'Til Grits Do Us Part (26 page)

I heard a faint voice speaking, and then Adam's face crinkled in surprise. “Yes, it's my truck. We're getting ready to drive home. Why, is something wrong?”

“Your truck? Why's he asking about your truck?” I whispered, mad that they hadn't found the creep yet. Now I'd have to try to sleep knowing he was out there somewhere with my purse, helping himself to my debit card.

As soon as we finished eating, I'd drop Adam back off at the elementary school parking lot to pick up his truck and get us both out of there. For good.

Matt the intern could do the next city council write-up, the loafer.

Adam hit the S
PEAKERPHONE
button, and I heard the officer's voice loud and clear: “Well, driving home might be a problem.”

“Sorry?”

“Your tires are slashed. All four of them.”

“What?” Adam and I gasped at the same time, nearly banging heads as we leaned forward to hear better.

“And that's not all. Seems like whoever did it left a message for you, unless you regularly carve words in the side of your truck with your keys.”

“What message?” Adam sputtered. “What do you mean?” “Somebody scratched a big, ‘STAY AWAY' in all caps on the left side of your truck. You'd better come see for yourself.”

W
hat is this?” I dropped my old burgundy-brown purse in a heap on the carpeted office floor. All my excitement about going wedding shopping this coming weekend with Becky dissipating like a tired Japanese blowfish.

“What's what?” Meg looked up from holding a stack of papers upright against my gray cubicle wall, signing something.

“That.” I pointed.

“That would be a standard office chair, although a little on the cheap side.” Meg raised an eyebrow and pushed some long strands of taffy-auburn hair behind her ear before turning back to her paper.

“Not the chair. I'm talking about that.” I pointed again, trying to ignore her foul-smelling mug on the corner of my desk. “That padded envelope. How long has it been here?”

Meg pursed her eyebrows in a “you've lost your marbles” grimace. “Since the mail rounds, probably. Clarence probably brought it. Why? What's the big deal?”

“It's from California.” I took off my lanyard and poked a corner of the package with my glossy ID tag. “I don't know anybody in California. Clarence used to live there though.”

“What's the return address?” Meg peeked over my shoulder, her musty patchouli scent making my nose itch.

“Santa Clarita. There's no name.”

She sobered suddenly and lowered her papers. “You don't think it's related to what happened in Waynesboro, do you? Or the roses? Mercy, Jacobs. You're starting to scare me.”

“I don't know what to think.” I reluctantly picked up the envelope and squeezed it, feeling something thin and hard inside. I slit open the edge with scissors and dropped the envelope sliver in the trash. A cracked CD case fell out into my hand.

“The Judybats?” Meg picked it up with her fingertips. “Who in the world are they? And what happened to this case?” She turned over the cracked and dented plastic, which looked like it had been chucked from a moving car at top speed and into a road sign. Several times. And mended with bubble gum.

“Don't ask me.” I pulled the case open by its rickety joints and dislodged the equally scratched CD. One scuffed edge was mottled with something sticky.

“There's another CD in there.” Meg peered over my shoulder. “And…something in the middle?”

“Oh boy,” I muttered as a thin, flat, cardboard packet plopped onto my desk from between the two CDs. “What next? More roses?” I sliced carefully through the stiff square with the scissors.

“Don't say that.” Meg shot me a stern look. “After the other night, I'm afraid to let you out of my sight.”

I cut one more time, and the cardboard fell open. Revealing a gleaming, razor-sharp throwing star. Like the kind ninjas throw at people in cartoons. One sparkling edge glinted in the overhead light.

“Shiloh Jacobs.” Meg flung the battered CD case on the desk and backed away. “Who's sending you throwing stars? Do you have any idea how illegal that is? Sending knives through the mail?” She leaned closer to my desk, pulling the throwing star partially out of its sheath with the tip of her pen. “Although they did a pretty good job of hiding it from the X-rays.” She fiddled with the CDs, holding them together like a sandwich with the throwing star between them. “Huh. Check it out.”

She tore a sheet of paper from my note cube and ran it across the razor edge of the blade, eyes widening in admiration as it sliced through the paper as easily as butter. Leaving a thin paper curl.

