Free Taken In by Elizabeth Lynn Casey Page A

can’t possibly think she’s capable of murder just because she had breakfast with him earlier that day, can they? I mean, she was so happy. So was he. And Dixie was here . . . in the room . . . with Beatrice, Rose, and me when he was pushed.”
    “That’s right! She was!” Rose clapped her trembling hands together. “There’s no way she could have been responsible. She had an alibi!’
    Beatrice nodded emphatically, pointing at the couch as she did. “We sat right there and talked about her breakfast with John right up until the moment she, um . . .”
    Debbie closed her eyes and gave voice to the part of the story Beatrice found herself unable to utter aloud. “Left to have her hair done by a woman she didn’t know.”
    “Who told her she was flying out first thing this morning to take a hair-styling job onboard a Mediterranean cruise line for the next six months,” Rose supplied sadly.
    Tori spoke around the lump creeping up her throat. “That unverified gap in time, plus the fact that she slept away the effects of her appointment upon news of John’s death, will be Dixie’s first stumbling block at the arraignment.”
    Margaret Louise shifted her weight more evenly across her legs. “You mean she’s got more than one?”
    This was the part of the conversation Tori had been dreading. Somehow, even knowing she was merely serving as the messenger, she couldn’t help but feel as if she was also the one holding the hammer above the final nail in Dixie’s proverbial coffin. But she had to tell. Dixie needed all the support she could get.
    “When that detective went into Dixie’s room, she gave him permission to look through her things.” She closed her eyes against the regret she shouldered for not insisting she be part of their talk, and filled in the rest of the blanks. “He found something. Something that apparently links her to the crime scene.”
    “Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t care if Dixie was on the street where he died.” Debbie’s face took on a never-before-seen aura of disgust that prompted Rose to nod along. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
    “But the missing piece of a torn scarf does. At least as far as the police are concerned.”
    “What are you talkin’ ’bout, Victoria?”
    She pushed off the wall and made her way over to the couch, where Margaret Louise had sought refuge from legs that had grown noticeably weak. “From what I was able to gather, the police found a torn scarf near the balcony of John’s apartment. The other half was found in Dixie’s handbag.”
    More than anything, Tori wanted one of her friends to jump up, to offer a counterpoint explanation as to why the scarf had been found in Dixie’s purse. But just as an alternate reason had eluded her in the police station, so, too, did it elude Debbie . . . and Rose . . . and Margaret Louise . . . and Beatrice.
    Tori swallowed. Hard.
    She’d known all along they’d be as stunned as she’d been. But still, she’d held out hope. Hope that one of them would say something that could rid her heart of the suffocating reality that had her bracing for the worst.
    Dixie was in trouble.
    Big trouble.
    “Why are you all looking like that?” Leona finally said, the bewilderment in her voice little match for the bewilderment—and raw disgust—she wore across every facet of her face.
    Rose was the first to speak, anger lacing each and every word. “Because we’re worried for our friend? Is that so hard for you to understand?”
    Leona matched Rose’s ending sneer with one of her own. “I get the worry. This is going to be a battle. But it’s a battle we’re going to win.”
    “D-did you hear what Victoria just told us, Leona?” Debbie sputtered.
    “Of course I heard her. I’m not deaf. But I also know every single one of you watches
FBI
Manhunt
every Thursday night at eight o’clock.”
    Tori slowly raised her gaze to meet Leona’s. “Do you have a point, Leona?”
    “What did Dixie