𝑺𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒉 𝑴𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓

     I carry the picture and note with me to the kitchen, where I sit contemplating while nursing a glass of red wine. I still can’t believe someone sent me these. I know deep within that the note is a warning to me, telling me to stop looking into Adrienne’s suicide. If someone is so scared of what I might discover if I continue digging, isn’t it proof enough that Andrienne was murdered?

     I know I’m on the right track. I’m so close to proving Adrienne Styles was murdered. Whoever sent me this note is afraid that I might uncover their deadly secret, which I already have. I just need proof. But who sent me this note?

     The person sure knows me, and what I’m doing. The only suspect I have in mind is Jeff. But it doesn’t sit well with me. Jeff doesn’t know I’m investigating him. Besides, the conviction that he murdered Adrienne came after I left his house and got into my car. Jeff couldn’t have delivered this to my mailbox, although he has every reason to.

     The only person who knows I suspect Jeff is Ms. Gillian. And it’s laughable that I think she sent me this nasty note. Jeff didn’t send this. Neither did Ms. Gillian. Then who sent me the note? I can’t wrap my head around it. This case is already puzzling me. I’m stymied. I don’t know how to proceed.

     I take the glass and sip the wine, trying to find answers to the puzzling question. Nothing is kicking in. I take another sip. Then another. An idea pops up. Quickly, I leave the glass on the counter and into the bedroom, I bring out our laptop, boot the device, and sit it on the bed.

     I wait a while as it starts, and then I swiftly navigate websites, pulling up the site where I read the article on Adrienne’s suicide. I scroll down to details of the journalist who wrote the article and the workplace. When I find a telephone number attached to the article, I hastily dial it on my phone, listening to the low monotonous beeps.

     Seconds later I’m speaking with a woman with a terrible cold and sounding as if she’s going to sneeze anytime soon. We exchange pleasantries, and she asks me how she can help. I tell her to connect me with Ivory Blake.

     “All right. Who should I say is calling?”

     “She won’t know me. Tell her I’ve got information on a case she covered months ago.”

     The woman asks me to hold on. A minute elapses before another voice fills my line.

     “You’ve reached Ivory Blake. May I know who you are?”

     “I’m Sarah.”

     “Sarah,” she repeats, and I wonder if it sounds familiar to her.

     “The operator said you have information on a case I covered before.”

     “That’s correct.”

     “What case is that?”

     “Adrienne Styles.”

     The line goes silent, and I know the name has struck a nerve.

     “I remember that case.”

     “I’ve got new information. Perhaps your article could benefit from an update.”

     “Can we meet?”

     She’s eager, and I have a feeling that she knows the case she covered months ago had some loose ends.

     “Time and place.”

     I grab a pen and paper from the nightstand, noting down the location.

     An hour later, I sit in a booth across from a dapper woman with white-blonde hair left loosely on the shoulders and behind the back. She wears a pin-stripped blouse and a pair of suede jeans. She sets her handbag, phone, and sunglasses aside.

     “Thanks for deciding to meet me. I’m Ivory Blake. You can call me Blake. Everyone calls me that.” She lifts a hand toward me.

     I take it and shake it. “I’m Sarah Miller,” I say as I withdraw my hand.

     She brushes her hair from her eyes, revealing an oblong face with brown eyes accompanied by a pointed nose and plump lips. She’s got the looks of a cover girl, and I picture her on a catwalk.

     “Adrienne Styles. Let’s talk about her. What new information have you found?”

     I think about how much I should let her know. I’m indecisive if I should tell her everything, but then it occurs to me that I want her help, and the only way I can get it is by telling her everything she needs to know. But first I need to know what she knows.

     I lean forward and rest my hands on the table, steepling my fingers. “Tell me what you know first.”

     “Fair deal,” she says. “Six months ago, I was assigned to cover a story. There had been a suicide in Westcliff. I got to the scene, but the dead body had already been taken, so I interviewed witnesses and I spoke with the sheriff in charge of the case. All of them had one consistent story. The victim killed herself.”

     She takes a sip of her latte, and I do the same with my coffee, clasping my fingers around it. She continues, “That sounded like a nice story to me until I found out the dead woman was Adrienne Styles, wife of Jeffrey Styles. They’re quite famous in Texas, so I understood why they wanted to keep it low profile. When I told my supervisor to include a little information about them in the article, he revised it and published it locally.”

     She leans back. “I was pissed, but then I understood the discretion until you called with news of Adrienne Styles.”

     “You could’ve just told me flat out you weren’t interested.”

     She looks at me with a rueful smile. “I believe that’s not the whole story, and perhaps you’re here to enlighten me.”

     I know I can trust Ivory. She seems dedicated to her work, and I’m certain she’d do anything to make sure the truth goes to light. At least we’re both on the same page.

     “I guess it’s my turn now.”

     She says, reaching for a handbag and bringing out her notepad. “It is.”

     I tell her about when we moved into their house, and how I came by her diary in the basement. She listens closely, noting down vital points.

     “I read her diary, and that’s how I found out someone was spying on her. Her last diary entry didn’t sound like a woman who wanted to kill herself, so I came out with the conviction that she was murdered. I also think her husband might be responsible.”

     She writes something into her notepad, then looks up at me. “Do you have proof?”

     “Not yet.”

     “Okay. If Jeffrey killed his wife, what’s his motive?”

