Death Threads (32 page)

“He’s representin’ Ella May.”

Tori shrugged. “That’s okay, I guess. If it helps him blow off steam then it’s worth it. And besides, maybe he’ll learn something from Colby’s willingness to go easy on Ella May.” She pointed at the tent and the crowd assembled around the town square. “So all of this is about your sweet potatoes?”

“Sweet Briar has good taste,” Margaret Louise gushed before shaking her head in regret. “Why would you listen to me crowin’ about myself? If I don’t watch it, people might mistake me for—”

“Leona?”

The woman’s hearty laugh shook her body from head to toe. “Can you imagine”—she trailed her hands down her round body—“people mistakin’ chubby ol’ me for Leona?”

“If Leona could only be so lucky,” Tori said as she reached out and patted her friend’s hand. “Speaking of Leona, where is she? I’ve got a bone to pick with her.”

“She’s over there”—Margaret Louise pointed toward a suit-clad man near the back of the tent—“with William Clayton Wilder.”

His back to a tent pole, the strikingly tall man was staring down into Leona’s large doe eyes with obvious fascination.

“She doesn’t waste any time, does she?” Tori asked, her head shaking as she spoke.

“She’ll be bored with him by Sunday.” Margaret Louise turned back to Tori, her eyes wide with excitement. “She showed me the handkerchief she made for Ella May.”

Tori looked past the woman to her reluctant sewing pupil. “And?”

“Well, it was a little cockeyed, and she used glue on the patch . . . but—”

“She told me she was going to use an iron,” Tori protested.

Margaret Louise raised an eyebrow.

“She has used an iron before, right?”

The woman’s eyebrow rose even more.

She looked back at Leona for a moment as reality dawned. “She doesn’t even own an iron, does she?”

“She dated Winston Hohlbrook for a few weeks after movin’ here. She now gets free dry cleanin’.”

She felt her mouth gape open. “Are southern men just that clueless?”

“Hey! Who are you calling clueless?” Milo grabbed her around the waist and poked his head over her shoulder to greet Margaret Louise. “Should my ears have been ringing just now?”

Tori spun around and kissed Milo’s chin. “No. But Leona’s should be.”

Margaret Louise glanced down at her watch and made a high sign in the air at Leona’s latest conquest. To Tori and Milo she said, “I think it’s time.”

“You mean I’m finally going to get to taste these sweet potatoes Tori told me about?”

The woman grinned. “Soon.”

Tori gestured toward her friend. “Margaret Louise is up to something. What, I have no idea. But she’s up to—wait! Does this have something to do with turning someone else’s rags into riches?”

A knowing smile crept across the woman’s face.

“It does, doesn’t it?” she prodded.

“You caught me.” Margaret Louise pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket and waved at William Clayton Wilder as he approached. “I gotta go.”

“Go, go where? And I still don’t know what that rags and riches thing means . . .” Tori’s voice trailed off as Margaret Louise’s back disappeared into the crowd beside Colby’s publisher. “Why must I always have to figure everything out for myself?”

Milo grinned. “Because you’re so good at it.” He turned a hairbreadth as Leona approached, the woman’s near-flawless face sporting a flirtatious glow. “Were your ears burning, Leona?”

“My ears? Good heavens, no. Though”—she cocked her head to the right and batted her eyelashes—“William’s breath was quite lovely against my skin when we spoke.”

Tori rolled her eyes at Milo. “Hey, I have a bone to pick with you, Leona.”

Leona’s shoulders drooped as she met Milo’s gaze. “Can you please translate, darling? I don’t know anything about picking bones.”

“I have an issue to take up with you, Leona. Do you find that easier to understand?”

The woman released a sigh. “What have I done now, dear?”

“The thumping . . .”

Leona’s eyebrows furrowed.

“At Ella May’s the other morning . . .”

The woman’s eyebrows relaxed as the color deepened across her cheeks.

“You told Colby and Police Chief Dallas that I was the one who thought it was coming from Ella May and her Mystery Man?”

The woman shifted from foot to foot then settled her hand at the base of her neck. “Did I? I don’t recall.”

