'Til Grits Do Us Part

by Jennifer Rogers Spinola

  “What is this, some kind of trash bag gas mask?” He gestured to the plastic bag I’d draped over the side of the bin.

  “Believe me, if you offered me a gas mask, I’d accept.” I let go of his hand long enough to right myself as a cardboard box crumbled beneath my foot. “Sorry. I’m just crazy to find out who’s sending this stuff. If the letter’s there, I want to see it myself.”

  “I want to find the guy as bad as you do, but I can’t believe you, of all people, are digging through a Dumpster.” Adam screwed up his face as he plucked a piece of flower stem from my bangs. “You really think it’s in there?”

  “I’m pretty sure, if Dean threw it away this morning. Unless he’s lying, and that’s a different story.” I gestured to mounds of plant clippings and dead leaves. An empty Bud Light can. “But if the letter’s here, I haven’t found it yet.” I scrunched back the plastic bag on my other arm and glanced at my watch. “Look at the time! Kevin’s going to kill me.”

  “Don’t you dare say that.” Adam glared.

  “Sorry! Just an expression.” I shrugged meekly. “I’d better call him though. Can you hand me my phone? It’s in my purse.” I leaned over the side of the dumpster to point. “Thanks.” I wiped my hand on my other trash bag sleeve before reaching out to take it.

  I called, and Kevin yelled at me about safety and told me to be careful, for pity’s sake, and to get my rear in his office when I got back. Then I placed the phone on the edge of the bin, balancing it against the hinges.

  “I guess I should give up, huh?” I sighed, catching myself as the mountain of florist’s foam and ribbon shifted under my feet. Adam grabbed my shoulder and helped me stand up then straightened the trash bag I’d poked my head through. Which now hung like a dirty choir robe over my beautiful navy-blue dress. A section of bead grinned through the torn neck opening.

  “You’re sure they threw everything in here?” Adam flicked a piece of stray green florist’s wire off the edge of the bin.

  “That’s what Tammy told me.”

  “This morning.”

  I glanced at my cell phone and checked the time. “One hour and six minutes ago.”

  Adam sighed and shook his head.

  “What? I’m just trying to find some evidence. The guy’s bothering you, too, Adam. You should be more thankful.” I put my nose in the air and reached again for the rim of the Dumpster to pull myself out.

  “You have no idea. The street outside our house got spray-painted last night.”

  “What?” I staggered back. “Spray-painted? Like…”

  “With red paint. And a weird message. Dad’s really upset. We found it this morning, and we’ve already called the police.”

  “What did it say?”

  “ ‘I’m watching you.’ ”

  My heart thudded against my chest. “What did the A look like?”

  “Weird. Just like you told me about the previous messages. A sort of odd curlicue-hook thing and slanted funny.” He swallowed. “And…there’s more. That’s why I stopped by to meet you.”

  “What do you mean, ‘There’s more’?” I stepped back.

  “He left a letter for you in the mailbox. A fat one with your name on it. Stamped, with an odd stamp I’ve never seen before. Although not postmarked.” Adam patted his pants pocket. “I’ve got it right here for you. It’s wrapped in paper in case of fingerprints.”

  I reached out in disbelief and took the letter between two of the tissues Tammy had given me. Adam slit the envelope open with his pocketknife, and I pulled them out: tiny slips of paper—like they’d been put through a shredder—reading “Cilegna” Hundreds of them, handwritten. Falling out of the envelope and littering the trash piles like sick Easter grass.

  I hastily scooped them up, not wanting to lose a single bit of evidence. “What’s ‘cilegna’ supposed to mean?”

  Adam studied it a minute, his jaw tight with anger. “ ‘Angelic,’ ” he finally said. “Angelic written backward.”

  I pulled out a tiny folded note, scrawled on notebook paper: “Shiloh + Odysseus forever. August 3.”

  I felt defiled, like I’d found my name scrawled on the bathroom wall.

  Something still made a hard shape in the envelope, tucked among paper shreds.

  Three somethings: a distant photo of me pushing open the door to The Green Tree in a Givenchy dress, magazines under my arm. A snapshot of Becky and me laughing in the flower shop. And another of my white Honda, parked outside the mechanic’s shop.

