“No, the detective is pissed he got sent out here. Why is that Detective Miller? Do you not like what I write for a living?” Sage asked.
“You write smut, Ms. Matthews, and no, I don’t like what you write. I think you give women all kinds of wrong ideas about what they should expect and want. I could get past that, but what I can’t get past is the idea that both of these attempts, and I put that in air quotes, never even came close to hurting you, and you artistic types are fond of publicity stunts.”
Sage turned to him. “You think I staged this?”
The detective nodded. “I do. The shots weren’t all that close, and there is absolutely no evidence anyone broke in here…”
But there was. He’d heard someone enter when Sage was out of her room. He hadn’t been able to see who it was, but he was certain it wasn’t Sage. She was in danger, and the idiot they’d assigned to her case didn’t want to see it or was too dim to understand. He’d never resented the barrier between them more than he did at that moment.
“And with that,” Sage said melodramatically, “the artistic porn writer left the room.” She could hear Gail making apologies, then rushing down the hall to catch up with her.
“Really, Sage, that was not the best way to handle that.”
“The man pretty much accused me of arranging what happened. He has zero interest in finding out who did this, much less why.”
“You must admit, it would be good publicity…”
Sage stopped and looked at her.
“Gail, please tell me you didn’t do this,” she whispered.
“Of course not, I’m just saying it would be good publicity.”
Chapter 3
Several Months Later
Sage stopped at the quaint post office in town. Each time she entered the small building, she smiled as Betty, the local postmistress, greeted her.
“Good morning, Sage. Lots of mail waiting for you. How’s the new book coming?”
“Roark is being his usual self… but that’s what my readers want.”
Betty had been the postmistress for as long as anyone could remember. She reminded Sage of a small bird with her silver-white hair, colorful earrings, and bespectacled eyes that missed little to nothing. When Sage had first moved here, she’d been worried if the proper little lady, born and raised in Bible belt, found out what kind of books she wrote, she’d be run out of town. Contrary to her fears, Betty was a voracious reader and loved Sage’s books. She’d become one of Sage’s ARC readers and a part of her online focus group.
“We adore Roark. He’s such a bad boy… but he’s so good at being one. He always saves the damsel in distress and,”—she looked around to ensure no one else was there— “he gives them so many orgasms. I tell you, my dear, Wendell has upped his game since I started reading your books.”
Sage laughed and opened her post office box, removing her mail. She stood by the trash can, tossing the junk mail, then placed all but one of the remaining pieces in the large tote she carried as her purse. She looked at the envelope and frowned—nothing really notable about it other than the fact it had no return address and a postmark from Hilton Head, South Carolina. She didn’t know anyone in South Carolina, at least not anyone who’d have her post office box address.
“What’s wrong, Sage?” Betty asked.
“I’m not sure. There’s an envelope with no return address and postmarked from Hilton Head.”
“Reader?”
“I wouldn’t think so. Nobody but close friends know this address, and I don’t know anyone from there.”
“Still worried about what happened at the Huntington?”
“I don’t know that I’m worried, but it’s a bit unsettling. I had my security system upgraded after I found the hole in the back fence. I’d feel better if someone took it seriously, but Detective Miller is convinced it’s just a publicity stunt.”
“Well, it didn’t help when Ms. Vincent put the word out to the media. I’ve seen several of the interviews you did…”
“I know. I made Gail tie the interviews to new releases after the first one, but each time I do one, someone wants to know about the shooting and the flowers. I wish Gail had never said anything.”
“Hey, Sage!” a deputy said.
Sage turned and looked at Betty. She wouldn’t put it past the wizened postmistress to have alerted the local sheriff’s office about the letter. With anyone else, she might have thought it was invasive, but she knew Betty cared about her and knew the incident at the signing and the break-in had spooked Sage.
“Charlie, it’s nice to see you. Let me guess… it’s not a surprise you’re here.”
“Betty did mention you got a suspicious letter. Why don’t we take it over to the office and open it there? We can dust it for prints and look for other clues.”
“So, you don’t think it’s a publicity stunt?” she asked hopefully.
“I don’t know if it is or isn’t,”—he held up his hand to stave off her argument— “but I know if it is, you aren’t behind it. I wouldn’t put it past that pushy New York publisher of yours.”
“You know, just because she isn’t from the South doesn’t make her the bad guy.”
“She’s not from around here, so I don’t trust her.”
“Charlie, I’m not a local…” she started.
“You are now,” Betty asserted.
“Yes, ma’am.” Charlie grinned. “You may not have been born in these parts, but you’ve become a part of the community. There’s not anyone in town who doesn’t think of you as one of us.”
Sage smiled. “Thanks, Charlie. That means a lot to me.”
Charlie escorted her back to
