'Til Grits Do Us Part (35 page)

“Well, what's the second reason she gave you for not going to the police?”

“She feared internal politics.”

“Come again?” I cocked my head.

“Staunton's a small town, Shiloh.” He dropped his voice. “She worried things might turn around on her if she implicated someone on too-friendly terms with the local police force. She didn't give names or specifics. But until the very end, she refused—reluctantly—to report it.”

My fingers clenched. “What do you mean, until the end?”

“On your mother's last visit here, she promised me she'd go.” Dr. Geissler met my eyes. “The threats had become too intense, and she said she'd take her chances and report it.” He paused, pressing his lips together. “But as you know, she never got that chance.”

“Dr. Geissler. I need every scrap of information you can give me about the man my mother suspected.” I whipped out my trusty tape recorders and reporter's notebook and clicked open a pen. “Please. It's urgent.”

He turned to his desk and spread out a thick smear of pages. “I'll do my best.”

I waited as he shuffled through the pages one at a time, scanning and lifting them up. Lips moving as he read through the reports.

Minutes ticked by, slowly, slowly. The slant of sun shifted so that it fell across my arm in honey-colored stripes, glinting on the pen tucked anxiously between my fingers.

And still the doctor read, massaging his brow several times and shifting in his seat.

“Doctor?” I finally asked. “Have you found anything?”

“Sorry?” He looked up, a page between two fingers. And an embarrassed smile on his lips. “I apologize. What exactly…did you need from me?”

“Clues. To my mother's stalker.”

“Stalker?” His eyes popped open in obvious confusion. “I'm so sorry, but what's your name again?”

“Shiloh Jacobs.” I dropped the pen. “Don't you remember? We spoke for nearly an hour about my mother.”

“Your…mother?” Dr. Geissler looked down at the file and then at me in a sort of blank apology, shaking his head. “Have we met? I don't…seem to have a file on you.”

Alzheimer's. Poor guy. I held back tears, not sure what to say.

The doctor's gaze had drifted into the distance, as if unseeing. Confused. He rubbed his head, the confident expression melting into one of helplessness. Fear.

I quietly dropped my pen and notebook back in my purse and gathered up my tape recorders. Then reached out to touch his limp shoulder in grateful thanks.

He didn't look up when I slipped out the door.

My cell phone buzzed with messages as soon as I turned it on. Evening sun slanted red-gold across the parking lot, and dizzying summer heat swelled up from the maples and pines that dotted the road.

“Adam? Hi.” I unlocked my car, careful to look over my shoulder before getting in. “I saw you called several times. Everything okay?”

“Just checking to make sure you're all right.” Adam sounded relieved. “How did your meeting with the doctor go?”

“Wait 'til you hear.” I checked my rearview mirror and backed out of the parking lot, sticking my Bluetooth in my ear. Pulled on my sunglasses.

“Tell me everything. But first, I've got some news for you.” “Good or bad?” I blew out my breath, letting out my pent-up emotions before I bawled.

“Good. Mostly. I think.”

I scowled as I flipped on my signal and turned onto the main road. “That's not very encouraging.” “I found us an apartment.” My mood brightened. “You did? Where?”

“Harrisonburg, near the JMU campus. It's not a great place, so don't get your hopes up,” he warned. “But it'll be available next month. The landlord said we can make the deposit any time, and she'll hold it for us until after our wedding.”

“Wow.” I pondered this new piece of information as I pulled up to a stoplight. “Is it nice?”

“It's…well, you'll have to see it.”

Oh boy
.

“The place is okay,” he said, as if trying to conjure enthusiasm. “It's not great, but it'll do for a while. Seeing as how we won't have much money while I'm in school and you'll be spending more on gas to commute to work. If you decide to continue at
The Leader
, of course.”

“Oh. Right.” I startled, thinking for the first time what I'd miss if I left my job. “I guess we'll have to find a new church then, too?”

