'Til Grits Do Us Part (31 page)

“Will do.” Jerry nodded. “And I have a feeling it's gonna be good.”

I stepped out into the balmy sunshine and headed for my car, summer wind blowing the sweet, dusty scent of geraniums from Jerry's new window boxes across the sidewalk. Flags fluttered along the street, and heavy clouds towered overhead in a hazy blue sky.

I watched the edge of the horizon darken and thicken as I drove back to
The Leader
office and parked, smelling rain in the distance. I shut and locked my car door, praying that
Fine Dining's
review would be good and Jerry could stay in business. Maybe even—

Cell phone. Again. I'd only been gone an hour, and Chastity had called me three times to ask me about Phil's sports page mock-up. Could she not read my name placard? I didn't do sports—I did crime.

“Meg? What's up?” I squinted up at the clouds through my sunglasses as I headed toward the building. “I'll be there in two seconds. Tell Chastity to quit calling me and ask Phil herself.”

A motorcycle roared by, and the noise sucked up her reply. I pressed my other ear closed. “Sorry, can you repeat? I thought you said something about a bouquet.” My stomach did a flip. “You didn't say that, did you? I've only been gone an hour.”

“No, not a bouquet.”

“Oh, good.” I let out my breath and pushed open the door to the building. My sweaty neck and forehead begged for air-conditioning. “You had me worried there for a second.”

“
Three
bouquets. All identical to the others you've received so far.”

Even from the far end of the cubicle row, I could see them. I dropped my keys on the carpet, staring at three full, lush bouquets of plump, dark red roses.
The Leader
staff seemed to part like the Red Sea as I stormed over to my desk, everyone huddled in an eerie silence while I tore the florist's card from the center bouquet with a tissue.

“How do you like the roses, angel?”
read the card.
“Do they remind you of old times? I thought your heart was dark, my love, but now I know it's white. Three times you've shaken up my life. Three plus four was wrong, but I see it now—three times four is twelve. I can't wait to marry you.”

“Nuts! The guy is nuts!” I slammed down the card.

“Kevin wants to see you about this,” whispered Meg, nibbling a nail. “He's not happy.”

“Are you kidding? I'm not happy!” I tore through my notes for Rask's number and shoved the vases aside. Knocking folders and notebooks onto the carpet.

“Kevin's worried, Shiloh. I think he's going to kick you off stories altogether for a while.”

“I knew it; I knew it,” I seethed through my teeth as I dialed. “All because of some weaselly little… Hello?” A woman picked up and mumbled something unintelligible. “Is this Rask Florist?”

“Yes, ma'am. Home of quality floral service. How may I help you?”

“I don't care whose home you are as long as you can connect me to Tammy immediately and explain these rose bouquets!” I stormed. “I've called your shop multiple times and received zero information, and that better change right now.”

“Simmer down, honey. This is Tammy. You must be the gal the police called about. Am I right?”

I plopped down in my chair and tossed my purse on the desk near the bouquets. Shoving leaves and petals out of the way. “So you're Tammy. And either you've been avoiding me or Brandy's worse than I thought about leaving messages. Because I've been trying to reach you for a while.”

“Oh, that gal? She's gone. She wasn't much help anyhow. Temp, ya know. And it took me a while to get back on my feet after my surgery, ya know?”

I bit back a nasty response, letting my angry heartbeat calm to a steady rhythm. “Well, can you tell me who sent me these three bouquets just now? It's really important.”

“Sorry. I just got to the office. But I'll see if I can find the receipt. Brandy threw out a bunch of stuff though, so there's no tellin' what's here and what's gone.”

I gave her the dates and my information then tapped my nails on the desk impatiently while I waited.

“Oh yeah.” Tammy picked up the phone again. “I remember that first one from a couple weeks ago 'cause I took the order the morning before I went in for my surgery.” Tammy's voice rang into my ear. “It was kinda strange.”

“Strange? What do you mean strange?”

“Well, here's the thing. I don't really know who sent it. The customer paid cash—which we found in the mailbox.” “Huh?” I dropped the keys.

“Yep. In the company mailbox. In a sealed envelope with your name on it and all the delivery details, including what to write on the card. The color of ink to use. All that stuff.”

