'Til Grits Do Us Part (32 page)

Then the other leg. I punched a hole in the bottom of a third bag, cinching it in the waist to make a shiny black plastic skirt.

I repeated the process all the way up, finishing with a trash bag over my head, the eye and nose/mouth holes punched through with my finger. A trash bag over each hand.

And…
. here we go. Good thing I got a tetanus booster last year
. I lifted the lid and awkwardly pulled myself up over the rusty metal rim, all my plastic armor shivering and crinkling as I dropped into the soggy piles of trash. Landing smack on a tangle of bent florist's wire.

Copper
wire.

“Shiloh?”

I squatted on stacks of old newspapers and pitted, crumbly, green floral foam. Mounds of cut stems and leaves in various stages of decay. Ribbons and dead carnations and the proverbial banana peel piled around my trash-bagged feet. Soggy cardboard boxes. The inside of the Dumpster was stained with old brown grease that had dried in waxy streaks, and I breathed through my mouth to avoid inhaling the stench.

“Shiloh? Where are you?”

I jerked my head up toward the familiar voice. Quick footsteps echoed against the brick buildings and empty asphalt, and I dropped the discarded receipt tape and price tags and hauled myself to my feet, one black-covered hand on the lip of the bin. And I popped my head up over the dented side.

Just in time to see Adam jump back in horror at my shrouded face, tripping backward over a chunk of broken concrete. Feet tangling, arms flailing, and finally sprawling into the wet gutter.

He picked himself up and brushed off his brown UPS uniform pants while I tore at the trash bag covering my head. “Adam! What are you doing here?” I searched for a foothold to boost myself up.

My foot slipped in a pile of rotten cabbage from a neighboring vegetable market, and down I went.

“For goodness' sake.” Adam splashed through a puddle on his way to the Dumpster, looking irritated. “What in the world are you doing in there? You look like Darth Vader.”

He reached out a hand to help me up, and I reluctantly shook off my trash-bag mitten and took it. Brushing cabbage scraps from my hair with the back of my wrist.

“What is this, some kind of trash bag gas mask?” He gestured to the plastic bag I'd draped over the side of the bin.

“Believe me, if you offered me a gas mask, I'd accept.” I let go of his hand long enough to right myself as a cardboard box crumbled beneath my foot. “Sorry. I'm just crazy to find out who's sending this stuff. If the letter's there, I want to see it myself.”

“I want to find the guy as bad as you do, but I can't believe you, of all people, are digging through a Dumpster.” Adam screwed up his face as he plucked a piece of flower stem from my bangs. “You really think it's in there?”

“I'm pretty sure, if Dean threw it away this morning. Unless he's lying, and that's a different story.” I gestured to mounds of plant clippings and dead leaves. An empty Bud Light can. “But if the letter's here, I haven't found it yet.” I scrunched back the plastic bag on my other arm and glanced at my watch. “Look at the time! Kevin's going to kill me.”

“Don't you dare say that.” Adam glared.

“Sorry! Just an expression.” I shrugged meekly. “I'd better call him though. Can you hand me my phone? It's in my purse.” I leaned over the side of the dumpster to point. “Thanks.” I wiped my hand on my other trash bag sleeve before reaching out to take it.

I called, and Kevin yelled at me about safety and told me to be careful, for pity's sake, and to get my rear in his office when I got back. Then I placed the phone on the edge of the bin, balancing it against the hinges.

“I guess I should give up, huh?” I sighed, catching myself as the mountain of florist's foam and ribbon shifted under my feet. Adam grabbed my shoulder and helped me stand up then straightened the trash bag I'd poked my head through. Which now hung like a dirty choir robe over my beautiful navy-blue dress. A section of bead grinned through the torn neck opening.

“You're sure they threw everything in here?” Adam flicked a piece of stray green florist's wire off the edge of the bin.

“That's what Tammy told me.”

“This morning.”

I glanced at my cell phone and checked the time. “One hour and six minutes ago.”

Adam sighed and shook his head.

“What? I'm just trying to find some evidence. The guy's bothering you, too, Adam. You should be more thankful.” I put my nose in the air and reached again for the rim of the Dumpster to pull myself out.

“You have no idea. The street outside our house got spray-painted last night.”

“What?” I staggered back. “Spray-painted? Like…”

“With red paint. And a weird message. Dad's really upset. We found it this morning, and we've already called the police.”

“What did it say?”

“ ‘I'm watching you.' ”

My heart thudded against my chest. “What did the
A
look like?”

“Weird. Just like you told me about the previous messages. A sort of odd curlicue-hook thing and slanted funny.” He swallowed. “And…there's more. That's why I stopped by to meet you.”

“What do you mean, ‘There's more'?” I stepped back.

“He left a letter for you in the mailbox. A fat one with your name on it. Stamped, with an odd stamp I've never seen before. Although not postmarked.” Adam patted his pants pocket. “I've got it right here for you. It's wrapped in paper in case of fingerprints.”

I reached out in disbelief and took the letter between two of the tissues Tammy had given me. Adam slit the envelope open with his pocketknife, and I pulled them out: tiny slips of paper—like they'd been put through a shredder—reading “
Cilegna
” Hundreds of them, handwritten. Falling out of the envelope and littering the trash piles like sick Easter grass.

I hastily scooped them up, not wanting to lose a single bit of evidence. “What's ‘cilegna' supposed to mean?”

