'Til Grits Do Us Part (9 page)

And now that same worry churned inside me again like one of those ducks on the mirror-smooth pond, head under the surface and feet paddling in vain circles:
Maybe she's right. Maybe I moved too fast, and Adam and I are too different. Too…

Wait a second. I leaned forward, straining at something by a picnic table. Did I see…?

“Christie?” I pushed off the tree as her smoky snout turned toward me, tail wagging at the sound of my voice. “What are you doing over there? Adam went after you that way.” I looked over my shoulder in the direction he'd gone, and seeing no one, threw up my hands in frustration and sprinted after her through the beaded grass.

“Christie! Get back here!” I dodged maple and beech trees as she sprinted off again, her still-fuzzy puppy mouth laughing in openmouthed joy. “This isn't funny! If you think I'm—”

I didn't finish my sentence because someone stepped around the side of a towering oak, making me blurt out a scream of surprise. I swerved. My heel snagged on a root and down I went. Elbows first, sliding to a stop on the wet lawn. Smearing dirt all down my chic, red-flowered dress. Soggy grass and stray bark particles stuck to my stomach like one of Tim's shaggy, leaf-covered hunting coats.

I tried to get to my feet and slipped again then clawed my way up by the tree trunk and practically bowled over one very horrified Ray Floyd. Who rushed to help me up.

“Mr. Floyd?” I gasped, wiping my palms on my soiled dress. I stuck one hand out in an awkward handshake, reaching down to pat Ginger on the end of her leash. She blinked blond eyelashes up at me in a friendly smile.

“Sorry,” I coughed, knees still smarting. “I didn't mean to run over you.” Hello?
SUV?
What was I thinking? “I mean, I didn't see you,” I covered quickly, straightening my red ribbon headband that had slid askew.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Ray reached out to steady my arm, but I'd already righted myself. “Yeah. I'm fine, thanks.” I rubbed my sore elbow and stuck my foot back in my shoe, which had flung itself across the grass. So much for playing the cool journalist now. “But my dog…” I strained over my shoulder to see. “Forget it. She's gone again. At least yours stays put. Right, Ginger?” I reached down to pat her silky-smooth back.

Ray tipped his curly brown head. “Sorry. I'm trying to remember…. You're that reporter, aren't you?”

“Shiloh Jacobs.” I flicked a leaf off my dress. “I interviewed you the night that SUV came through your bedroom wall.”

“Oh.” Ray closed his eyes. “I remember now. Jacobs.” He put his hands in his baggy pants pockets and rocked back on his heels, giving a wry laugh. “Wow. Talk about bad timing on that one. I should have stayed up and finished my movie rather than going to bed, huh?”

“On the contrary. I'd say you had pretty good timing. You're still alive.” I started to remind him of what might have happened if he'd raised his head another six inches then thought better of it. “So what are you doing here?”

“Here at the park? I live right over there. Remember?” Ray gestured through the trees toward his green-slatted house with its cozy, wreath-trimmed front door. Wooden shutters. Burgundy Volvo in the driveway. He squinted at me through artsy, retro-style glasses. “You sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine. Sorry.” I attempted a laugh. “It's just been a long day.”

Shouts mingled from across the grass, then voices, a dog's cheerful bark, and Adam's long laugh. I relaxed, resting my arm against the tree in relief. “Whew. He got her.” I shielded my eyes against orange rays of sun. “You don't want another dog by any chance, do you?” I joked.

Ray chuckled as Adam strode across the park toward us, Christie triumphantly wrapped in his arms. Her pink tongue licking his cheek in ridiculous enthusiasm. She was big now, and leggy.

I shot Adam a grateful smile then turned back to Ray. “Anyway, it's good we met because I've been thinking since the interview, and I wanted to ask you one more question. If you don't mind.”

“Sure. Shoot.” He unclipped Ginger's leash and—wonder of wonders—left her there as she obediently sniffed under some leaves and wagged her tail. No frantic races across the park. No chewed leashes or punctured shoes.

