Mourning Gloria

by Susan Wittig Albert

  China Bayles

  “Mood-Altering Plants”

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  The Curry Horticulture Center was only about six blocks away from Lucy’s apartment, but the morning was already hot and I wasn’t going to hoof it. On my way to the car, I phoned Caitie, making sure that everything was okay at home. She asked if she could make lemon icebox cookies, which was fine with me—she could chill the dough in the fridge and we’d bake the cookies when I got home. They’d be a nice welcome-home treat for Uncle Mike. I suggested adding some lemon balm and lemon verbena out of the garden, an idea she liked. I also suggested taking Pumpkin out to the catnip patch to see if he was one of the lucky cats that got turned on by the scent of catnip. That made her giggle. I loved hearing the lightness in her voice and imagining the answering light in her eyes.

  Then I called Ruby, to check on things at the shop. It was a slow morning, she said, only a couple of customers so far. But there had been a small problem—small, as in about the size of Baby Grace. Kate was in Austin at an all-day professional meeting, and Amy had left Grace with her Tuesday morning sitter and gone to work at the vet clinic. But the sitter had a family emergency and needed somebody to come and get Grace. Guess who? Ruby had gone to get her granddaughter, and Grace was now happily coloring at a table in the tearoom.

  Uh-oh, I thought, but all I said was, “I hope things will be okay.” Ruby had kept Grace at the shop ever since she was a small baby, so that was nothing new. But now that Grace is beginning to walk, it’s more of a challenge. She’s not crazy about staying in her playpen. She loves to get into things.

  “We’ll be fine,” Ruby said reassuringly. “Cass is already in the kitchen, getting ready for the lunch bunch, and Lisa is due in before long, to help out in the tearoom. There are plenty of hands on board.” She paused, adding worriedly, “Any sign of Jessica?”

  “I wish,” I said. “I’ve been to her house and nobody’s there. But it looks like I may have a line on someone who can give me some more information. With luck, I should be back at the shop in twenty or thirty minutes.”

  “No, Grace!” Ruby exclaimed. “Don’t pull on—”

  There was a splintering crash and a loud wail.

  “Later,” Ruby said, and clicked off.

  I pocketed the phone, wishing I’d hung up at the point when Ruby had said they’d be fine. But there wasn’t a thing I could do about whatever small catastrophes were happening at the shop. I had plenty of other things to think about as I made my way through the west campus traffic.

  The drugs, for instance. Scott Sheridan had known about the marijuana, but there had been something going on at the trailer that he hadn’t known about. From what Lucy had said, I was pretty sure that she had been cooking LSA—and not for her own personal consumption, either. She was doing it for the street trade.

  And she was wrong about the legality of her operation. Morning glory seeds themselves are not prohibited, and there’s nothing illegal about growing all you want and saving the seeds for next year’s garden. There’s nothing illegal about selling them or giving them away to family, friends, or the members of your garden club, either.

  But turn those seeds into a drug, and you’re in deep trouble. LSA is federally scheduled as a Class III controlled substance. In Texas, the penalty for manufacturing, delivering, or possessing with intent to deliver can be anything from a state jail felony to a first-degree felony, depending on how much they catch you with. This translates to a sentence that can be as little as 180 days to as much as 99 years, with a fine of somewhere between ten thousand and fifty thousand dollars. Plus, you will get a visit from the IRS, who will want you to tell them why you haven’t paid taxes on whatever you’ve earned from your morning glory cottage kitchen. They won’t take “duh” for an answer, either.

  Of course, this was all academic, right? Hypothetical? I didn’t think so, and the thought gave me a deep concern. Jessica Nelson had been down this trail before me, and it was beginning to seem very likely that she had stumbled into something seriously illegal. What was it, exactly? Who was involved? Where had her investigation taken her?

  And most urgently, where was she?

