'Til Grits Do Us Part (33 page)

“You're kidding! I collect stamps.” Kevin grabbed a tissue to cover his fingers and reached for the letter. He picked up his reading glasses and held the envelope up to the light. “Whoa. The ‘double-love' stamp. Also known as the ‘broken-heart' stamp because of the way the printer hit the paper twice and smudged, making effectively two hearts. One cutting into the other.”

He raised dark eyes to meet mine. “This is worth a lot of money, you know. Or it was, before it got smeared with whatever they threw in the Dumpster. What a shame.”

“The year's significant, too—when Amanda Cummings was born. Coincidence?”

Kevin raised a thick eyebrow as he turned the envelope over. “Wow. That's big, Shiloh.”

“It means the person sending me roses is probably the same one who allegedly did away with Amanda twelve years ago.” I let out a shaky breath. “And he's been purposefully disguising his handwriting in the notes on my car. Using stencils, up until the letters I got today. Maybe even getting someone else to write the letters for him.”

On the street below, an ambulance screamed by, siren flashing, and I flinched.

“This is why we need to talk. Have you taken the letter to the police?” Kevin reached over to adjust his blinds, peeking out through the slats at the old brick buildings that lined the street. A gesture that made me nervous.

“I'll take it by right after this.”

He crossed his arms, his leather chair squeaking as he leaned back. “This is serious, Shiloh. I've seen these stalker cases before, and they can get ugly.” He dropped his hand down to his glass-topped desk and drummed his fingers. “So I'm taking you off duty for a while. Matt can cover for you.”

“Off duty?” I sputtered. “What am I supposed to do? Sit around at Faye's house and knit? I'll be a sitting duck! And besides, I need something to keep my mind off this mess. I'll go insane doing nothing.”

“Do weather or something.” Kevin's dark brows knit together. “You can help Priyasha with marketing. From home.”

WEATHER
? I groaned inwardly. It hurt to give up my hard-won post at the news desk. Crime was mine, after all. Mine! And now nasty Matt Tellerman would take my place, bragging to all his college buddies that he'd been promoted.

Kevin's nostrils twitched. He pulled the plastic lid off his Starbucks cup and sniffed then cocked his head. “Is that…you?”

“Is what me?”

“That smell. Sort of like old banana peels.” He sniffed again, lip curling. “And maybe sour coffee grounds.”

“You're good, Kevin.” I pointed a finger at him. “So can I go now?”

“Straight to the police station. Carefully. Look behind you while you drive, and call 911 if you see anything suspicious.” Kevin put the lid back on his cup. “And do me a favor and call a psychiatrist or something. You'll need one if this mess gets any worse.”

“Oh, don't worry. I've already scheduled an appointment with one this afternoon.”

Kevin groaned and massaged his head with both hands.

“And then I'm scheduling a planning session with Meg about photos.”

“With Meg.” Kevin instinctively reached for the drawer where he kept his Maalox.

“For the wedding. I'll get this wedding organized if it kills me.” I grimaced. “Bad word choice.”

“No Dumpster photos?”

“Hmm. Now that you mention it…”

Kevin rubbed his face with his hand. “You know what? See if you can schedule a visit with the psychiatrist for me, too.”

Jerry. The Green Tree. If I couldn't run a few miles and knock all this stress out of my lungs, I needed to talk to Jerry and hear some good news. I pushed open the door to the parking lot and dialed Jerry twice, but he didn't pick up. So I dialed Trinity Jackson instead as my heels clicked across concrete.

“Trinity?” I asked when she answered. “How did
Fine Dining's
visit go?” Instead of the exuberance I expected, Trinity sighed.

“What's going on?” I checked my phone to make sure I'd dialed the right number. “Didn't they show up?”

“Oh yes. Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately? What are you talking about, Trinity? The menu was perfect! We even researched what the editor of
Fine Dining
eats for breakfast! We repainted and redecorated. The place is gorgeous!”

“It is. But we still flopped.” She sighed. “And you forgot your payment.”

“My payment?” I sputtered. “What are you talking about? And what do you mean we flopped?” I stopped short on the sidewalk, my voice rising to shrill tones. “Where's Jerry? Why isn't he answering his phone?”

“I mean we flopped, Shiloh. Big-time. One crazy thing after another. You won't believe it.” Trinity's voice sagged, tired and listless. “But Jerry still paid you. He left a check for you and Adam. Said that if you didn't come by to get it, Flash would put the cash in your bank account.”

“Where's Jerry?” I tried to hold back tears.

“The last time I saw him, he was headed to his office with his head down.”

Trinity told it in pieces: A sewer main had broken down the street from The Green Tree, making an unwelcome stench, and without warning a leak from an adjoining building gushed into the kitchen—putting out electricity for half an hour while crisp fried noodles grew soft in the frying pan. The freezer went out. Ice dribbled into puddles, turning Stella's once-magnificent ramekins of green tea panna cotta into soggy sponges.

Jerry improvised, throwing together a gorgeous plate of blue cheese and green apple slices on bitter frisée lettuce, all drizzled with honey and walnuts. But the
Fine Dining
photographer shrieked about nut allergies—after Trinity had asked twice about special diets or requests.

So Jerry withdrew the offending plate and reseated the party—thanks to the photographer's complaints about “nut particles in the environment”—and, wouldn't you know it, placed them next to the top food critic's most hated rival from her college days.

