'Til Grits Do Us Part

by Jennifer Rogers Spinola

  “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 VOLUME 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 insi
de.

  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.

  Adam’s going to have my head for this! I nibbled nervously on a nail, wondering if I should call him all the way in Stuarts Draft and interrupt his training seminar—or better yet, turn around and get my Yankee tail out of Dodge. Or wherever the flip I was.

  But when I thought of Mom’s high blood pressure and the aneurysm that eventually took her life, my pulse burned. I stepped on the gas, half wishing Jim Bob would stop the car so I could get out and scream at him. And maybe bang him over the head with one of those copper tubes.

  The rain increased as the road began to slope upward, winding through forest that thickened with each serpentine turn of the gaunt asphalt. Dilapidated log cabins flashed between stands of ancient hickories and pines, some sporting old-style multiple structures with separate smokehouses and kitchens. Thin lines of smoke rose from ancient chimneys. It felt eerie, watching time turn backward, like encountering Tim on my front porch last year in his gray Civil War battle reenactment uniform.

  When Jim Bob’s car turned onto an unmarked dirt path, kicking up sloshes of muddy water, I hesitated. But through the trees I saw a rough cabin, and the taillights abruptly vanished. I pulled off the road and into a little thicket of pines. I stiffened as Faye’s Escort, which had probably never been used as an off-road vehicle, inched down a muddy ditch, scraping slightly on the underside. My jaw jolted with a bump, and I eased between two tall pines. Wet branches pulled along the windows, lightly scraping the glass.

  I cut the engine and whispered for Christie to stay. Drops pattered on the windshield, breaking the sudden, thick silence.

  “Don’t bark, okay? Don’t do anything. Just stay,” I ordered, pulling on my jean jacket. “I’ll be back in a second.”

  I patted her head then eased the car door open and climbed out. Closing the door behind me with a catch of my breath. Christie watched, her furry face pressed up to the rain-spattered window and pointy ears pricked, as I slipped through wet, leafy shrubs and twigs in a dull roar of rain. The boots were heavier than I expected; I had to crouch and sort of hop, trying not to make too much noise.

  I crept closer to a leaky, old, thatched-roof log cabin with sorry-looking chickens rooting and scratching under a gnarled old tree. A grizzled hound, probably deaf with age, lay stretched across the front porch in openmouthed sleep. Forest surrounded us on all sides, as far as I could see. No power lines. A crumbly brick chimney smoked like a sullen old man with a corncob pipe, and the front porch sagged.

  A closed wooden shed loomed behind the cabin, and in front of the double shed doors sat the oldest, most rusted pickup I’d ever seen. Both headlights out. Bumper falling off in pieces. Its dented hood yawned partially open, propped up with a section of crooked tree limb.

  The Taurus engine revved loudly, and I jerked my eyes back to the front of the cabin.

  Jim Bob’s sedan had sunk into a patch of mud, and he pushed the gas several times, trying to back up. But his right wheel sank deeper in a muddy groove, and dirty water spun. A sharp clunk, and he cut the engine.

  I waited, peeking through the leaves, as Jim Bob got out of the car and bent toward the right tire, crouching and muttering under his breath. Tall and strong, with a thick build. And a stiff right hand.

  He pushed against the front of the car with his left arm, his face obscured by the baseball cap plus a curve of the hood and windshield. He finally got back in the car and revved the gas again. Door slightly ajar.

  Nothing about his gait or manner struck me as familiar. I sniffed the rain-laden wind, smelling smoke and damp woods. And an odd perfume that reminded me, with uncanny accuracy, of the heavy rose fragrance of Odysseus’s bouquets.

  I pushed my way through a patch of wet saplings on my hands and knees, trying to get a better view.

  And there, planted all around the front steps, stood a thick smear of gorgeous rose bushes—their intense color visible even through the rain. The most beautiful dark red I’d ever seen.

  Exactly the deep, velvety shade of ruby that I remembered from every single bouquet Odysseus had sent to my office.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, a terrible sound, as Jim Bob swung open the squeaky door to his Taurus and got out again, digging in the back of his car for something. I strained to see him from my vantage point—sassafras twigs poking me in the side and a leafy vine wrapped around my bare shin. What did Tim say about poison ivy? “Leaves of three, let them be”? Or was it, “Leaves of three, a friend of thee?” All those Southernisms about coral snakes and storm clouds ran together in my head.

  I’d probably be bleaching myself for a month from chiggers, too.

