Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three - Jessica Nelson
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine - Jessica
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven - Jessica
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen - Jessica
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen - Jessica
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Recipes
China Bayles Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert
THYME OF DEATH
WITCHES’ BANE
HANGMAN’S ROOT
ROSEMARY REMEMBERED
RUEFUL DEATH
LOVE LIES BLEEDING
CHILE DEATH
LAVENDER LIES
MISTLETOE MAN
BLOODROOT
INDIGO DYING
A DILLY OF A DEATH
DEAD MAN’S BONES
BLEEDING HEARTS
SPANISH DAGGER
NIGHTSHADE
WORMWOOD
HOLLY BLUES
MOURNING GLORIA
AN UNTHYMELY DEATH CHINA BAYLES’ BOOK OF DAYS
With her husband, Bill Albert, writing as Robin Paige
DEATH AT BISHOP’S KEEP
DEATH AT GALLOWS GREEN
DEATH AT DAISY’S FOLLY
DEATH AT DEVIL’S BRIDGE
DEATH AT ROTTINGDEAN
DEATH AT WHITECHAPEL
DEATH AT EPSOM DOWNS
DEATH AT DARTMOOR
DEATH AT GLAMIS CASTLE
DEATH IN HYDE PARK
DEATH AT BLENHEIM PALACE
DEATH ON THE LIZARD
The Cottage Tales of Beatrix Potter by Susan Wittig Albert
THE TALE OF HILL TOP FARM
THE TALE OF HOLLY HOW
THE TALE OF CUCKOO BROW WOOD
THE TALE OF HAWTHORN HOUSE
THE TALE OF BRIAR BANK
THE TALE OF APPLEBECK ORCHARD
THE TALE OF OAT CAKE CRAG
The Darling Dahlia Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert
THE DARLING DAHLIAS AND THE CUCUMBER TREE
Nonfiction books by Susan Wittig Albert
WRITING FROM LIFE
WORK OF HER OWN
TOGETHER, ALONE, A MEMOIR OF MARRIAGE AND PLACE AN EXTRAORDINARY YEAR OF ORDINARY DAYS
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reaction to the recipes contained in this book.
Copyright © 2011 by Susan Wittig Albert.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Albert, Susan Wittig.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-47627-7
1. Bayles, China (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Herbalists—Fiction. 3. Arson investigation—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 5. Texas Hill Country (Tex.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3551.L2637M68 2011
813'.54—dc22
2010046357
http://us.penguingroup.com
For Peggy Moody—
She Without Whom Nothing Happens
Mille phantasmata e daemonu obversatium effigies circumspectarent.
This description of the hallucinogenic effects elicited by the Aztec “magical” preparation ololiuqui [morning glory seeds], was recorded by Francisco Hernández, personal physician to Philip II of Spain. He carried out extensive investigations on the flora and fauna of Mexico during the years 1570–75. [His report] contains a detailed description of the preparation and use of ololiuqui, and he notes that: “When the priests wanted to commune with their gods and receive a message from them . . . they ate this plant; and a thousand visions and satanic hallucinations appeared to them.” This is one of the earliest written accounts of the use of a hallucinogen, and it provides cogent support for the belief that primitive cultures employed psychoactive plant extracts to gain access to the supernatural rather than for pleasure.
John Mann
Murder, Magic, and Medicine
A Note to the Reader
Used with care and in the proper context, many drug plants do confer advantages on the creatures that consume them—fiddling with one’s brain chemistry can be very useful indeed. The relief of pain, a blessing of many psychoactive plants, is only the most obvious example. Plant stimulants, such as coffee, coca, and khat, help people to concentrate and work. . . . There are psychoactive plants that uncork inhibitions, quicken the sex drive, muffle or fire aggression, and smooth the waters of social life. Still others relieve stress, help people sleep or stay awake, and allow them to withstand misery or boredom. All these plants are, at least potentially, mental tools: people who know how to use them properly may be able to cope with everyday life better than those who don’t.
Michael Pollan
The Botany of Desire: A Plant’s-Eye View of the World
Those of us who cultivate herbs sometimes get into the habit of treating them like well-mannered pets. We find them useful in our food, cosmetics, and medicines; we enjoy growing them and using them to decorate our gardens and our homes; and we take delight in their taste, scent, and form. Where herbs are concerned, we like to think that we’re always in charge.
