Free Death Threads by Elizabeth Lynn Casey Page B

take care of her—you two are much closer in age.”
    “Age? Being supportive is about age?” She knew her voice was rising to a level it shouldn’t, but she let it go. “Oh . . . I’m sorry . . . the last I checked, being supportive is part of what it means to be a friend. Then again that’s something you could use a refresher course on, isn’t it?” Surprised by the vehemence behind her words, she looked down and swallowed, waited for the sound of the office door opening and Leona’s footsteps as she left. But they never came. Slowly, she raised her head, met Leona’s unreadable eyes. “I’m sorry, Leona, that was uncalled for. All I can say is I’m more than a little sleep deprived and absolutely heartsick about Colby.”
    A moment of silence ensued before the woman finally waved a manicured hand in the air. “No, you’re right. I was lost in my own little world last night and by the time I caught up with what was going on, it was too late.”
    “Lost in your own little world?” she echoed.
    “Yes, lost in my own little world.”
    “Was something wrong?”
    “I was planning. And plotting,” Leona explained.
    “I’m not following.” She rubbed her right hand over her right eye as she released a deep exhale.
    “Have I not taught you anything about personal maintenance these past few months, dear? Never, ever rub the skin around your eyes. We want it to be firm yet supple. Rubbing removes the natural glow in your skin.”
    She stared at her friend. “You’re worried about my skin?”
    “As you should be. You have it until the day you die. Unless you opt to have a little nip and a little tuck.” Turning her body ever so slightly in the chair, Leona crossed her legs at the ankles and straightened her back. “Just make sure if you go that route that you find a reputable doctor to do it and not some backwoods quack.”
    On any other day, Tori would have laughed at the absurdity of the conversation playing out in her office. Never in her wildest imagination could she have anticipated receiving plastic surgery advice before she was officially thirty. Then again, she’d never known someone like Leona Elkin before, either.
    “Anyway . . . where was I? Oh yes, while Rose was being her normally charming—and may I point out—spinster self, I was deciding the most appropriate way to meet William Clayton Wilder.”
    She felt her mouth gape open. “The magazine guy?” Leona waggled her finger back and forth until Tori clamped her mouth shut. “The wealthy and widowed publishing genius.”
    “You’re not serious. . . . Okay, wait. You are.” Pulling her hands from the edge of the desk, Tori dropped her head into them. “Can’t you just be in the kitchen when Margaret Louise meets him next?”
    “And run the risk he thinks I cook?”
    She laughed as she slid her hands down her face. “Um, Leona? He runs a culinary magazine. Don’t you think he has an interest in . . . I don’t know . . . maybe cooking?”
    “Well, I sew, shouldn’t that count for anything?” Leona asked with a sniff.
    “You sew? Since when?” Suddenly the tension that had knotted itself throughout her body began to ease as she allowed herself to enjoy the easy repartee she’d enjoyed with this woman since the first day they met.
    Leona’s chin jutted in the air in defiance. “I’ve worked with buttons . . .”
    “Worked with buttons?”
    “Yes.”
    “You’ve worked with buttons, Leona? Hmmm . . . I remember buttons . . . and I remember you . . . but I don’t recall you ever touching them, let alone sewing them.”
    “Semantics, dear. Semantics.”
    “Oh, is that what they call it in the south?” Tori pushed off the desk and walked over to the window, her face instinctively tilting toward the sunlight. “What is it about men that makes you shut down on your friends?”
    “My friends don’t wine and dine me, dear. And they don’t have that stubble on their chins in the morning.”
    She turned toward her