“Wait.” Milo pointed at Tori, his lips turning upward. “You thought they were—”

“I didn’t think anything,” Tori corrected. “Leona is the one with the gutter mind.”

Milo laughed.

“She’s also ignorant to common basic household appliances.”

Leona stared at Tori. “Excuse me, dear?”

Tori reached out, grabbed hold of Leona’s clutch, and snapped it open, her hand reaching inside and extracting the misshapen blue handkerchief. “Would you mind telling me how you applied the bunny patch?”

The woman mumbled something inaudible beneath her breath.

“I’m sorry, did you hear that Milo?” Tori asked as she kept her gaze locked on Leona’s.

Milo shook his head in amusement.

Leona’s mouth opened only to close once again.

“You glued it, didn’t you?”

The woman swiped the handkerchief from Tori’s hands, stared lovingly down at the patch, then stuffed it back in her purse. “So what if I did?”

“You’re a piece of work, Leona.”

“A piece of art, dear,” the woman corrected. “And there’s a very big—”

“Hey, I hate to interrupt but it looks as if that Wilder guy is about to say something.” Milo pointed toward a podium set up inside the gazebo.

“We’ll talk later,” Tori hissed at Leona as they trained their focus on the publisher.

“Good evening, Sweet Briar. For those of you who don’t know who I am, my name is William Clayton Wilder. I am the CEO of Lions Publishing—the company that publishes your own Colby Calhoun and magazines like
Taste of the South
, which will soon feature the woman right beside me . . . Margaret Louise Davis.”

The applause that had started at the mention of Colby’s name took off as the people of Sweet Briar shed the trauma of the past two weeks in favor of something positive, something different.

“I stopped by your town to see Colby a few weeks ago and ended up staying for the festival that honors your town’s historic rebirth.”

The applause stopped. Bodies shifted uncomfortably as more than a few sets of eyes searched the crowd for a visual of Colby Calhoun.

“I’ve come to learn that the story of that rebirth may be different than once thought. Or, rather, I should say the story of the incident that caused the rebirth may be different than once thought.”

A few throats around them cleared uncomfortably as the man continued from his spot behind the podium.

“As a man who’s built an empire on stories, I know what matters and what doesn’t. And while the incineration of your town is the kind of ambulance-chasing story that gets people’s hearts pumping, it’s also the one that eventually fades into bits and pieces of a vague memory.”

Tori scanned the crowd, her gaze coming to rest on Dirk Rogers. If the publisher’s words were striking the right note with the garage owner, it was hard to tell. But the angry sneer she’d seen on his face at the garage had definitely softened.

“But the story that lives on . . . the story that inspires and motivates . . . the story that equips you with a can-do spirit long after the words are told is the part about the actual rebirth. The part about the town’s forefathers—your kinfolk—coming together to start over. That’s the story.”

“Rags to riches,” Tori whispered.

“What was that?” Milo asked as he leaned close.

“Just something Margaret Louise said that’s finally starting to make some sense.”

“So Colby Calhoun didn’t take your history from you . . . he put it in focus.” William Clayton Wilder nodded his head at the local author before turning to the woman beside him. “And Margaret Louise Davis here . . . well, she took the leftover bad taste and sprinkled a little magic on it.”

“What’s he talking about?” Milo whispered from behind his hand.

“I’m not sure.”

“Next month, Margaret Louise and her recipe for Sweet Briar Sweet Potato Pie will get the feature spot in
Taste of the South
magazine. And trust me, all of you will soon taste for yourselves why she’s earned that spot.”

Tori glanced at the woman to the side of the podium, felt the pride well up inside her heart for her friend’s accomplishment.

“But what’s taken this recipe to a whole new level is the story behind it. A story not unlike your town’s history.” The man shifted the note cards in front of him before looking back out at the crowd. “While I truly believe it’s of little importance whether this town was burnt to the ground by Yankee soldiers or a mishap with some moonshine . . . the truth is, it was the moonshine. Truth is truth.”

