Innocence by Peter Robinson Read Free Book Online

with Cabernet vinaigrette. Salad dressings alone must be a growth industry in California, she thought. If only her mother could see her now. Or her father. She could just picture him scanning the menu with a scowl on his face and finally commenting, “There’s nowt edible here,” most likely within the hearing of the chef.
    Finally, she decided on the endive and dandelion with a glass of Evian water. Stuart went for rosemary chicken strips and fettucini with sun-dried tomato and garlic cream, but then he always did overeat. That was why he was twenty pounds overweight.
    â€œGoing to Jack’s birthday party tonight?” Stuart asked after Mark had disappeared with their order.
    Sarah sighed. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
    â€œThat’s my girl. I’ll pick you up at eight. So where’s this letter you were telling me about on the way here?”
    Sarah opened her purse, took out the letter and handed it to him. “It’s probably nothing, really,” she said. “I just . . .”
    Stuart pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and frowned as he read.
    â€œHmm,” he said, putting it back in the envelope. “I’ve seen worse. I’d say the real mystery is why you haven’t had anything like this before now.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    Stuart waved the envelope. “This kind of thing. It’s all over the place in this business. Occupational hazard. Everybody gets them. Fuck’s sake, Sarah, you’re a beautiful woman. You’re in the public eye. Hardly surprising some fucking wacko has decided he’s in love with you, excuse my French.”
    â€œBut what should I do?” Sarah asked. “Should I go to the police?”
    â€œI can’t see that they could do very much.”
    â€œIt’s the third,” Sarah admitted.
    Stuart raised his eyebrows. “Even so. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. Believe me, I’ve seen dozens of these things, much worse than this. These guys are usually so sick all they can do is write letters. If he ever met you face to face he’d probably crap his pants if he didn’t come in his shorts first.”
    â€œStuart, you’re disgusting.”
    â€œI know. But you still love me, don’t you, sweetheart?”
    â€œI’ve heard of cases where they turn violent,” Sarah said. “Rebecca Shaeffer. Didn’t she get shot by someone who wrote letters to her? And what about that man who shot Reagan to impress Jodie Foster?”
    â€œHey, look, kid, we’re talking about serious wackos there. This guy, he’s just . . . You’ve only got to read the letter.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWell, he’s even fairly literate, for a start. Most of the guys who write these things don’t know how to spell or put a sentence together. What’s with this “Little Star” business, anyway? Someone been listening to Little Anthony and the Imperials?”
    Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know.” But even as she spoke, a faint, distant bell rang deep in the darkest part of her memory, sounding a warning.
    â€œSure it doesn’t mean anything to you?”
    â€œNo. I don’t think so.”
    â€œAnd he calls you Sally, too.”
    â€œYes. But he could have got that from the TV Guide interview. Or maybe Entertainment Tonight.”
    â€œI guess so. That was a great feature on ET, by the way. Should up your profile a few notches.”
    They kept quiet as Mark delivered their food. It looked very pretty—nicely color-coordinated—and it tasted good, too.
    â€œI just don’t want you to worry, sweetheart, that’s all,” said Stuart.
    â€œIt is a little scary,” Sarah admitted. “I’ve had fan letters before, back home, and some of them were a bit racy, maybe, but . . . I mean, he says he knows me.”
    â€œIn his dreams.”
    â€œI