'Til Grits Do Us Part (39 page)

“You gonna wear that?”

I glanced up to see Sandra quirking an eyebrow at me. The bell on the door tinkled another customer's entrance, and I straightened up, embarrassed. “Oh. Sorry. It's for my wedding dress.”

That sounded even more stupid. But before I could correct myself, the next customer stepped around us and up to the far side of the counter, dirty baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Hands nervously clenching and unclenching. Face obscured as the woman finally pushed a triumphant nickel across the counter.

“Package for Townshend,” the man mumbled. “J. B. Townshend.”

My heart leaped into my throat, and I nearly dropped the silk. My fingers turned clammy as I dropped my sunglasses over my eyes and eased backward, straining to see his face. But he'd turned away, picking at his nails with his keys. Shoulders hunched.

Stamp Woman took her goods and scooted outside in a cloud of bad perfume, and suddenly all that separated me and Jim Bob Townshend, former fiancé of Amanda Cummings and possible killer, was one measly cardboard box covered in customs labels.

No, two—as Sandra, like I was seeing double, pushed a nearly identical box onto the counter. Wrapped in customs forms just like mine.

I reached for my box, palms sweaty, just as he reached for his. And at that exact moment, a wail of police sirens wafted from down the street, making us all turn.

Jim Bob muttered something under his breath and scrambled for his box, eyes fixed on the street through the blind-slatted window. He careened into me as I whipped around, box in my arms. Jolting my sunglasses loose and knocking my packages and purse onto the floor. Tissue paper and red silk spilled across my cowboy boots.

He never glanced my way. Never apologized. Just scooped up his box and threw open the glass door then bolted toward the parking lot. Jerking his head over his shoulder toward the sound of sirens and barreling toward his car.

A silver-gray Taurus with a plastic-covered, broken back window.

Before I could say another word, he'd already squealed out of the parking space and toward the exit in one overanxious swerve. Face turned away from me. Careening away from the police sirens at top speed, lurching over a curb.

Sandra and I stared openmouthed in the direction he'd gone.

“Was that…Jim Bob Townshend?” I finally managed, putting my sunglasses back on my hair and bending to pick up my stuff.

“Dunno. I ain't never met him. Heard he's been in town though.”

She shook her head. “Rude fella, ain't he?”

“And acts like he's nervous or guilty. Running off from the police like that.” I hefted my box back up onto the counter and stooped to retrieve errant tissue paper.

Sandra started to turn away then stopped with a start. “Shiloh? Lands, this ain't yer box!”

“What?” I froze, hand in midreach for the tissue paper.

“This'n's that Townshend guy's. He musta took yer box by mistake.”

I scrambled to my feet and grabbed the box, flipping it around to read the label:
J. B. Townshend
. From a Toyota shipping center. I let out a cry of frustration. “He can't take my box! I need it!” My hands clenched into fists. “Mom's letters!”

“Well, he did.” Sandra ran the computer surveillance videos and shook her head. “See here? He just heard them cops and took off. But I'm shore he'll bring it back when he sees the address.”

“Not if he reads Mom's letters.”

I stalked back out with my sloppily stuffed envelope, shaking with anger and my near brush with Jim Bob Townshend. I unclipped Christie and helped her into the Escort then climbed in and locked the door behind me. Pushing back her exuberant wet snout.

“It's just silk, Christie,” I said, crabby, as she nosed her way back, sniffing at the envelope. I stuffed everything back in, but not before she'd snatched a piece of tissue paper.

“Give me that.” I grabbed most of it back. “And quit sniffing. You're not a police dog, and there's nothing in here but silk.”

Although Kyoko had sent the package. Cucumber-flavored Kit Kats were the least of my worries.

I jabbed the keys into the ignition in frustration and then stopped when my cell phone jingled. I dug it from my purse. “Meg?” I answered stonily, too cranky for conversation.

“I saw him! I saw him!” Meg was shouting. So loudly I nearly flung the phone across the car.

“Calm down!” I hollered back, mashing down the V
OLUME
button. “Saw who?”

“Jim Bob Townshend.”

My other hand froze on the envelope. “You saw him, too? Where is he?”

“He's here, Jacobs! In Staunton, headed away from Churchville on Route 254 at crazy speeds. Cooter's with me, and he swears it's him.

He remembers him from shop class. And he's driving that same old Taurus, but now there's a tarp taped over one of his back windows.”

“I'm in Churchville.” I tried to keep my breath steady, whirling around to retrieve a shred of tissue paper from Christie's mouth. “Did you get his license-plate number?”

“No. We tried to, but his plate's kinda smudged. I can send you some photos of the back of his head, but they're blurry.” Great. Like the back of somebody's head would help—unless he had a Confederate flag or something tattooed there. I wiped sticky fingers slimed with dog slobber and tissue paper on the towel covering the passenger's seat. Then I pried open Christie's mouth and dug around her tongue and teeth to make sure she hadn't hidden any more paper slivers.

This dog, if I didn't accidentally poison her with Kit Kats first, was going to drive me nuts.

Meg let out a bitter cry as I released Christie's tissue-paper-free mouth and scrubbed my fingers on the towel again. “I'm sure it's Jim Bob. And you won't believe what he's got in his car.”

“What?” My heart raced.

“Copper tubing. We stopped at a red light right behind him, and you can see it in the back.”