“Unless you want to commute about forty minutes to Covenant Baptist every Sunday and church event, then yes.”

I bit my lip, feeling an uncomfortable wave of anxiety splash over me. No more Sunday morning banter in the beginner's Sunday school class, where Darryl and Brad and Lyle took turns on the whiteboard diagramming how to skin a deer—all the while discussing Abraham's covenant with God in Genesis, which brand of grape juice was better for communion, and arguing the ramifications of baptism. No more rowdy kids gluing cotton ball sheep haphazardly to construction paper while I told the story of Jesus the Good Shepherd and wished I'd brought more aspirin.

And most importantly, no more mile-a-minute gab sessions with Becky and Tim, or Trinity's grandmother Beulah, or Faye and Earl while we joined the noisy influx of churchgoers into the bright, airy sanctuary. Home-baked honey ham and sweet potatoes at Beulah's house postservice. Photos of missionaries we prayed for and letters from the jail ministry.

“Shiloh? You still there?”

“I'm here. Sorry.” I rubbed my face. “Just thinking.”

“You don't want to move?”

“I thought I did, but…” I put on my turn signal and shifted slowly into the other lane, my throat tightening as I imagined all our boxes piled into the back of Adam's pickup truck. Mom's empty kitchen, the walls bare and floors shiny with pine-scented cleaner. “It's fine though. I'm happy about the apartment. Really. It'll just take some getting used to. A new town. A new life.”

And all of it in another place nearly as redneck as Staunton, Virginia. What were the odds?

“Does the apartment allow dogs?” I asked suddenly, jerking to a stop at a stoplight.

Adam hesitated. “No.”

I just sat there when the light turned green until the Suburban behind me honked.

“I'm sorry.” Adam sounded disappointed. “It's not exactly how I hoped things would turn out, but it's the best I can find right now. Maybe Christie can stay at my parents' place.”

“We'll…figure it out.” I forced a smile when I wanted to cry and bang on the steering wheel. “Together.”

“Exactly.” His tone brightened. “And hey, you'll never guess who called me.”

“Ashley?”

“Ha. No. Thankfully.”

I snickered. “Who?”

“Kyoko.”

I did a double take, swerving and narrowly missing a pothole. “Kyoko called you? Why?”

“To check on you, like everybody else. And let you know she's arrived safely in San Francisco.”

“Oh, good.” I let out a sigh of relief. Bittersweet as it was to know Kyoko had left Japan forever. “Is she glad to be back?”

“Exuberant. She kept hollering about how much she's missed the Iranian bakery where nobody speaks English, and the graffiti, and the drunk guy on the corner who wears nothing but a shower curtain.”

“What?” I shrieked.

“I kid you not. Don't worry—she says she'll call you as soon as she wakes up and for you not to do anything crazy. Whatever that means.”

“Kyoko thinks everything I do is crazy.”

“Then whatever you do, don't tell her about the Dumpster.”

S
omebody seriously has a screw loose,” I muttered, tearing off my sunglasses as I followed Becky up to the shiny glass door of the dress shop in Stuarts Draft. The brick on the strip mall looked new, if not a little pompous. Which meant everything inside was probably way out of my budget. “If I get another message from that creep, or another stupid bouquet, or photo, or whatever he decides to stuff in an envelope, I'm going to…”

“Mercy, Shah-loh!” Becky gawked at me, stopping right there on the sidewalk. A puff of hot wind blowing her pale hair. “Photos of you?”

“Yep. Sitting in the auditorium at the city council meeting, or walking into
The Leader
building. They're not good photos, usually taken from far away with a zoom lens, but they're me all right.”

“But none of you with a cow, right?”

I pointed a finger in warning. “Don't even bring that up. Got it?”

Becky slapped a hand across her smile. “It ain't that hippie photographer friend a yours, is it?” she asked, sobering. “Practicin' for the weddin'? She went there with ya.”

“Meg? No way.” I waved it away. “There's another photo at Ray Floyd's house, taken from the window while I interviewed him on the night of the crash.”

