'Til Grits Do Us Part (17 page)

“Cooter. Crazy about flowers.”

“Yeah. You should see the lily arrangements he makes. I get him a bouquet about once a month, and he's happy.”

Meg's hip brushed the corner of Amanda's blue folder, nearly knocking it onto the floor, and I reached out to grab it.

“You know,” she said finally, hefting the vase into one arm and stroking her chin. “Have you ever thought that maybe…”

Her eyes darted from the folder to me, and I sat up straight. “Don't say it, Meg.”

Meg ignored me. “Since all these weird events are transpiring around the same time as Amanda's purported…uh…killer is leaving messages, maybe the perp thinks you and Amanda are related somehow, or…?” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. “You don't look alike. Your mom does, but not you. I don't get it.”

“I don't either. Amanda disappeared years before I ever came here. Before Mom came here, even.”

I put Amanda's picture back in the folder and leaned back in my chair. “The handwriting on the note in my car or on the florist's cards hasn't been distinctive. Nice and neat. No weird
A
's or loops like the ‘You-were-my-first' messages.”

“Well, that's all opinion, you know. But I agree. I think you'd notice handwriting that unusual.”

Meg put one arm up, combing her fingers through her long, wispy hair as she searched for words. Making the scarlet petals quiver. “Do you and Amanda have anything in common? Hobbies? The kind of car you drive? The Japan connection, no matter how loose it might be?” She shrugged. “Sorry. I'm just throwing things out there.”

“Besides…sharing the same birthday?” I glanced up at Meg with a pounding heart, feeling inexplicably guilty.

“What?” she squawked. “You didn't tell me that!”

“Well, no, because what's it supposed to mean?” I threw my arms out. “We were born in different decades. It's not that weird to share a birthday, is it?”

Meg frowned, thinking. Then finally shook her head. “I guess not.”

“Besides, who knows my birthday anyway? It's not like I go around with it displayed on my forehead.”

“True.” She sighed. “Well, can you think of anything else? Try hard, Jacobs.”

“That's just it! We don't have much in common. Amanda was a country girl from Deerfield, Meg! I don't have a Japanese grandmother, by marriage or otherwise. I'm not vegetarian or an artist. I don't collect stamps. And I wouldn't get engaged to my cousin in a million years, got it?”

Meg smirked. “Just checking. You never know.”

I ignored her joke, not in the mood for jesting. “I'll talk to the police, but without any clues, this whole thing is just one big, faceless game.”

“But it's a threatening game, Miss Bride-to-Be, if said admirer is meaning that he won't share you with Adam.” She glanced down at the florist's card. “Hence the stalker-ish phone calls he's been getting. The drawing of his face on Ray's letter.”

“But why Ray and Adam? What do they have to do with any of this?”

Meg shrugged slowly, shifting her weight to the other sandal. “I don't know—unless the perp views them both as competitors. Ray with Amanda, and you with Adam. And if he's targeting you like he targeted Amanda, then…?”

I covered my face with my hands.

Meg pressed her lips together, playing with a big wooden dream-catcher earring with her free hand. The Native American kind that looked like a woven spiderweb, a long beige feather trailing from it.

“What?” My voice came out louder and crabbier than I intended.

“I don't trust the police, personally. They're the establishment. Are you with me?”

“But you just said a few minutes ago I should tell them!”

“Sure you should. So you can prove you reported it. But I didn't say to
trust
them. Deputy Shane Pendergrass is sitting on his duff eating Krispy Kremes while somebody's sending you roses with mysterious messages and harassing your fiancé, right as Amanda's alleged killer is spray painting roads and threatening people.”

She lowered her voice. “And if by some chance Clarence really didn't put that note on your car, maybe Amanda's killer did. Which means he knows your car.”

My head started to pulse right behind my eyes, and I grabbed my keys, throwing my purse strap over my shoulder.

“You go talk to Kevin. I'll pack up.” Meg gestured toward her cubicle. “But let me say one last thing first. I don't trust big ol' Shane down at the police station further than I can throw him.”

“No?”

“Not that he's evil. Just…a little too ignorant. And a serial flirt.” She grinned. “Although he is kinda cute. A little thin on top. He's gonna be bald as a cue ball one day—not that that's a bad thing. Hey, you know who I saw him with the other day? Down at the Depot restaurant? Well, he's been on and off dating this Misty gal, and…”

I waved my hand in front of her face. “Focus, Meg! You were talking about Shane not being trustworthy. I could care less who he's dating.”

“Huh? Oh yeah.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Well, what I meant is this: I wouldn't walk away and leave this bouquet business completely up to somebody like Shane. Use your own noggin. Stay safe, but go after whatever you can yourself.”

Meg gazed down at the roses a long time, rearranging a few stray petals. “You can't think of anything you might have in common with Amanda? Or your mom, perhaps? As goofy as that sounds.”

“Mom.” My stomach roiled. “I knew she'd come up sooner or later.” I cupped my hand around my mug of miso soup, which had turned cold.

“There is one thing.”

Meg eyed me. “What, something else you have in common with Amanda?”

“No. My mom. They shared the same doctor.”

Meg puckered out her lips, not moving. A strand of her reddish hair quivered slightly in the air-conditioning current. “Well. If that's all you've got, then you'd best get on it. Stat.”

“I know. I've been thinking about it. Trying to get up the courage.” I twisted my fingers together, remembering Mom's letters. Her grief. As if I wanted to learn how acutely I'd caused her suffering.

“Waiting for courage? Jacobs, if you don't call him right away—now—I'll personally throttle you.” She smacked a palm with her fist. “And not bother to send you roses first.”