But sometimes we’re not as much in charge as we might think. In this book, I want to tell a story built around plants that have power over us, changing the way we feel.
These herbs contain phytochemicals that may enhance our moods (such as the bolstering caffeine in coffee and tea that keeps us awake; or the esters, ketones, and aldehydes in lavender that have the ability to ease us into sleep). Or they may stimulate and relax us at the same time, like the nicotine in tobacco, which produces simultaneous feelings of calmness, alertness, sharpness, and relaxation, as well as enhancing concentration and memory. Plant chemicals may also create feelings of euphoria and awareness of sensation (chile peppers, chocolate, marijuana); feelings of alertness and physical and sexual energy (cocaine, derived from the coca plant); and powerful hallucinations (the seeds of certain morning glories, for instance). Plant chemicals may also narcotize us and dull all sensation (morphine and codeine, derived from the opium poppy)—useful painkillers when we need them.
I’m not encouraging you to experiment with the more powerful of these mood-altering plants. But I do think we need to understand that many of the most common and familiar plants have the ability to influence our perceptions and behaviors. Imagining all herbs as warm and fuzzy “feel-good” plants is a mistake. Used unwisely, even mild-mannered plants can pack an unexpectedly powerful punch, especially when they are combined with prescription drugs. Before you ingest any plant, consult with the appropriate professionals, do your homework, and use your common sense.
Mourning Gloria is fiction, and all of the incidents, people, and places (yes, even Pecan Springs, and isn’t that too bad?) are fictional or used in a fictitious way. For me, stories derive a particular meaning and resonance from particular places, and the Texas Hill Country is a favorite nonfictional place of mine. The summers are always hot and often dry; the winters are mild and sometimes wet, especially in El Niño years. I hope you’ll come for a visit in April, when the spring wildflowers are in bloom—in bloom, that is, if the winter has been wet enough. Gardeners will understand.
As usual, thanks go to the herbalists and researchers who have compiled the various books and monographs I rely on, and to the many friends around the country who support this series. I am also grateful to Alice LeDuc, who checks my botanical references, and to Gina Mondello, the winner of a “cameo character” raffle for the benefit of the Story Circle Network. Gina agreed to come in on short notice and work in China’s shop for a day. Thanks, Gina!
Susan Wittig Albert
Bertram, Texas
Prologue
The TV weatherman had forecast thunderstorms for the evening but clear skies and plenty of sunshine and warm temperatures for the coming weekend, so Gloria tossed a pair of khaki shorts into her duffle bag and followed them up with her red bikini and a tube of suntan cream. The patio at home was totally private, and she could lie on a longue and bake in the sun as long as she wanted, with or without her bikini—all day if she felt like it, with a pitcher of iced tea at her elbow and her iPod and music. She’d get all nice and toasty brown, and there’d be time to do her hair and take long baths and work on her nails. A makeover weekend. A serious boost to her morale.
Which she needed, definitely. A boost to her morale, that is. If she stuck to her plan, the week coming up was going to be the purest hell. She had to get her head straight so she could deal with all the crap that was going to get dumped on her. She was confused about a lot of things these days, but one thing was perfectly clear. She was not going back to Mexico. She was going to the cops, instead. And once she went to the cops, that was it. That was the end. Cross that line, and she could never go back.
Of course, if she were totally honest with herself, she would have to admit that she had already crossed too many lines, and that every week of the past month had been hell, too. The past couple of months, come to that, ever since she’d let Matt talk her into—
She shuddered. Do not go there, she reminded herself sternly. She had to put that out of her mind and concentrate on the perfectly ordinary thing she was doing, getting ready to spend a long, lazy weekend at her mother’s house in Seguin. She didn’t have classes on Monday, so she could stay until Tuesday. Nobody—not Matt, not Stu (if he cared, which he might or might not)—had to know where she was hanging out. Her mother was up in Dallas getting Grandma settled in one of those ritzy residential villages where they warehoused selfish old people who wanted to keep their kids and grandkids from inheriting their money. Her dad was in Alaska, working on the pipeline—she hadn’t heard from him in months, except for the checks he sent for tuition and books and the new laptop, which she was grateful for, naturally, even if he was doing it only because she had made him feel guilty for abandoning his wife and daughter for that bottle-blond slut in Anchorage.
