that!”
“Beatrice is right, Rose. You’re not like that. You’re very levelheaded.”
“I happen to find you rather ornery, but not in a paranoid kind of way,” Margaret Louise chimed in as she hoisted herself off the wall to claim the side of the counter instead.
Rose bent her arms at the elbows and rested them on the table, her chin finding the tops of her fingers. “But I’ve always believed in Kenny. I knew he could learn his alphabet even though it took him an entire year of near constant after-school tutoring to get it done. I knew he would make it all the way through school, provided each new set of teachers believed in him, too. When his folks died, I knew he could live on his own, that he could find a job that would fit his abilities. And he did.”
The rest of them remained silent as the elderly woman continued, her words alternating between raspy and broken. “And when Martha Jane accused him of stealing her money, I knew he hadn’t. Money doesn’t hold the same meaning for Kenny that it does for other people. He’s simple and innocent. Completely untainted by a materialistic world.”
“Sometimes people make bad choices,” Margaret Louise stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
Rose nodded gently against her fingers, her eyes—magnified by her bifocals—fixed on some faraway spot. “And, in some cases, I suppose that’s true. But not in this one.”
“Then what’s different about Martha Jane’s murder?” Tori asked as she reached out and smoothed a strand of hair behind Rose’s ear.
Forcing her gaze onto Tori, Rose shrugged, her bony shoulders rising beneath her ill-fitting housecoat. “The one thing Kenny struggled with, that I couldn’t fix, was his temper. He was suspended from school for starting fights with classmates, he lost his first job for screaming at a customer, and he’s been picked up by Chief Dallas on a number of occasions for breaking things.”
“But those were just fights.”
“Fights that happened in reaction to something,” Rose explained, her voice assuming the faraway quality her eyes had held just moments earlier. “Kids teasing him over a mistake he made, a customer complaining he’d packed her groceries poorly, neighbors who took issue with the way he painted his house . . .”
Margaret Louise nodded her assent.
“But they were fights. I knew a kid who picked fights all the time in school.” Tori looked from Rose to Margaret Louise and back again, their train of thought escaping her.
“They were always violent fits of rage on people who had wronged him in one way or the other.” Rose pulled her gaze from Tori’s face and planted it on a still nodding Margaret Louise. “Then Martha Jane wronged him. And now she’s dead .”
Chapter 9
When she needed a little space, music was the best medicine—preferably blasting from her car radio as she maneuvered narrow country roads. When she was scared or unhappy, Milo’s warm arms and soothing kiss made everything a million times better. When she was stressed about money or an unforeseen issue at work, sewing calmed her soul and brought clarity to her thoughts. But when it came to feeling thoroughly helpless, chocolate was her therapy of choice.
Fortunately for Tori, Debbie Calhoun’s bakery was less than a block from the library, its endless supply of decadent treats a sight for sleep-deprived eyes. Peeking into the glass case closest to the register, she scanned its contents closely—brownies, cupcakes, tarts, mousse cups, donuts, cookies . . .
“Good morning, Victoria. Emma told me you were here.” Debbie wiped her hands on her apron and leaned against the counter, her dirty blonde hair swept off her face in a French braid. “And while you haven’t been in Sweet Briar all that long, it’s been enough time to know that a prework visit from you means something’s wrong.”
Her head snapped up. “Am I really that transparent?”
“Yes.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m right, aren’t
“Beatrice is right, Rose. You’re not like that. You’re very levelheaded.”
“I happen to find you rather ornery, but not in a paranoid kind of way,” Margaret Louise chimed in as she hoisted herself off the wall to claim the side of the counter instead.
Rose bent her arms at the elbows and rested them on the table, her chin finding the tops of her fingers. “But I’ve always believed in Kenny. I knew he could learn his alphabet even though it took him an entire year of near constant after-school tutoring to get it done. I knew he would make it all the way through school, provided each new set of teachers believed in him, too. When his folks died, I knew he could live on his own, that he could find a job that would fit his abilities. And he did.”
The rest of them remained silent as the elderly woman continued, her words alternating between raspy and broken. “And when Martha Jane accused him of stealing her money, I knew he hadn’t. Money doesn’t hold the same meaning for Kenny that it does for other people. He’s simple and innocent. Completely untainted by a materialistic world.”
“Sometimes people make bad choices,” Margaret Louise stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
Rose nodded gently against her fingers, her eyes—magnified by her bifocals—fixed on some faraway spot. “And, in some cases, I suppose that’s true. But not in this one.”
“Then what’s different about Martha Jane’s murder?” Tori asked as she reached out and smoothed a strand of hair behind Rose’s ear.
Forcing her gaze onto Tori, Rose shrugged, her bony shoulders rising beneath her ill-fitting housecoat. “The one thing Kenny struggled with, that I couldn’t fix, was his temper. He was suspended from school for starting fights with classmates, he lost his first job for screaming at a customer, and he’s been picked up by Chief Dallas on a number of occasions for breaking things.”
“But those were just fights.”
“Fights that happened in reaction to something,” Rose explained, her voice assuming the faraway quality her eyes had held just moments earlier. “Kids teasing him over a mistake he made, a customer complaining he’d packed her groceries poorly, neighbors who took issue with the way he painted his house . . .”
Margaret Louise nodded her assent.
“But they were fights. I knew a kid who picked fights all the time in school.” Tori looked from Rose to Margaret Louise and back again, their train of thought escaping her.
“They were always violent fits of rage on people who had wronged him in one way or the other.” Rose pulled her gaze from Tori’s face and planted it on a still nodding Margaret Louise. “Then Martha Jane wronged him. And now she’s dead .”
Chapter 9
When she needed a little space, music was the best medicine—preferably blasting from her car radio as she maneuvered narrow country roads. When she was scared or unhappy, Milo’s warm arms and soothing kiss made everything a million times better. When she was stressed about money or an unforeseen issue at work, sewing calmed her soul and brought clarity to her thoughts. But when it came to feeling thoroughly helpless, chocolate was her therapy of choice.
Fortunately for Tori, Debbie Calhoun’s bakery was less than a block from the library, its endless supply of decadent treats a sight for sleep-deprived eyes. Peeking into the glass case closest to the register, she scanned its contents closely—brownies, cupcakes, tarts, mousse cups, donuts, cookies . . .
“Good morning, Victoria. Emma told me you were here.” Debbie wiped her hands on her apron and leaned against the counter, her dirty blonde hair swept off her face in a French braid. “And while you haven’t been in Sweet Briar all that long, it’s been enough time to know that a prework visit from you means something’s wrong.”
Her head snapped up. “Am I really that transparent?”
“Yes.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m right, aren’t
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