“Yeah?”
“Your mother and I saw a very comical play a few years back: The Americans are Coming by Herb Curtis.”
“I’ve heard of the book,” I said. “You mean it’s a play too?”
“Well, almost any novel can be done as a play. It’s a matter of someone writing it in the right format for the stage.”
“And that’s already been done for The Americans are Coming,” I said, “since you and Mom saw it. It would be perfect!”
A loud meow sounded and I looked around to see Ernie peeking at me accusingly from the corner of the doorway. I scratched invitingly on the couch and he came toward me, but veered off at the last second and walked past, head high. He does that when he’s suffered some imagined kitty injury — mostly to his pride — just to make sure no one thinks he cares.
“C’mon now, Ernie,” I coaxed while he sniffed the air indifferently. “No one meant to upset you.”
He looked at me, his usually bright eyes lazy and bored. After pausing to yawn and stretch he made his way back to the couch and leapt up. It was pure performance — Ernie’s usual act of total disinterest — and I could hardly keep from laughing. I just managed to suppress it because I knew he’d get all indignant and insulted and have to be sweet-talked all over again.
“That rascal is spoiled beyond redemption,” Dad commented.
“He sure is,” I said pointedly, looking straight at him. This time it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. He looked away pretty quick.
He can say what he likes about Ernie, but Dad is about the worst offender when it comes to spoiling the little guy. He tries to cover it up, but I’ve caught him sneaking Ernie bits of haddock off his plate and covering for him when he’s been on furniture that’s supposed to be off limits. I’ve even seen him carrying Ernie in under his jacket if it starts to rain when the cat’s outside.
Even though Ernie’s only been here for a short time, it’s hard to imagine our house without him.
He snuggled down on my lap, purring happily while I stroked his silky black fur. That’s one thing about Ernie. He might be all aloof for a few minutes, but he’s really quite forgiving.
Unless there’s a second disturbance, which can send him off sulking for hours. And that’s what happened only a few moments later when Mom called out for me to come to the kitchen.
CHAPTER THREE
While Ernie pranced off, head in the air and tail snapping, I hurried to see what Mom wanted. As I got to the kitchen doorway I could see that she wasn’t alone. Her back was to me and she was talking to a man at the door.
“Shelby, honey, there’s a delivery for you,” she said, turning her head, when she heard me approaching.
“A delivery?” As Mom moved aside I saw that the man was holding a large plant that had been done up in cellophane.
“Yes, ma’am.” The man smiled and held the plant out toward me.
I took it and sat it on the table, signed the delivery slip, told him “thanks,” and closed the door.
I clipped the ribbon that was tied at the top and gasped as the cellophane fell away to reveal the most gorgeous plant I’d ever seen.
“A calla lily!” Mom said. “It’s beautiful!”
“Is there a card?” I asked, peering in among the leaves. At the same time, I tried frantically to think if today was some kind of special occasion for Greg and me. He’d sent me flowers before, but it wasn’t a regular thing with him. Sometimes he’d show up for a date with a rose or carnation, but nothing like this.
“The card is attached to the ribbon,” Mom pointed out.
I saw it then, and opened it quickly, still curious and unable to think of an explanation for the delivery. The tiny card matched: pale lavender with a calla lily along the side. Its message was short: “You will always be mine.”
Mom was standing there, pretending she wasn’t waiting to see what kind of romantic message Greg had put on the card. I read it out loud so she could stop trying so hard to look uninterested.
“You will always be mine?” she echoed.
“That’s all it says.” Something uneasy stirred in me, but it disappeared as soon as I looked at the lovely plant again. “I can’t think of why he’d be sending me this. It’s not any kind of anniversary that I can remember.”
“It’s a bit of an odd thing to write on the card,” Mom commented. “Of course, I’m sure he meant it to be romantic.” She forced a smile.
“It must mean something,” I said, “only I can’t think what.”
“I hope so,” Mom said. “Otherwise it has an awfully possessive tone to it.”
“Well, I’ll give him a call right now and find out.” I gave her a look and she took the hint and left the room. It’s kind of a compromise we’ve reached that if I want privacy for a phone call, my folks will try to give it to me, since they keep turning me down when I ask to have a phone in my room.
I dialled Greg’s number and he answered right away.
“What’s up?” he asked. His casual voice sure wasn’t giving anything away.
“I just wanted to thank you for the beautiful plant,” I said. “Was it for, uh, a special reason?”
“What plant?”
“The plant you sent me.” Was this some kind of game?
“I didn’t send you a plant.”
“What?”
He repeated himself, not that I hadn’t heard him perfectly well the first time. I stood there holding the phone, trying to sort out this new bit of information.
“But if it wasn’t you…”
“Yeah, that’s what I was just thinking.” His voice was light and teasing, though. Greg knew he had nothing to worry about from any other guy. I’m crazy about him.
“Then who?” I finished the question automatically.
“There’s no card or anything?”
“Oh, there’s a card all right, but there’s no name on it.” I told him what it said.
“That’s creepy.” The breezy tone was gone. He sounded almost angry.
