Louder Than Words (15 page)

“MAYBE THE GUY AT THE BARD’S BUDS WILL HAVE SOME ANSWERS.”

“How long did it take you to come up with that?”

“IT JUST CAME TO ME. IT’S GOOD, RIGHT? LET’S GO BACK TO YOUR HOUSE AND GET SOME SLEEP. ALL THIS SLEUTHING IS EXHAUSTING.”

“Sounds like a plan, Nancy Drew.”

Shakespeare’s Flowers was a half-timbered Tudor storefront in a strip shopping mall two towns away from ours. Kitschy was an understatement, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the owner had greeted us wearing knee breeches and a codpiece. Fortunately, the Disney details only extended to the architecture. I stood next to Jules, biting my lower lip, desperate to speak for myself.

“Good morning. How may I help you, ladies?” said a blondish man in Levi’s and a work shirt.

Jules stepped forward, chest out, trying to make herself look taller. “We’re looking for Mike Grant.”

“That would be me.” He looked at us expectantly, and I gave Jules a nudge.

“We’re investigating a possible homicide, and we need some information about the flowers and poems left at the site of the accident on Old Farm Road in Shoreland. Your delivery driver said you could help us.”

Way to go Jules Harper, cheerleader/cop. She was doing an uncanny impersonation of Horatio Caine on
CSI: Miami
—entertaining, but unlikely to get us very far. I glared at her, but she was deep in character, and, short of slapping her, nothing was going to stop the interrogation.

“Oh, really?” Mike Grant said, flipping through a stack of receipts on the counter.

This wasn’t going to be so easy. I nudged Jules again and scribbled the words
Cool it, Sherlock
on the palm of my hand.

“Yes, sir,” Jules answered in an unnaturally deep voice.

“May I ask the reason for your interest? It’s against company policy to share information about my customers, and you two don’t look like you’re here in an official capacity. Do you by chance have a search warrant?”

He smiled to let us know he was willing to play along, but his eyes were cool. This guy wasn’t going to reveal his favorite flower, let alone the information we were looking for. Jules had wanted us to dress like we were going on a job interview, but I had refused, thinking such details wouldn’t matter. But now we looked like a couple of kids playing Encyclopedia Brown, sticking their noses in where they didn’t belong. We were like a bad Nickelodeon TV show. I would definitely hear about this later. I guess Dr. Hawking was going to have to come out. Furiously I typed my appeal. It was our only hope.

“FOUR YEARS AGO MY FAMILY WAS KILLED WHEN OUR CAR CRASHED INTO THAT TREE ON OLD FARM ROAD. I VISITED THE SCENE OF THE ACCIDENT FOR THE FIRST TIME A FEW WEEKS AGO AND FOUND THE NOTES AND THE FLOWERS. I’D ALWAYS THOUGHT THAT OUR CAR JUST SKIDDED ON THE ICE, BUT THESE POEMS MAKE ME THINK THAT IT WAS SOMEONE ELSE’S FAULT. I’M JUST TRYING TO FIND OUT WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AND WE THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE ABLE TO HELP.” I held my breath.

“I’m so sorry, miss …” Face contorted with empathetic grief, Mike Grant looked like he was about to cry. Bingo.

“I’M SASHA BLACK, AND THIS IS MY FRIEND JULES HARPER.”

Taking both my hands in his, he said, “I had no idea. I’m so sorry. What a terrible tragedy. Were you very seriously hurt? The injuries must have been severe to cause you to lose your voice.”

This was embarrassing, but if there was a possibility this man might help us, I owed him an explanation. “I HAD NO PHYSICAL INJURIES, BUT I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO SPEAK SINCE THE ACCIDENT. IT’S CALLED HYSTERICAL MUTISM. AND I HAVE AMNESIA. I’M JUST TRYING TO GET MY LIFE BACK TOGETHER.”

Short of handing over my medical records, that was everything. I might as well lay it on thick if it might improve our chances of getting a name.

“That’s horrible—orphaned and so severely traumatized.”

“WE’RE SORRY TO BOTHER YOU, BUT WE HOPED YOU MIGHT HAVE SOME INFORMATION THAT COULD HELP US FIND THIS PERSON. IT WOULD MEAN SO MUCH TO ME TO KNOW WHAT REALLY HAPPENED THE NIGHT THAT MY FAMILY WAS KILLED.”

My eyes filled up with tears. Everything I was saying was true, and the tears were real, but I felt like I was manipulating this poor man with my sob story.

Jules, sensing his vulnerability, jumped in. “That’s exactly why we’re here, sir. Sasha’s doctor has said that she may be able to recover her voice and her memories if she can remember the minutes around the accident. If we can figure out exactly what happened, Sasha might be cured. It’s been a four-year dead end, until we found the flowers.”

There was nothing to add to that, so I just nodded earnestly and squeezed Mike Grant’s hands, which were still clutching mine.

“As I said before, I make it a practice of respecting the privacy of my customers … but under the circumstances …” He took back his hands, rubbed his eyes, and sniffed.