A series of coughs sprang up among the crowd as the man continued on. “But just as your forefathers focused on creating a silver lining from that mishap, so, too, has Margaret Louise Davis.” William Clayton Wilder pulled an envelope from behind the podium and held it out to Margaret Louise. “I asked her to take what was a spectacular recipe to start with and give it a uniquely southern twist. And she did . . . however, she took it one step forward and gave it a uniquely
Sweet Briar
twist.”

The crowd’s focus shifted from the publishing giant to Margaret Louise as, once again, the man continued. “And just as your forefathers regrouped from tragedy, so, too, did she. You see, the very thing that burned this town to the ground is the very same thing that this town will be celebrated for in
Taste of the South
’s next issue.”

“Huh?” Milo asked, his confusion and sentiment echoed by those around them.

“That’s right, Sweet Briar, there’s moonshine in my Sweet Potato Pie!” Margaret Louise’s voice bellowed out from the podium as she gestured toward the head table now covered with casserole dish after casserole dish of her soon-to-be famous recipe.

Pockets of laughter were drowned out by the sound of wild applause as the crowd cheered and made its way over to the table.

“One man’s rags are another man’s riches.”

“What was that?” Milo asked as he looked down at her.

“One man’s rags are another man’s riches . . . it’s something Margaret Louise first said to me a few days ago.”

“Well, she certainly hit that home today, didn’t she?”

“She sure did.” Tori rose up on tiptoe so he could hear over the increased noise level around them. “I’ll meet up with you over by the picnic tables in a little bit. I want to congratulate Margaret Louise.”

He raked a hand through his hair and smiled. “I’ll save you a spot. But give her a kiss for me, too. Okay?”

“Absolutely.”

Step by step Tori made her way through the passing crowd. When she finally reached the gazebo she stopped, Leona having beaten her to the punch.

“We’re both so very proud of you,” Leona said as she released her sister from an embrace.

“Both?” Tori asked as she offered her own hug to Margaret Louise.

Leona looked down, her cheeks suddenly crimson.

“Leona?” She shifted her gaze to Margaret Louise’s equally guilty face. “Margaret Louise?”

“It was the right thing to do considering the circumstances.”

She narrowed her eyes on Margaret Louise. “What was?”

“We couldn’t leave him out there to fend for himself.”

“Him?” She shifted her focus to Leona once again.

“Without his mama to look out for him, he was bound to end up a target for Carter Johnson.”

She held up her hands, palms outward. “Wait. You’re not talking about—”

“Paris. He needed me.” Leona clasped her hands in front of her body and smiled up at Tori angelically. “I mean, with Ella May facing possible confinement in a loony bin, what else was I to do?”

“You went back out there and snatched him?”

Leona’s eyes rolled upward. “No, I didn’t snatch him. I don’t need to snatch men, dear.”

“She really doesn’t. They just flock to her,” Margaret Louise insisted on behalf of her twin.

“So you’re saying—”

“I’m saying that I set my bag—”

“Actually, it was my bag, Twin.”

Ignoring her sister, Leona continued on. “I set it down and he”—she rose up on the balls of her feet and did a slight bounce—“hopped right in.”

“Just like that, huh?” Tori asked.

“Yes, just like that.” The woman turned toward her sister, her hand gesturing in the direction of the various tables playing host to Margaret Louise’s prized Sweet Potato Pie. “While I certainly look forward to that being included in some of my suppers, I definitely must insist on a side dish of organic carrots each and every night.”

“Organic carrots?” Margaret Louise clamped her mouth shut and shook her head. “Oh no, you didn’t win the bet.”

Without so much as a single word, Leona opened her clutch, pulled out the pale blue handkerchief, and waved it in front of her sibling’s face.

“You didn’t . . . That’s not . . .”

Tori shrugged. “She may have glued on the patch, but she did sew on the edging.”

Mumbling something about the need for a quick swig of her special ingredient, Margaret Louise stalked off in the direction of the tables, her loveably plump frame disappearing among the crowd of adoring fans.

As they watched her go, Tori shook her head, a smile tugging at her mouth despite her attempt at disdain. “You really are a piece of work, you know that, Leona?”

“Art, dear. Art.”