The Opium Equation

by Lisa Wysocky

  I felt differently about Glenda’s death, too. From the first, I had discounted the random killer theory, even though there had been similar murders in surrounding communities. I felt even stronger about it now. And if I was right, that meant someone offed Glenda for a reason. Someone she knew. I shuddered. I didn’t like that thought at all. Especially because it meant the killer might be someone that I knew, too. I just couldn’t imagine knowing a murderer. I mean, what do you say to them? You can’t ask a killer what they did today. They just might tell you.

  This morning, Deputy Giles said that someone had broken into Fairbanks during the night. My initial thought that kids were the culprits had also changed. Kids around here don’t do things like that at three in the morning. Adults, maybe. But not kids. Not around here––we’re too remote. Unless you have a car you can’t get here easily. I couldn’t see school-age kids walking miles on end down River Road in the dark and cold on a school night to visit a house where a murder had recently taken place. Not even on a dare.

  The deputy also mentioned that, as far as he could tell, nothing was missing from the house. Now why, I wondered, would someone bother to break into a house and not take anything? But then again, did the actions of burglars, or even killers for that matter, make sense on any level? No one ever said they had to have a reason for their actions. Even in the best of circumstances, I’ve always been of the opinion that murder is an unreasonable act.

  Unless, I thought suddenly, what they were looking for wasn’t there. Unless what they wanted was so small––so obscure an item––that the police didn’t know it existed. Unless whoever broke into Fairbanks couldn’t find what they were looking for because someone else had it. Someone like me.

  My brain finally clicked onto something of importance. Sally Blue. Glenda’s notebook. Jacket pocket. Rushing to the old wooden coat rack in the hall, I fished around deep into the left front pocket and pulled out pay dirt. Well, not exactly, but I did find the notebook.

  I took it into the kitchen and sat down at the old wooden table. My heart was thumping and my hands were shaking as I examined the leather cover. The book was small, about three inches by five. It was made of a rich, dark brown, beautifully grained leather, and featured a short strap from the back of the book that led to a gold clasp on the front. It was thinner and much more elegant, but the book reminded me of a diary my grandma had given me for a birthday long ago.

  Then, I realized, I should not have touched the book. Oops. I wasn’t sure if fingerprints could be lifted from leather, or even from paper for that matter. But it was too late to worry about that now. I debated whether I should call the police right away, or if I should open it first. The clasp looked as if it opened with a key, but when I brushed my fingertips along the sides, it released smoothly. So much for any further debate.

  Whatever written nuggets of information I half-expected to find inside, they weren’t there. Glenda hadn’t written on the first page, for example, “if you find me dead, so and so did it.” It wasn’t a date book that showed the dates and times of her many important appointments, thus indicating an appointment with her killer. Nor was it an address book or a diary. Instead, it looked like a combination recipe book and a place for spur-ofthe-moment notes to herself. Only the first few pages were used, but the gum line that stuck all the unlined ivory pages together at the top was a bit thicker, leading me to believe that Glenda tore out the pages when she was through with them. So either she had accomplished the task she reminded herself to do, or she had transferred the information to a more permanent place.

  The first page read in slanted block letters:

  CALL CHARLES T. AT C.S. ASAP

  Underneath that, printed in a similar style was:

  HAVE H.H. BRING TRANSFER PAPERS TO HOUSE

  The first line made no sense to me. The second was somewhat clearer. Transfer papers indicated that Glenda had already purchased a horse. Possibly from Hill Henley (H.H.) or one of his clients. If the note was as recent as I thought it was, Hill had never gotten the papers to Glenda to sign because he had left the house Sunday night to go to Shelbyville.

  I wondered if Glenda had already paid for the horse. If she hadn’t, that might eliminate Hill from the list of suspects––if he was ever a suspect to begin with. He certainly wouldn’t kill a client if she still had to transfer numerous thousands of dollars into his pocket. Or maybe she’d changed her mind about the horse and that’s exactly why he did kill her. Just where had Hill been on Monday anyway?