  Fury burned in my veins, and I clenched my hands into fists. “Adam, this is terrible! And all the more reason we need to find this stupid bouquet order.” I wiped my face with the crook of my elbow as Adam turned toward his truck. “Wait, where are you going?”

  “To cover myself in trash bags like the Lone Ranger here,” said Adam, attempting a smile over his emotion-tight face. “So I can figure out who this guy is and punch his lights out.”

  I gripped the rim of the dirty bin with both hands. “You mean you’re going to help me?”

  “Why not? I’ve got thirty-five minutes before my next delivery. What else do I have to do but paw through somebody’s potato peelings?”

  He ruffled my hair before bending down to pick up the roll of trash bags.

  “Is that your phone?” Adam raised his head from a stack of waterlogged papers. Interrupting our stimulating conversation about tuxedo prices.

  “I’ll get it.” I waddled over to the other side of the Dumpster. “It’s probably Meg calling to find out where I am.” I wiped some moisture off the screen. “No. Not Meg. Wait a second.” I put the phone under my chin and adjusted the trash bags over my hand. “Hello?”

  “Hi. Ray Floyd here.”

  “Oh, hi, Ray.” I shook drops off my trash-bag coverings, which were beginning to deteriorate. “Can I help you?”

  I listened and nodded, pressing the SPEAKERPHONE button. “I’m fine, thanks. What am I doing?” Adam and I exchanged smirks. “Just…um…some summer cleaning. You?”

  “I’m packing up to leave town, Shiloh. My street got spray painted last night in front of my house.”

  “You, too?”

  Ray paused, sounding weary. “What do you mean, ‘too’?”

  “Well, it seems like you’re not the only one.” I pressed my lips together. “What did the message say?”

  “ ‘I’m watching you.’ In red paint.”

  I gasped. “The same message!”

  Ray cleared his throat. “Listen, I’ve talked to the police, and I think I’m going to leave town a while. I’ll be closer to my girlfriend, and there’s just too much happening here. I don’t feel safe anymore.”

  “Good move on your part. I agree.”

  My gaze fluttered over to Adam again, wondering with a sinking stomach if he—or his whole family—should leave town, too. Or me, for that matter.

  “You’re taking Ginger, aren’t you?” I finally asked, trying to keep my voice cheerful.

  “Of course. I’ve never been away from her. She’ll keep me company.” I could hear him patting her furry side, license tags clinking. “I won’t have Internet at my buddy’s place, but I’ll e-mail you my phone number and address before I go in case you or the police need to get in touch with me.”

  “Thanks.” I bit my lip. “Just one unrelated question before you go, if you don’t mind.”

  “Shoot.”

  “My mom—Ellen Jacobs—wasn’t one of your music students, was she?”

  “I don’t…think so. What did she play?”

  “Guitar. She took beginner lessons, I think. Several years ago.”

  “I don’t remember her. I mainly teach piano and sax. In fact, Jim Bob was the one who messed around with the guitar. He was pretty good, I heard. Before he broke his hand, of course.”

  “Did he ever give lessons?”

  “No idea.”

  “Well, maybe you can tell me what this song is then.” I hummed a few notes from the paper I’d found in
Mom’s guitar case. “She seemed to like this one a lot.”

  Ray paused. “It sounds familiar, but…sorry.”

  “Maybe she wrote it. Who knows.” I shrugged. “Anyway, be careful, Ray. Bon voyage”

  “You’re welcome. Stay safe.”

  I pressed off the phone just as Adam abruptly jumped to his feet, holding up a scrap of stained paper and crumpled envelope. “I think this is it!”

  “You found it?” I whirled around.

  “The envelope’s addressed to Rask. Written in cursive. Look.” He passed it to me with his plastic-covered fingertips. “And it’s got your name on it.”

  “No postmark.” I snatched it up, looking through each line for a hint. But nothing stood out either in the writing or the words—as standard and straightforward as if I’d written it myself. Just the order specifics and my name. Except…

  “Shiloh! Look at this!” Adam grabbed my arm and jerked me toward the envelope.

  Chapter 24

  So, you make a habit out of Dumpster diving?” My editor, Kevin Lopez, didn’t smile, but the lines on his cheeks deepened in mirth as he crossed his arms in his leather chair. Phil and Priyasha clicked away on keyboards outside his office door a little too quietly, whispering, and almost certainly listening in on our conversation.