Adam studied it a minute, his jaw tight with anger. “ ‘Angelic,' ” he finally said. “
Angelic
written backward.”

I pulled out a tiny folded note, scrawled on notebook paper:
“Shiloh + Odysseus forever. August 3.”

I felt defiled, like I'd found my name scrawled on the bathroom wall.

Something still made a hard shape in the envelope, tucked among paper shreds.

Three somethings: a distant photo of me pushing open the door to The Green Tree in a Givenchy dress, magazines under my arm. A snapshot of Becky and me laughing in the flower shop. And another of my white Honda, parked outside the mechanic's shop.

Fury burned in my veins, and I clenched my hands into fists. “Adam, this is terrible! And all the more reason we need to find this stupid bouquet order.” I wiped my face with the crook of my elbow as Adam turned toward his truck. “Wait, where are you going?”

“To cover myself in trash bags like the Lone Ranger here,” said Adam, attempting a smile over his emotion-tight face. “So I can figure out who this guy is and punch his lights out.”

I gripped the rim of the dirty bin with both hands. “You mean you're going to help me?”

“Why not? I've got thirty-five minutes before my next delivery. What else do I have to do but paw through somebody's potato peelings?”

He ruffled my hair before bending down to pick up the roll of trash bags.

“Is that your phone?” Adam raised his head from a stack of waterlogged papers. Interrupting our stimulating conversation about tuxedo prices.

“I'll get it.” I waddled over to the other side of the Dumpster. “It's probably Meg calling to find out where I am.” I wiped some moisture off the screen. “No. Not Meg. Wait a second.” I put the phone under my chin and adjusted the trash bags over my hand. “Hello?”

“Hi. Ray Floyd here.”

“Oh, hi, Ray.” I shook drops off my trash-bag coverings, which were beginning to deteriorate. “Can I help you?”

I listened and nodded, pressing the S
PEAKERPHONE
button. “I'm fine, thanks. What am I doing?” Adam and I exchanged smirks. “Just…um…some summer cleaning. You?”

“I'm packing up to leave town, Shiloh. My street got spray painted last night in front of my house.”

“You, too?”

Ray paused, sounding weary. “What do you mean, ‘too'?”

“Well, it seems like you're not the only one.” I pressed my lips together. “What did the message say?”

“ ‘I'm watching you.' In red paint.”

I gasped. “The same message!”

Ray cleared his throat. “Listen, I've talked to the police, and I think I'm going to leave town a while. I'll be closer to my girlfriend, and there's just too much happening here. I don't feel safe anymore.”

“Good move on your part. I agree.”

My gaze fluttered over to Adam again, wondering with a sinking stomach if he—or his whole family—should leave town, too. Or me, for that matter.

“You're taking Ginger, aren't you?” I finally asked, trying to keep my voice cheerful.

“Of course. I've never been away from her. She'll keep me company.” I could hear him patting her furry side, license tags clinking. “I won't have Internet at my buddy's place, but I'll e-mail you my phone number and address before I go in case you or the police need to get in touch with me.”

“Thanks.” I bit my lip. “Just one unrelated question before you go, if you don't mind.”

“Shoot.”

“My mom—Ellen Jacobs—wasn't one of your music students, was she?”

“I don't…think so. What did she play?”

“Guitar. She took beginner lessons, I think. Several years ago.”

“I don't remember her. I mainly teach piano and sax. In fact, Jim Bob was the one who messed around with the guitar. He was pretty good, I heard. Before he broke his hand, of course.”

“Did he ever give lessons?”

“No idea.”

“Well, maybe you can tell me what this song is then.” I hummed a few notes from the paper I'd found in Mom's guitar case. “She seemed to like this one a lot.”

Ray paused. “It sounds familiar, but…sorry.”

“Maybe she wrote it. Who knows.” I shrugged. “Anyway, be careful, Ray.
Bon voyage
”

“You're welcome. Stay safe.”

I pressed off the phone just as Adam abruptly jumped to his feet, holding up a scrap of stained paper and crumpled envelope. “I think this is it!”

“You found it?” I whirled around.

“The envelope's addressed to Rask. Written in cursive. Look.” He passed it to me with his plastic-covered fingertips. “And it's got your name on it.”

“No postmark.” I snatched it up, looking through each line for a hint. But nothing stood out either in the writing or the words—as standard and straightforward as if I'd written it myself. Just the order specifics and my name. Except…

“Shiloh! Look at this!” Adam grabbed my arm and jerked me toward the envelope.

S
o, you make a habit out of Dumpster diving?” My editor, Kevin Lopez, didn't smile, but the lines on his cheeks deepened in mirth as he crossed his arms in his leather chair. Phil and Priyasha clicked away on keyboards outside his office door a little too quietly, whispering, and almost certainly listening in on our conversation.

“Definitely. You should try it sometime. It improves my personal aroma.” I'd stripped off the garbage bags, but I still felt filthy. I needed a shower. Bad. My hair felt staticky from a too-close encounter with plastic, rain, and vegetable scraps. Something sticky had crusted at the end of one strand.

“So you wanted to talk to me.” I glanced longingly at the fresh Starbucks cup on his desk circled by a cardboard holder. It had been too long since breakfast, and I needed a nice hot shot of sugared caffeine. “Yep. But first of all, did you find anything?” I held up the soiled letter. “I'm not sure what it means exactly, since I don't recognize the handwriting, but look”—I pointed to the battered envelope—“an old stamp I've never seen before.”