'Til Grits Do Us Part

by Jennifer Rogers Spinola

  I reached for another strip of nose and eased it into place, working my way up to the eyes. “And you’re right. He looks nothing like Jim Bob so far. I’m so confused.”

  A tremor of ice passed through me as my fingers fit together the lines of his face. The face of a man who’d stalked my mother, gotten me kicked off the crime beat, and ruined my wedding. My hand shook as I reached for the next piece.

  I heard something. A soft sound on the side of the house.

  “Christie?” I called, dropping the paper slips. I grabbed the flashlight and hurried to the door, pushing back the curtains on the side window. My hand on the doorknob.

  But when a flash of lightning illuminated the wooden boards of the deck, it gleamed back empty. No Christie.

  Maybe she’d gone to the other door. I marched through the living room and scrunched the sheers aside, straining to see the front porch through the large picture window.

  Again, no Christie.

  Something thumped against the side of the house, its movement reverberating through the walls. I felt it against my arm, and the window glass rattled slightly.

  Without warning, a large shadow fell across the curtains.

  A man’s shadow. Tall and angular, just a few inches away from me. Separated only by a thin pane of glass.

  Chapter 30

  I let the sheers fall back together in a silent second. Instinctively I grabbed for the flashlight and switched it off, plunging the house into darkness. But at least I could hide my location and buy a little more time.

  The doorknob jiggled as he tried to force it open. Then again with more strength, shaking the door frame. The lock held, and I caught my breath. And then he slipped out of my field of vision, toward Mom’s window. Half shrouded by gangly shrubs and a trellis thick with clematis and climbing roses.

  Call the police, for pity’s sake! Now!

  I scrambled to my feet, stumbling over scattered packing peanuts as I hurled myself toward the kitchen. Grabbing the phone in one swift movement. My breath loud in my ears as I dialed.

  Too loud. “Where’s the dial tone?” I whispered, jiggling the cord.

  No response. Just silence. And a peal of thunder that shook the walls of the house.

  Of all the lousy luck! Leave it to Shiloh P. Jacobs to shut herself in the house with a madman outside. No cell phone, no landline. And no Christie.

  Poor Christie, out in the rain by herself with a maniac. Where was she? If that creep so much as laid a finger on her, I’d bite him in the leg myself.

  The shadow reappeared, slipping along the edges of the picture window, and I wondered briefly if he was watching me.

  I hung the phone back in the receiver without a sound and dropped to my knees, racking my brain for anything I could use as a weapon. But with everything boxed up, my options were limited. A plastic take-out fork? One of Stella’s ugly garden gnomes?

  Wait a second. The freezer. I jerked it open and pulled out a hefty leg of venison, plastic-wrapped and hard as a rock. Not that a piece of deer meat would help much if somebody slit the window screen and climbed inside—knife-toting wacko that my stalker had turned out to be.

  But it was better than nothing, right?

  As if mocking my thoughts, the screen in Mom’s bedroom window squeaked as he tried to push it up. And when it groaned in hesitation, I heard the dull crunch of something like clippers or shears cutting through the screen.

  I clapped cold fingers over my mouth, freezing in midstep. Those windows opened as easily as a Twinkie wrapper. Once I’d jimmied open my bedroom window with Becky’s Blockbuster card when I left my keys at her house.

  I eased down the hall toward Mom’s room, clutching the venison leg like a baseball bat, but the shadow disappeared. I whirled around, terrified. The only thing worse than a shadow outside my house was a shadow that kept disappearing.

  The rain switched directions, spattering against the windows, and the rattling of the window screen abruptly silenced. I took advantage of the pause to crawl back to the table and feel for my cell phone, determined to squeeze every last drop of juice from the battery. Just one call would do it.

  At the first push of the button, my cell phone turned on, sending a blue glow into my cupped fingers, and then unceremoniously blinked off.

  I unzipped my purse and dug through it frantically in search of my work pager, in hope that I could send a frantic page to Meg or Kevin. I dumped my purse upside down on the table and pawed through it, dropping coins and rumpled tissues and pens. A checked-off wedding planning schedule. Kyoko’s throwing star, which wouldn’t accomplish a thing through panes of glass. Tubes of lip gloss rolled onto the floor.

