by Stacy Juba
She had a lot of work to do.
***
The next day, Cassidy gave Alison and Zach a tour of the gym while she waited for her appointment to show up. She had called the client, a new club member, and asked whether he minded a news team tagging along on his fitness consultation. He said fine, which had thrilled Alison and relieved Cassidy. He sounded halfway normal, unlike Rhonda Sue Vanelli, who madly waved from a stationary bike in the wall-to-wall mirrored exercise room, red hair swept into a bun. Her skinny legs pumped under pink tights and a sweat ring soaked the top of her jet black leotard.
"Cassidy, come here!" Rhonda Sue called.
"I’d rather not," Cassidy mumbled, and Zach chuckled.
She ventured over to Rhonda Sue with her news posse in tow. "Hi, what’s up?"
Rhonda Sue adjusted her clouded tortoise-shell glasses, perspiration dribbling from her forehead to the bow of her chapped upper lip. "I'm organizing an Internet petition. A bunch of your fans think the producers should give Reggie's winnings to you."
Shock swelled inside Cassidy. You’ve got to be kidding me. What if people thought this was her idea? She closed her eyes for a second, trying to maintain a sense of calmness. "Look, Rhonda Sue, I appreciate your support, but that’s not necessary. I don’t want or need Reggie’s money."
"Think about it, Cassidy. I mean, the guy’s dead. What does he need a million dollars for, to offer it as a bribe at the pearly gates?" Rhonda Sue hooted with laughter. "That jerk would need a lot more than a million."
It took all of Cassidy’s self control not to push the girl off the exercise bike. "You’ve got to stop this. It’s unethical. You’re wasting your time. That money belongs to Reggie’s family, at least I hope it does and doesn’t revert back to the show."
Rhonda Sue shook her head, dislodging globules of sweat that trickled to the tip of her nose. "You’re so modest. You need friends like me in your corner. Don’t worry, it’s not a waste of time. Even if we don’t succeed, it’ll prove to the producers that we love you. I want to help."
"I have to get a comment from you on this, Cassidy," Alison interrupted. "I’ve got to write this up, since a local person is spearheading the petition."
Cassidy sighed. She couldn’t soft-pedal her words anymore. Now she was being quoted, and Rhonda Sue needed to back off. "Rhonda Sue is going against my principles. I hope she reconsiders her actions and shows sensitivity to a grieving family. And Rhonda Sue, if you continue with this petition, I refuse to be your trainer anymore."
Rhonda Sue’s legs stilled on the bike and her mouth dropped open. "I … I’m sorry, Cassidy, I had no idea you’d feel this way. Of course I’ll stop. We’re … we’re still friends, right?"
"If you make it clear to Alison that I wasn’t involved in this, and if you pull the petition off the Internet, then we’re still friends. I’ve got to get back to work." Cassidy strode toward the front desk while Alison hung back and scribbled furiously in her notebook.
Zach fell into step beside Cassidy. "I’ve heard of nutty fans, but that lady is something else."
"She’s not my favorite client, that’s for sure." Cassidy paused as a middle-aged man with lank graying brown hair combed off his high forehead trudged to the counter. Puffiness softened his oval face and a dimple carved his deeply clefted chin like a period.
"I'm Mitch Searles. If you can help me lose fifteen pounds, my girlfriend will be eternally grateful."
"I'd be happy to help," Cassidy said. "This is Zach. He’s a photographer for the Garrett Daily News. Alison, the reporter, will be with us in a minute."
"Be forewarned, I haven't lifted weights in years," Mitch said. "Is this for a story on health clubs?"
"We're writing about Cassidy," Zach said. "She was a contestant on the TV show Sink or Swim."
"You know, I did read something about that, but I didn’t pay much attention. I don’t have a lot of time for TV. Sorry about that."
"Don't apologize." Cassidy’s mouth quirked into a smile. "I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to meet someone who really wants to be trained and isn’t here to see me. You wouldn’t believe how many people are addicted to reality shows. Let me ask you some questions."
