Her eyebrows went up. “You don’t know much about this stuff, do you? Of course there’s a market. Kids’ll buy as much as they can get their hands on.”
I frowned, thinking of Lucy LaFarge, industriously cooking up morning glory seeds in her kitchen. The activity criminalized her and every kid she sold it to, but it was an amateur operation, not something that would interest the big-time drug dealer—or so it seemed to me. Was I missing something?
Shannon was going on. “But we’re not talking morning glories, or marijuana, either—if that’s what you’re thinking. It was pottery. Six pieces, with a primitive look. Tourist pottery, according to Gloria. Cheap. But it wasn’t tourist pottery, and it wasn’t cheap, either. It was worth a fortune.”
I leaned forward, frowning. “You’re not saying she was smuggling antique pots into the country, are you? I can’t believe that Stuart Laughton would allow one of his students—”
She thrust out her chin. “Gloria wasn’t his student. I already told you that.”
I shook my head. “I can’t believe he would allow anybody to smuggle cultural antiques out of Mexico. That would be just plain stupid. Anyway, she couldn’t have gotten artifacts through customs. Officials are always on the lookout for that.”
Shannon threw back her head and laughed. “Are you kidding? If you know the right people, you can get anything through customs. Gloria could, anyway. I told you she had connections. She knew people who paid people, and the stuff came through.” She sobered and her mouth tightened. “But who said anything about cultural antiques? It was cocaine.”
I stared at her. Cocaine! Of course—and the picture suddenly shifted. We were talking big money here. Big money, dangerous money. And dangerous people. I took a breath. “Made of plaster of Paris and cocaine?”
She nodded. “You’ve heard about this, then?”
As a matter of fact, I had. I had read about somebody—a Chilean, as I remembered it—who was arrested at the Barcelona airport when a drug-sniffing German shepherd alerted police that the plaster cast on his “broken” leg was made with cocaine. And a statue sculpted of plaster and cocaine worth forty thousand dollars had been seized at the El Paso border crossing the year before—I had seen a photograph of it on television. Smugglers were getting creative.
“So she brought the pottery across the border,” I said. “In the van, I guess?”
“Yeah.” She smiled slightly. “The van was kind of a mess, actually. Six of us had been more or less camping in it for a couple of weeks. But the customs people basically just waved us on through, which I thought at the time was a little odd. I figured they’d give us a more serious look, since we were college kids. We fit the profile.”
“No sniffer dogs?”
“Nope.”
“Bribery?”
She nodded. “Gloria’s cartel connection did his job.”
“You know that for certain?”
“That’s what Gloria told me. She bragged about it.” She thought about that for a second, then paled. “That makes me . . . an accessory?”
I nodded curtly. “Did everybody in the van know? What about the other students?” But I was really thinking about Stuart Laughton. How much of this was he involved with?
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Maybe, maybe not. I kinda think maybe Matt knew it. Anyway, when Gloria told me about the bribe, we were in some cruddy restroom on the U.S. side of the border. None of the others heard it.” Bitterly, she added, “She always loved it when she could put something over on somebody. On everybody. She loved making people look like fools.”
“So what happened after she got the pottery across the border?”
“We stopped at a hamburger joint called Smoky’s, not far from Pearsall. Some of us were lined up to get our food orders, and this Hispanic guy came up to Gloria and whispered something. She dropped out of line and the two of them went out to the van. When she came back, Larry asked her what was going on, and she laughed. Said she’d just sold the tourist pottery she had brought into the country.”
“As easy as that?” It wasn’t a question, really. I knew the answer. I’ve lived a quiet life since I came to Pecan Springs, but I saw plenty of trafficking in my earlier incarnation as a defense attorney. Then, though, it was mostly criminals, experienced smugglers. Now, young people—college kids, even high school students living in border towns—were being recruited as carriers, as mules. The cartel was looking for people who didn’t fit the profile, young women who needed money for their children, teenage girls looking for excitement and dollars. They could get the stuff across—sometimes in their bellies, sometimes in their vaginas—when somebody who fit the profile couldn’t. Of course, when corrupt customs officials were added to the mix, all bets were off.
“As easy as that,” Shannon said.
I thought about it. “You said that some of you were lined up, getting your orders. Not all of you?”
“Like, I’m supposed to remember something like that?” she scoffed.
“I thought you might,” I said steadily. “You’ve mentioned Larry. What about the other two guys?”