  I shook out my purse, but no pager. Probably still in the car.

  A scrape of rusty metal screen at the far end of the house made me jump, knocking pens and breath mints off the table. I heard my bedroom window screen stick and then suddenly—in one ugly screech—slide up.

  Instead of retreating, all my weeks of worrying and checking over my shoulder suddenly boiled in my mind like storm clouds. The spray paint and notes. The worries I wouldn’t make it to my wedding. The arguments with Adam over roses, and the fear in Mom’s letters.

  I wasn’t Amanda. And I wasn’t about to disappear.

  I tripped over lipstick and keys littering the linoleum floor on my way to the bedroom, smacking the wooden window frame hard with my leg of frozen meat. Nearly breaking the glass. “Get out of here!” I yelled, raising the venison to swing again—and hoping it made contact with his head.

  Spine-chilling laughter shook the glass, and he pushed at the pane again, trying to force it up.

  I swung and smashed the window frame again, this time miscalculating and cracking the glass. Bad idea.

  Laughter again, louder than before—sounding vaguely familiar. But not familiar enough to place. It was maddening, all this ducking and hiding and guessing.

  “Get out of here!” I shouted. “My neighbors have probably called the police already!”

  “Never!” came the muffled shout through fractured glass. And he punched it with something blunt, probably the shears he’d used to cut the screen. A chunk of glass fell onto my bedroom floor, and I jumped back, shielding my eyes from splinters.

  In a dull flash of lightning I saw a man’s gloved hand appear, and I swung again with my trusty leg of venison, trying to keep a grip on the slippery plastic wrapping. The frost coating melted on my nearly numb palms. More glass shattered down, but to my horror, choked in the uncut portions of the screen and fell inward rather than outward. Spilling all down my carpet in glittering pieces.

  Making a perfect hole for him to reach through, and as I swung again, grab the thick venison leg. I slid across the carpet as he pulled me forcefully toward the window.

  I stumbled and let go of the frozen meat just as he reached through the window and grabbed my cardigan sleeve, and somehow I managed to pull myself loose and scream. Floundering through the darkness of the room, banging into boxes as I lurched for the doorway.

  In a lull between thunder and rain, I heard the sound of breaking glass. I slammed the bathroom door behind me and locked it then leaned against the door—my racing brain trying to process one last piece of ridiculous information. He’s coming in after me.

  And all I had for defense was a stinkin’ hairbrush! I rummaged through the bathroom cabinets, stuff spilling out of the drawers and onto the rug. A tube of toothpaste. Some bad-tasting mouthwash. A couple of old hair elastics. Perhaps I could make a slingshot with the brush and hair elastics, à la David and Goliath, and let fly a few bars of peach-scented soap?

  And then suddenly over the din came a loud shotgun blast. BLAM! The house shook.

  I dropped the hair elastics.

  “I don’t know who you are, but you’d better git the tarnation outta here!” blared Stella’s voice from the front of the house, loud and strident.

  “Stella?” I crawled to the bathroom door and pressed my ear to wood.
<
br />   “You mess with me or my friend an’ I’ll blow yer fool head from here ta kingdom come, ya hear?”

  Another blast. BLAM! My knees shook as I felt the vibrations, like earthquake aftershocks.

  “Yeah, you better run! Run, you mangy dog, before I… Where the blazes are ya?”

  I stayed silent, waiting, hearing nothing but my breath. Then jumped back as someone pounded on my front door. “Shiloh?” came Stella’s muffled voice. “You okay? The rascal musta run off.”

  “Stella?” I called, shaking, raising myself a few inches.

  “He ain’t comin’ back! An’ I’ll be standin’ here till the police come. Ain’t nothin’ gonna move me outta the way!” She paused a minute. “Say, what’s all this trash on yer porch?”

  Police sirens whined in the distance. “Hold on. The po-lice is comin’!” Stella called. “Sure took ’em long enough.”

  The sirens increased to a high-pitched wail, and Christie’s barking rang against the walls. The sound of an engine. I cracked open the bathroom door, hoping I didn’t find Odysseus’s shot-ridden body slumped outside my bedroom window.

  “Shiloh!” Stella pounded on the front door. “Answer me! Ya okay in there?”

