Deadly Notions - By Elizabeth Lynn Casey Page 0,78

Murphy.

She raised her hand in a greeting only to pull it back down to the table as Regina headed straight for the counter, the woman’s hurried pace preventing her from noticing anyone, including Tori.

“Well, I better get going. It’s been a long day.”

Tori stepped off her stool and held her hand in Beth’s direction. “I wish you luck with your company, I really do.”

A hint of crimson spread its way across Beth’s cheeks. “I can see why Milo likes you. You’re always so nice.”

“I try.”

Beth lowered her voice to a near whisper as their hands met. “Please tell Milo I’m sorry. And if he wants to tell me off, I’ll be at the inn again tonight before heading back home in the morning.”

“I’ll let him know.”

And with that, Beth was gone, her suitcase bumping along behind her as she left the bakery and headed down the sidewalk.

“Well, I better get going, too. Kayla is waiting anxiously for her treat.” Samantha slid down off her stool and headed over to the counter to stand in line behind Regina. For a moment, Tori simply watched them, her mind wrestling with the irony. Both women had been connected to the victim—one as a mortal enemy, the other as a friend. Or, at the very least, a boss.

A flash of movement jarred her focus to the left, tugging her lips upward in the process. There, sitting underneath one of the tables, was Jackson Calhoun, his dark brown hair groomed neatly to the side save for the little ducktail that stood up in the back no matter what his mother did.

“Jackson? What are you doing?”

The little boy pushed off the ground and ran over. “Hi there, Miss Sinclair! Hi, Mrs. Morgan! Mommy didn’t tell me you were here!”

“Well, we’re here, aren’t we, Nina?” She winked a smile at her assistant. “Only we decided to sit at the table instead of on the floor.”

“I like that better, too. The floor can be kind of yucky.” Jackson scrunched up his face in disgust. “People drop all sorts of things on the floor. Even pictures.” His hand shot upward to reveal a crumbled piece of pink paper.

Pushing his tongue forward in concentration, Jackson unfolded the paper and set it on the table. “Mrs. Abbott wouldn’t like this picture very much.”

“Mrs. Abbott? That’s the art teacher at your school, right?” She leaned forward for a closer look. “Why wouldn’t she like your drawing?”

“It’s not my drawing. I just found it is all.” Jackson scrunched one eye closed and aimed his finger in the direction of Beth’s old table. “Right there, under that table.”

“Then make sure you wash your hands after you throw it away. Especially if you picked it up off the ground.”

“I will. I promise.” He raked his hand over the picture, crumbling it into a ball in the process. “Mrs. Abbott taught me how to draw better people anyway. She said stick people are for mommies and daddies who don’t know how to draw.”

Chapter 29

There were times when giving a person space was advisable. And perhaps now was one of those times. But that would mean listening to her head instead of her heart and her heart was talking far louder at that particular moment.

Which is why Tori was sitting in her car outside Milo’s house instead of heading home as she’d told Nina.

It wasn’t that she’d lied, because she hadn’t. She’d truly intended to go home after they left the bakery. She’d even steered her car in that direction. But when she was just two driveways from home, she’d turned around, her destination suddenly clear.

Milo was upset, of that she was certain. But he hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, he’d done everything right. He’d given an old friend the benefit of the doubt because experience had given him reason to do just that.

It was easy for Tori and Debbie and everyone else to see Beth’s ulterior motives because there was no history to counteract the truth—a fact that had put them at an advantage and Milo at a distinct disadvantage.

She looked up at his house, her eyes drawn to the room on the far left-hand side. It wasn’t hard to imagine what he was doing—his long, lean body stretched across his bed while he stared at the ceiling in thought. She’d seen it many times—in the park, on her couch, outside the library . . .

It was his favorite position for contemplating life.

Pulling back on the recessed handle, she pushed the driver’s side door open