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!”
“Best thing I ever did to this place, even if it did cost me an arm and a leg.” My old boss Jerry Farmer flashed a smile that seemed, for a quick instant, a little forced.
I couldn’t help but stare. “Jerry. Your hair. What did you do to it?”
“It’s bad, ain’t it?” He ran a hand sheepishly over his hair, which sported gaping patches cut so close they nearly showed his scalp. “Tryin’ to save a buck and cut it myself. Bad idea, huh?”
“Wow.” I refrained from further comments.
Jerry turned back to the new flooring. “Well, anyway, carpet’s just a haven for bacteria, dust, and ketchup stains. You shoulda seen it! But this baby here?” He squeaked a shoe across a shiny section of flooring. “Built to last, I tell ya. It’s tough stuff. And don’t it make the restr’ant look like one a them fancy places in Tokyo you’re always talkin’ about?”
“Maybe if you had sushi,” I teased.
“Ha. I need the budget a one of them fancy Tokyo places for that.” Jerry grinned through round-rimmed glasses, but his voice fell a bit flat. “Have a seat over there, folks, by the plants.” He gestured, patting my arm. “I saved ya a table. Trinity’ll be by in a minute.”
“Trinity’s working tonight?”
“She is after she heard you were comin’ in. Says once you quit working here and started cow tippin’, you ain’t got time for old friends.”
“Funny, Jerry. You got the picture, too, didn’t you?”
He put his hands on his hips and chuckled, looking absurdly out of place in such a fancy dining room with his mustache and botched redneck bowl cut. But Jerry knew business, and he knew it well. Probably half the restaurant owners in town were scratching their heads, trying to figure out how a simple country fellow like him could get three years of foodie awards in a row. Jerry Farmer, who once stole the lighted deer off somebody’s front yard at Christmas and hung it from a tree, skinning-and-gutting style.
“Well, how’s my favorite bride-to-be, anyway?” He winked.
“I’d feel a bit more bride-y if I had a wedding dress.” Adam and I exchanged glances. “Adam’s helping me plan out the ceremony and price invitations and things, but we still have a long way to go.”
Voices echoed faintly from the kitchen, and Jerry turned, poking his head over tables to see. “G’won, y’all.” He held up a hand. “I’ll come talk to ya in a sec.”
He disappeared through the double swinging kitchen doors, leaving me staring at a couple cutting into The Green Tree’s famous spicy samosas, dipping sauce on the side. Yum. My mouth watered.
I smoothed my clean white skirt and grass-green top—for which we’d driven all the way to my house, post-mudbath—and followed Adam. We headed toward the corner table and dying fern that Jerry had indicated, passing similar glass-topped tables covered with white linens. Servers poured iced tea and sparkling water into shimmering wine glasses, and white Christmas lights twinkled from the top of the walls like starry nightfall.
“Here?” I paused in front of the side table Jerry had indicated, its napkins rumpled and silverware askew. A vase with a wilted white freesia sat next to an oil stain on the white tablecloth. “Are you serious? Is this the seat Jerry saved us?”
“I thought so,” Adam replied. “He said by the plants, didn’t he? Here’s the fern and all those hydrangeas on the wall.” I could smell the dusty scent of their blooms from glass vases on staggered wooden boards.
“Maybe we should check the napkins and make sure they don’t hav
e your face drawn on them.” I shot him a wry smile, trying to cut the strain of too-heavy topics.
“Funny. Under the plates, perhaps?”
“You never know.” I pretended to look through my purse. “Let me get out my pastels, and I’ll draw one for you.”
Adam glanced back over his shoulder for Jerry, but he hadn’t reappeared. A noisy crowd filed over to a nearby table, laughing and pulling out chairs, blocking the rest of the restaurant.
“That’s what he said. I think he meant here.” I took my purse off my shoulder. “Maybe the busboy’s just a little sloppy.” My wine glass wore streaks, but it glistened back, dry and empty.
“Sloppy isn’t the word for it.” Adam brushed the crumbs off my sleek wooden chair before politely holding it out for me. Something no man, in all my twenty-five years, had ever done. “Here. I’ll just borrow that water pitcher over there and fill up our glasses.”