“THANK YOU, SIR.”
Please don’t change your mind
.

Opening a filing cabinet behind him, Mike removed a large manila envelope and dumped its contents on the counter. “I really don’t know much, but I’ll show you what I have.” He carefully laid out thirteen identical business-size envelopes, all typed, with no return address. “A few times a year, I receive an envelope containing three hundred dollars in cash, a poem, and a note instructing me to place the poem and one dozen white tulips at the base of the tree on Old Farm Road. The notes are never signed, so I have no clue as to who the sender might be. I delivered the flowers myself the first time, but after that I just sent a driver. It was strange, I’ll admit, but truthfully I didn’t think about the possibility that this person could be a criminal.” Mr. Grant looked like he was worried that he might be in trouble, what Stuart would call an accessory after the fact. “I just thought it was somebody’s relative. I never even looked at what was written on the pieces of paper.”

“JULES, LOOK AT THE ENVELOPES.”

They were light blue, like the stationery, and postmarked all over the world, a stamp collector’s dream—London, New York, Zurich, Berlin, Barcelona, Florence, Venice, Rome. My mystery poet was either an airline pilot or an international spy.

“Nearly every one was sent from a different city. And you have no idea who this person could be?” Detective Harper was back. She picked up an envelope and held it up to the light. Was she looking for fingerprints?

“None. I don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman. Based on the postmarks, I’m assuming the person isn’t local, but no one has ever called to confirm a delivery or ask about the cost. Three hundred dollars is way too much for the size of the order, but there’s no way I can get in touch to offer a refund.”

“NOW WHAT?” I turned to Jules. After a promising start, the trail had run cold.

“You’re too easily discouraged, Sasha. We’re just going to have to do some digging. Let me copy down all the cities and the dates. They might be significant, taken as a group. Mr. Grant, thank you for all your help. Here’s my phone number—if you remember anything else or you get some more information that might help us, could you give me a call?”

Now Jules really did sound like a police inspector. I waited for her to whip out a business card, but she just wrote her number on the outside of the manila envelope.

Standing on the sidewalk outside the store, my resolve continued to wane. “GREAT. NOW WE’RE LOOKING FOR A NEEDLE IN A HAYSTACK THE SIZE OF THE WHOLE WORLD.”

“You are such a downer. I think the fact that this person travels so much narrows things down considerably.”

“DEFINITELY. I’M THINKING RUSSIAN SPY OR ART SMUGGLER. MAYBE WE SHOULD CALL INTERPOL.”

“There’s no use talking to you when you’re in a mood. I’m taking you home. You can read your sex book and fantasize about Ben. He’s a big part of your reason for doing this—remember? Keep your eye on the ball.”

“IN THAT CASE, DON’T YOU MEAN BALLS?”

“Exactly my point. With talk like that, it’s obvious you’re in desperate need of a tongue down your throat and a hand down your pants.” Jules kept a straight face, but I could see she was about to crack up.

“YOU THINK?”

Would Ben ever kiss me like he had before? I worried I would never feel his arms around me again, and that made me more depressed than my lost voice ever had.

“How are you doing, Sasha?” Dr. O. sat, pen poised over her legal pad, waiting for me to announce some major breakthrough.

“I FEEL GOOD. NO PROGRESS ON THE TALKING FRONT, BUT I FEEL LIKE I’M MOVING IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION.”

“In what way? Any progress with that boy? Did you get back together?”

“NO, NOTHING SINCE HE TOLD ME HE LIKED ME BUT HE FELT LIKE HE WAS GETTING IN THE WAY OF MY GETTING MY VOICE BACK.” It was easier to talk about it with her than with Charlotte.

“And how does that make you feel?” Classic softball shrink question. I expected more from the illustrious Dr. O’Rourke.

“IT MAKES ME FEEL LIKE SHIT.”

Dr. O. raised her eyebrows. I usually made an effort to control the language when I was with her, but she was annoying me. Since I couldn’t tell her about how Ben’s supernatural talent had played such a significant role in our relationship, we weren’t going to get very far with this line of inquiry.

“Understandable. But you must see that someone with your condition has more complex issues than most teenage girls, and it would have to be a very unusual boy to be able to handle them over the long term, no matter how mature.”

If any boy had the stuff to cope with my issues, Ben was the one, but even with his extraordinary gift he didn’t have the patience to deal with me.

“SOMETHING ELSE DID HAPPEN. I VISITED THE ACCIDENT SCENE.”

Dr. O. stopped writing and looked up. “Interesting. What made you decide to do that after all this time?”

She was probably annoyed with me for not having done it years ago when she recommended it. But better late than never.

“I DON’T KNOW. I JUST WOKE UP ONE DAY AND DECIDED IT WAS TIME TO GO THERE. IT WASN’T THE SNOW AND ICE THAT MADE OUR CAR HIT THE TREE.” I tossed it out there, expecting a spectacular reaction, but she just went back to scribbling on her yellow pad.

“What makes you say that?”

