except ours?”
    She held her first bite of meatloaf just shy of her mouth and quickly scanned their surroundings. “I hadn’t noticed.”
    After a long pause that included a few bites of vegetable and a few bites of pot roast, Dixie finally laid down her fork. “Oh, I get it. All of this is just a big joke to you, isn’t it, Victoria? You’re here because you still feel bad that Winston cut my meager hours from the library budget.” Pulling her napkin off her lap, Dixie brushed it across her mouth and then tossed it onto the table. “If that’s the case, I don’t need you. I can find the truth on my own.”
    Stunned, Tori found herself scrambling to keep Dixie from leaving the table. “Wait. I’m not here out of guilt. I’m here because you asked for my help. Though, in all honesty, I’m still trying to figure out why you’re so determined to investigate regardless of what the chief decides to do.”
    For a moment, Tori wasn’t sure whether the woman was going to say something or simply collect her newly purchased notebook and leave. Eventually, though, Dixie spoke, her words, her tone providing a bird’s-eye view of the pain buried not so far beneath the surface. “I spent my life building the library into what it was when you came along. It didn’t have the children’s room and all the buzz that you’ve garnered with that, but I held my own. I kept the shelves stocked with the classics and the best-sellers. I learned the ins and outs of computers so I could help my patrons transition into the world of technology. I knew the parameters of the board’s new budget each year and operated accordingly.
    “Then, one day, they decided I was too old and too boring to do what I’d done for more years than you’ve been alive. Bam, I was out on my ear with a pat on my back and a wooden plaque for my years of service. And it hurt, Victoria. It hurt more deeply than I can even begin to explain.”
    Tori leaned back in her bench seat, the rising lump in her throat making it difficult to breathe. So many times over the past two years, Dixie had slung her share of biting barbs over the fact that Tori’s dream job had come at her expense. But now, at that moment, there was no over-the-top martyrdom, no hint of guilt, no evidence of anger in Dixie’s words. Just pain. Raw pain.
    “I—I’m sorry the board did that to you, Dixie.” It was such a simple response, yet no less true. She was