“To tell the truth, I found it a bit creepy even when I thought you’d sent it,” I admitted. “I just figured it meant something, and once you told me what it was it would make sense.”
“What kind of plant is it?”
“It’s, uh, some kind of lily.” I found the information spike in the soil and pulled it out. “A calla lily. Why?”
“I dunno. I just thought maybe it signified something. Like certain colours and types of flowers are supposed to mean certain things. What colour is it?”
“White.”
“I don’t even know why I’m asking these things,” he said. “It’s not like I’m some kind of expert on what any of it means. Do you know?”
“Not really,” I said. “But it’s not likely that whoever sent it knows either.”
“Well, it’s strange, that’s for sure. But I’m sure he’ll identify himself to you before very long.”
“I guess you’re right,” I said. That thought didn’t exactly make me feel better. I could picture how awkward it would be having some guy come up and tell me he’d sent the plant. What would he be expecting? That I’d dump my boyfriend for him because of a plant?
We finished talking and I went back to the TV room.
“So, did Greg explain what the message meant?” Mom asked.
I told her what I’d found out and she turned to my dad right away. “Randall, maybe we should look into this. I don’t like it.”
“I doubt it’s anything to worry about,” Dad said. “Anyway, what can I do? We don’t even know who sent it, but it’s a safe bet that it’s just some kid with a crush on Shelby.”
Mom wasn’t convinced. She went to the kitchen and called the flower shop to see what she could find out about the sender, but when she came back it was without any answers. She still looked worried.
“They said it was a mail-in order, paid for in cash, with no return address or anything. And they didn’t even keep the envelope or paper with instructions.”
“Then it mustn’t be that unusual for them to get that kind of order from a secret admirer, Darlene,” Dad said. “Just relax. I’m sure there’s no real cause for concern.”
Was he ever wrong.
CHAPTER FOUR
I felt uneasy when I got to school the next morning. The idea that whoever had sent me the plant was probably right there in the building – maybe sitting at a desk near me in some class or other … or standing behind me in line at the cafeteria … or passing me in the hall – really made me nervous.
Discovering that I had a secret admirer might even have been a little flattering if it hadn’t been for the message on the card. “You will always be mine.” Every time I thought about it, my stomach got a nervous, queasy feeling.
I alternated between wishing this guy would declare himself and hoping he never worked up the nerve to say anything. Every time a guy spoke to me or glanced my way I got wondering: could it be him?
One thing is certain: you never know what’s going on inside someone else. A person can look and act perfectly normal, but can be hiding a terrible secret. I’ve learned that because of some of the things I’ve been through in the last year or two. It’s hard to believe that it was only a little over a year ago that I made up my mind to figure out who was setting the rash of fires that had started springing up here in Little River. Since then, it seems that every time something strange happens, I end up right in the middle of it.
Greg thinks I look for trouble, but that’s not exactly true. And he wouldn’t mind me getting involved in local mysteries anyway, if it wasn’t for the fact that sometimes it can be dangerous.
But this wasn’t a mystery, except in the sense that I didn’t know who’d sent the plant, and that in itself wasn’t exactly ominous.
In any case, the day went by normally, no one came up and blurted out anything about their undying love or anything, and by the time the final bell rang I was starting to relax about the whole thing.
I’d just closed and locked my locker when Greg appeared at my side and announced casually that he was going to walk me home.
“Walk me home?” I echoed. “But why?” He’d never done that before. For one thing, we live in opposite directions. For another, he normally takes a bus, since his place is a couple of kilometres from the school.
“I just feel like it,” he said, hoisting my book bag onto his free shoulder.
“Because someone sent me a plant? You have to be kidding!”
“Yeah, well, we don’t know who this guy is yet, so I thought it was a good idea to be on the safe side.”
“This is ridiculous,” I said. I rolled my eyes, too, but I was secretly pleased. “And you’re missing your bus.”
“It’s not like I haven’t walked home from your place before,” he pointed out.
It was true that we’d walked to each other’s places lots of times, except this was different. It seemed like a long walk for him to make for nothing.
I didn’t argue, though, since his mind was clearly made up. Anyway, I was glad to be able to spend some extra time with him.
As we walked, I told him about the drama club, and Ms. Lubowski agreeing to let the group perform at least one comedy instead of the old classics she’d picked out.
“So, what did she say when you suggested The Americans are Coming?” he asked.
“Not much,” I admitted. “She just said she’d think about it. And she said something about getting permission from the author, Herb Curtis, and about adapting it to make it suitable for a school production.”
“It sounds like she’s interested, anyway,” he said.
“I guess.” I realized then that Greg was looking around as we walked. It had taken me a few minutes to notice it because he was hardly moving his head at all, but his eyes were moving the whole time, searching ahead and to the sides of us.
“So, you see anything suspicious?” I asked.
He smiled. “Not much gets past you, does it? And no, I haven’t noticed anyone around. Not yet, anyway.”
A thought hit me. “So, what if this person doesn’t tell me who he is for weeks, or even months? What if he never does? Are you going to walk me home every day for the rest of the year?”