  “Definitely. You should try it sometime. It improves my personal aroma.” I’d stripped off the garbage bags, but I still felt filthy. I needed a shower. Bad. My hair felt staticky from a too-close encounter with plastic, rain, and vegetable scraps. Something sticky had crusted at the end of one strand.

  “So you wanted to talk to me.” I glanced longingly at the fresh Starbucks cup on his desk circled by a cardboard holder. It had been too long since breakfast, and I needed a nice hot shot of sugared caffeine. “Yep. But first of all, did you find anything?” I held up the soiled letter. “I’m not sure what it means exactly, since I don’t recognize the handwriting, but look”—I pointed to the battered envelope—“an old stamp I’ve never seen before.”

  “You’re kidding! I collect stamps.” Kevin grabbed a tissue to cover his fingers and reached for the letter. He picked up his reading glasses and held the envelope up to the light. “Whoa. The ‘double-love’ stamp. Also known as the ‘broken-heart’ stamp because of the way the printer hit the paper twice and smudged, making effectively two hearts. One cutting into the other.”

  He raised dark eyes to meet mine. “This is worth a lot of money, you know. Or it was, before it got smeared with whatever they threw in the Dumpster. What a shame.”

  “The year’s significant, too—when Amanda Cummings was born. Coincidence?”

  Kevin raised a thick eyebrow as he turned the envelope over. “Wow. That’s big, Shiloh.”

  “It means the person sending me roses is probably the same one who allegedly did away with Amanda twelve years ago.” I let out a shaky breath. “And he’s been purposefully disguising his handwriting in the notes on my car. Using stencils, up until the letters I got today. Maybe even getting someone else to write the letters for him.”

  On the street below, an ambulance screamed by, siren flashing, and I flinched.

  “This is why we need to talk. Have you taken the letter to the police?” Kevin reached over to adjust his blinds, peeking out through the slats at the old brick buildings that lined the street. A gesture that made me nervous.

  “I’ll take it by right after this.”

  He crossed his arms, his leather chair squeaking as he leaned back. “This is serious, Shiloh. I’ve seen these stalker cases before, and they can get ugly.” He dropped his hand down to his glass-topped desk and drummed his fingers. “So I’m taking you off duty for a while. Matt can cover for you.”

  “Off duty?” I sputtered. “What am I supposed to do? Sit around at Faye’s house and knit? I’ll be a sitting duck! And besides, I need something to keep my mind off this mess. I’ll go insane doing nothing.”

  “Do weather or something.” Kevin’s dark brows knit together. “You can help Priyasha with marketing. From home.”

  WEATHER? I groaned inwardly. It hurt to give up my hard-won post at the news desk. Crime was mine, after all. Mine! And now nasty Matt Tellerman would take my place, bragging to all his college buddies that he’d been promoted.

  Kevin’s nostrils twitched. He pulled the plastic lid off his Starbucks cup and sniffed then cocked his head. “Is that…you?”

  “Is what me?”

  “That smell. Sort of like old banana peels.” He sniffed again, lip curling. “And maybe sour coffee grounds.”

  “You’re good, Kevin.” I pointed a finger at him. “So can I go now?”

  “Straight to the police station. Carefully. Look behind you while you drive, and call 911 if you see anything suspicious.” Kevin put the lid back on his cup. “And do me a favor and call a psychiatrist or something. You’ll need one if this mess gets any worse.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve already scheduled an appointment with one this afternoon.”

  Kevin groaned and massaged his head with both hands.

  “And then I’m scheduling a planning session with Meg about photos.”

  “With Meg.” Kevin instinctively reached for the drawer where he kept his Maalox.

  “For the wedding. I’ll get this wedding organized if it kills me.” I grimaced. “Bad word choice.”

  “No Dumpster photos?”

  “Hmm. Now that you mention it…”

  Kevin rubbed his face with his hand. “You know what? See if you can schedule a visit with the psychiatrist for me, too.”

  Jerry. The Green Tree. If I couldn’t run a few miles and knock all this stress out of my lungs, I needed to talk to Jerry and hear some good news. I pushed open the door to the parking lot and dialed Jerry twice, but he didn’t pick up. So I dialed Trinity Jackson instead as my heels clicked across concrete.