“Great. Now I'm supposed to figure out who sent me this.” I threw up my arms in exasperation. Phil and Priyasha turned in their chairs at my loud rant, and heads popped over cubicles. I bobbed an involuntary “I'm sorry” bow, Japan-style, and dropped my voice. “I don't know anything that's going on lately, Meg!”

Fuming, I scooted the whole mess to the side of my desk with my keyboard and plopped in my chair to think.

“Jacobs,” Meg hissed and threw a manila folder over the whole pile of envelopes and cardboard, scooting the throwing star out of sight. “You can't just leave that there! Somebody'll see it. Kevin'll have a heart attack if he finds reporters carrying weapons into the office.”

“Do I look like I'm carrying anything?” My voice rose testily.

“No, but still. Get a grip.” Meg lowered her voice to a whisper. “Take it home or whatever on your lunch break. Put it in your car. Just get it out of here.”

“You want it?” I glared at her.

“Are you kidding? Cooter would have my head.”

“Why, is he antiweapon, too?”

Meg frowned in surprise. “What do you mean, ‘too'?”

I turned to look at her. “Aren't you against guns and all that?”

“Against guns? Jacobs, I own two .22 rifles, a. 45 automatic, and a Glock. I've been squirrel hunting more times than I can count.”

“Squirrel hunting?” I shrieked, quickly lowering my voice before Phil glared at me again. “I thought you're vegan!”

“I didn't say I eat them. But the suckers keep eating my corn and getting in Cooter's still. Making a mess out of the eaves and clogging up our gutters. Gotta do something. Cooter swears they're the best thing he's ever eaten. So have at it, I say.”

She looped her thumbs through the belt loops of her jeans. “But he'll be mad if I show up with a throwing star that's better than his. He makes knives, you know. Pretty terrible ones. But he's really proud of his throwing stars.” She shrugged a shoulder. “If you can call them that. They're more like metal Frisbees.”

Not a single word came to my mouth. I just sat there, immobile, until Meg pulled the empty envelope from under the folder and peered again at the return address. “Hey, aren't throwing stars illegal in California?”

“Illegal? Try a felony!” I shook my hand in the direction of the pile. “Perfect. All I need is some wacko sending me weapons and another stupid note from Clarence on my car.”

“A note from Clarence?” She snorted a laugh, tapping her corky sandal on the carpet. “Was it obscene?”

“No. It didn't make any sense. Just a bunch of numbers and more drawings of an eye.” I turned back to my desk, wishing I could crawl back in bed and start the day over. No, the week. Maybe more than that.

“At least you haven't gotten any more roses.” Meg patted my shoulder. “There are some real fruit loops out there, you know.”

“Yeah, and speaking of fruit loops, it's fortuitous that you weren't in Waynesboro last week, Shiloh,” said Matt the intern, butting into our conversation as he leaned back in his chair without a squeak. A conference room chair with nice cushy padding.
Grrr
.

“Why do you say that?”

“I had to update the crime listings. Some chick got mugged at knifepoint.” He chuckled. “What a goofball, loitering on elementary school property at inappropriate hours of the night. Serves her right.”

I swiveled slowly in my chair to meet his eyes. “That was
me
. I did the city council report, remember?”

Matt paled from the roots of his long, dark brown ponytail to his slightly double chin.

I scooted my chair across the carpet, coming face-to-face with him until our noses nearly touched. I spoke through my teeth. “The meeting didn't even finish until ten o'clock. I'm not a goofball. Got it?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Meg wheeled me back over to my desk and grabbed an empty chair from Phil's cubicle, ignoring Matt's sputtered apology. “Did you say the guy had a knife?” She sat down, crossing her long legs. Jeans frayed along the bottom hem and dragged on the carpet over her Birkenstocks.

“Sure he had a knife! I said so in the police report.”

“I didn't see a knife!” Meg's eyes bugged. “I just saw the guy take off, and you told me he'd swiped your purse!”