  The second page read:

  TELL C. LU TO ADD MORE LIME TO SALSA

  And below that was:

  = PARTS CHEX, NUTS, P. BUTTER CHIPS, CHOCOLATE CHIPS, PRETZ, RAISENS

  Two lines here that also made sense. “C. Lu” must be Cinda Lu, Glenda’s housekeeper and sometime cook. Cinda Lu Giles, one of the many daughters of our local equine veterinarian Doc Giles, and probably a niece or aunt or cousin to Jim Ed Giles and Deputy Giles, cleaned several of the larger homes in the area in addition to working for Glenda several days a week. The second line looked like a recipe for some kind of trail mix. Hmmm … salsa and trail mix. Maybe Glenda had been planning a party.

  It was the third, and last written page, that interested me the most. There were only a few words on the page:

  L = OPIUM + SAFFRON + WINE

  What in the world? Opium, I knew, was a narcotic, a highly illegal drug. I knew from watching CNN that opiate addiction accounted for a large portion of deaths due to drugs. Saffron, I thought, was a kind of a flower, or was it a spice? And wine was a given. But what was L? The opium part concerned me. Surely Glenda had not been into drugs? Had her murder been some kind of drug deal gone wrong? If so, then that would remove Bubba as the possible killer. At least I hoped so. I knew kids were getting into hard drugs younger and younger, but at age ten? Here in rural Cheatham County? I didn’t think it likely. But it might indicate that Bubba saw Glenda’s supplier, and that Bubba didn’t leave of his own accord.

  On the other hand, Glenda had been a health nut. She had been a strong advocate of organic food, bran muffins, bean sprouts, herbs, and exercise. Although it was possible to combine a healthy lifestyle with drug addiction, I didn’t think it very probable. No, the more I thought about the idea, the more I knew it didn’t fit.

  I got up and paced the room, Hank following doggedly at my heels. My brain was whizzing, and ideas were forming, then spinning out of reach before I had a chance to grasp onto them. After making a few quick but cautious decisions, I picked up the phone and called Carole Carson.

  “Have you found Bubba?” she asked before I could identify myself. What would any of us do without caller I.D.?

  “No. But I’ve got a few ideas. I think you can help me with one.”

  I asked if she was planning to go to the library in Ashland City any time soon.

  “Tomorrow. I usually go Thursday mornings because they have a story hour for the younger kids,” she said.

  “Could you possibly go today?”

  She admitted that, possibly, she could. “Detective Giles is supposed to drop by this evening so I can look over my statement for the police report, but I can be back by then.”

  “I’m not sure what you should look for other than any information the library might have on Fairbanks or Col. Samuel Henley. I don’t get to the library too often now, but when I was growing up our county library had a section on local history. I was thinking that the library in Ashland City might have local information on people or places near here that might not be online.”

  Before she could question my motives I continued. “I’m not sure it’s important, but I’ve got a nagging suspicion that Bubba’s disappearance and Glenda’s death are related and that it’s all tied in with Fairbanks and possibly even Col. Sam and the Civil War. Who knows? Maybe I’m way off base.”

  “I can’t possibly see any connection,” Carole said, “but if you think it will help I’ll load up the kids as soon as the older ones get home fro
m school and go this afternoon.”

  I had to give the Carsons credit. They did have a daily housekeeper/nanny. But Carole was truly a hands-on mother. Their kids went to public schools and she and Keith, when he was not out touring, attended every baseball game and dance recital their offspring participated in. It was a lot more than I could say for the way some other people parented their children.

  “One more thing,” I asked. “Can you call Hill and find out if Glenda was buying a horse from him, or if she’d already bought one? Oh, and see if you can find out who Charles T. at C.S. might be. I found a reference to that in a note of Glenda’s.”

  My next call was to Darcy, because I needed some of her Internet expertise. I’m probably the only person on the planet who doesn’t like the Internet. It just doesn’t grab me. I like face-to-face interaction, or barring that, at least voice-to-voice, although I know the Internet can do both of those these days. But not liking to spend time on the Internet did put me at a disadvantage.

