'Til Grits Do Us Part (43 page)

I jerked the front door open, still feeling dizzy. O
FFICER
T. W
HITMAN,
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.”

I
t'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.”

“No, no!” I corrected, annoyed. “Adam and I are still getting married. We just won't have a wedding.” I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “The whole thing's a mess. I'll tell you about it.” I sighed, dreading the recap. “But I'm worried. I haven't been able to talk to Adam since it happened.”

“Since what happened?”

“I called him—we all did—but he doesn't pick up. Maybe he left his cell phone off before he went to bed. I texted him a bunch of times though, so he'll find out when he wakes up.” I jabbered on, barely hearing her. “And you know something else? Maybe I dreamed it, but I could have sworn I heard Stella fire a shotgun.”

“How do you know what a shotgun sounds like?” Kyoko sputtered.

I felt heat flood my face. “I just…do.”

“Sorry. Not good enough.”

“People shoot birds all over the neighborhood. And squirrels. You know that. You were here last year.”

“Well, they definitely don't use shotguns for squirrels. Unless you want half your front lawn blown away.”

“What do they use then, gun expert?”

“Twenty-twos, mostly. I have brothers, remember?”

“Isn't that illegal?” I gasped. “Just plinking pigeons on your front lawn? What if a bullet hit somebody?”

“Of course it's illegal! You're never allowed to discharge a firearm in a residential area.”

“Well, then, there's no way Stella would've used a shotgun.” I flicked on my high beams to cut the murky mist. “She wouldn't be able to handle it anyway if the kick's as strong as you say.”

“I…think she could handle one.”

“Right.” I made a face.

“In fact, I'm pretty sure she's got one. Sawed-off.”

“Stella?” I shrieked, bursting into laughter at the thought of her taking aim in her housedress, curlers and all. “No way.”

“Um…I'm not sure how to tell you this, Ro-chan, but I saw it. The time I visited and you were always running to work or church or wherever. She invited me over for pancakes—pretty good ones, too—and the sawed-off job was standing in the corner, plain as day.”

A wave of horror swept over me. “You think Stella scared the guy off with a sawed-off shotgun?”

“Don't think, Ro,” Kyoko warned as my car went down an enormous valley and up a hill as if suspended over night skies. “Just be glad she scared whoever you're talking about away. She probably just shot it in the air once or twice and put it back in her kitchen. Mission accomplished.”

“And didn't tell the police.” I let out my breath in astonishment.

“Would you? And what guy are you referring to in this nuts-o story?” Her tone turned testy.

“I wouldn't have a sawed-off shotgun in
my
kitchen,” I retorted, deliberately not answering her question.

“Maybe you should. And you still haven't told me how you know what a shotgun sounds like.”

I didn't answer for a long time. “Okay,” I finally said. “But promise not to laugh.”

“Nope. Not gonna.”

I sighed. “Fine. I heard a shotgun at the shooting range, okay? With Tim and Becky and a bunch of their relatives. They shoot tin cans and metal turkeys and targets. And skeet…something. Whatever they're called. Clay things they throw in the air and shoot.”

“
You?
” Kyoko hooted. “You went to a shooting range?”

“Well, once for Becky's cousin's wedding, and the other times for—”

“
Times?
” she cried. “As in, plural? You didn't shoot any guns, did you?”

I fidgeted with my Bluetooth.

“Did you?”

“Wow, this connection's really bad,” I said. “Guess I'll have to call you back later.”

I parked at Faye's house in the damp predawn, drops falling from the maple tree in her front yard as I grabbed my stuff from the backseat and let Christie out. Christie had saved my life; I should upgrade her from generic puppy biscuits to an actual name brand.

I trudged through the wet grass toward the glowing porch light, glancing back over my shoulder at the pasture where I'd dodged cow pies with Tim and Becky in their cow-tipping spree. And before that, on the morning I lost my AP job a little more than a year ago, I'd stood right here under this very tree, watching dawn rise pink over the mountains—believing my life was over forever.

I looked up as the squad car eased into the driveway, giving a squirt of siren. Blue-and-white lights pulsing. I waved back, and the car hovered there, finally cutting its engine.

Stella pulled in after the squad car and parked behind my Honda.

Trusty Stella. What a boon she'd turned out to be. People could say whatever they wanted about her hair-sprayed 'do, but the woman had guts. And enough illegal weapons to keep Crawford Manor safe.