“To make sure you’re okay? If I need to, I will.”
“Well, that’s really sweet, but I think you’re making way too much of this. I mean, it was just a plant.”
“Right. And if the message on the card hadn’t been so, well, weird, or if the guy had signed his name, it would be different. The thing is, you don’t know who you’re dealing with or what might be going on in his head.”
“But this is Little River!” I said, half pleased and half exasperated. “It’s not like we have a whole lot of psychos running around town.”
“Psychos, as you call them,” he said with an eyebrow raised, “can be found anywhere. Little River is no exception.”
I blushed a little. Greg’s dad is a Doctor of Psychology and I knew Greg had been brought up with a respectful attitude toward people with psychological problems. They’d never be referred to as psychos in the Taylor house.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. Then I changed the subject to the selection we were reading for the book club. The group had decided to read both old and new works, and had chosen an interesting variety, including one book I’d suggested.
It was called Seventeen by Booth Tarkington and I’d read it earlier this year, after it had been recommended to me by Ernie’s previous owner, Mr. Stanley. It was great, but nearly a hundred years old, so I hadn’t really expected anyone else in the room to be familiar with it.
And so, when I’d mentioned the book to the club, it had surprised me to see Webster jump up and shout, “Yes!” and then rave about it with so much enthusiasm that the whole group agreed to put it on our list.
I was curious to know what Greg thought of it. I asked him whether he’d finished it.
“Not yet,” he said. “It’s really good, though. I just haven’t had much time for reading, with all the homework they’re piling on this year.”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “I have so much homework in history and biology that I’ll never get through it again before we meet this weekend. It’s just lucky for me that I already read Seventeen… though I do want to read it at least one more time. It’s so funny!”
“Is it ever,” Greg agreed. “And it really shows what society was like back then — the racial attitudes and the kinds of stereotyping that went on. Some of it’s shocking, but it kind of helps you to see prejudice for what it is: pure ignorance and stupidity.
“And the characters!” he continued. He was warming up and I could tell by his tone that he was enjoying the book as much as I had. “I swear, even though the story takes place back in the early 1900s, I know people who are just like some of the characters.”
For the rest of the walk to my house, we chatted and laughed about poor Willie Baxter and his increasingly bizarre behaviours, all brought about because of his wild infatuation with Miss Pratt.
Mom was in the kitchen chopping tomatoes when we got to my place. Small bowls were near the cutting board, filled with diced onion and green pepper, shredded cheese and lettuce, and salsa sauce. The smell of taco seasoning, simmering in hamburger in a frying pan on the stove, filled the air.
She looked up in surprise to see Greg with me, and I could tell by the look on her face that she was trying to remember if I’d mentioned anything about bringing him over for dinner.
“Greg walked me home from school,” I explained. “He’s just going to get a glass of water before he goes home.”
“Did something happen? I mean, did anyone bother you today?”
“No, Mom. Nothing like that.”
“I’m just being overly cautious,” Greg said lightly. I knew his tone was deliberate. He knows what a worrier Mom can be.
“Well, did you find out who sent that plant?” she asked. The way she said it, you’d have thought the plant itself was vile and
disgusting.
“Not yet.”
“Well, I sure appreciate you seeing Shelby home, Greg,” Mom said. “Why don’t you stay and have a bite to eat with us? If your dad isn’t expecting you, that is.”
“Actually, he’s involved with that research focus group in Viander these days, so he gets home pretty late most evenings,” Greg said. “We do a bunch of cooking on the weekend and make up frozen dinners, since our hours are at odds lately. So, I’d love to join you. Thanks.”
We were just settling in at the table a while later when the phone rang.
CHAPTER FIVE
“I ’ll get it,” I said, heading to the kitchen. Behind me I heard Dad tell Greg that I normally only jump for the phone that way if I think it might be him calling.
“Hello?”
Silence. Somehow, it seemed heavy and dark.
“Hello?” I could feel my heartbeat quicken.
“Shelby?” The voice was a thick, rasping whisper.
“Who is this?” The words were automatic, but my throat felt dry and constricted. I realized that I sounded scared.
“Shelby.” He drew my name out this time, a long, flat sound that sent a chill through me. Oddly, it struck me that it almost sounded like an echo.
“If this is supposed to be some kind of joke,” I said, doing my best to keep my voice from shaking, “it isn’t one bit funny.”
“Oh, Shelby.” There was a strangely sinister amusement in his tone. “Don’t you know that you belong to me?”
Fear ran through me — a cold bolt that paralysed my voice. I told myself I should hang up, but I was frozen in place, the phone pressed to my ear.
“I will make you my queen.”
“Shelby?” Dad called, and for once I was glad about our family rule about no phone interruptions during dinner; Dad would want to know whom I was talking to and why I was on the phone. I heard muffled voices in the next room, and then the sound of a chair being pushed back. Seconds later, Greg came through the kitchen doorway.
“Is everything okay?” he asked. Still unable to speak, I couldn’t answer. But he saw my eyes and he knew something was wrong. He stepped toward me.
Eyes of a Stalker Page 2