I thanked him and sat, pushing a rumpled napkin out of the way.
“So did you guys ever get the cows back in Ron’s pasture?” Adam asked with a smirk, sitting down across from me with two fresh glasses of ice water.
I choked a laugh into a cough. “Come on. What makes you think I had anything to do with that?”
“Um…nothing.” Adam feigned ignorance, covering a grin with his hand. “Nothing at all. Except Tim hauled a hay bale over to Ron’s pasture late Tuesday night. Kind of an odd time to feed the cows, don’t you think?”
“Hmm.” I didn’t answer, pretending to study the menu.
“Faye swears she saw him fixing that pasture fence when the sun came up Wednesday morning.” Adam leaned forward, the corners of his mouth twitching. “And…there’s one other thing.” He started to reach for his cell phone.
“Don’t do it!” I threw the menu down and pushed his phone back in his pocket. “Becky must have sent that silly photo to everybody in Staunton.”
“Staunton? Becky has a bigger contact list than you think.” Adam bobbed his eyebrows. “I hear it’s already showed up in West Virginia and Tennessee.”
“Stop it.” I covered my face with my hands.
“Sorry.” Adam chuckled. “This is a small town, you know.”
“Don’t remind me.”
I brushed crumbs off my elbow where I’d been leaning. Adam helped me, shaking his head. “Sorry, Shiloh. I wanted dinner to be nice. But there’s a reason I brought you here tonight to celebrate your birthday.”
“So I can be suddenly thankful I’m employed as a reporter now instead of a Green Tree waitress?” I smiled, recalling weary days of waiting tables and scrubbing booths. Carrying trays and ferrying orders. Stuffing the few dollar bills from between leek-and-cheese-encrusted forks into my soiled apron pocket.
“Or because of the bread?” I tipped the bread basket toward me, revealing several tender, crusty slices and a small ceramic bowl of whipped butter. “I’m starving. The bread looks cold, but…oh well.” I wiped the smudged knife on a cloth napkin then swirled it in the creamy butter.
“You sure looked cute in that apron though.” Adam’s eyes softened in a smile. “Sure you don’t want your old job back?”
“Me? No.” I snorted, flicking some crumbs from under the plate onto the floor. “Don’t tell Jerry that.”
“I think he knows.” Adam smiled, waiting until I’d put the knife down to trace the contours of my fingers with his rough hands. “But he said if we were going out tonight to bring you by here because he wanted to ask if—Shiloh?” He tipped his head at me. “You listening?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I thought I heard my phone.” I gestured toward my purse. “I figured it was your younger brother calling to tell me Christie ate the sofa or something.”
I tipped my purse to check. “But it’s fine. Nobody called.”
I flicked a piece of lettuce off the chic bamboo placemat. Yes, real bamboo. Jerry believed clients wouldn’t mind shelling out bigger bucks if the ambiance felt exotic, like they’ve gone on a trip. In other words, far away from Staunton.
“The sofa in the den’s pretty old, so nobody’ll care if Christie chews it up. If it’s that new one my mom just bought for the living room, though, she’ll have a coronary.”
She’ll have a coronary. From stress. The words flew into my already crowded brain like unexpected barn swallows, chirping and flailing wings. And my half sister’s voice: “It’s probably your fault, anyway. You drove her to her death.”
I frowned, rubbing at a small sticky spot on the plate and thinking about Mom’s stack of returned letters, all stamped and postmarked. Her words about headaches and dizziness.
I shook ice water in my glass, the dim lights and my troubled face smearing into a swirl of color. My green-gold hazel eyes staring back at me, for one frozen instant, so much like Mom’s.
“What did you say just a minute ago?” I looked up.
“About Becky’s huge phone and e-mail list? You know she has like four hundred contacts, right?”
I pretended to smack him. “I asked what you said about your mom.” I set my glass down and avoided his eyes, buttering a slice of bread and then setting the knife on the edge of my plate. “Having a…what you said.”
“Having a coronary? Because of the new sofa? I told you—I was kidding.”
“No, I mean the way you said it. That stress could actually give somebody a heart attack.”
“Sure. It happens all the time.”
