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Authors: Gillian Roberts
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clipped to a page dominated by an illustration of a praying mantis.
It made me sad that the detailed drawing had been hacked out of a library or textbook, just for the sake of this ill-intended mailing.
I knew that defacing books was not the problem I was supposed to be considering, but all the same . . .
The message read:
52
CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
PRAY NOW! Don’t wait UNTIL It’s TOO late & YOU are tHE prey!
I was ashamed of myself for noticing—and worse, being pleased by—the fact that we were dealing with a literate crank, because it’s and too were properly spelled. I guess you can take the English teacher out of the classroom, but et cetera. “Is this the end of it?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Six so far. Every three–four days.”
“Since . . . ?”
“Last two weeks.” She passed me the fourth:
Nothing is free xcept some murderers.
Dollar signs of various sizes dotted the page, and the name Independent Journal was repeated, accompanied by a date.
“Mailed from Baltimore,” Mrs. Fairchild said.
“Did you check out that newspaper? Find out where it is?”
“Went to library.” She made a small gesture toward the window.
I understood. She meant the library snuggled at the edge of the Square. She could walk there, though judging her strength, it would occupy the major part of the day. “Batya helped me.”
“Does she know about the threats, then?”
“Batya knows everything. I can’t do . . .” She sighed. “Batya knows.”
Then pay her a living wage, I wanted to shout. Stop blackmailing her, threatening to have her deported.
“Librarian found the paper. Outside San Francisco.”
Where Emmie Cade last lived.
“Librarian said it has no . . .” Her brow wrinkled as she tried to remember something. “Archives!” She nodded. “No online archives.” Her voice was weak, and she paused more often, but seemed determined to get everything out and onto the table. “But—”
I thought I knew what she wanted to say. “They have them on file, and we can request articles.”
53
GILLIAN ROBERTS
She nodded. “You’ll find them.”
That seemed an easy-enough task. “Did you report these notes to the police?”
“What would I say?” I had put the pages on the small table beside the love seat, and she glanced at them. “Looks like kid stuff.”
She stopped and breathed quietly, silently, for a minute, her eyes lowered. Then she looked up at me. “Wouldn’t have called you, except . . .” For the first time, she seemed unsure of herself.
“There’s more, isn’t there?”
Her face contorted, and she looked near tears as she handed me another page with a copy of the newspaper article the earlier mailing had referred to.
To my surprise, the article had nothing to do with Emma Cade.
“Who is Stacy?” I asked, because that was the name below a blurred picture—a copy-machine copy of a mediocre newspaper photo.
“Emmie. Stacy. King. Cade. Who knows what else?”
I looked at the shot of a woman, a mourner obviously taken by surprise. Her face was misted behind a veil, and one arm blurred as it rose to shield part of her face. She wore black. Only a brooch—a twisted, abstract outline of a heart—broke its severity. The woman was identified as Stacy King, widow of noted sailor Jake King.
The text was unsettling. It managed to make clear, in oblique and nonlitigious ways, the confusion and suspicion surrounding Jake King’s death. Apparently, he’d been everybody’s favorite regular rich guy. He’d been a dot-com entrepreneur when the going was good, smart enough to pull out reams of money in time.
But being a land-animal was only his day job. His soul lived on the water. Many fellow members of his yacht club were quoted as being incredulous that he’d had any accident, let alone a fatal one.
According to them, Jake was practically drown-proof. He’d been exceptional, an avid sailboat racer and all-around expert seafarer, and nobody could understand
It made me sad that the detailed drawing had been hacked out of a library or textbook, just for the sake of this ill-intended mailing.
I knew that defacing books was not the problem I was supposed to be considering, but all the same . . .
The message read:
52
CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
PRAY NOW! Don’t wait UNTIL It’s TOO late & YOU are tHE prey!
I was ashamed of myself for noticing—and worse, being pleased by—the fact that we were dealing with a literate crank, because it’s and too were properly spelled. I guess you can take the English teacher out of the classroom, but et cetera. “Is this the end of it?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Six so far. Every three–four days.”
“Since . . . ?”
“Last two weeks.” She passed me the fourth:
Nothing is free xcept some murderers.
Dollar signs of various sizes dotted the page, and the name Independent Journal was repeated, accompanied by a date.
“Mailed from Baltimore,” Mrs. Fairchild said.
“Did you check out that newspaper? Find out where it is?”
“Went to library.” She made a small gesture toward the window.
I understood. She meant the library snuggled at the edge of the Square. She could walk there, though judging her strength, it would occupy the major part of the day. “Batya helped me.”
“Does she know about the threats, then?”
“Batya knows everything. I can’t do . . .” She sighed. “Batya knows.”
Then pay her a living wage, I wanted to shout. Stop blackmailing her, threatening to have her deported.
“Librarian found the paper. Outside San Francisco.”
Where Emmie Cade last lived.
“Librarian said it has no . . .” Her brow wrinkled as she tried to remember something. “Archives!” She nodded. “No online archives.” Her voice was weak, and she paused more often, but seemed determined to get everything out and onto the table. “But—”
I thought I knew what she wanted to say. “They have them on file, and we can request articles.”
53
GILLIAN ROBERTS
She nodded. “You’ll find them.”
That seemed an easy-enough task. “Did you report these notes to the police?”
“What would I say?” I had put the pages on the small table beside the love seat, and she glanced at them. “Looks like kid stuff.”
She stopped and breathed quietly, silently, for a minute, her eyes lowered. Then she looked up at me. “Wouldn’t have called you, except . . .” For the first time, she seemed unsure of herself.
“There’s more, isn’t there?”
Her face contorted, and she looked near tears as she handed me another page with a copy of the newspaper article the earlier mailing had referred to.
To my surprise, the article had nothing to do with Emma Cade.
“Who is Stacy?” I asked, because that was the name below a blurred picture—a copy-machine copy of a mediocre newspaper photo.
“Emmie. Stacy. King. Cade. Who knows what else?”
I looked at the shot of a woman, a mourner obviously taken by surprise. Her face was misted behind a veil, and one arm blurred as it rose to shield part of her face. She wore black. Only a brooch—a twisted, abstract outline of a heart—broke its severity. The woman was identified as Stacy King, widow of noted sailor Jake King.
The text was unsettling. It managed to make clear, in oblique and nonlitigious ways, the confusion and suspicion surrounding Jake King’s death. Apparently, he’d been everybody’s favorite regular rich guy. He’d been a dot-com entrepreneur when the going was good, smart enough to pull out reams of money in time.
But being a land-animal was only his day job. His soul lived on the water. Many fellow members of his yacht club were quoted as being incredulous that he’d had any accident, let alone a fatal one.
According to them, Jake was practically drown-proof. He’d been exceptional, an avid sailboat racer and all-around expert seafarer, and nobody could understand
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