Over the next hour, she gathered Mitch’s medical history and showed him exercises to reduce his lower back pain. Alison interrupted Cassidy a few times to obtain quotes from Mitch, and Zach took several shots before departing for his next assignment.
Spike plodded over as Cassidy was demonstrating a hamstring stretch. His high voice rang with betrayal. "Detective Pierce is returning your call. What're you doing calling the police?"
She pushed herself to her feet and brushed dust off her nylon exercise pants. Her teal shirt, one of many in her closet, boasted the Spike’s Muscle Madness insignia over the left breast. "I'll explain later. If you'll excuse me, Mitch, I have to cut our appointment short."
"Sure, thanks for everything," he said. "I'll make a follow-up visit."
Moments later, Cassidy sat in Spike's swivel chair and cupped the phone to her ear. At her request, Detective Pierce had run the ship preview list for warrants and previous criminal records, followed the credit card paper trail and checked out Billy Wilton, discovering nothing unusual.
Cassidy pinched a rubber band out of a stained "Fitness Fast Track" coffee mug and hooked it around her fingers. She appreciated the detective following up on the leads, but the results disappointed her. There had to be some clue he’d missed. "What about the little girl? If she’s not his daughter, maybe she could describe Miles, or identify him in the photos. If we can track her down."
"Unfortunately, I can't interview all those families," Detective Pierce said. "I've got other cases, and that's a lot of work to investigate someone who sent you a rose."
She snapped the elastic, grimacing as it recoiled against her wrist. "Even if he’s acting like a stalker?"
"I've been having patrolmen run radar by your apartment building," Detective Pierce said. "They can enforce traffic laws in town while giving you police presence, killing two birds with one stone. But the guy hasn't threatened you. I'm sorry, there's only so much I can do. I wish I could do more. Have you seen the white van you told me about?"
Cassidy noticed Spike observing through the window, hands jammed in the pockets of his sweatshirt. He moved closer to the glass that partitioned off his office from the front desk. A cold shiver formed between her shoulder blades. Spike was just an annoyance, but someone had spied on her at the cruise ship preview and it might happen again. What if the person approached her next time? How did you tell an obsessed fan you weren’t interested without breaking his heart, or worse, pissing him off?
Dissuading Rhonda Sue had been hard enough, but Miles seemed more persistent. More careful and cunning. Why hadn’t he shown himself yet? She realized Detective Pierce was waiting for her answer. "No, and my neighbor hasn't been able to find out anything about it. What's going on in New Jersey?"
"Miles never contacted Reggie to their knowledge. The police doubt there's a connection, but keep feeding me letters. The detectives want to be kept in the loop. I’d say don’t waste energy worrying about it, there’s probably nothing there."
"Could you do me one more favor? I just took a basic firearms course and want to apply for a license to carry. I've got an appointment at the station today to be fingerprinted and interviewed. I-"
"A gun? I don't recommend that. It's the worst thing a citizen can do. You could end up shooting yourself or a neighbor by mistake."
Cassidy tapped her fingers against an invoice for a treadmill. Hadn’t he watched Sink or Swim and seen how determined she was? If she could learn to sail in the middle of nowhere, she could handle a gun. Both disciplines required commitment, intelligence and good reflexes, all qualities she possessed.
"I passed the test," she said. "I got my certificate and I’m joining the Garrett Rifle and Pistol Club to practice. I've heard that some police departments will give applicants a hard time and th
at there can be red tape. Can’t you help me out?"
"There's a reason for that red tape. What did you do, go to one class? Can you pull the trigger when you need to? Can you keep from pulling the trigger if a friend surprises you? Do you know how to clean it? Store it so the wrong person doesn't get hold of it?"
Okay, now his authoritative concern was ticking her off. He wouldn’t follow up on their biggest clue, yet he was reprimanding her for a desire to defend herself?
"Look, I’m not 12-years-old," Cassidy said. "I could get a gun illegally. I'm trying to do this the right way. All I'm asking for is a little help to make the process quicker. The faster I get this license, the better I'll feel."
"I know what I'm talking about. Guns in the untrained hand can be dangerous."