In fact, that was the beauty of going home. Nobody in the whole wide world would know where she was. She’d be all alone and safe, with free access to the drinks cabinet, the well-stocked freezer, her mother’s steaks and pizzas and ice cream, and as much TV as she wanted. No phone calls, no threats, no harassment, and by the time she got back to Pecan Springs, she’d be psyched up to do what she had to do. The weekend would give her time to get things under control, at least in her own head. Give her time to come up with a good story for the cops. Yes, that’s what she needed—a believable, plausible-sounding story that would protect her and allow her to deal with the inevitable aftermath, which needn’t be so bad if she kept her wits about her. If she came up with the right story, maybe they’d even let her into the Witness Protection Program. Well, why not? She was a witness, among other things. She definitely needed protection. But most of all, she needed to put all that bad stuff—bad choices, bad people—behind her. She needed a fresh start.
Oh, is that right? scoffed the snarky voice in her head, the voice that sounded a lot like her mother’s. And just who do you think you’re kidding? There’s no way to get a fresh start after what you’ve done, Gloria, and you know it. Admit that you’re in way over your head and there’s no way out. No easy way, that is. You’ll end up in jail—or worse.
She forced herself to shut out the voice and turned, catching sight of herself in the full-length mirror on the back of her closet door. Medium-tall, narrow hips, great boobs, if she did say so herself. She turned to admire her profile, lifting her shirttail so she could see her flat stomach. Good nose, flirty eyes, nice mouth, reasonable hair—not badlooking, all things considered. But those boobs were extra-special—full and firm, like two ripe melons—and she knew how to show them to best advantage. Those boobs caught guys’ attention and held it. They had caught Stu’s attention, hadn’t they? They had made him want the rest of her—want her badly enough to drop Shannon and focus all his attention on her.
She made a face at her reflection. Yeah, well, those boobs were just about all she had. Without them, she’d never get noticed. She turned away from the mirror. She had no special talents, no special interests, no special skills, no special hopes or dreams. She had drifted through undergraduate school with Cs and a few Bs, compiling a GPA that was barely high enough to get her into grad school, which she had wanted not because she aspired to do anything special with a master’s degree but because another two years of school would allow her to postpone the rest of her life. And since her dad was so eager to pick up the tab, why not let him? It was a small price for him to pay, considering all the pain he had caused. It made her feel like she was getting even, and that felt good. Getting even always felt good.
She turned in a circle, surveying the messy apartment bedroom, clothes strewn everywhere, magazines, makeup. What else should she take on her makeover weekend? Oh, God, yes, her laptop. She giggled half hysterically. She wouldn’t survive the weekend without her Facebook friends, who sometimes seemed like the only real friends she had, because they weren’t in her face all the time. Her former roommate Vickie, for instance, who got to be such a pain that she had moved out. And Shannon, who was always mouthing off about Stu.
And then she sobered, thinking. No, better not post this weekend, or if she posted, better not say where she was. Don’t say she was in Seguin, at her mother’s place. Lie abo
ut it. Make up a story. Yeah, that was what she’d do. Make up this great story that everybody on her friends’ list would be bound to remember. Like, tell them she was driving down to South Padre Island for a long weekend at the beach with a couple of girlfriends from high school that she hadn’t seen since graduation. That they had reservations at the beach-front Marriott, where the blue-green ocean broke onto a strip of white sand under the Gulf-side balconies and the sun shone down on a jewel of a swimming pool, surrounded by swaths of green grass and swaying palm trees. That the three of them would slather on the sun oil and lie by the pool all day and spend all night bar-hopping at the foot of the island, dancing to hot bands until the last margarita was poured.
Sure. She could do that, easy, because if she had one single talent in the world, it was making up stories about herself. She would imagine the whole thing from beginning to end, a great adventure, and tell it bit by bit in posts, so if anybody came looking for her and thought to check her Facebook page, they’d be convinced she was at South Padre. What was it they called this in those true crime shows on TV? A cover story? Whatever, it was a brilliant idea.
And with that, she sat down at her laptop, brought the screen up, logged on to Facebook, and in five minutes had posted the first installment of her story, time- and date-stamped, 6:10 p.m. on Friday, today. According to her post, she was packed, the car was loaded, her friends were waiting for her in the parking lot, and they were heading for South Padre, aiming to drive as far as Corpus tonight, get a motel there, and start again early in the morning. Look for her next post from the beach. Smiling to herself, she logged off. A great weekend trip, sounded like a lot of fun. Too bad it wasn’t true. But that was okay. Where she was headed was just as good. And free.
Mourning Gloria Page 1