I jerked my head back in surprise.
Copper shavings. On the ground at the Waynesboro Elementary School
.

“Something else,” Meg spoke again. “Remember that Dean guy you were curious about? The one at the florist? His last name's Papadakis.”

I let her words sink in, feeling my insides shift. “Greek. Like the Odysseus character in Homer's book.” I tipped my head. “So how do you know all this stuff?”

“Cooter taught shop at Buffalo Gap, remember?”

“The high school?”

“Yep. He's got three fingers on his left hand, like an extraordinary percentage of shop teachers. Know why? He had this buzz saw, see, and—”

“Focus, Meg!” I shouted, mad. “Tell me what Cooter knows about Jim Bob!”

“Oh…right. Well, teachers catch more of the local gossip than you'd think, especially in a cow town like this. Free entertainment, ya know? Why, Cooter knew this one gal back in the day who…” As much as I loved Meg, sometimes I felt like shaking her till her teeth rattled. “Wait. We were talking about Jim Bob, right? Okay, guess who was Jim Bob's best friend during all his growing-up years?”

“Amanda?” It came out shaky.

“No, actually. But close. Dean Papadakis. And…drum roll please…Deputy Shane Pendergrass.”

“What?” I hollered.

“You got it. All three of them hung out together, pulling pranks, reading poetry, and trying to pick up chicks. They called themselves the ‘Dead Poets Gone Bad,' or something equally ridiculous. Dean and Jim Bob were especially tight, except for a brief falling out over a girl in high school. Guess who?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “This is too much, Meg.”

“Uh-huh. Amanda.”

The phone wavered in my hand, but Meg didn't stop. “Hang on, Jacobs. It gets better—or worse, however you want to take it. We were wrong. Cooter says Amanda
was
Japanese.”

“Sorry?” I shook my head, which felt ready to overflow with too much information. Christie licked my chin in response, nuzzling my neck. My wet bangs stuck to my forehead and cheekbone where she'd slobbered.

“We got it backward. Amanda was Kate Townshend's
biological
granddaughter—her genetics just favored her dad's side of the family. Jim Bob was the relative by marriage. And no, Amanda and Jim Bob weren't blood related. In case you're curious.”

“So Jim Bob might have known a thing or two about Japanese culture then from Amanda.”

“Almost certainly. Cooter says they exchanged paper fans for their engagement since they couldn't afford rings.”

“You're kidding.” I could barely move my lips.

“Nope.”

“They tied red ribbons to the handles of the fans, didn't they?”

“Yeah.” Meg silenced then began to sputter. “Hey! How'd you know?”

A cold coil of dread and adrenaline-pricked urgency tangled together in my insides, making my skin tingle. “Where did you say Jim Bob's headed?”

“Away from Churchville, but he took a side road like he's going to circle back. Probably headed to Goshen again to see his dad. We followed him as far as that big barn by the BP station, and then a chicken truck cut us off. Feathers everywhere. We're going two miles an hour.”

Meg heaved a bitter sigh. “Our case against Jim Bob so far is circumstantial, and the cops are gonna let him squeak out of here without so much as a parking ticket if we don't come up with some evidence against him. And I mean
hard
evidence.”

“Especially if Shane's covering his sorry tail.” I gritted my teeth.

“Exactly. We don't even know if you recognize him. If you did, that could explain a lot of things.”

I jerked my keys into the ignition and swerved out of my parking space, picturing an Augusta County map in my head. And the closest route Jim Bob might take to Goshen. Then I pushed the accelerator through Churchville, hoping to cut Jim Bob off at the intersection and catch his license-plate number. And hopefully get a glimpse of his face when he pulled out onto the main road.

I passed a little fender bender and the police squad car that had caused Jim Bob's panic and zoomed away from the tiny town limits and farther out into the county. Down winding, two-lane roads, past endless green fields and farmhouses, until I came to the intersection I figured Jim Bob would use.

And sure enough: a graphite-silver Ford Taurus, easing out of the side road and pointed toward Goshen.

AHEAD OF ME. And too far away for me to catch a glimpse of his face. I was a minute too late. An old pickup pulled in between us from a farm road, its bed packed with construction supplies, and I stomped on the brake. Which cut off my view of his license plate.

“Noooo!” I gave a cry of frustration, banging my steering wheel. Then I flicked on my turn signal to pull into a driveway and turn around.

Jim Bob 2, Shiloh 0.

I buried my face in my hands, thinking of my precious Japan package that might hold Mom's letters. Jim Bob's grubby hands as he grabbed my box without looking back, dumping my silk on the dirty post office floor.

“The police need hard evidence,”
Meg had said.

If I didn't do something now, the only hard evidence the police might find was…well, me. Or my face on the back of a milk carton.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted my reporter's notebook poking out of my bag where I'd tossed it all on the floorboard.
My tape recorders tucked inside
.

All at once I turned off my turn signal and punched the gas, pulling my sunglasses down over my eyes.

A light rain began to fall as Jim Bob's Taurus zipped through wooded mountain roads ahead of me, just past Buffalo Gap. Making a beeline through dusty little towns like Augusta Springs and Craigsville.

Heading straight toward Goshen as Meg predicted.

The roads grew curvier and less posted, with thick stands of forest and pastureland interspersed with railroad tracks, rickety-looking double-wide trailers parked in gardens of spinning lawn statuary and windmills, and rumbly jacked-up trucks plastered with faded Confederate flags.