“She was there, too. Remember?”

“Becky, it's not Meg.” I knew Becky was trying to help, but I felt my blood pressure start to soar. “We thought maybe the guy who drove the car that crashed into Ray's house snapped it, but we can't find a connection. And police reports show him too drunk to take steady pictures of anything on the night of the crash.”

“Well, that don't make no sense. Didja tell the police?”

“Yes,” I grumbled. Dumb old Shane Pendergrass had given me the once-over like he'd done the night he met me and let his fingers brush against mine a little too long when I handed him the photos.

If Adam had been there, he'd have decked him.

“Hey, isn't Shane's birthday on August third?” I asked, squinting at Becky in the bright sunlight. “He invited me to some birthday beach party last year. And I didn't go, in case you're wondering.”

“Yep, August third. On your weddin' day, ironically.” She grinned. “He'll be tore up, won't he?”

I paused, heel on the edge of the sidewalk. Not liking the ugly suspicions boiling up inside me. “He hurt himself a few years ago.”

“Yep. Pulled a tendon in his wrist or somethin'. Jujitsu, I think. Whatever that is.” Becky wrinkled her nose. “Why you askin' all this stuff about Shane anyhow?”

“Call it journalistic curiosity.”

“Well, come on.” She linked an arm through mine. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know, an' I ain't in the mood to talk about murder! Now git in there an' act like a bride for two seconds. Git!” She shoved me forward. “We still don't got a dress for ya, an' ya ain't gittin' hitched without one. So hurry up!”

We pulled open the shiny door and found ourselves greeted by rows of white wedding dresses all draped in plastic. Sequins sparkled in the overhead light. Price tags carefully angled so I couldn't read them without digging inside the plastic. Huh. Nice trick. I knelt to see better then stood up quickly when the overly enthusiastic saleswoman named Pamela scooted over to “see if we needed any help.”

“We're jest lookin'.” Becky tipped her sunglasses up on her hair. “But thanks anyhow.”

I felt nervous suddenly, surrounded by expensive satin and tulle and lace. Everything perfect; all the billows of satin pale and bride-y.

In contrast, I had trouble keeping myself away from (1) muggers, (2) dirt, or (3) grimy accident sites for even a few hours. I always chose the darkest blue jeans I could find for exactly that reason: to hide all my stains and food/tea spills.

I ran my hand over the shiny plastic as Pamela retreated with a bloodthirsty smile. “Before I buy anything, I wanted to tell you something, Becky. I'm starting to wonder if I should leave town until the wedding.”

“You reckon?” Becky dropped the sleeve of a white lace gown. “I mean, gracious, Shah-loh. I shore as fire don't want nothin' to happen to ya. But ya think it's come to that?”

“I don't know.” I shrugged nervously. “I'm just wondering if we should get married somewhere else, or change the date, or…” I pushed some dresses across the rack, their tiny pearl beads glinting. “I mean, the perp knows our wedding date, and with the engagement announcement in the paper, he could walk right into the service if he wanted to.”

“You gotta do what's best, my friend. But I'd hate to see all our plans warshed down the toilet. You done chose bridesmaids' dresses—those gorgeous apple-red ones that your half sis is gonna buy.” She sighed and flipped through her schedule book. “Those pretty
washi
homemade paper invitations with flowers and leaves and whatnot. Them paper lanterns and candles. Rehearsal dinner at The Green Tree. It's gonna be real pretty the way ya got it all planned—even on a budget.”

She teared up and rubbed her nose with her palm. “But you know best. Lands, Shah-loh! I never thought things'd git so ugly.”

I fixed a strand of her hair that had tangled in the hoop of her earring as she closed the planner. “I'm not giving up yet, Becky. I'm just letting you know what's going through my mind. Staunton's pretty safe, but this whole stalker thing's turning into a big deal. I'm being followed. A lot.” I glanced uncomfortably around the shop.