'Til Grits Do Us Part (16 page)

“No. He's the prosecutor assigned to my case. Don't worry. I don't have to pay for anything since it's in the interest of public safety.”

“Yikes. You do have a penchant for trouble.”

“That's what Kyoko says,” I muttered to myself, taking the summons and folding it up.

Meg crossed her arms and eyed me with a pitying look, turning up her lip at the sight of my fish. “That's the pits.”

“Tell me about it. I'm supposed to go wedding shopping with Becky tonight, but now all I can think of is this stupid summons.” I shook my head in disgust. “I knew Jed would turn up sooner or later, but I didn't expect it to be now. When everything else in my life is going nuts.”

“The flowers. Right.” She shot me a sympathetic look.

“That's not even the worst part, Meg. Adam's been getting weird phone calls ever since Ray saw his face on that drawing.”

Meg opened and closed her mouth in shock. “Shiloh Jacobs.” She put her hands on her hips. “You'd better watch out. Both of you. Has he talked to the police?”

“He and his dad filed a complaint this morning. Adam's worried about putting everybody else—his two brothers, his parents—in danger if the calls don't stop. But there's not much the police can do, unfortunately.” I shook my head and dug in the bag for another fish. “And then there's Ray Floyd. I've called him a couple of times to ask questions about the case, but he turns kind of cold every time I mention Adam.”

“Well, I'd be scared, too, if a drawing of some stranger's face showed up in my mailbox with a threat.”

“Exactly. I just hope he doesn't file a complaint to the police about Adam.” I tapped the summons paper on the edge of the desk. “I mean, Adam clearly has nothing to do with this. The only connection we can find is that his dad taught Amanda geometry in high school years ago. But even he doesn't remember much about her.

“You know what? I promised to help Jerry give the restaurant a makeover.” I flailed my arm in the direction of the bridal magazines. “And I'm supposed to be planning a wedding, Meg! Less than two months until I walk down the aisle, and do you think I can manage a normal existence where I actually get to think about things like wedding cake and dresses?”

I shook the summons in defiance and stuffed it in my purse. “But I'm going wedding shopping with Becky tonight no matter what. Hear me?”

Meg gave a wry smile, her dark eyes blinking sympathy. “I'm really sorry about everything.” She shoved her stinky mug into my hands. “Here. Trust me. You need this more than I do.”

I glanced down into the grainy, gray-brown depths, which smelled like horseradish and cheap vodka. “What…on earth…is this?”

“Brewer's yeast. A great way to get your chromium. And the dregs of that fermented maple syrup. It's pretty potent stuff.”

I felt my shoulders shake in an unexpected laugh. “No, really. It's okay.” I pushed the mug back at her. “I'll stick with my fish. And maybe make some
miso
soup since I missed breakfast.”

“Jacobs. You know how unhealthy it is to skip breakfast.”

“Believe me, I do. Sumo wrestlers don't eat breakfast.” I reached for my desk drawer. “I couldn't help it though. I got stuck on the side of the road with a bad transmission. But”—I raised a finger—“I found Mom's transmission warranty last night, so I won't have to pay for a new one.”

“Good for you. I told you karma would sort things out.”

“Well, if repercussions and rewards are based on my actions, past and present, I'm in a heap of trouble. Let's call it instead God's pity on a penniless writer. How's that sound?” I tipped my head in a smile. “And I discovered something, too.”

“That you're a closet Buddhist?”

“No way. Mom played the guitar.”

I pulled a plastic packet of brownish stuff from my drawer, Japanese kanji characters for instant miso splattered across its glossy surface.

“I found the guitar up in her attic while I was hunting for her transmission warranty. Funny, huh, the things you can still learn about someone who's been gone more than a year?” My smile turned wistful. “She had a practice sheet in the guitar case. Untitled. Just the notes.” I hummed a few bars. “Do you recognize it?”

“Nope. But I couldn't carry a tune if my life depended on it.”

“Me either. But I wish I could figure out what song it was.”

I snipped the corner of the miso packet with scissors, lost in thought.

“Ah. Miso. Now there's one place we see eye to eye.” Meg patted me proudly on the shoulder. “Vegan in the making.”

“Don't get your hopes up.” I snipped the corner of the packet and squeezed it all out into an old Cornell mug, like gooey brown toothpaste. The Japanese are masters at instant everything—like instant noodles out of a machine. I reached under my desk and produced a thermos then pumped in a few squirts of hot water. Stirring with my spoon until it reached a thin, soupy consistency. I tasted and shook off my spoon, wishing somebody in Japan would invent an instant “solve-everything-in-your-life” packet.

Maybe then I wouldn't be getting married in my bathrobe.

Clarence pushed his mail cart down the aisle and across a few of my bridal magazines, and I turned and scowled.

“Don't worry, Jacobs.” Meg looked up as I stomped over to the stack of magazines and snatched them out of the way. Smoothing the covers. “Cooter's got a jumpsuit you can get married in. He uses it for skinning deer and changing car oil, but you can get the stains out with bleach or something. Recycle everything, I always say.”

I plopped the magazines under my desk. “I'll stick with something a little more capitalistic and wasteful this time, if you don't mind.” I reached out to grab Meg's arm. Lowering my voice to a whisper. “And listen. About Clarence.” I peeked around the corner to make sure he'd gone. “Do you think there's any chance he's the guy who won the lottery twelve years ago?”