Hairs on the back of my neck tickled. “You're serious? Did the sender leave a return address? Postmark?”

“Nothin'. No postmark. Didn't look like it'd been mailed—just dropped in the box. Although it did have a funny stamp.”

A funny stamp, huh?
Amanda Cummings collected stamps
. The thought rocked through me.

“I thought the whole setup was sorta odd, but he—I'm guessin' it's a he—included exact payment, to the penny. So we delivered the flowers to his specifications. We're a florist, ya know, so we get lotsa unusual requests. People order anonymous bouquets all the time.”

“But…but you don't have a name on my order? Nothing? Not a clue who it's from?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

My shoulders sagged in disappointment. “Well, do you still have the letter? I'd at least like to look at it.”

“Sorry, honey. Brandy threw all that stuff out.”

Wonderful. There went my hope of evidence.

“Was the handwriting distinctive in any way?” My fingers tightened around the receiver. Like, maybe, his
A
's? I hoped so, to close the net on Amanda's possible killer. And at the same time, I desperately hoped not—because that meant he might be after
me
.

“Nope. Nothing unusual at all, that I recollect. He'd written in cursive. Real neat handwriting, all the letters smooth and straight. I remember thinkin' how I wish my kids could write like that. Bunch a chicken scratch, both of 'em.”

So much for the handwriting theory. “Well, can you find out who took the order this morning? It's urgent, Tammy. I need to know.” I swallowed, feeling a crazy panic climb up my throat.

“I think Dean got that one,” said Tammy. “Wasn't me. I just got here, and the place is a mess. Hold on.”

She put me on hold again, and I held in my breath. Nervously twirling a pen between my fingers. “Yep,” she said finally. “Dean rung it up. Same story. Envelope in the mailbox—and again, no postmark.”

My pulse quickened. “So it seems like a local order, if he just dropped it in the mailbox. Although that's against the law, you know, to put anything in a federal mailbox.” I leaned forward. “Does Dean still have the letter and envelope? The police asked Rask's entire staff to hold everything related to my name.”

Tammy covered the phone line, and I heard her speaking. First in softer tones then louder. Someone protesting in the background.

“I'm so sorry, hon.” Tammy sighed. “Dean said the police told 'em to watch for flowers for somebody named Sheila. Sounds like Brandy or whoever copied your name down wrong. It's right here on the note she left—plain as day. Sheila Jacobson.”

“Sheila?” I hollered, flinging the pen. It bounced off Matt's empty chair and onto the floor as Clarence's ugly grin spread through my mind. “Did she write it down wrong, or did the police bungle my name?” My eyes narrowed. Or was Brandy in cahoots with Clarence somehow?

“Dunno how your name got mixed up. My guess is Brandy.”

“You're not kidding,” I grumbled. “So where's the letter?”

“Dean said he tossed it since the name didn't match the one the police said to hold.”

I scrambled to my feet, still holding the phone to my ear. Eyes bouncing to the clock on the wall. “The trash hasn't gone yet, has it?”

“The trash? Naw, I don't reckon so. But we've done emptied it in the outside bin.” She paused. “Why, you ain't gonna—”

“Hold your trash!” I hollered. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

I
grabbed my purse and stuck a note on Kevin's door then texted Adam while I ran down the stairs in my strappy heels. Tiny pearl raindrops fell like a mist, sprinkling down from a thin cloud bank and darkening the sidewalk. Heat steamed up in a sweltering haze.

I drove a couple of blocks over to Rask then wedged my Honda in a dumpy-looking parking lot and sprinted over. My long strand of retro beads clinked together as I gathered up the folds of my crisp navy-blue work dress, and I jumped the curb and jerked open Rask's glass door.

“Hi, is Tammy here?” I stood at the counter, out of breath, and smoothed my flyaway hair back in its clip.

“You Shiloh Jacobs?” A woman with graying, peach-colored hair in a big pouf and too much eye shadow peeked over the counter at me from behind a vase of spring-yellow daffodils.

“That's me.” I lifted the photo ID on my lanyard. “May I?”

She lifted a sparse eyebrow at me. “Be my guest. The Dumpster's out back. I done called the police to let 'em know, but ain't much we can do, even if you do find the letter. Unless he left some fingerprints on it or somethin'.”