And when the food critic turned back to Jerry, he saw an ugly gleam in her eye—like a glance of light off the pointy tines of a fork.

“Trite and overrated,” she mumbled under her breath to the photographer. Just loud enough for Jerry to hear.

By the time I'd dried my face from bawling, stopped by the police station, negotiated a photo-shoot plan with Meg by phone, showered, dried my hair, and changed into clean, crisp Hollister jeans and chic heels, I was late for my appointment with Dr. Geissler. The one thing I probably needed more than anything else. Who knows? If he had one of those long, comfortable sofas, I might curl up and ask him to prescribe something that'd put me out for about…oh, three weeks. And wake up in time for my rehearsal dinner.

If, of course, The Green Tree still existed then. Which at this point looked pretty impossible.

I sped across town toward Dr. Geissler's office, following my printed-off address from the Internet, and parked. I let myself into the neat white office and identified myself to Melina, who promptly escorted me back to the doctor's office.

No sofa in sight, but a soft armchair in pastel tones did the trick.

I sank into the cushy padding, playing with the fringed pillow, and had just started to nod off when the door opened.

“You must be Ellen Jacobs's daughter.” Dr. Geissler extended a white-clad arm with a warm smile. “Shiloh, right?” He glanced at his chart as we exchanged pleasantries.

“That's correct.” I sat up straight and attempted to rub the sleep from my face. “Sorry. It's been a long week.” I tried to smile, smoothing my hair and stretching my leg to reach a rogue shoe that had slipped off. “A very long week.”

Dr. Geissler sat down on a chair opposite me, crossing one leg comfortably over the other and flipping through a thick file. His gray-white hair lay back, neatly combed, and his cheeks were vibrant and clean shaven. A stethoscope hung around his neck, and gentle gray eyes folded in soft laugh lines at the corners. “A long week, Shiloh? What's up?”

“Me? Oh, I'm not important. I'm here to find out about Mom. Whatever you can tell me that won't jeopardize your patient-physician confidence. I understand all that.” I squirmed to sit up straight in the foamy cushions, which turned my muscles to butter. “Not that I don't have my own issues right now, but I'm sick of talking about stalkers.”

The doctor jumped. His eyes widened, blinking in visible confusion. “Sorry?” He jerked his head from me down to Mom's file and began thumbing through it. “What did you just say?”

“About Mom? I wanted to find out a little more about her health before she passed away. Her blood pressure, particularly.” I picked at a spot on the chair arm, ashamed to meet his eyes. “We didn't get along well her last few years.”

“No, no. The last thing you said about a stalker.”

“Oh, that.” I sighed and waved it away, remembering what Melina the receptionist had said about Dr. Geissler's slow descent into Alzheimer's—and wondering if the effects would begin this early in our session. “I'm just tired. One can only take so much police talk, restaurant sabotage, and rummaging through trash bins.”

I stopped short, realizing how utterly ridiculous I sounded. “Forgive me. I'm running off at the mouth again.”

“No, Shiloh.” He looked up from his file with a piercing look. “You must tell me what you meant about a stalker. It's extremely important.”

I jumped, startled, at his sharp tone, which sounded too urgent and calculated to belong to a man with no memory.

“I did mention a stalker,” I said, dropping my gaze and running my fingers through the fringes of the pillow. “But it has nothing to do with Mom. I simply—”

“Nonsense.” Dr. Geissler pulled a sheet of paper from her file. “How long has this stalker thing been going on?”

Discomfort crept up my shoulders, making my hair prickle. “I don't know. A month or so.”

Dr. Geissler scooted his chair closer. “Your mother spoke to me about a stalker in her last weeks.”

The high-heeled shoe that had been dangling off my foot fell with a muffled
clomp
onto the soft oriental rug. “Excuse me?”

“A stalker, Shiloh. Your mom had a stalker. A mystery man who'd begun to follow her. Call her. Leave strange messages on her car and at her office.”

My mouth fell open, and I didn't bother to close it.

“And here's the clincher.” Dr. Geissler leaned forward earnestly. “She said he was looking for you.”

“There's no way she meant that,” I managed, my fingers gripping the sides of the armchair. “In one of her last letters, she mentioned a guy who made her uncomfortable, who seemed to know me, but a stalker? Come on.” I shook my head, not even bothering to pick up the pillow when it tumbled to the floor.

“I assure you she did mean that.” Dr. Geissler adjusted his glasses and paged through the file. “It's documented in her sessions several times. Here. She mentioned finding a letter at her office.” He pointed with his pen. “Inside he'd folded a love note for her to give you, and his rapturous assurance that you'd come soon.”

I nearly forgot my manners and jerked the file out of his hands to see. “You're sure the guy meant
me
?”

“Your mother was certain of it. He knew your name. And he even called you by some sort of affectionate…well, nickname.”

My heart began to pound. “What nickname?”

“Here it is.” The doctor held up a page. “ ‘Angel,' he called you. ‘My beloved angel.' ” He closed the file. “And he sent your mother some gifts to pass on to you. Bouquets of red roses. Lots of them.”

D
octor. Listen.” I leaned forward, my hands trembling so much I knotted them together. “Mom wrote about a bald guy with an injured right hand who supposedly…knew me.” I paused and studied his face, wondering how much I should tell him. “She asked if I had a friend here who was expecting me, and she said he made her uncomfortable. She said…”