“What?” Meg screwed up her face. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“No, really! He used to live in Verona. He told me so once. And I know he plays lotto. I've seen him at the Shell station scratching off those dumb tickets.”

“Shiloh Jacobs.” Meg put a hand on her hip. “If Clarence had won a million bucks, would he still be buying lotto tickets? Hmm? Or driving that clunker of a car?” She met my gaze. “Or working
here
?”

“I guess you're right.” I let Meg's arm go, embarrassed. “He just seems like he's hiding something. And”—I leaned over to whisper in her ear—“he's left-handed. I purposely asked him to sign for an order yesterday, and he used his left hand. Just like whoever's been leaving all those Amanda notes.”

“Oh, I'm sure that fella's hiding a lot more than lotto tickets. Please.” She rolled her eyes. “But I don't think Clarence killed Amanda. Do me a favor and call the good doc your mom and Amanda both used, will you? Maybe he can help you, too. You're cracking up.”

She rolled her knuckles lightly on my head before turning back to her cubicle.

Meg hadn't even rounded the corner when I smelled them.
Roses
. A heavy, cloying perfume, like the strange bouquet that had enjoyed its remaining moments in the company trash can.

“Do you smell that?” I turned toward the scent.

“What?” Meg inhaled. Then sniffed at the armpits of her tunic and shrugged. “Nope. Unless you're talking about my tea.”

“No. This was a good smell.” I wrinkled my lip and inhaled again, but the floral odor had vanished. “Forget it. My overactive imagination, I guess.”

But as soon as I turned back to the keyboard, I distinctly caught the scent of roses. Even Meg froze in place, nostrils huffing. Footsteps thumped on the carpet just around the corner of my cubicle.

“That better not be…” I half-stood in my chair, hands clenching into fists.

“Roses,” said Clarence with a grin. Appearing like a horrible vision, holding out a fat bouquet of dark red blooms.

M
y jaw clenched in anger. “I don't think so, Clarence. That's not funny. Chastity's desk is over there.” I pointed in the direction of her desk.

“Ain't fer Chastity,” grinned Clarence. “They got your name on 'em.”

This time even Meg gasped. I still didn't move to receive the vase. It just seemed too creepy with Clarence holding them, like another of his jokes. They'd probably squirt water on me or something.

“ ‘Shiloh Jacobs,' ” he recited, pointing to the card. “You gonna take 'em, or do I hafta sit 'em on the floor?”

I stared at him then quickly made a space on the desk between Amanda's file and my keyboard. An identical vase wrapped in red paper. Twelve deep red roses, same as before. Only bigger, if that were possible. The same crystal vase and glossy red ribbon. And a little white envelope from Rask Florist.

“Roses again?” I threw my arms up. “Who on earth are these from?”

Clarence flexed his eyebrows. “You're the one who stays out 'til all hours a the night,” he leered. “Leavin' yer car in the parkin' lot mighty late. Who knows what a fella might think?”

I slammed both hands on the back of my chair, shoving it out of the way, and marched over to face him. “You,” I said, feeling angry color creep up my neck. “What was that note you left on my car supposed to mean? And if you're playing some kind of sick joke by sending me flowers, cut it out. It's not funny.”

“Hey, Tiger Eyes. Simmer down. I didn't send nothin'.” Clarence put his palms up and backed away, his face contorted like he was trying hard to smother a smile. “You stressed today or somethin'?” He lowered his voice. “That time of the month?”

Meg snickered. I flung a hateful look at Clarence then stalked back to my desk and looked uneasily at the flowers.

“Call the florist.” Meg swooshed a pen through the blooms, ruffling their petals. “You'd better read the card first though,” she added, flicking the envelope onto the table with the tip of the pen. “It might be important.”

I reluctantly dug out the little white florist's card with a tissue in case of fingerprints and tore it open.

“YOU ARE MINE, MINE, MINE, ANGEL DIVINE,”
began the message in block letters.
“I've been waiting for you all this time, and I won't share you with anyone. No matter what.”

Everything in clear, dark red ink.

“Not Brandy again! Why, why did it have to be Brandy?” I slammed the phone down and buried my face in my hands.

“What's wrong with brandy? Cooter gets this really good kind from—Jacobs? You okay?”

I raised my head to see Meg peering at me worriedly, her favorite Cannon slung over her shoulder. “The florist didn't tell you anything?”

“No. It's that Brandy woman again who doesn't know anything.” I rolled my head from side to side, letting my tense muscles loosen. “She says if I think it's a mistake, it probably is. That things do get goofed up from time to time.”

“What kind of lame answer is that?” Meg threw her hands up. “You just got a threat, Jacobs.” She pointed to the card. “A creepy threat. What does he mean he won't ‘share you' with anyone?”

“I know. Brandy didn't take the order and doesn't know who did.” I fingered my keys. “I'm thinking of going to Rask myself and then maybe…”

“The police station?”

“You guessed it.”

“Good move. Just to be safe.” Meg adjusted the camera strap and dropped an extra battery pack in the pocket, Velcro-ing it shut. “I'm heading out to a photo shoot. Want some company?”

“Definitely. If you can spare a few extra minutes.” I shoved the bouquet in her direction. “And here—take these stupid roses before we go. Please. Get them out of my sight.”

“Cool!” Meg hefted the large vase, turning it in the light. “Cooter'll love this. He's crazy about flowers.”