  Most other trainers around the country had fancy web sites, and many had attracted new clients or sold horses through their lavish, whiz-bang online pages. Some of the star horses even had their own Facebook page and had hundreds of “friends.” But I was happy with a simple web site that listed my training philosophy and credits, along with a few photos that Jon somehow put up. Darcy kept nagging me to spend more time online and, with a sigh, I realized she was right. I needed to better utilize the Internet for the great tool it was. But not today.

  After the usual hellos and listening to Darcy’s amazing, and mostly unprintable, theory about Glenda’s death, I asked if she was currently online. It was a dumb question because if Darcy was home, I knew she was surfing the web.

  “Oh man, Cat, am I ever. I’m online right now chatting with this way cool dude from Greece. He wants me to come over and check out his ship. Ship. Get it? Like in big, big boat.” She giggled. “Think Daddy’d get mad if I charged an airline ticket to Greece?”

  “Ah, probably, Darce. But hey, kiddo, forget the ship. I’ve got a project for you.”

  I gave her the same spiel I gave Carole, adding that I also needed anything on opium, saffron and wine, specifically regarding their relationship to each other.

  “Think you’re up to it?”

  “For sure, girlfriend. Piece of cake. Hey, let me tell my Greek buddy ta-ta and I’m gone after it. Talk to ya later.”

  I wondered if Mason knew Darcy spent most of her online “educational” hours chatting with a Greek “friend” about his ship. I thought not. I thought it even less likely that Darcy’s chat buddy was really from Greece or that he actually owned a ship. Darcy, for all her teenage bravado, was a somewhat gullible and I resolved to keep an ear tuned to the situation to be sure she never tried to meet the guy. Like Bubba, Darcy wasn’t always the best at thinking things through.

  Before I could make the last call on my list, the phone rang.

  “You planning on coming to the barn today?”

  Jon was in even less of a good mood than when I’d met him earlier at the end of the driveway. I knew he had his hands full with his regular chores and the added pressure of the fallout from Glenda’s death. I also knew I had been neglecting my own duties. No matter what anyone tells you, it’s hard balancing a murder investigation, a disappearance, and a career training horses all at the same time.

  “I’ve got a few more phone calls to make, then I’ll be over. What’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” he said. “Just nothing much at all. Before the jerk with the camera showed up Gigi started pawing the stall door because you weren’t there to longe her on time and scraped a patch of hair off her shin. Sally didn’t finish her breakfast, which as you know, has got to mean something is seriously wrong. There’s a spot on the roof over Petey’s stall that started leaking and it’s past noon and I haven’t even begun to get anybody exercised out here or the stalls cleaned because I’ve either been chasing members of the press off the property or been up on the roof trying to find the problem.

  “Plus, Doc Tucker was here to check teeth on Dondi and Bob. It’s not right that you skipped out on an appointment with an equine dentist––especially an appointment as important as this that has been on the books for months.”

  I sighed and felt the tiniest twinge of guilt. “Okay, Jon. It’s my fault that Sally didn’t finish. I was late feeding this morning and she got upset. I was on the phone with the police,” I continued before he could complain about my irresponsibility. “You know how Sally gets when her schedule is out of whack. I’ll be out in a few to handle everything else. In the mean time you can move Petey to––”

  “The empty stall on the other end,” he snapped. “I’ve already done that.”

  “Good. Then just to be sure, take Sally’s temperature and see––”

  “It’s one hundred point three. Normal for her.”

  “Okay, then you can rinse––”

  “The spot on Gigi’s leg with a Betadine wash and wrap it to prevent swelling.”

  “Well what in the world do you need me for?” I joked. The silence on the other end was ominous. “Okay, Jon, I know you’re upset with me. Please tack Petey up with his hunt-seat gear and I’ll be out soon. I’ll also call Geoff Tucker to apologize. I really am sorry I’ve left everything for you to do. It hasn’t been fair, but I’m kind of tied up in this Bubba and Glenda tragedy.”

  “I know, Cat. I’m sorry I got on you. The police have been out here talking to me, too, and that’s another reason I’m running behind. And even with the barrier at the end of the driveway, these damn reporters and photographers keep wandering in wanting dirt on Glenda. But if all that wasn’t going on, you know this barn is too much for one person. That’s why you hired me. We’re too close to the start of the show season for both of us to not be here. I’m doing what I can, but you know, you’re still the boss.”