  CTSU’S Horticulture Center is housed in a new building, only a couple of years old. But the program itself was established more than a halfcentury ago as a complement to the agriculture program, which focuses on large-scale ranching and farming—still a huge industry in Texas, of course. Horticulture has to do with plant science, irrigation technology, greenhouse culture, and the commercial development and management of garden plants, landscaping, greenscaping, and xeriscaping. It is fast becoming one of the biggest, greenest businesses in Texas.

  The Hort Center is definitely the greenest building on campus. It features a rainwater recycling system, energy-saving natural ventilation and solar panels, and recycled and renewable products throughout, such as recycled flooring and wall materials and furniture hand-crafted from salvaged urban trees. I attended the opening of the new building when it was dedicated. I was impressed then, and am still impressed. Usually when I go there, I browse through the native plant garden on the hill behind the building, picking up ideas for plantings and landscaping at the shop. But the morning was moving along—it was already nearly ten o’clock, so I went looking for Zoe Morris.

  After asking directions, I found the hallway where the teaching assistants’ cubicles were located. Halfway down the hall, I found the room. It was one of those big bull-pen arrangements, with low partitions separating a dozen small carrels. Several of them were occupied by people reading, writing, one with her head down, taking a nap.

  A row away, surrounded by stacks of books and student papers, I found Zoe Morris, hunched over her laptop, scrolling through a chart that took up the whole screen. The fact that she had a window in her cubicle designated her as one of the senior TAs. Through it, I could glimpse the outline of the hills behind the campus.

  “Got a minute, Zoe?” I asked.

  She looked up from the computer blankly, and then her eyes focused and she smiled. “Oh, hey, China. Nice to see you!” Zoe and I had met when I went out to Mistletoe Creek Farm to pick up my subscription baskets of fresh vegetables, and I saw her occasionally at the shop.

  “Nice to see you, too. Are you working with Donna this summer?” I came into the carrel and took the straight chair, the one reserved for students. The low partition was papered with charts, photos of plants, and snapshots of people in gardens—friends of Zoe’s, I guessed, or fellow students.

  “I’m out there some, but not as much as last year,” Zoe said regretfully. She was petite and wiry, dressed in jeans and a green T-shirt that said “Plant a Garden” on the front. “I’m working on my thesis. With any luck, I’ll finish it by the end of the summer term.” She sat back in her chair, rolling her eyes. “If it doesn’t finish me first. That’s a strong possibility.”

  “Who’s your director?”

  “Dr. Laughton. I’ve got a good topic—developing markets for sustainable local food production in Texas.” She wrinkled her nose ruefully. “I’m pretty strong where the research is concerned, but I’m not the world’s best writer.”

  “You’ll be fine,” I said in a comforting tone. “Listen, I need to ask you about Jessica Nelson. I’m sure you know her from Donna’s farm—she worked there when you did, last summer. She’s also an intern at the Enterprise. Has she talked to you in the past couple of days?” I didn’t think it was a good idea to let Zoe know that I had been standing in Jessica’s kitchen when she called that morning, and that I already knew they had connected.

  “Jessica? Sure. She stopped in to get some information for a story she was writing.” She paused curiously. “Why are you asking?”

  “Because nobody’s heard from her in a while.”

  “Really? Like . . . how long? I just saw her on Monday afternoon. She said she was on deadline with the story, so maybe she’s holed up, writing. Have you checked her house? I left a mes
sage there this morning.”

  “I’ve checked—looks like she hasn’t been home since she saw you. She missed her deadline, and there was a weird message on my answering machine that suggested that she was in some kind of trouble. I’m worried.” I leaned forward. “Look, Zoe. Here’s what I know. Jessica was working on a feature article about the girl who died in the trailer fire on Limekiln Road on Saturday night. I was the one who turned in the alarm, and—”

  She broke in. “So that’s how your eyebrows got scorched.”

  “Right.” I was beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t hang a sign around my neck, announcing the fact. “On Monday, Jessica paid a visit to the girl who used to live in the trailer—Lucy LaFarge. I talked to Lucy a little while ago, and she told me that you had an idea that Larry Wolff—he used to live in the trailer, too—might have loaned his key to somebody. I thought maybe Jessica dropped in to see if you could tell her who.”