  “Trinity?” I asked when she answered. “How did Fine Dining’s visit go?” Instead of the exuberance I expected, Trinity sighed.

  “What’s going on?” I checked my phone to make sure I’d dialed the right number. “Didn’t they show up?”

  “Oh yes. Unfortunately.”

  “Unfortunately? What are you talking about, Trinity? The menu was perfect! We even researched what the editor of Fine Dining eats for breakfast! We repainted and redecorated. The place is gorgeous!”

  “It is. But we still flopped.” She sighed. “And you forgot your payment.”

  “My payment?” I sputtered. “What are you talking about? And what do you mean we flopped?” I stopped short on the sidewalk, my voice rising to shrill tones. “Where’s Jerry? Why isn’t he answering his phone?”

  “I mean we flopped, Shiloh. Big-time. One crazy thing after another. You won’t believe it.” Trinity’s voice sagged, tired and listless. “But Jerry still paid you. He left a check for you and Adam. Said that if you didn’t come by to get it, Flash would put the cash in your bank account.”

  “Where’s Jerry?” I tried to hold back tears.

  “The last time I saw him, he was headed to his office with his head down.”

  Trinity told it in pieces: A sewer main had broken down the street from The Green Tree, making an unwelcome stench, and without warning a leak from an adjoining building gushed into the kitchen—putting out electricity for half an hour while crisp fried noodles grew soft in the frying pan. The freezer went out. Ice dribbled into puddles, turning Stella’s once-magnificent ramekins of green tea panna cotta into soggy sponges.

  Jerry improvised, throwing together a gorgeous plate of blue cheese and green apple slices on bitter frisée lettuce, all drizzled with honey and walnuts. But the Fine Dining photographer shrieked about nut allergies—after Trinity had asked twice about special diets or requests.

  So Jerry withdrew the offending plate and reseated the party—thanks to the photographer’s complaints about “nut particles in the environment”—and, wouldn’t you know it, placed them next to the top food critic’s mo
st hated rival from her college days.

  And when the food critic turned back to Jerry, he saw an ugly gleam in her eye—like a glance of light off the pointy tines of a fork.

  “Trite and overrated,” she mumbled under her breath to the photographer. Just loud enough for Jerry to hear.

  By the time I’d dried my face from bawling, stopped by the police station, negotiated a photo-shoot plan with Meg by phone, showered, dried my hair, and changed into clean, crisp Hollister jeans and chic heels, I was late for my appointment with Dr. Geissler. The one thing I probably needed more than anything else. Who knows? If he had one of those long, comfortable sofas, I might curl up and ask him to prescribe something that’d put me out for about…oh, three weeks. And wake up in time for my rehearsal dinner.

  If, of course, The Green Tree still existed then. Which at this point looked pretty impossible.

  I sped across town toward Dr. Geissler’s office, following my printed-off address from the Internet, and parked. I let myself into the neat white office and identified myself to Melina, who promptly escorted me back to the doctor’s office.

  No sofa in sight, but a soft armchair in pastel tones did the trick.

  I sank into the cushy padding, playing with the fringed pillow, and had just started to nod off when the door opened.

  “You must be Ellen Jacobs’s daughter.” Dr. Geissler extended a white-clad arm with a warm smile. “Shiloh, right?” He glanced at his chart as we exchanged pleasantries.

  “That’s correct.” I sat up straight and attempted to rub the sleep from my face. “Sorry. It’s been a long week.” I tried to smile, smoothing my hair and stretching my leg to reach a rogue shoe that had slipped off. “A very long week.”

  Dr. Geissler sat down on a chair opposite me, crossing one leg comfortably over the other and flipping through a thick file. His gray-white hair lay back, neatly combed, and his cheeks were vibrant and clean shaven. A stethoscope hung around his neck, and gentle gray eyes folded in soft laugh lines at the corners. “A long week, Shiloh? What’s up?”

  “Me? Oh, I’m not important. I’m here to find out about Mom. Whatever you can tell me that won’t jeopardize your patient-physician confidence. I understand all that.” I squirmed to sit up straight in the foamy cushions, which turned my muscles to butter. “Not that I don’t have my own issues right now, but I’m sick of talking about stalkers.”