The phone bleeped into my ear as I pulled up a search on Dr. Geissler on the Internet. A simple website showed a photo of a white-haired man in a suit. Kind eyes. That'd make you want to pull up a chair and spill all your problems.

Which, for me right now, would take several hours.

“Dr. Geissler's office,” bleated the receptionist. I barely registered the greeting. My eyes had jumped to the caption beneath Dr. Geissler's photo.

“Hello?” the voice repeated.

“Hi. Sorry.” I shook my head rapidly, still reading off the website. “So…Dr. Geissler's a psychiatrist? Not a general practitioner?”

“Yes, ma'am.” The receptionist sounded slightly bemused. “Do you…have an appointment with us?”

“Me? No. I just expected a regular medical doctor.” I pulled out my bottom drawer and withdrew Mom's medical forms, flipping through the pages. A psychiatrist surprised me. But then again, not so much.

I bit my lips, remembering Mom's bouts with depression during my growing-up years, and even something like a nervous breakdown. She'd stay in bed for days, weeping, and then scramble pills down her throat with shaking hands.

“Do you have any records for Ellen Amelia Jacobs?” I asked, my mouth feeling cottony from nerves. “She was my mom. And she passed away a year ago.”

“I'll see if the doctor can talk to you.” The receptionist, who identified herself as Melina, dropped her voice to a hush. “But if you want to meet with him, I'd recommend you do it quickly.”

“Why? Is he terribly busy?”

Melina hesitated, as if wondering how much she could trust me. “Have you met Dr. Geissler, ma'am?”

“No, but my mom apparently has.” I shuffled through her medical notes. “Until her death.”

“He's not well, I'm afraid.” Melina sighed. “I've worked with him nearly all my life. He's a good man. Retired, actually, but continues to practice. But I feel like I should advise you of his limitations beforehand so you're not surprised.”

“Sorry. I don't understand.” I shifted in my chair, feeling tension tighten in my neck.

“He seems to have the beginnings of…well, some memory problems. Possibly Alzheimer's.” She paused. “He's quite aware of it. But since he's no longer practicing medicine now, mostly clinical psychology, he's stayed on a little longer. People love him. But factually, I don't know how much longer he'll be able to practice.”

Fantastic. Just what I needed. Another clue about to sink into oblivion, and here I sat, completely helpless. I felt like banging my head repeatedly on my desk. Instead I leaned back in my chair and took in a long, deep breath to steady myself.

“I'm so sorry to hear that,” I said finally. “So he won't remember anything about my mom, I guess. I'd really hoped he could…well, clear up some things.”

“Oh, no. His memory regarding his patients is incredible. He hasn't lost that at all—and if you schedule with him quickly, you'll see that.” She chuckled lightly. “I just have to remind him frequently what day it is. For now. But I can't guarantee how long that'll last.”

“When's the soonest you have?”

“July.”

I groaned out loud.

I hung up my phone and scratched down the appointment date, listening for the rattle of Meg's camera and car keys. Nothing. Just the low, rhythmic clacking of keyboards. I put down my pen and peeked over the cubicles, looking for her.

Great. She'd probably wandered off to the lobby and started posting PETA flyers or something.

A plink of new mail made me glance down at my screen, and I frowned at the unfamiliar return address.

Hate mail, probably. Now that I wrote for the crime section, I sometimes got feedback. Usually bad. People hated seeing their Uncle Willy written up for stealing tractors.

I clicked through two older e-mails, both calling me all sorts of names, and then clicked on the newest one. An e-mail address I didn't recognize.

And as I skimmed it, the cursor just sat there, blinking, as if in as much shock as me.

“Hello, my angel,”
the e-mail read.
“You can't fool me. I see through your phony engagement scheme a mile away. But it won't work, my love, because three was always meant to be with me.”

H
e'd signed the e-mail “Odysseus.”

“What?” I shrieked, knocking into my mug and spilling brown miso soup down the front of my shirt and all over the desk.

“Who is this?”

I clicked to the second one:

I made such a commotion that both Priyasha and Phil stumbled over to my desk. Even Matt jerked his head away from his Facebook page to stare.

“Everything okay?” Priyasha, our marketing woman, poked a dark head down to mine, her voice carrying a slight lilt of Sri Lankan warmth.

“No! Look at this!” I pointed to the offending e-mails. “Who on earth would send me something like this? What is this Odysseus guy, a math teacher or something?” I put my hand on my hips. “And how does he know my wedding's on August third? Or what auto shop I go to?”

Phil, our sports writer, lifted some soup-soaked papers away from the keyboard and read, and then pulled back his head in surprise.

“Whoa.”

I furiously wiped soup from the front of my brown dress. Good thing I'd worn a matching color; I single-handedly kept stain-remover and dry-cleaning companies in business.

“You get hate mail all the time, so what's one or two on the other side?” Phil squinted at the e-mail. “You don't know anybody who calls himself by Greek nicknames?”

“No. Should I?”

“I dunno.” Phil shrugged, looking irritated. As he so often did. “I guess it's a Greek god or somethin'. Most fellas think they are, anyway.” He nudged Priyasha, who snickered behind her palm.

“Just you, Phil,” she joked, slapping him on the arm.

I reread the e-mail in frustration, wishing somebody—anybody—felt as horrible about the whole mess as I did. “There's no way to track e-mails, is there?” I coldly ignored their banter.

“Don't think so.” Phil crossed his arms. “You don't recognize the address?”

“Ody803,” I repeated out loud. “Nope. But it's our wedding date—August third. But shiro.com?” I played with the mouse, brow pursed. “
Shiro
means ‘white' in Japanese, but it doesn't ring any bells.”