Maybe I should trade Christie for a schnauzer.

I scrubbed some leaves off the bottom of my shoe, feeling silly for bringing it up. “You haven't had any other unusual incidents, have you? Like maybe…phone calls? Packages? From someone you don't know?”

Ray thought a moment, pressing his index finger to his lips.

“Phone calls? Well, maybe a couple. Hang ups, mainly. Probably telemarketers. Why?”

I sucked in my breath, warning myself not to jump to conclusions. “Anything else?”

Ray narrowed his eyes behind his rectangular glasses. “There is one thing. A letter. I got a letter the other day that makes no sense.”

“What did it say? Do you still have it?”

My questions must have poured out a little too quickly because Ray paused, one eyebrow raised. “What's the big deal about a strange letter? It's probably just a reference to some old joke I'd forgotten about. I threw it away. From one of my piano students, probably. Doesn't everybody get unusual messages from time to time?”

The roses
. I tensed, brushing leaves off my sleeve and avoiding his eyes. “It happens, I guess. But…not normally. No.”

I looked over at Adam, who was striding under a thicket of lush elms, their emerald leaves shimmering against a blue-gray sky. Tiny gossamer insects hovered in a patch of glowing sun.

“Can you tell me what the letter said?” I shielded my eyes again as I faced Ray.

But Ray had paled. He sucked in his breath and took a weak step backward.

“Are you okay?” I reached out a timid hand.

“I'm fine. Just…yeah. Fine.” He managed a smile as Adam caught up with us, out of breath.

“Adam. Thanks.” I squeezed his arm briefly then took wiggly Christie and held her warm body against my chest, regretting—for a split second—that I'd offered her to Ray. “This is my fiancé, Adam Carter. Adam, Ray Floyd. You probably saw his house in the paper this week.”

Ray murmured a polite “how-do-you-do” and shook Adam's hand, but his face remained clammy white. When he reached up to straighten his glasses, his fingers shook.

“What's wrong?” I exchanged glances with Adam. “Did I ask something too personal?”

“No. Sorry.” Ray ran a hand over his sweaty forehead. “It's just that the letter had…never mind. It's silly.”

“What did it say, Ray?” Despite the frost that had previously chilled our words, I felt Adam move a step closer to me.

“Well, something odd like, ‘You're next.' But I can't figure out what it means.” Before I could even move or gasp, Ray had opened his mouth to speak again. “But that's not the weirdest part. I saw his picture in the letter.”

“Whose picture?”

“His.” And Ray gestured with his head toward Adam Carter.

I
drew back in surprise, banging into a thick maple limb. Christie took advantage of the pause to attempt a freedom dive, legs scrambling. But Adam caught her and anchored his fingers around her collar.

“Excuse me—you saw my
what
in the letter?” Adam turned his face to avoid Christie's exuberant tongue.

“Your picture. Drawing. In… I don't know. Charcoal or something. What's your name again?”

“Adam,” he stammered. “Adam Carter. I used to be a landscaper around here, but I don't remember…” He stepped back and tilted his head at Ray as if trying to recall the face, then drawing a blank.

“Charcoal?” I yelped, swiveling my head between the two of them as I untangled Christie's teeth from Adam's polo shirt.

“Maybe not charcoal. It had color, so it must be those…what do you call them? Pastels? Kind of smeary-grainy stuff like artists use.”

“It sounds like pastels, I guess, but how could somebody have possibly drawn Adam's face? Do you still have the letter?”

“No. I threw it away. Maybe it's a weird coincidence, but it looked exactly like him. The way his hair's cut, and…” He gestured and then passed a shaky hand over his forehead. “It's strange, I'll admit. I'm sure one of my students decided to play a prank or something. Maybe somebody who…knows you?” He glanced up at Adam. “No. That doesn't make sense. And neither does ‘you're next.' ”

Adam drew in a shallow breath. “It's a threat, Ray. What else could it be?” He squinted in the sun as Ray digested this nugget of sickly information. “Did you give one of your students a bad grade or something?”