My patience frazzled at her offhanded tone. “But that's the whole point!” I raised my voice a touch. “It should have been kept as evidence for the police.”

The other clerk on duty—who I assumed was the “Dean” character Tammy'd mentioned earlier—poked a flushed, angry face through the doorway to an adjoining workroom. His blond hair, shining in the overhead fluorescent light, nearly matched the daffodils. “She wrote the name wrong. I swear! You saw it yourself, Tammy!”

Tammy waved him away and came around the counter through a stand of lilies. “I'm so sorry, honey.” She patted my shoulder. “But this surgery's just thrown me for a loop. When I'm around, things are always in order. I promise you that.”

My hard look melted slightly. “I'm sure you're right. Rask's been in business a long time.” I inhaled the dizzy fragrances of lavender and lily of the valley. “And your flowers are beautiful. But I need to find that letter, no matter what.”

“I gotcha. You go right on ahead.” Tammy squeezed my hand with ring-laden fingers. “And I'll make it up to ya, you hear? Let's talk after ya dig. How's that?”

“Fine. But how long do I have before the trash comes?”

“Probably another hour or two, but not much more than that. They don't leave the trash sittin' around long, and it's due for a pickup.”

“So long as you're diving in, why don't you look for my earring back?” Dean snipped from the back room, shooting me another hateful look. “It's kind of gold-colored. Fell off this morning.”

I spun around to face him. “Excuse me?”

“You sicced the police on Jim Bob Townshend,” he mumbled through clenched teeth, rising to his feet. “Why, I oughtta…”

“Ought to what?” I stalked toward him. “And what business of yours is it who I tip off to the police?” I narrowed my eyes. “Wait a minute. You're friends with Jim Bob?”

Tammy shushed Dean, pushing him back through the doorway and slamming the door. “Ignore him.” She shook her head in disgust. “He's just a little worked up. Thinks everybody's trying to make his friend look guilty.”

I froze. “Who, Jim Bob? Guilty of…what?” I stilled suddenly, turning over the snatches of Dean's flushed face that I'd seen in those brief moments. The sound of his voice. Wondering, if by some odd possibility, we'd met before—or if he'd met Mom.

Or if he'd tried to knock me off with a knife to cover for his pal Jim Bob. After all, the masked marauder did have hair.

“Hey, wait, doll—What's your name? Shiloh?” Tammy interrupted my thoughts as if interpreting the dark slant of my suspicions. “Don't you worry no more about Dean. You want a trash bag or somethin'?” She gestured toward the back of the counter. “How 'bout some tissues to wipe your hands or somethin'?”

I hesitated. “You've got trash bags?”

“Shore! Here's a fresh roll.” She tossed me a cylinder of black plastic. “Knock yerself out!”

I tucked the trash bags and a wad of tissues under my arm and burst out into the gray morning.

“ ‘If ya find my earring back, dig it out for me,' ” I mimicked to myself, stepping around a concrete divider and shimmying over a section of prickly hedges. Deciding right then and there that I'd ask the police to check up on Dean, too. I didn't recognize his face, but a setup right there at the florist, with Brandy and maybe even Tammy herself as an accomplice, could answer a pile of questions.

I minced around puddles in broken concrete and slipped behind the building—where old power lines sagged and exposed pipes ran down brickwork from more than a hundred years ago. All culminating in the perfect picture of neglect and desolation.

And there: the Dumpster. A rusted, corrugated metal box of filth, right under a dripping, blackened gutter and streak of stained brick.

I wiped raindrops from my face, wondering how one was supposed to root through a trash bin without destroying clothes and shoes or contracting foul diseases. All without an umbrella or rubbing alcohol or a surgical mask.

I blinked up at the gray sky, cut into sharp squares by the old brick buildings, lines of rain sifting down toward me in pale streaks. A black construction tarp flapped over one corner of faded brick.

The tarp gave me an idea. I jerked the roll of trash bags from under my arm and tore off a sheet of black plastic then fitted it over one leg—wishing to goodness I'd worn pants instead of a dress. I cuffed and knotted it over my knee like odd, bulging hosiery then tore long strips from another bag and tied them around the cuff for reinforcement.