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BJ brought Tomi along for a stroll around the neighborhood. The day was crisp and clear.
She planned to work the evening shift at Wild Capers. Until then, she wanted to complete another chapter in her new novel. Out of habit, she read her email first.
Dear Suite Sue,
There’s something going on that troubles me. I believe it’s this story you’re working on, the nonfiction one. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be poking your nose in places where it doesn’t belong. Drop it. You’re a writer. Find something else to write about. Heed my warning, or else you might just find yourself floating in the Mississippi in little bits and pieces.
When should she mention the email to Detective Northcutt?
Her door buzzer sounded. Catching her by surprise, she accidentally splashed coffee on her desk, narrowly missing the keyboard. She tiptoed down the stairs.
On the other side of the peephole stood a tall deliveryman dressed in a tan uniform. He held a long white box in his hands, and a clipboard tucked under his arm.
BJ signed for the package, thanked him, locked the door.
She knew it was flowers, but from whom?
Frank had never given her one flower, much less a dozen.
The cop wasn’t close enough to her. Yet.
Jacob? Doubtful.
No one else knows her address.
She sat down on the couch. Slid the red ribbon, which bound the box, down to the end by her lap. Lifting the lid, she breathed in a vanillalike fragrance. She set the lid beside her. Not a dozen roses, but several stems of Joe Pye weed.