“Well, Delia was a ‘suicide,’” Anne said. “And no one has ever hinted any different. I think that’s out. We adjusted Sarah Toth’s situation. We fine-tuned a couple of others. What about your ball-player?”
Holt was getting plates out of the cabinet, and he turned with them in his hand. “The last time I saw Clay’s parents they couldn’t stop talking about what a success Clay is having at U of A. He’s not the starting pitcher, but he’s gotten on the mound several times. They’re in hog heaven.”
“So Clay’s out. Besides, he never knew it was us.” They’d motivated Clay to straighten up his act, so his pitching would lead to glory for the school.
“And Sarah seems to be doing fine at Davidson, according to her mother—who just got engaged, by the way, to Coach Redding.” Sarah Toth and her mother had endured a lot from JimBee Toth, until he’d fallen down the stairs in their home while he was drunk. And alone. The football coach would be a much better spouse.
“I heard. What happened to her brother?”
“He went into the military.”
“So that’s all the Toths accounted for. Let’s see what the police say about Tom Wilson.”
Later that evening, two detectives came to Anne’s house. They had called ahead. “I’ve seen you at the games,” Nedra Crosby said. “We still go sometimes. My husband played football and I played softball at Travis High, back in the dark ages.”
Since Crosby was in her mid-forties, that was a slight exaggeration, but Anne and Holt smiled obligingly. The other detective, Leland Stroud, a very dark man with hair cut close to his scalp, was the strong silent type. So far.
Anne offered the two Coca-Cola or tea, but they both refused. “Can you tell me who this Tom Wilson is?” Anne asked.
“Yes,” Crosby said. “His prints were on record. His mental problems have landed him in trouble before now. Wilson has just gotten out of a mental health facility in South Carolina. His family reported him missing a week ago. He had a legal driver’s license, so he was able to rent a car and check in at the motel here with no problem. He had quite a bit of cash, and a prepaid Visa gift card. We don’t know where he got it. His family members all deny giving him money.”
“So why did he come here?” Anne asked. “Why did he target me?”
Crosby said, “We wonder that too. You’re sure you’ve never seen this Tom Wilson before?” There came the shadowing of doubt.
“I’m sure,” Anne said. Holt nodded in agreement.
“He had some documents in his car,” Crosby began. Anne had an ominous feeling. “Including some personal letters signed by you.”
Anne didn’t have to feign her astonishment. “No, they’re not,” she said. Anne didn’t write letters for that very reason: people could keep them.
Crosby looked thoughtful. “We’ll show you facsimiles, and you can give us your opinion,” she said. “Can we have some samples of your handwriting?”
Anne nodded. “I’ll find some.”
Crosby glanced at Stroud, who took up the torch.
“I know it seems silly to ask you this, Ms. DeWitt, but you can’t think of an enemy you have…?” He leaned forward, his hands on his knees, looking as sincere as a judge.
Anne laughed. “I wish it were silly to ask. Principals do have enemies, Detective. Parents used to back the school administration, but now they back their kid, no matter how stupid or vicious the child is. That seems to be the new idea of showing love. So—yes, there are parents who don’t like me at all. But they’d be more likely to slash my tires or file a lawsuit than do something as elaborate as this.”
“No one else with a more personal motive?” Stroud asked. “Someone you might have rebuffed?”
Anne shook her head. “If there is, I don’t know who it might be.”
“This whole situation is so puzzling, especially since you can’t think of any reason someone would do this to you,” Detective Crosby said. “But please, look through your memory book and let me know if anything comes to your mind.”
“My memory book,” Anne repeated. She and Holt looked at each other. “I hope you brought these letters with you.” She went to the kitchen and got a grocery list and a to-do list. She handed them to Stroud.
Crosby opened a folder to show Anne the letters, obviously copies of the originals. Anne and Holt read them at the same time. The first one began, “Tom, I have been thinking of you every day. I really regret our separation. Please come see me to discuss it? I may have changed my mind by the time you get here, but I beg you to come.”
Each of the three letters had a similar message; they all contained the same contradiction.
“No wonder he slugged me,” Anne said. “These all say, ‘Come here and maybe I’ll take you back or maybe I’ll reject you.’” She shook her head. “Poor guy. But at least you can see that this handwriting is nothing like mine.”
The next day, Anne received a bouquet of black flowers. When the florist carried them into the office and put them down on Christy’s desk, she used the intercom to call Anne, who came out to see them. All the flowers had been dyed black, and black ribbon encircled the black vase.
“Who sent these?” Anne asked the delivery woman, who’d already turned to leave.
“It was an Internet order, and they paid with PayPal,” the woman said. “You’d have to get a warrant or something to try to track that.”
“Is there a card?” Christy asked, taking the words right out of Anne’s mouth.
“No. We asked, but she didn’t want any kind of acknowledgment.”
“She?”
“Well, something she said in the live chat made me think it was a woman.” The florist clearly wanted to go.
Anne said, “Thanks,” and the woman sped off. Anne took the vase into her office.
An hour later, she knew there wasn’t a bug in the bouquet. There was not a secret message, either.
The next day, a young man in a policeman’s uniform arrived at Anne’s office and asked to talk to her. Though Christy noticed he was carrying a CD player, she didn’t think it through, and called Anne out of her office. The “policeman” turned on his music (“Bad Boys”) and began his routine. He’d gotten down to his pants when Anne stopped him with a few well-chosen words that really shocked Christy. Anne told him to sit still until the real police got there.
Detective Crosby arrived in fifteen minutes. In the interim, Anne learned that the young man’s stage name was Randy Rodman, he had a website, and he’d never had a problem like this before.
Even Crosby had to smother a snigger.
“We can get a warrant to search his apartment, maybe,” Crosby said. “Though I don’t know why a judge would grant it. After all, sending a stripper to your office isn’t a terrible crime. Mr. Rodman says he was left an envelope with a cash tip in it, in his mailbox. A note in the envelope told him the time and place and recipient, if that’s what you call it, of the… performance. He figured it was for your birthday. I’ll check to see if his apartment complex has any security cameras that might have caught the individual who left the envelope, but Pine Grove is low-end. By the way, Tom Wilson is back in the mental hospital in South Carolina. His mother had him admitted again for observation.”
In the next couple of days, Anne became aware that there were laughs and giggles when she passed students in the hall. It was all too clear that this series of events was doing what it had been designed to do: make her a figure of fun.
Anne didn’t mind being disliked, or even hated. But being an object of ridicule was not only galling, it also threatened Anne’s job. She was furious, especially after she got a call from her superintendent. He asked, in the mildest possible terms, if there was anything he should know? Be concerned about?