Free Pinned for Murder by Elizabeth Lynn Casey Page A

circular counter that housed a computer, a pencil holder, and several stacks of books waiting to be shelved. “This is the information desk, isn’t it?”
    “Yes . . .”
    “Well, that’s why we’re here, dear. To get information.”
    Tori’s mouth gaped open as Margaret Louise snorted with pleasure. “Good one, Twin.”
    “Consider it, dear,” Leona continued, her voice a study in poise and perfect articulation. “We’re here to gather information. Information that can only be gleaned by asking questions.”
    “Who strangled Martha Jane Barker and why aren’t really the kinds of questions I can answer.”
    “Then let’s try another question, shall we?”
    Tori, too, leaned against the counter, amusement over her friend’s persistence temporarily winning out over sense of duty. “Okay, shoot.”
    Leona gasped. “Shoot? Shoot what?”
    “It’s an expression. It means go ahead.”
    Closing her eyes, Leona shook her head, a soft tsking sound emerging through closed lips. When she finally opened them again, she threw her hands skyward. “I had hoped, by now, that you’d have abandoned your big city ways, dear.”
    “Big city ways?” Tori repeated.
    “I realize living in Chicago is akin to residing in a war zone, but we don’t liken words to dangerous objects or their actions here in the south.”
    “War zone? What are you talking about?”
    “Could Chicago function with a police department the size of Sweet Briar’s, dear?”
    “No, but it’s Chicago . . . it’s bigger. Much, much bigger.”
    “And much more dangerous.”
    “Maybe in comparison, I suppose. But, really, it’s a safe city, Leona.”
    The woman rolled her eyes. “They have alleys, dear.”
    “So does Paris.”
    “Oooh, she’s got you there, Twin.” Margaret Louise pushed off the counter, her smile stretching her face to a near breaking point. “But as fun as this is, I’d rather get back to the questions on everyone’s tongue right now.”
    “Which are what?” Beatrice piped up, her charge momentarily distracted by a picture book on fire engines. “What else is there besides who killed Rose’s neighbor?”
    “What else ?” Leona asked, her eyes narrowed on the British nanny.
    “Yes, Leona, what else?” Dixie echoed.
    “Well, there’s the matter of whether Martha Jane’s killing was an act of revenge.” Leona jutted her chin upward and sniffed.
    “Revenge?”
    Tori swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat. She knew, without a doubt, where Leona was headed. It was the same place she, herself, had visited again and again over the past fifteen hours or so. And it was the same place that had caused the normally stoic Rose Winters to burst into tears in front of Tori and Milo just hours after the murder was discovered.
    “Yes, revenge.” Resting her hands on their opposite upper arms, Leona peered at Dixie over the top of her glasses. “Kenny was furious with her. Everyone knows that.”
    “Kenny?” Beatrice yelled, her voice drawing more than a few raised eyebrows from around the library.
    Leona rolled her eyes.
    “Kenny Murdock ,” Margaret Louise corrected, making Beatrice’s shoulders slump downward.
    “You think Kenny Murdock murdered Martha Jane?” Dixie brought her hand to her mouth, her eyes large and luminous. “He wouldn’t harm . . .” The elderly woman’s voice trailed off as she closed her eyes tightly.
    “He has a horrific temper,” Leona reminded.
    “He’s been known to snap things in two.” Margaret Louise pushed off the counter only to lean against it once again. “Do you remember that time he busted the Heritage Days sign in half a few years ago? He was angry because no one let him work a booth.”
    “And don’t forget that time he came into my shop and knocked one of my antiques onto the floor by accident.” Leona looked from one member of the sewing circle to the next, her bent toward the dramatic heightened tenfold in the presence of a captive audience. “He flew