  “You’re right,” Zoe said. “Jessica told me about the trailer fire. She said she had talked to Lucy, and she asked about the key.”

  “Did you tell her what she wanted to know?”

  “Well, sure. I mean, it’s not like it was a huge secret.” She paused. “But I don’t think Larry loaned that key.”

  “No? Well, then—”

  “From what I could gather, he just . . . well, he gave it to her.”

  Ah. Well, okay. “To—”

  “To Gloria. Gloria Graham. He told her that his roommate had already turned in two sets of keys to the new landlord. His was extra and Gloria could have it.”

  Gloria Graham. I pulled in my breath, catching the significance. G.G. The initials on the bracelet the victim was wearing.

  “Why?” I frowned. “I mean, why was he doing this? And why would she want a key to an empty trailer?”

  “Well, I didn’t tune into that part of the conversation. But I got the idea that Gloria wanted to use it for some extracurricular activity.” She arched her eyebrows. “If you know what I mean.”

  “Involving Larry Wolff, or somebody else?”

  “Could’ve been Larry, I guess. I know that he’s still living with this other girl—Lucy, I mean. But I’m not sure it’s a closed relationship. In fact, I think it isn’t. You know how these things are. But maybe Gloria was hot for somebody else—or she had something else in mind altogether. Anyway, the place was going to be empty for a while. That’s what Larry said.”

  Ah, the sexual adventures of youth. Twosomes, threesomes, even foursomes. If you ask me, monogamy definitely has its advantages. At least you know that you’re going to be in the same bed every night, and that he’s going to be there with you, instead of somewhere else, with someone else.

  “And that was when?” I asked. “This business with the key, I mean.”

  She shrugged. “A couple of weeks ago, maybe? The week before finals, I think.” She began fishing around among the litter of papers on her desk. “Jessica said she wanted to get in touch with Gloria, but at the time, I couldn’t remember her last name. That’s why I phoned her this morning—I remembered it. Graham. I found an address, too. Do you want it?”

  I had heard it before, on the answering machine in Jessica’s kitchen, but I wrote it down anyway. I was still scribbling when Zoe added, “But if Jessica is still looking for Gloria, she’ d better hurry. She’ll only be here through the middle of next week. I meant to say that on the phone, but I forgot—didn’t remember it until I happened to look at the field trip list again. When you locate Jessica, will you tell her?”

  “Sure,” I said. And then, “Where’s Gloria going?”

  “On a field trip to Mexico.”

  I frowned. “Lucy mentioned that Larry Wolff was going on a field trip to Mexico. I wonder if it’s the same one.”

  “Could be,” Zoe said. “I don’t think there’s more than one trip planned for this summer.” She paused, crinkling her nose. “Why are you so interested in all of this, China?”

  I hesitated, then decided it was time to tell her what I knew. “Because the girl who died was bound hand and foot and shot in the chest. And then the killer set the place on fire.”

  “Oh, no!” Zoe exclaimed. “Jessica didn’t mention anything about . . .” She gulped. “About a murder. I thought it must have been an accident.”

  “No accident. The girl wasn’t dead when the fire got to her. I was standing outside. I could hear her crying for help, but I couldn’t get to her. There was nothing I could do.”

  “Dear God,” she whispered, horrified. Her hand went to her mouth.

  “I’m pretty sure God didn’t have anything to do with this,” I said grimly. “I don’t think this was something He would have approved.”

  She dropped her hand, beginning to put the pieces together. “And Gloria Graham may have had a key to the place . . .” She hesitated. “Do you think she was the person who died in the fire?”

  “The victim hasn’t been identified yet.” We were getting into police business now. “I know Sheriff Blackwell. This is his case. I’m going to phone him as soon as I leave here, and give him the information about Gloria and the key. I’m sure he’ll want to talk with you.”

  “Here’s my cell.” She picked up a piece of paper, wrote a number on it, and handed it to me. “Tell the sheriff I’m available any time. I’ll be glad to help.”