"Stalkers can be dangerous, too. What if he tries to kidnap me? Or what happens if we have a confrontation and I reject him?How do I know he won’t snap? I’ve done enough research to know that stalkers are unpredictable. I’m pro-active, Detective, especially where my life and privacy are concerned. I like to be prepared."
Detective Pierce sighed. "I'll see what I can do, but listen to what I said. It could take awhile to get proficient with a gun and it might give you a false sense of security. You don’t want that, either."
Spike burst into the office as she hung up. "The cops aren't coming around, are they? That’ll look bad for business."
Cassidy let out her breath and raised her glance toward him. "What were you doing standing out there?"
"It's my office and my gym. I have a right to know if cops are gonna snoop on my property."
"What do you care? Is the gym a money laundering front?"
"I don’t want my customers disturbed."
She popped out of the swivel chair and planted her palms on the desk. "Listen, Spike, I'll level with you. I'm being stalked. I need to know if anyone asks about me, or seems overly interested. Let me rephrase that. The cops need to know."
He chuckled. "Are you kidding? Everyone asks about you. You’ve probably got a hundred stalkers."
Cassidy rolled her eyes. She should have known he wouldn’t take this seriously. "Thanks, Spike. You’re a big help."
Alison rapped on the open door, carrying a foil-wrapped plastic plate. "Cassidy? You have a blue Saturn, don't you? This was on your car."
Alison peeled back the foil, revealing a dozen oversized chocolate chip cookies, store-bought by their flat roundness. Spike turned from the desk, eyeing the cookies like a starved Lassie.
"There's a note," Alison said.
Her knees rubbery, Cassidy shuffled forward and silently read the index card taped to the foil. "These are to show how sweet our love is. Yours always, Miles."
He had been outside. He knew her car. Where she worked. Slowly but surely, Miles was insinuating himself into her private life. Yet, he remained a phantom.
"Come on, put them down and let's ask around. Stay away from them, Spike, they’re evidence." Cassidy strode out of his office into the foyer. She scanned the dozens of club members listening to iPods, socializing on the equipment, or tuning into overhead televisions in the air-conditioned cardio room.
Could Miles be in the gym, watching her reaction? All of these people looked sane, excluding Rhonda Sue, but what did a stalker look like?
"If this is from your 'stalker,' you should be writing him thank you cards, not calling the cops!" Spike called.
Ten minutes later, Cassidy and Alison met in the deserted women's locker room.They had covered the entire gym, interrogating guests about the cookies, but no one witnessed who left them.
"Your best friend, Rhonda Sue, is cursing herself for not thinking of the idea," Alison said, her mouth twisting into a wry smile. "Expect a pecan pie. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have moved the plate in case there were prints."
Cassidy leaned against the full-length mirror beside the bathroom sink. "I’ll bring them to Detective Pierce, but he says the department has other priorities besides expending manpower on an admirer who hasn’t threatened me. He won't care unless the cookies turn out to be poisoned, which I’m sure they won’t."
Miles wanted to court her, not kill her. At least right now. As she’d told Detective Pierce, she wasn’t taking any chances. This person could reveal himself at any moment. Even if he didn’t turn out to be a physical threat, he could invade her privacy by knocking on her door, staking out her car or haunting her at work. Cassidy had read that if a personal meeting occurred, she should politely but firmly express that she wasn’t interested, being blunt and to the point. Acting too nicely could encourage him, while losing her temper might set him off.
As much as she wanted to match a face to the letters, Cassidy dreaded a confrontation and the risk of handling the situation incorrectly. She was at his mercy, forever on the defensive, waiting to see how far his behavior progressed. And she didn’t like that one bit.
After work, Cassidy bagged the cookies and drove toward the police station. She squinted in the glaring sunlight, her tired eyes glued to the rearview mirror. Had that black pickup truck been lagging behind too long? She had noticed it soon after the gym, following her onto a right turn.
It could be coincidence. Cassidy debated whether she should accelerate to the police station, two minutes down the road. If this guy was tailing her, he'd take off fast. She'd never know whether it was Miles or her imagination.