     “To keep his secret.”

     “What secret?”

     I’m reluctant to talk about Jeff’s romantic relationship with Ella, but I remind myself I want answers. I can only get them by being honest. “Jeff’s having an affair with Adrienne’s best friend.”

     Ivory stares at me, her eyes wide open. I’m sure she’s processing what I’ve disclosed. She looks away from me and writes something quickly into the notepad. She places the pen into the notepad when she’s done. “So you think Jeff killed Adrienne because she found out he was cheating on her with her best friend?”

     I bob my head and take another sip of my coffee.

     “Do you have any evidence?”

     “Of the cheating, yes. I saw them with my own eyes.”

     “Cheating isn’t a crime. Legally. We can’t accuse Jeff of murdering his wife because he’s a cheater. It’s lame. No prosecutor is going to touch that, and I certainly won’t pursue this story.”

     She heaves a sigh. “We need strong evidence to implicate Jeff. He wasn’t even present at the scene of the crime when Adrienne’s body was discovered. Reports said he went out to get her meds. I confirmed the veracity of that alibi and it checked out.”

     I didn’t know that Jeff wasn’t present when his wife killed herself. But now I do, and it even makes more sense why he wasn’t present. Jeff had orchestrated everything with perfection. He’d left the house with the pretext that he was going to get Adrienne’s pills and given the killer the moment to strike.

     “We can’t place Jeff physically at the scene of the crime because he didn’t want to be there. What if his alibi wasn’t a coincidence?”

     “That’s one possibility. It means Jeff didn’t kill Adrienne himself, but he hired someone to do it.”

     “Exactly. I’ve got someone in mind.”

     “Who?”

     “I don’t know his name. I don’t even know what he looks like. Adrienne’s diary mentioned that someone was spying on her. Jeff thought she was hallucinating, but it was another one of lies to make his wife appear as if she was imagining this.”

     “So we have no way of finding this mystery spy?” she asks with a note of disappointment in her voice.

     “No way,” I say slowly.

     She shrugs uneasily. “Then this is a dead end.”

     I say smiling, “Not yet.”

     I notice that Ivory is baffled. I turn to my handbag, rummage through, and bring out the note and picture, splaying it across the table.

     “What’re these?” she asks, examining them.

     “These,” I say, “someone sent them to me this morning.”

     Her eyes narrow as she reads the note and fathoms the message. She reaches for the photo of Dan and the boys.

     “Someone sent you a threatening note?”

     “Yes.”

     “You should take this seriously. I don’t think whoever sent these is joking.”

     “I know.” I stare at her. “This is proof that I’m on the right track. Someone is trying to stop me from finding out what happened to Adrienne Styles. It’s evidence that she was murdered.”

     “I can see,” she says, lowering the photo. “We still can’t prove Adrienne was murdered.” She glances at the note and photo. “Not with these. This case is a dead end. You’ll think you’re making progress until everything comes back to square one.” She taps her index finger on a page of her note, where she’s written down ‘Adrienne killed herself’ and circled it several times that the ink has entangled the writing.

     I know immediately that she’s given up after months of investigating with no leads. I understand where she’s coming from, but I’m not giving up. Not yet.

     “You’ll be wasting precious time. I’m talking from experience.” She picks up the photo and gazes at it. “You’ve got a beautiful family if they’re your family. You wouldn’t want something bad happening to them.”

     She hands me the photo, and I take it back, dipping it into my handbag. “So you’re giving up?” I say, shocked.

     “When you called, I thought you had strong evidence, but from the looks of things, you’re still digging. It can take months and even years. I’m not sure it’s worth the time looking for problem where there is none.”
  
     I swallow hard. Okay, so it’s only me now. Ivory Blake has made her mind up, and I’m sure nothing I will say would convince her this new lead is worth pursuing even if it could take forever. I don’t blame her. On a happy note, I’ve learnt new information, for instance, the sheriff assigned to the case. So this meeting wasn’t a waste of time after all. Just that it didn’t go as I had anticipated. Which was to get another member to join me in my little investigation.

     “Can I get the contact of the sheriff in charge of the case?”

     I swear I heard a scoff before she said, “Sheriff Hunt? You don’t want to deal with him. He’s a pain in the neck. At worst, he’s going to tell you to let sleeping dogs lie.”

     “Do I have a choice?”

     She looks intently at me. “You don’t give up, do you?”

    “Yes. That’s me. I want answers, and I’m going to get them.”

     “Fine. He gave me his card. I tossed it in my drawer after my first conversation with him and never called him back. Give me your phone. I’ll input my number and text you with it.”

     I do as she says and watch as she briskly inputs her number on my phone.

     “Here,” she says, handing it back to me. “I’ve stored it as Blake. Give me a call tonight.”

     “Thanks.”

     She smiles warmly at me. I watch as she swiftly digs into her handbag, brings out a compact, and studies her reflection. She reapplies lip gloss, fixes her hair, and puts on her sunglasses.

      “See you sometime in the future, Sarah. It was nice meeting you.” She picks up her phone and handbag. Then she rises, and I thank her before she disappears.

     Alone, I think of everything I’ve learned today. I’ll speak with Sheriff Hunt, and I’ll know how to proceed. As I prepare to leave the café, I get the sick feeling I had earlier this morning. And that’s when it comes to me again. Someone’s watching me. I just can’t see who it is.