She softened. “People have been passionate about the written word for centuries. Books have been burned and banned by governments. Authors had been threatened with death.” As if realizing she’d strayed into territory best left alone, she added, “I carry books that undoubtedly offend some individuals. Political. Religious—”
“The letters mention sin,” he interjected.
“Fanny Hill.”
Looking pained, Wainwright made a sound beneath his breath. “Even so, darlin’, I feel it’s my responsibility to see to it that you’re safe.”
“I have no qualm about John conducting a security inspection here at the shop.” She came around the counter, a little house cat protecting its den from the neighborhood pit bull. Her gaze flicked to John, and he could see she was reining in impatience.
“And your apartment,” Wainwright added.
“I’m sure John has better things to do than babysit me.” She gave him a pointed look. “Don’t you?”
It was the opening John had been waiting for. His chance to get the hell out of there and still save face. If he was lucky, he could make it to the cabin by first light and spend the next couple of days communing with nature and trying to put things into perspective.
He stared at her, indecision tugging him in different directions. Part of his brain screamed for him to jump at the opportunity to run—something he had become quite adept at. But there was another part of him that wasn’t quite so logical, a part of him that knew Benjamin Wainwright didn’t jump at shadows. If Julia was receiving threats, she probably needed him a hell of a lot more than he needed to spend the next few days getting lost in a bottle of rotgut.
“With all due respect,” he heard himself say, “if you’re receiving threats, you should be taking them seriously, particularly with your father vying for the director position at Eternity Springs.”
She turned those gypsy eyes on him, and in their depths John saw a flicker of stubborn. “I am taking this seriously,” she said. “I’ve filed a report with the police, and I’ve just agreed to a security inspection by you.”
Wainwright sighed then scowled at John. “Talk some sense into that hard head of hers. I’ve been trying for twenty-nine years and still haven’t succeeded.”
“Dad, it’s not like we’re talking about a mad axe murderer here. I’ve received a few letters.”
“Threatening letters,” Wainwright injected.
“I have an alarm system.”
“You have a mass of wires that are at best a fire hazard.”
John watched the exchange with interest, curious about the source of Julia’s resistance. She was too smart not to realize the situation could become serious. A threat—no matter how subtle—wasn’t the kind of thing you ignored, especially if you were the daughter of a controversial, high-profile religious icon in a city full of sinners. He wanted to think this was working out exactly the way he’d hoped it would. A quick security inspection and he was out of there. But in some small corner of his mind, he wondered if Julia’s resistance had to do with the incident in Chicago. If she somehow knew about it. If maybe she thought he was incompetent because he’d shot and killed a fellow cop. The shame that followed cut with unexpected force.
“This is exactly the kind of thing that could escalate and turn into something ugly if you’re not on top of the situation,” he said.
Sighing, she looked to the heavens in exasperation. “I’m outnumbered.”
“What you are,” John said, “is smart enough to know when you need help.”
Benjamin Wainwright stepped forward and set his hands on her shoulders. “Julia, darlin’, you’ve known John since you were a kid. Be reasonable and let him take a look at those letters.” He looked around the shop with mild distaste. “Let him hang out for a couple of days and keep an eye on things for you.”
“Dad—”
Wainwright’s cell phone chirped. Giving his daughter a final frown, he yanked the phone from his belt, glared at the display for a moment, then growled, “Honey, I’ve got to take this. It’s the folks from Our Lady of Saint Agnes. ’Scuse me.” The bell jingled when he pushed open the door and stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Saved by the phone,” she muttered.
John stood his ground near the counter, wondering who’d won the tug-of-war. He told himself that even if the old man claimed victory and John ended up spending the next few days here, the assignment would be a piece of cake. The problem was that John was in no frame of mind to be playing rent-a-cop. He had enough problems just getting through the day without some high-maintenance, difficult-minded female complicating things.
Without speaking to him, Julia went back to her place behind the counter. Pulling cash from the drawer, she began counting, slapping each bill down with a little too much force. “I apologize for my father putting you on the spot.”
“I’m sure he has your best interest at heart.”
“I want you to know . . . none of what was said has anything to do with you personally.”
John winced. “I didn’t take it personally.”
“Please don’t feel an obligation to—”
“Babysit you?”
She didn’t stop counting bills, but her mouth quirked. “Something like that.”
“He’s only trying to protect you.”
She stopped counting and looked at him, her expression softening. “I know.”
“You’d make him a happy man if you let me hang out here for a couple of days.”
She banded the bills. “He’s never approved of my having this shop.”
“Why not?”
She lifted a shoulder, let it fall. “He wanted me to get my master’s degree. Get involved with the ministry, either teaching or missionary work.”
“He got a bookstore instead.”
“Not nearly as respectable.”
“Respectable is overrated.”
John watched her place the bills in the register, trying not to notice that her hands were as pretty and slender as the rest of her.
“Are you speaking from experience?”
He looked up, found her eyes already on him. “I’m an expert on disrepute.”