“Well, it was dark, and we barely had a chance to talk before Adam showed up and took me to the police station.” I sagged back in my seat. “Now I'll have to call the police again and report this stupid package. No, you know what? Maybe I'll just do it all this afternoon when I go by there to report all the weird hang ups on my answering machine. Who knows? Maybe I'll have something else to report by then, too.” I scowled.

“It's the same guy!” Meg reached out to shake my shoulder. “He threatened you at knifepoint, and now he's sending weapons in the mail.”

“We don't know that, Meg! There might be no connection whatsoever.”

“Right, but you can't rule anything out.” She waved a hand in front of my face. “Look at me, Jacobs. I don't want to be taking photos of a crime scene with your name slapped across the headline. Got it?”

I sighed. “I'll take everything to the police this afternoon, okay?”

“You'd better.” She raised an eyebrow. “I thought that God of yours was supposed to protect you. Looks like He's been dozing off on the job.”

“On the contrary.” I put my hands down and soberly met her eyes. “I think He's done a pretty good job. And He used
you
.” I reached out and poked her in the arm. “You're the one who scared off the guy so all he got was my purse. Did you ever think of that?”

Meg fell ghostly silent, finally reaching over to sip from her foul-smelling mug. “Well, anyway. You'd better be careful.”

“I am. Christie and I are staying at Faye and Earl's for a while. I only know about the answering machine messages because Faye and Adam took me home to pack.”

I swiveled around to my desk to somehow try to work then glanced back to Meg. “The police did give me one tip though. Although I'm not sure what to do with it.”

“A tip? About Odysseus?”

“Maybe. About the guy who mugged me last night.”

“Tell me.”

“Copper shavings.” I turned on my computer. “They found minute copper shavings in the elementary school parking lot by the place I'd parked, and a few more specks near the trees where the guy ran away. They think the shavings must have fallen off his clothes.”

“So you're saying our stalker is a metallurgist?”

“Could be. Or a plumber. A welder. Something. Or someone who spent considerable time with one.”

“You said Jim Bob used to be a mechanic. Half the stuff under a car hood is made of copper.”

“You're right.” I massaged my forehead as I thought. “Good thing I asked the police to check him out.” I mulled through my list then opened the Internet and typed into some search engines. “Knife makers use copper, too. Not that I'm suspecting Cooter. It's just a fact.”

“Oh, I could imagine Cooter doing something ridiculous like that. I mean, come on. The guy cheers for the Colorado Rockies! Give me a break.” Meg made a face while my jaw dropped. “I'm kidding, of course. It wasn't him. We were arguing about the lousy World Series while you wrestled the Man in the Iron Mask.”

“Your boyfriend's a good guy, Meg! It can't be him. Besides, I've never even met Cooter.”

“You think you haven't met him.” She flicked an eyebrow in warning. “Be careful, Jacobs. When it comes to stalkers, you can't be sure who you know and who you don't. Remember that.” Her eyes bored into me. “It's important that you don't rule out anybody. And if he's half-cocked, as many stalkers are, what makes sense to them might not necessarily make sense to us.”

Meg scooted forward. “When you're not playing with a full deck, reality shifts. People are who you want them to be.” She put her hands on her hips, staring off into space. “For example. Have you noticed something?”

“About what?”

“About the perp's messages. He uses numbers a lot.”

“I saw that.” I dug through the papers on my desk and pulled out the newest paper I'd found on my car. “Threes. Fours. Twelves. A lot of them.”

“Maybe he's an accountant.”

“Tim's an accountant,” I blurted without thinking. “But…but there's no way Tim would…” I crumpled up the paper and threw it in the trash. “This is craziness! Anybody could be a suspect if I keep thinking like this.”

“No!” Meg dug the paper out of the trash. “That's just it! You can't rule people out. I'm sure it's not Tim, but stick with your gut. We know a couple of things—like, the guy reads literature.”

I felt ill suddenly, remembering the
Julius Caesar
book in the back of Tim's truck.

“Stop. This is too much.”

“He knows enough about security to hide his fingerprints.” Meg scratched out a list in my reporter's notebook, raising her voice over my protests. “He uses some sort of trick to hide his handwriting and his knives. And he possibly works with metal or spends time near someone who does.”