  Of all the people in the world, I certainly did not need Jon to be mad at me. I carried a lot of weight on my shoulders, what with the stable and all the horses, and Jon was the only one who shared a little of that load. I would be lost without him and could not afford to have him jump ship. I’d have to develop a special plan to make it up to him, but just what that special plan was would be difficult to determine.

  Jon was very private. He was pleasant, knowledgeable, friendly, bright, and reliable, but after three years of working together I still didn’t know what kind of music he liked, where he was from, or if he had family. I didn’t know what his favorite color was, or his favorite food. I wasn’t even sure when his birthday was. He clammed up so tight when I used to ask him about himself that long ago I quit asking. The end result was that because I knew next to nothing about him he was impossible to shop for. And he seemed to be insulted if I suggested he take some time off.

  Did I really know enough about Jon to rule him out as the person who killed Glenda? Could he have? Before I went further with these ideas I reminded myself that I was the teensiest bit overloaded right now. Any thoughts about making up to Jon, or of him being a murderer, needed to be saved for another day.

  Before leaving for the barn, I made one final call and left a message on Robert Griggs’s machine asking for information about the opium equation. He was, after all, a nurse. And weren’t nurses supposed to know about chemistry and such things?

  Cat’s Horse Tip #9

  “When a horse blows a blast of air through her nose, she’s clearing her nasal passages so she can breathe in new scent and assess her safety.”

  17

  UNLIKE MOST OF THE OTHER PLACES on River Road my barn was located behind the house, thus offering the horses, rather than myself, a clear view of the Cumberland River. It was a beautiful view I hoped they appreciated.

  The barn had originally been built more than fifty years ago as a semi-permanent residence for dried tobacco leaves––a big industry in this part of the country. A few decades later, and with little or no renovation, it served as shelter for
beef cattle. By the time I bought the place the barn had been reduced to storing used tractor parts. The basic structure, however, was still sound, so I had repeatedly patched a few spots on the roof (not a fun job, especially if you are like me and get heart palpitations sitting on anything taller than the back of a horse), built some roomy stalls, and hung out my shingle. For now the barn was adequate, but obviously a day lurked in the not too distant future when I would have to make a decision whether to keep repairing and adding on, or tear down and build new. But, thank goodness, that day was not today.

  Robert Griggs returned my call just as I was finishing up with Petey. It had been a good session, good to get back in his saddle again. Peter’s Pride was a wonderful all-around horse, very versatile. But versatile didn’t always win national and world championships. He was a tall, leggy, angular horse and would do well on a regional level in both hunt seat and the more stylish saddle seat classes. But it had to be either/or if he was entered in open classes at the nationals in July. Because each class was so specialized, this horse couldn’t do both at the level needed to win a national title. He was built to handle the saddle seat classes but was more interested in the hunt seat discipline. Then again, if Darcy chose to compete in youth classes, we were back to needing versatility. We’d have to make some decisions soon, but that meant sitting down and assessing the prospective competition for the coming year, talking with Mason, and getting a firm decision from Darcy as to whether she was going to compete or not. In a nutshell, things I didn’t have time for right now.

  I took Robert’s call in the office.

  “I have what you asked for,” he said without preamble. “But before I tell you what it is I want your solemn promise that you aren’t going to make any of this stuff.”

  I agreed, my curiosity growing by leaps and bounds.

  “It’s laudanum,” he said primly.

  “Laudanum? What’s that?”

  “It’s a pain killer, outdated now, but one that was used for centuries. It was also a preventative, administered orally, against malaria and diarrhea. And, it was a popular painkiller for dental problems for many years. From what I could find, each doctor tended to have his own laudanum recipe, generally a variation on two ounces of opium and one ounce of saffron dissolved in a pint of wine. Some people threw in a pinch of cinnamon or cloves. The stuff must have tasted like stale cow pee. Can’t you just imagine? Are you having pain, Cat? Because if you are, you should see a doctor.”