She was about to say something when the bell on the door jangled, announcing Wainwright’s reentry. “Honey, I’ve got to go. Parker and I have to go meet with members of the Historical Society. Charlie Bouchet is pressuring me to buy and restore Our Lady of St. Agnes, and I’m just not sure it’s a wise use of funds.”
“I think John and I can handle the rest of this without your input,” Julia said sweetly.
Frowning at her, Wainwright turned to John. “Don’t let her railroad you out of here. She’s tricky and tough.”
“I think I can hold my own,” John said.
Wainwright didn’t look too sure. “While you’re here, you may as well take a look at the locks on her apartment, too. She lives upstairs.”
“Why don’t you just move him into the storage room across the hall?” Julia said dryly.
“Not a bad idea,” Wainwright said.
She rolled her eyes. “I’m kidding, Dad.”
John might have smiled if he didn’t have a stake in this. But he did. On too many levels, if he wanted to be honest about it. First and foremost there was the very real possibility that Julia could be in some kind of danger from whatever wacko was sending her threatening letters. Second, he owed Benjamin Wainwright. Twenty years ago, the man had been chaplain with the NOPD. He’d gone above and beyond after John’s father was killed in the line of duty. That wasn’t the kind of thing a man forgot.
John’s capitulation, he assured himself, didn’t have a damn thing to do with the way that skirt swept over those curvy hips of hers.
Wainwright kissed the top of her head, then looked at John and winked conspiratorially. “Let me know what you think about those letters, will you?”
John watched him exit, feeling as if he’d just been neatly manipulated, though he wasn’t sure by whom. As he
turned back to the counter, he suddenly had the sinking feeling he wasn’t going to make it to the cabin tomorrow.
THREE
Julia couldn’t believe her father had hired John Merrick. Of all the cops he could have turned to from the days he’d been a chaplain with the NOPD, why did it have to be John? Why couldn’t he have hired some retired cop with gray hair, a spare tire around his middle, and a wife and five kids instead of this dangerous-looking ex-cop who’d once been the object of her most forbidden teenaged fantasies?
She tried not to think about that as she watched him prowl her shop, his cop’s eyes taking in every detail. The eighteen-year-old bad boy she’d known a lifetime ago had been replaced by a brooding man with troubled eyes and danger written all over his six-foot-plus frame. The man who stood before her now looked as if he’d earned every one of his thirty-five years—the hard way.
He wore a black leather jacket and gray slacks. His dark brown hair looked as if it had gone quite some time without a cut, and he swept it straight back from a face that was as lean and uncompromising as his body. His eyes were the gray color of a Louisiana storm. The kind that was chock full of thunder and lightning and maybe even a tornado or two. Julia had gotten caught up in the maelstrom of those eyes a lifetime ago. And like the silly teenager she’d been, she’d felt her heart breaking when he left for Chicago without so much as a good-bye. It had been a hard lesson for a fifteen-year-old caught up in the throes of her first love.
Picking up a book, she slid it onto the shelf behind her and tried not to be angry with her father for complicating things. Julia was no fool; she knew he was right. What didn’t sit well was the idea of him hiring John Merrick without consulting her first.
“Last I heard, you’d run off to Chicago and became some hotshot detective,” she said.
“Yeah, well, you got the Chicago part right.”
An instant too late she remembered the shooting incident. Her father had told her it ended John’s career, and she felt a quick kick of guilt. “That was a stupid thing to say. I’m sorry—”
“You don’t have to dance around the subject. It happened.” He sighed, but it was a haggard sound. “It’s over.”
She might have believed him if she hadn’t caught the quick flash of some dark emotion in his eyes. And she wondered if it truly was over for him. If a person ever got over that kind of tragedy. Even a tough guy like John Merrick.
She watched him cross to the nearest shelf and slide out a book. “How long have you owned this place?” he asked.
“Two years now.”
“You like it?”
“Do cops like donuts?”
Smiling, he slid the book back into place without looking at it. When he turned back to her, his face was composed and as hard as a piece of granite. “I didn’t know what to say when your father approached me. I didn’t realize he hadn’t discussed this with you.”
“He makes it difficult to say no sometimes.”
“I was planning to turn him down until he mentioned the letters.” He shrugged. “Then I figured you might appreciate the help.”
Julia couldn’t dispute that without sounding like an idiot. “I do. Thank you.”
“How about this. I take a look at the letters. If I think they warrant your getting some personal protection in place, we’ll handle it. I’ll recommend a few security measures here at the shop and your apartment upstairs to appease your father, and we’re both off the proverbial hook. Fair enough?”
She nodded, relieved that he was being so reasonable. She crossed to her desk and pulled out the manila folder where she kept the letters. “There have been six so far.”
John crossed to her and took the folder. “Have you touched them? Handled them much?”
“Just to open and read them.”
“Has anyone else touched them?”
“Claudia.”
His eyes met hers, and Julia thought she saw the hint of a smile. “Last time I saw her she was all pigtails and freckles.”