“No. I don't really do grades. Just extra practice sheets. Lots of them.” Ray smiled faintly.

Adam shifted Christie in his arms. “I don't know what I'm supposed to do with any of it though. I've…never met you.”

“Same here. Beats me.”

“Ray.” I found my voice, heart pulsing as I put together the latest threats from Amanda's purported killer and “you're next.” Neither of which boded well for Ray Floyd—or possibly for Adam. “Don't you realize a strange message like that could mean something serious? That you could be in danger, especially after losing…uh, your fiancée in an unsolved crime case? If you'll excuse me saying so?”

Ray's eyes lost their carefree smile and seemed to darken in sadness. “I'm sorry, but do you really think that stuff is real? Flowers in mailboxes? Spray paint?”

I took a breath, trying to clear my thoughts. “I don't know. But let me ask you—exactly how was that ‘you're next' thing written? Like, above the drawing that supposedly looks like Adam or…?”

“No. On his T-shirt.”

I turned to Adam, and he scrunched his brow in confusion.

“Do you know any artists? Anybody who paints or uses pastels?”

Ray thought a while, staring into the sunny distance. “Not really. My girlfriend, maybe. She's really good at art.”

“So you have a girlfriend then.” My words blurted out before I could stop them, in a sort of relief. Especially after Ray had lost Amanda so many years before.

“Sure. I haven't known her for very long, but she's the one. I'm certain of it.” A distant smile danced through Ray's eyes as he reached down and patted Ginger, clicking her leash back on. “She's amazing.”

He straightened up and put his hands in his pockets, nodding toward Adam. “It's definitely his face I saw though. The eye color, everything. That little scar.” He pointed to a tiny line on Adam's chin—from a bike accident years ago, he'd told me once. Ray thought a moment in silence and scrubbed his fingers through his thick hair. “But what could he possibly have to do with Amanda?” He nodded at Adam. “You must have been a kid when she…uh, disappeared.”

“Eleven or twelve. Yeah.”

“Exactly. I don't get it.”

I shot Adam a helpless glance, and he scratched his hair uncomfortably. “How about if we all sit down and talk a bit and see if we can make sense of this?” He shifted Christie to his other arm as she strained to sniff Ginger. “That picnic table is free. And it doesn't look so wet.” He surveyed my dirt-stained dress. “Not that it'll make that much difference for you, Shiloh,” he added with a smile.

“Hey. Becky calls me the Fashion Nazi.” I held up a muddy sandal. “What can I say?”

Ray chuckled, a sound that made my heart dip in relief. “Fashion Nazi, hey? Uh-oh.” He pointed to his shirt—a horrible geometric print in ugly olive green and neon yellow, with touches of pink throughout. Like a deranged Brazilian soccer player slammed into a cheerleader. Truly, one of the most heinous patterns I'd ever seen. “So am I under arrest?”

“You deserve to be.” I lifted an eyebrow as we started toward the picnic table. Keeping my voice light. “That shirt's definitely a crime against fashion and probably society as well.”

“What? I love green and yellow.”

“Maybe you shouldn't.”

“Well, looky here! The birthday girl herself!” Jerry Farmer held open the glass door to The Green Tree restaurant while cars rumbled behind us on the narrow historic street. All of us encased by faded brick false-front style buildings and long rows of shops. None of which had changed much in the last hundred years of Staunton's history as a Confederate supply base, farming community, and apple producer. Like I said. Small-town yawns, for the most part. If I shielded my eyes from the sinking sun, I could make out the Amtrak station in the distance.

Adam and I paused for two passing antique enthusiasts hauling colored glass vases, and we stepped off the sidewalk and into the cool interior of The Green Tree. New, golden-brown laminate flooring, the color of straw, gleamed under soft overhead lights and mimicked hardwood exactly.

“You took the carpet up!” I looked around in surprise as the door fell closed behind us. “It's gorgeous!”