  In the faint crack of streetlight from Mom’s bedroom window across the hall, my bathroom rug glowed ruby red. Red like the string of fate. The color of Odysseus’s roses. The color of my bridesmaids’dresses. The color of the wedding dress obi I’d never wear.

  “I think Stella shot somebody,” I murmured out loud, feeling strangely light-headed.

  And I bent over right there on the rug and forgot everything else.

  When I came to, someone was pounding on the front door so loud my teeth rattled, and Christie barked incessantly. Loud, harsh sounds that made my head ache.

  I felt around for my venison leg, not finding it, and heard the distinct squeal of a police dispatcher. I crawled out of the bathroom and ventured into the hallway. The living room curtains blinked white and blue. Through the window I saw a uniformed officer I didn’t recognize on my front porch, hand on his holster.

  I jerked the front door open, still feeling dizzy. OFFICER T. WHITMAN, read his police badge. Stella hovered worriedly next to him, one hand nervously flicking a lighter. Flowered housedress. Curlers. No gun in sight.

  “You the resident of the house, ma’am?” Officer Whitman, short and thick-shouldered, looked dark and serious in his hat and badges.

  “I think so,” I said, rubbing my forehead in a daze. “The guy’s already gone though, right?”

  “All this junk on the porch yours?”

  He shined his light on a huge mess of flowers—red flowers—fresh, dark red roses, all mixed with red ribbons, red crepe paper streamers, and silk flowers that looked like they were pulled from somebody’s front lawn.

  “For what hath night to do with sleep?” read a poorly lettered banner, smeared by the rain. “If not victory, revenge!”

  I snatched up a silk carnation stained in ugly shades of blue and red. Cemetery flowers! I’d seen some flowers just like these at Green Hill Cemetery on my last visit to Mom’s grave. The guy had left roadside daisies and random things like American flags, too, maybe pulled from the same cemetery. All lying in sodden heaps on my rain-soaked front porch.

  “Holy smokes,” Stella breathed. “There’s a bunch a letters and numbers on all these papers, and newspaper clippin’s, too. Regular wacko, this’n.” She prodded something with her toe. “And what’s all them photos of the mechanic’s shop? Ain’t that the one on Greenville Avenue? I don’t get it.”

  “I’ll check out the house.” Officer Whitman gruffly stalked into my darkened living room. “And then I’ll ask you both some questions.”

  “Wait a sec,” called Stella, reaching for his arm. “Ain’t Shane on duty tonight?”

  “Called in sick an hour ago, Stel.” Officer Whitman flipped at my light switch to no avail then switched on his flashlight.

  “Why, I jest saw him at the Barbecue Barn not more’n two hours ago!” Stella flung her hands up. “He was flirtin’ with the waitress and eatin’ the daylights outta some pulled pork. He shore looked fine ta me!” She dropped her shocked expression just long enough to give a sassy wink. “An’ I mean real fine. If he was older an’ not my kin, of course.”

  That’s right. Stella and Shane were distant third cousins or something. By marriage, she’d told me. But at the moment, just thinking about nonforking family trees made me nauseated.

  Stella followed Officer Whitman inside, and I threw my arms around her.

  “Did you shoot somebody, Stella?” My teeth chattered as he searched the dark house by flashlight, leaving us in the darkened living room. “I swung that leg of venison, but it didn’t stop him.”

  “Venison? What the sam hill you talkin’ about?” Stella blinked at me through the darkness.

  “I heard two shotgun blasts, and the guy ran away. You said so.”

  Stella looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “I didn’t hear nothin’! I just come runnin’ over when that dog a yours whined at my bedroom window like nuts, an’ I saw the fella take off runnin’.”

  I blinked, wondering if I’d gotten confused. But I’d heard the shotgun blasts. Both of them. Stella steadied my shoulders. “You’re jest feelin’ kinda woozy. Sit down a bit.”

  I crumpled onto the sofa, and she lit a candle with her lighter. Poured me a glass of water.

  “But you said…” I rubbed my head, trying to remember. “And I heard…”

  “Lands, look at that knot on yer forehead!” said Stella, staring at me. “You pass out or somethin’?”

  I touched my forehead, and sure enough it had swollen, tender. I winced and brought my cool glass up to ease the swelling. I’d probably hit it when I fell over on the bathroom floor.

