Free Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 02 - Riptide by Michaela Thompson

a while, Isabel ran out of steam. She stopped talking and turned her attention to the dripping azaleas. There was something almost hypnotic in the sight of the drops sliding off the wet leaves. She had almost lost touch with her surroundings when Merriam spoke.
    Merriam said, “You ought to cut off some of that hair, girl. You look like a haystack.”
    Isabel gritted her teeth. Despite herself, her hand strayed to her hair. She said, “So you do know me, Merriam.”
    Merriam’s eyes were bright. She said, “We got to cut those fronds back. They’ll be falling and making a mess. We got to do it this afternoon.”
    She half-stood, but Isabel caught her arm. “Wait. It isn’t time yet,” she improvised.
    “They’ll be all over the place. We got to—”
    She was getting agitated. Isabel said, “Merriam, listen. I want to talk to you. Do you understand me?”
    “We got to go now!”
    “I’m Isabel. Isabel.”
    Merriam gave her a look of withering scorn. “I know who you are. Do you think I’m cracked?”
    The thought had crossed my mind.
“Merriam, sit down a second. I want to ask you. Do you remember being on the beach, walking on the beach? And you saw Kimmie Dee?”
    “Kimmie Dee.” Merriam’s face grew sober.
    “Yes. You hurt your head somehow. I wanted to know if you remember—”
    Merriam had deflated. Her shoulders sagged and her head hung forward. In her lap, her fingers twined and untwined aimlessly. “No,” she whispered.
    “I want to know how you hurt your head.”
    Merriam began making the fish motions with her mouth. Isabel waited, but she didn’t speak again.
    On the way back to the Cape, Isabel stopped to buy groceries. She pushed into the trailer laden with bags. She had put everything away and poured herself a glass of club soda before she noticed the envelope on the floor.
    It was a sealed envelope, plain white, with nothing written on it. Judging from its position near the door, someone— Kimmie Dee?— had slid it underneath while she was gone. She tore it open and took out the folded paper inside. The message was printed in block letters with a red felt-tip pen:
    GO AWAY YOU WHORE. WE DON’T NEED YOU HERE.
    No signature, naturally.
    Oh please.
Please.
Surely Isabel had enough problems without this kind of garbage. She tossed the note on the counter and beseeched the powers that were to give her a break.
    Whore.
A generic insult or a calculated reference to her youthful peccadilloes? The image of Harry Mercer presented itself.
Go away, you whore.
    Isabel folded the note and replaced it in the envelope. She didn’t want to look at it. She would be watchful, in case the person came back. She would— this inspiration gave her pleasure— put weather stripping along the bottom of the door so nothing could be slid underneath.
    If it continued, she would have to go to the police. Undoubtedly, they would ask whether she had any idea who had done it. She thought of Harry again. She imagined the police asking Harry Mercer whether he had written a note calling Isabel a whore.
    She put the envelope in a zipper compartment in her handbag, where it would be out of her sight.
    The rain had stopped. She once again installed herself on the concrete block front step with her sketchbook, but she couldn’t recapture her mood of the morning. Either the note, her frustrating visit with Merriam, or something else had stalled her. She was doodling meaningless shapes when the sound of sandals slapping down the drive announced Kimmie Dee’s daily visit.
    Kimmie Dee came into view and got right down to business. “Did you mail my letter?”
    “I certainly did.”
    “Good.” She gave a nod of approval. “What are you doing?”
    “Working.”
    “No, you’re not. You’re drawing.”
    Isabel didn’t argue. She turned back to her sketchbook. Kimmie Dee found a dried magnolia leaf, freighted it with pine straw, and began to sail it on a mud puddle by the steps.
    After a few minutes, Isabel said,