  “Thanks. Oh, one more thing. Do you happen to know what kind of car Gloria drives?”

  “As it happens, I do. I’ve seen her pulling in and out of the parking lot from time to time. She drives a really hot-looking Mustang. A red convertible.” She tilted her head. “Does that tell you anything?”

  It told me that Gloria—or somebody driving her Mustang—had used that key at least once. Didn’t nail it, but it might come close. And it was another bit of information for Blackie. “Thanks,” I said.

  She was frowning deeply now, still putting pieces together. “What about Jessica? You said that nobody’s talked to her since Monday. You don’t think she’s in any danger, do you?”

  “I think it’s possible,” I said. “Jessica is intense. She’s passionate. And this particular story has a personal angle. She could be so deeply involved that she’s not thinking clearly. Which could put her in a vulnerable position.”

  “A personal angle?”

  “Yes. Her sister Ginger—her twin sister—died when their house burned. Her mom and dad, too. Jessica was on a school trip when it happened,” I said. “Otherwise, she told me, she’d be dead, too.”

  “Uh-oh,” Zoe said, her face sober. “Are you suggesting that she’s making an emotional connection between the victim of this trailer fire and her twin?”

  I nodded. “It could be her way of mourning the death of her sister and her parents.” And maybe a kind of repayment, I thought, for having survived. Irrational, but that’s what grief is like. You think you’re finished with it, and then something comes along to reopen the old wounds.

  “Her twin sister,” Zoe repeated softly. “How awful for Jessica, how truly awful.” She took a deep breath. “Well, I can tell you that she was really calm and collected when she talked to me—you know, crisp, professional. I got the feeling that there was something going on inside her, though, something deep. I attributed it to her desire to get a good story. But now I can see that there was more to it than that.”

  “She does want to get a good story,” I agreed. “She’s been covering the city council and the ladies’ club, stuff like that. She wants this arson-murder story for her portfolio, and she wants an exclusive, which means that she’s playing her cards close to the chest. Putting all that together with her phone call to me, I think it’s entirely possible that she’s somehow managed to connect with the killer.”

  And if Jessica had gotten close to the killer, or if the killer had gotten close to her, there was no guarantee that she was still alive. He—or she—had killed once. It would be easy to kill again. I had traced her steps this far, but where did I go from here?

&nbs
p; “Did she give you any idea where she might be heading after she left you?” I asked.

  “Home, was what she said. She had a taped interview to transcribe and she wanted to get started on her article.” She frowned. “Hang on a minute. No, she said that she needed to do some more checking on Gloria. But that’s all I—”

  Zoe’s telephone rang and she reached for it, spoke briefly, then covered the receiver with her hand. “Are we about done, do you think? This is a student. I’m afraid it’s going to take a while.”

  “Just one more thing,” I said. “Was there anybody else around when you and Jessica talked on Monday?”

  “In this room?” She frowned. “Maybe. I didn’t really notice. But the late afternoon class had just let out. There were probably a couple of TAs in their carrels, and maybe several students. I couldn’t tell you who, though. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Thanks.” I reached into my bag and pulled out a card. “If you think of anything else, could you call me? I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Sure thing,” she said. She twiddled her fingers at me and turned back to the phone.

  I glanced at my watch. Ten twenty. I needed to call Blackie and give him the information about Gloria Graham and the key to the trailer, as well as Zoe’s name and phone number. I’d suggest to him that he talk to Lucy and find out whether she had left a stash of camp stove fuel at the trailer, where it could have been used as an accelerant. I needed to go to the PSPD office and turn in a missing-person report on Jessica. And then I had to get to the shop. It was getting late and Ruby would wonder—

  As if my cell phone were hard-wired to my brain, it rang. A few weeks before, Brian had decided I needed a new ringtone, and (since I’m a Willie Nelson fan) he’d downloaded “Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys” to my cell phone. It rang now, and I flipped it open. Ruby, calling from the shop. She sounded frazzled.