  I pulled a toothy wild briar from my dress, hoping Jim Bob would hurry up and show his face. My wet hair plastered to my neck and ears, arms tightly wrapped to keep myself from shivering.

  Jim Bob reached suddenly for his baseball cap and shook it off, revealing a close-buzzed head and large, shiny forehead. He plopped the cap back on his head and slammed the car door shut. Not bothering to lock the car, like so many trusting Southerners. Then without warning he whirled around—staring RIGHT in my direction.

  I ducked my head behind a thick poplar. Not daring to move a muscle. A twig snapped under my boot, and I sucked in my breath. Praying, praying for God to protect me in spite of my obvious brash stupidity.

  Chapter 28

  When I peeked again, I saw Jim Bob’s face. I blinked back raindrops, confused.

  Never, in all my life, had I met Jim Bob Townshend. Not once. I held back my shivering and leaned closer through the rain-wet leaves, trying to unroll the years and imagine him a little younger, a little chubbier, or with slightly more hair. But not a single feature on his face brought back any memories. A large, blunt nose with a slight downward crook. Thin lips. A curved jaw and dark eyes framed by darker brows.

  None of which brought back the slightest recollection.

  But then again, Meg had warned me—stalkers could be total strangers. Most of which probably weren’t playing with a full deck.

  Jim Bob took a step toward me then turned back at a slight scratching sound on the porch. The hound on the porch reluctantly roused itself, scrambling stiffly to its feet, license tags jingling. Jim Bob patted it clumsily on the head and then knocked on the cabin door, the dog limping along after him.

  “Pa?” Jim Bob called, rapping again with his knuckles. His left-hand knuckles, I noted. “Y’all right?”

  His accent pitched so thickly I could barely make out the words. I crawled a few paces forward through wet leaves, teeth chattering, to hear better and then stuck my tape recorder through a gap in the trees. Praying it would pick up Jim Bob’s voice.

  He put his hands up. “Don’t shoot! It’s me. Jim Bob. I got ’em. But my axle’s broke again. I’ll have to fix it ’fore I git your truck started. Mebbe t’morrow.”

  The door opened just a crack, and the dog snaked inside, tail bobbing. Jim Bob put his hands down. “Doggone rain. You shore y’all right, Pa?”

  And he disappeared inside, shutting the door behind him.

  I waited there in the rain a few minutes then slipped over to the Taurus in the mud. Mincing my way through puddles. I grabbed a leaf and wiped some mud off the license plate—a Texas license plate, not the West Virginia plates I’d imagined—and scrubbed at the numbers. Jotting them down in my reporter’s notebook.

  Then I
leaned closer, picking at a corner of something at the metal corner of the plate.

  Well, what do you know. A fake plate. A reflective sticker of some sort with neatly printed decals to match. All covered with a grimy film of dirt and exhaust that actually made it look pretty realistic.

  No wonder Jim Bob sprinted out of the post office at the first sound of police sirens.

  I picked a spot away from the dark windows of the cabin and shakily straightened up, circling my eyes with my hands to keep the rain out as I leaned toward the back window. Trying to make out the shadowy shapes in the dusty seat.

  Wrenches everywhere. A spare tire. Nuts and bolts, and a metal toolbox. A tire jack and old slide hammer. A fluke meter for checking electrical voltage. All mingled with a bunch of cables and auto parts.

  Mechanic’s tools. Including the copper tubing, which Jim Bob could easily work into auto parts to fix his dad’s truck. With his left hand, after years at relearning his trade without the use of his right. Leaving tiny, nearly indiscernible shavings clinging to his shirt and in the folds of his pants.

  My breath frosted the glass, and I slipped closer to make it out: the square shape of a cardboard box on the backseat, all covered in customs labels.

  I reached through the crinkly plastic tarp, peeling it away from the broken glass, and reached for my box. I eased it through the window opening and backed away. Then I ducked and clomped my way back into the woods at a fast clip and raced toward Faye’s car.

  My cell phone didn’t pick up a signal as I drove down the mountain in the rain and thunder, passing trailers and double-wides of all sorts huddled in the trees. Trucks with monster tires and crooked mailboxes illuminated by pulses of blue-white lightning. My soaked dress clung to my skin, muddied in large patches, and my wet ponytail hung in messy strands.

  I wended my way through small towns on my way back to Staunton, rain lashing the Escort in noisy waves. My windshield wipers pumped at top speed, clearing a small space so I could see the asphalt. A skin of raindrop-pocked water danced across the surface of the road, flood-like.