I dropped my bread and sank back in my chair, suddenly not hungry.
“Hey, you okay?” Adam tipped his head at me. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing. Just…” I peered up at him, not sure how to put the whole mess into words. “That coronary thing you said reminded me. Ashley told me a while ago that she thought Mom might’ve developed high blood pressure, too. Before she…you know. Passed away.”
“Your mom?” Adam dropped his tone a notch.
“Yes.” I pressed my lips together and met his eyes, hoping he’d understand. But their bluish-gray depths echoed back only pain and sympathy—and the same confused expression that flitted through them when Ray made his “charcoal drawing” speech.
“High blood pressure can cause brain aneurysms.” I straightened the placemat and avoided his gaze. “Ashley said Mom never had high blood pressure until she and I started to…um, not get along so well, to put it nicely. A few years back. Before I moved here.”
Adam started to speak, but I stopped him. “And then last year it got worse. After I told her to stop writing and calling me.”
“Shiloh, there’s no comparison between what I said and your mom. Everybody has trouble with parents.” He reached for my hand. “I mean, Mom always told Rick he’d be the death of her. And look at them now—as close as butter on grits.”
Oh. My. Word. The color drained from my face like a tablecloth slipping onto the floor.
“The death of her. She said that?”
“Sure. Rick was a big prankster for a while and kind of hotheaded. Now that he’s recovering from his amputations, he’s been a lot more…What?”
“My mom. She used to say that exact thing—that I’d be the death of her.”
Medical reports. Green Hill Cemetery. Dr. Paul Geissler. Amanda. Red paint. Death, death, death.
The room spun, and I held on to the table.
Adam’s eyes popped, wide and incredulous. “And because your half sister made up come crazy story about you causing your mom’s blood pressure to go up—”
“She’s right.” I closed my eyes.
“Now wait a minute. If you think for one second that—”
“She’s right,” I interrupted again, louder, until Adam fell into silence. “I checked.”
Adam did a double take. “You did what?”
“I looked through Mom’s medical records. Ashley’s right.”
“Shiloh.” Adam scraped his chair back and came to sit next to me. He put his arm around me, and I rested my head against his shoulder. Breathing in his familiar
fragrance of musty truck scent and aftershave, now mainly covered by doggie smell since he’d carried Christie. Mud on his tennis shoes where he’d hopped the creek at Gypsy Hill Park to run and catch her.
“She started taking blood pressure medication seven years ago—when I was eighteen. The first time we had such a big fight I didn’t speak to her for months.”
“Shiloh, that’s ridiculous.”
“Even when Dad and Ashley bailed, Mom didn’t need blood pressure medication. But she increased it three years ago when I left for Japan without saying good-bye. Last year she doubled it.”
Adam twisted a strand of hair behind my ear. “You can’t go down that road. It’s not healthy. Not for you, not for anybody.”
“They call high blood pressure the silent killer,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes.
“The what?” Adam turned his head to hear me better.
“Hold on. Here comes Trinity.” I sat up and wiped my face as Trinity Jackson came through the double kitchen doors, an apologetic look on her face.
“So sorry to keep you waiting, guys,” she said, out of breath, smoothing her black curly hair back in place. “The sanitizer hose broke again, and Jerry’s back there on his hands and knees. Water everywhere.” She leaned over to hug us both.
“Believe me, I remember. That used to happen all the time.” I turned my wine glass in the light, wishing I’d brought some aspirin to dull the ache behind my eyes. Maybe cold water would help. I lifted the glass, and my stomach grumbled at the sight of my poor little buttered bread slice lying untouched on the edge of my plate. “Why doesn’t Jerry just replace that hose?”
“He has. Twice.” Trinity glanced back at the kitchen, her impeccable dark eyeliner revealing her years as a model. “He’s really mad at the guy who installed it. Says if he comes in here again he’ll—” She broke off, turning back to the far wall with a confused grimace. “Hey, why are you guys sitting over here? Jerry set up that booth over there for you.”
She glanced down at our plates, and her eyes bugged out. “This table hasn’t been cleaned yet! What are you guys doing?”
'Til Grits Do Us Part Page 7