“SEE FOR YOURSELF.” I handed her a few of the poems. “THESE WERE TUCKED INTO BOUQUETS OF WHITE TULIPS THAT SOMEONE LEFT AT THE BASE OF THE TREE.”

“Goodness.” After scanning each one, Dr. O. took a deep breath. “Are there more?”

“I HAVE SEVEN OF THEM, BUT THERE WERE THIRTEEN ALL TOGETHER. I DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO THE REST.”

“How do you know how many there were if they weren’t all there?” Dr. O’Rourke asked.

“JULES AND I TRACKED DOWN THE FLORIST AND …”

She cut me off. Finally, I had sparked some interest. “Tracked down?”

“IT WAS JULES’S IDEA. WE CAMPED OUT IN A TREE AND GOT LUCKY. THE GUY FROM SHAKESPEARE’S FLOWERS CAME BY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.”

“Fascinating. So what did you find out?” Dr. O. stared at my fingers as I furiously typed answers to her questions.

“WHOEVER CAUSED THE CRASH DOESN’T WANT TO BE FOUND. NO NAME, NO RETURN ADDRESS, PAID IN CASH, AND POSTMARKS ON THE ENVELOPES FROM ALL OVER THE WORLD. PRETTY MUCH UNTRACEABLE.”

“What do your aunt and uncle think about this?” she asked.

“I HAVEN’T TOLD CHARLOTTE AND STUART YET. SHOULD I? IT WOULD PROBABLY JUST UPSET THEM, AND UNTIL I KNOW SOMETHING, WHAT’S THE POINT?” Charlotte would be angry with me if she knew I was keeping such a major secret, but truthfully, what difference would it make? “IT’S NOT LIKE MY FAMILY WOULD BE ANY LESS DEAD IF WE KNEW EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED.”

“That’s true. A very mature attitude. And if you need to talk, you always have me. So does that mean you haven’t gone to the police?”

I shook my head. Maybe she was worried they would subpoena my medical records and arrest her for stealing Charlotte and Stuart’s money for the past four years.

“THE POLICE AREN’T GOING TO WANT TO INVESTIGATE A CASE THEY CLOSED FOUR YEARS AGO. ACCORDING TO THE REPORT, ICE CAUSED MY FATHER TO LOSE CONTROL OF THE CAR. I COULD FIND A SIGNED CONFESSION UNDER THAT TREE, AND I DOUBT THE SHORELAND POLICE DEPARTMENT WOULD ADMIT TO BEING WRONG.” Not that I had anything against local law enforcement, but their skills ran more toward directing traffic at weekend tag sales and handing out parking tickets.

“You’re probably right about that. At this point, so many years after the fact, it’s probably best to leave things be. As you so succinctly said, it’s not going to bring your family back. It seems to me that looking forward is your best strategy. Maybe knowing that your father didn’t do anything wrong is enough for you. Do you really need to know all the details?”

“I DON’T KNOW.”

“Have you considered the possibility that this poet is some weirdo who’s making stuff up, trying to draw attention to himself?”

Dr. O. leaned forward, as if trying to read my thoughts in my eyes, probably trying to see if this new information had made me any nuttier. I had been worried that she would insist we call the police with the information Jules and I had found, so that they could solve the mystery and provide me with some kind of closure. Weren’t psychiatrists all about closure?

“BUT WHY WOULD SOMEONE PRETEND TO BE THE PERSON WHO KILLED MY FAMILY? THAT’S EVEN CRAZIER THAN I AM.”

“Just throwing it out there. This world is full of all kinds of unusual people, as you well know. So now what are you going to do?”

“I HAVE NO IDEA, BUT I’LL FIGURE IT OUT.”

For the first time, I really felt like I
was
going to figure it out. And the fact that Dr. O. didn’t seem to have all the answers didn’t matter at all.

“That sounds like a good idea. Just keep in mind your goal—getting your voice back. It’s easy to get distracted, and your friend Jules sounds like someone who likes projects. You don’t want to get so busy playing Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson that you lose your focus.”

“JULES GETS CARRIED AWAY SOMETIMES, BUT SHE WANTS ME TO GET MY VOICE BACK AS MUCH AS I DO.” I seemed to spend a great deal of time defending my best friend’s good intentions.

“And what about your boyfriend?” Dr. O. looked at her watch but didn’t say anything. We were almost out of time, thank goodness.

“HE’S NOT MY BOYFRIEND ANYMORE.”

“But he would be if you could talk to him, isn’t that correct? It’s all about the talking. Keep that on the front burner. At this point, I think memory recovery might be overrated, especially in your case.” She didn’t need to rub in the fact that I had a lousy memory. “Okay, I’m afraid we have to call it a day, but I think you’re getting there. Keep it up—move forward, Sasha. That’s where your future is.”

“YES, MA’AM.” Did Dr. O. really just say that?

“By the way, I’m going to a medical convention next week, so I’ll be out of the office. If you need me for anything, you can e-mail, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“I’LL BE FINE.” I picked up my backpack and opened the exit door.

“You’re right, Sasha, you will be.” Dr. O. smiled warmly and went to open the front door to let in her next victim.