“She still has the freckles.” She smiled. “She’s going to Tulane now and works here part-time.”
John set the folder on the desk and opened it. Taking the first letter by the corner with his thumb and forefinger, he read. The sins ye do by two and two ye must pay for one by one.
He looked up, saw Julia watching him, biting her lip, and he wondered if she was more frightened by the letters than she was letting on.
“It’s a quote from a book,” she said.
“What book?”
“It took me a while to figure it out.” He tried not to check out her calves when she walked halfway down the second aisle and paused to pull out a thick book with a tattered cover. “It’s Rudyard Kipling’s ‘Tomlinson.’” She carried it to the counter and began paging through it. “Right here.”
He crossed to the counter. Silence reigned while they read the poem, then she turned her eyes on him.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“If you read it literally, it’s a threat.” He glanced at the other letters, picked the next one up by its corner and read.
Her tainted pen spills sin onto the page/like fevered blood from a sickle slash./Soon thine blood will be hers/and vengeance will be mine.
“I couldn’t find the author of that one.”
“Not quite as subtle.”
“I agree.”
“Any idea what the reference to writing means?”
When he glanced at Julia, her gaze skittered away. “I thought perhaps he was referring to one of the books I carry here at the shop.”
“Maybe.” But not for the first time, John was getting an odd vibe from her, as if she weren’t quite being honest with him. Of course, that didn’t make any sense. Julia Wainwright wasn’t the kind of woman who kept secrets. And she had no reason to lie to him.
Or did she?
He turned his attention to the third letter. Death is here and death is there,/Death is busy everywhere,/All around, within, beneath,/Above is death—and we are death.
“That one is from Shelley’s ‘Death,’” Julia said. “It’s old, 1820 or so.”
“So this guy probably knows books. You tick off any of your competitors recently?”
“Not that I know of.”
He flipped the page to find that the next letter was even more chilling: The wages of sin is death.
“It’s from the New Testament,” Julia put in.
“Another reference to sin. To death. Threatening, considering its context. Same paper as the others. Same font. Looks like it’s off the same laser.” He looked up, his expression devoid of emotion. “Do you have any idea who might be sending these?”
“I’ve racked my brain trying to come up with some logical culprit, but I have no earthly idea.” She watched him compare the letters. “What do you think?”
“I’ll tell you what I don’t think. These letters don’t have anything to do with your father. These letters are about you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“These messages are too personal, with too much focus on books and writing. That leads me to believe it has to do with you or your shop.” His gaze met hers. “Someone put some thought into these letters. Someone who knows old books and wants to convey a message to you.”
Julia suppressed a shiver. Not because his words were a surprise, but because she’d already drawn the very same conclusion. “Who would do something like this? I mean, who would go to this kind of trouble?”
“Someone who’s fixated. Obsessed. To him, it’s not trouble. It’s a compulsion. Judging from the dates on these letters, that compulsion is pretty powerful. See the dates?”
He was right. The last two letters had been delivered just two days apart. “Why is he doing it?”
“Evidently he’s unhappy with you because of something he perceives that you’ve done.” Intensity shone in his eyes and for a moment he looked very much like a cop. “Any idea what that might be?”
“I don’t know.
”
“You sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure.” She pressed her hand to her stomach. “Do you think it’s someone I know?”
“Most stalking victims know their stalkers,” he said. “I would venture to say this person has at least met you. We’re probably talking about a male.” He shrugged. “Could be a customer. A vendor. Someone you’ve come in contact with through the shop. Anyone come to mind?”
She shook her head. “I can’t imagine anyone I know doing something like this.”
“Has anyone shown an unusual amount of interest in you? In the shop? Spending an unusual amount of time here?”
“No.”
“What about boyfriends? Neighbors? Any suspicious people hanging around the shop?”
“No and no.” She laughed, but heard the tension in her voice. “And half the people in the Quarter are suspicious-looking.”
He smiled, but the humor was thin. “No recent falling out with anyone? Disgruntled employees? Have you fired anyone recently?”
“Claudia and Jacob are my only employees.”
“Who’s Jacob?”
“He’s my part-time clerk.”
“Is he religious?”
“He goes to church.”
John pulled out a small pad. “What’s his last name?”
A rise of annoyance had her shaking her head. “There’s no way he’s involved in this,” she said.
“Won’t hurt to run a background check on him then, will it?” he asked and waited.
“Brooks,” she said after a moment.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“I’m not trying to be difficult. I just know he isn’t involved.”
“Yeah, well, that remains to be seen.” Frowning, John looked down at the letters, his brows knitting. “There’s a common theme to these letters.”
“I’ve noticed,” she said. “They appear to revolve around sin and redemption. Punishment. Revenge. Absolution.”
“And death.” The muscles in his jaws worked as he seemed to consider that. “Do you carry any risqué or controversial books?” he asked. “Anything that might offend someone? Anger someone?”
A Whisper in the Dark Page 4