Cassidy continued west into Garrett Center, chewing her lower lip as she left the police station behind. She bore right at the next set of lights, searching the street beyond for signs of the truck. It fell into line a half-block back, matching her speed.
A chill iced her spine and all her senses kicked into high alert. One more turn. If the pickup followed, she’d swing into the opposite lane and hightail it back to the station.
Cassidy bent over the wheel, darting another glance into the mirror. Her knuckles drained and bloodless, she hung another right. As the truck coasted straight, she glimpsed an elderly couple in the front seat. It wasn't Miles, unless he was pushing 80-years-old with an accomplice. Cassidy sputtered a nervous laugh as relief engulfed her.
"You're paranoid," she muttered. "Just paranoid."
She turned around at a gas station, her relief short-lived. Miles wasn't in the pickup truck, but he was out there. Somewhere.
Chapter Ten
Cassidy straddled the workout bench tucked in the corner of her bedroom and tightened her weightlifting gloves. Dried sweat and grease darkened the cracked white suede. Sunlight patched the light yellow walls with their framed paintings of flowers, horses and forest streams, all her own work. She went through a paint-by-number phase in high school, completing challenging projects that required miniscule details, but gave up in college after her schedule made hobbies impossible. At least, hobbies besides exercise, and she considered that a way of life.
As a golden bar threaded her favorite scene of a snow-capped church surrounded by creamy hills, it struck her that she shouldn’t keep the shades open. Anyone could see her through the window. Cassidy raised herself off the bench and lingered for a second before the perfect sunny day. It held a hint of the fall; the New England crispness that in another few weeks would gradually overpower the heat.
She snapped down the shade behind the sheer white curtain, erasing the bands of light, closing herself off from the world once again.
Gloominess dropped over her. What a beautiful afternoon to enjoy the weather and go jogging, but she wasn’t up for running alone. Hadn’t been since Miles. Cassidy had only a few hours before returning to work for her evening personal training appointments. Once she finished her free weight routine, she didn’t relish answering the stack of fan mail towering near her closet. Now that she’d sorted it all, the normal letters needed responses, but Cassidy couldn’t gear herself up for it, not when her nerves were so jangled.
Hoping she wouldn’t sound too desperate, Cassidy dialed Zach’s phone number. He answered on the second ring. "You doing anything?" sh
e asked. "I have to go to work tonight, but I have some time."
"Want to grab a bite to eat?"
Nervous energy chugged through her body, demanding attention. She needed a physical release and jogging would be the perfect solution. "I'd like to go running. Think you can keep up?"
***
Cassidy slowed to a walk as they finished lap four around the Garrett High School track, euphoria rejuvenating her body, from her burning quads straight up to her grinning mouth. Zach leaned forward, massaging a stitch in his side. He had forsaken the cowboy hat and jeans for a tee-shirt and shorts. Worn Nikes replaced his boots. He had nice legs, his calves tanned.
"You did great for a farm boy," she said.
Zach pushed the straw of his water bottle between his lips. He sprayed his palm and rubbed droplets across his ruddy face. "Can we stop this torture? I'm used to a horse doing the work."
"My stepdad took me riding once when I was a kid. I prefer my own two feet."
A smiled hooked the edges of his mouth. "That's because you weren't used to it. I'll give you lessons. You'll love it."
"Why should I rely on a horse when I can run on my own?"
"For the experience. You trust the horse. The horse trusts you. There’s nothing like it."
"I don’t trust easily, at least not these days. I’m sure not putting my faith in an overgrown pony." Cassidy ushered Zach toward the empty metal bleachers and raked an appraising gaze over the tennis and basketball players. Nobody was paying much attention to her. Thank God.
"This guy must be getting to you. Alison mentioned what happened at the gym."
She folded her calf into a quad stretch, downplayed her worries. "I can handle it."
Zach stooped to tie his shoelace, pellets of sweat glistening in his rumpled dark hair. "I'm starving. How about we get that bite to eat?"