  “Good lands, gal! No wonder ya ain’t makin’ sense!” Stella chided me. “Lemme see that knot.”

  Officer Whitman came through my front door, his face tight. “I think I know why your power’s out.”

  “The storm. I guess everybody around here’s lost power.”

  Stella cocked her head. “Now that’s the thing, Shiloh—mine ain’t off.”

  I ran to the window, and sure enough, my neighbor’s porch light smiled back at me. Fuzzy through light rain.

  I swiveled my head back to Officer Whitman. “You mean…?”

  “Your power and phone lines have been cut. Come take a look.”

  Chapter 31

  It’s too bad you’ve found your wedding dress already.” Kyoko, oblivious to my traumatic night, chirped into my cell phone as I drove to Faye’s. Stella had lent me her phone charger that plugged into the car cigarette lighter. “I found a website you’d love.”

  I glanced at the clock on the dash, suppressing a yawn. Almost three in the morning. Christie had curled up on the passenger’s seat, head on her paws. In the rearview mirror, Stella’s headlight (yes, singular, her right one was out) beamed into my bleary eyes as she followed me to Faye’s, along with Officer Whitman’s squad car. To make sure Stalker Freak didn’t try to intercept.

  Since, of course, I didn’t stock my car with frozen game meat.

  “Right, like I can afford a wedding dress online,” I retorted to Kyoko. “Well, you miiiight change your mind. It’s…perfect for you.”

  Something about the way she said it raised my suspicions. “I don’t have Internet now, Kyoko. I’m not at home.”

  She paused, obviously disappointed. “Okay, spoilsport. It’s called ‘Simply Camo.’ You’ve gotta see it! They sell wedding dresses in white satin and camouflage.”

  “Please.” I rolled my eyes.

  “No, really! So which pattern do you want, ‘desert sand camo?’ ” I heard her clicking a keyboard. “Nah, I think ‘snow camo’ will suit you better. Tiffany—that’s what it says the model’s name is—has fallen branches across her skirt. Wonder if Bobbie Jo here’s hiding a grouse under that fishtail hem?”

  My
mouth fell open, and I barely registered the bump of a pothole that jolted the car.

  “They’ve got prom dresses, too.” Kyoko snickered. “Ro? You there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Good, ’cause I’ve got a bunch more sites in case you don’t like that one. Look—a John-Deere-themed bridal party! Everybody’s decked in green and yellow.”

  “You think just because I live in Staunton that I’d get married in Tim’s hunting gear? Like…Bobbie Jo?” I shouted, forgetting about my bad night for a second.

  “Actually I think the table runner’s what did it for me.” She guffawed to herself. “But hey, you could have a nice ceremony with one of those camo dresses. Maybe on a shooting range.”

  “The shooting range thing’s been done. Becky’s cousin.”

  “The guy who made a swimming pool out of his pickup truck bed?” Kyoko sounded worried.

  “Yep. I think he’s single again if you’re interested.” I drove in crabby silence, scowling.

  “There’s this other dress with electric lights under the skirt and one made entirely out of newspapers,” said Kyoko helpfully, switching subjects. “But I can always point you to Goth Bride if you prefer. My fave. They use the coolest skeleton mannequins.” I heard her typing, and then the keystrokes stopped abruptly. “Hey, did you say you’re not at home? At three in the morning?”

  My throat suddenly swelled, tight with tears, as I thought of my wasted wedding plans. All down the drain because of some psychopath who called himself after a Homer character.

  “You’re not off on a story, are you?” Kyoko roared. “If you say yes, I swear I’ll knock you into next week!”

  I sniffled, reaching over to scratch Christie’s head and eliciting tail thumps against the dashboard. “I’m not doing stories anymore. I’m not doing anything. The wedding’s off, Kyoko.”

  Thick silence filled the line. I heard the gentle whir of smooth, wet asphalt under my tires, punctuated by hissing splashes as I drove through puddles. “Ro-chan. I…I’m so sorry,” moaned Kyoko, nearly in a whisper. “I know I gave you grief about living in Virginia, calling Adam a farmer and everything, but he’s really okay. I mean, he might look more respectable if he grew his hair out and got a tattoo or something, but he’s nice. I liked him.”