She frowned. “Roger was there, I know, because he and Stu were arguing about whether tulip bulbs are edible. But I don’t think . . .” Her frown deepened. “Matt wasn’t there. He came in with Gloria, when she got back in line.”
“Gloria,” I repeated thoughtfully. “Did she tell you who her connections were? Did she say when she was going to make another trip?”
She shivered. “I didn’t ask about her connections. I didn’t want to know. But I heard her tell somebody else—Larry or Matt—that she was going to Mexico again this summer. I guess that’s not going to happen now.” She closed her eyes briefly. “You don’t . . . you don’t really think I’m in danger, do you?”
“I think the safest thing for you to do is to tell the police what you know. Once you’ve done that, you’ve pulled the plug on whoever wants to harm you.” I gave her a hard look. “Do you understand? They might try to keep you from talking to the cops, but once you’ve told the authorities what you know, you’re no longer a target.”
She nodded uncertainly. “Do I . . . do I need a lawyer?”
“Let me put it this way,” I said. “If you’ve told me all you know— that’s if,” I repeated sternly. “If you’ve told me everything, I doubt that there’ll be any charge. If it looks like that’s going to happen, I’ll see that you get the right kind of help.”
She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking back and forth. “Who do I—who do I talk to?”
“The county sheriff is handling the investigation into the trailer homicide. I know him—he’s easy to work with.”
She considered. “You really think it will make me safer?”
“Without a doubt.” I thought of Jessica, and wished I could have given her the same advice. If she had shared what she learned as she went along, she might be in a better place right now. I didn’t want to think about where she might really be.
“Okay,” she said in a small, thin voice. “I guess I’d better talk to him.”
I didn’t trust her to do this on her own—she might change her mind before she got there. I phoned Blackie to say that I had found someone I thought he should talk to, and that I was bringing her in for an interview.
On the way to the parking lot with Shannon in tow (and needing a booster shot of encouragement at every other step), I thought of something that might take me off the hook at the shop—and get Ruby the help she needed. I pulled out my phone and punched in Gina Mondello’s number. Gina gave us a hand in the shop during the Christmas rush and helped to organize a team of volunteers to work in the display gardens earlier in the spring. She’s an accountant who works with Kate during tax season, and an herb gardener who has come up with a popular salt-free seasoning blend that includes rosemary and sage, her two favorite herbs, which I have a hard time keeping in stock. She has also taught several dried-flower card-crafting classes for us, so she knows her
way around our shops. And best of all, she lives in the neighborhood.
I breathed a thankful sigh when she picked up. “Gina? It’s China. Listen, Ruby and Cass are in a bind at the shop. Lisa didn’t show up this morning and I can’t get there for a little while. It would be a huge help if you could come in for a couple of hours. Are you available?”
“Sure thing, China,” she said. “Oh, and I’ve made another dozen bottles of that salt-free blend. Want me to bring those?”
“Absolutely. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I clicked off, feeling enormously relieved. Gina is a capable person and a calm presence in a crisis. She’d be a big help this morning. I phoned the shop to let Ruby know that she was on her way, and that I’d be there shortly.
“Thank God,” Ruby said in a taut, thin voice. “Things are a little hectic. Do you happen to know if you have any more of that rosemary-mint soap? There’s a customer asking about it. And somebody else wants to know whether you have any fennel.” There was a brief off-line flurry of conversation, and Ruby was back. “Florence fennel, she says.”
“All the rosemary soap I have is what’s on the shelf,” I said. “If we’re out, tell her I’ll reorder and ask her to check back next week. About the fennel, I don’t have any Florence—that’s the one with the fat leaf base. But I might have a couple of bronze fennels. They’re on the second shelf from the top on the outdoor plant rack, behind the basil. Tell her to look there.”
But Ruby didn’t answer. In the background, I heard the tinkle of the bell over the door in my shop—and Ruby’s frantic cry, “No, Grace, no! You can’t go outside! You have to stay here, with Gramma!” The line went dead.
Caitlin, happily, was having no such troubles. She had finished mixing the icebox cookies and put the dough logs into the fridge to cool. Excitedly, she told me that Dr. Trevor, her new violin teacher, had called to say that she was invited to play in the young people’s orchestra, and wanted me to phone her when I had time. Uncle Mike had called, too, and Caitie had given him an update on Pumpkin’s get-acquainted activities. The cat had already encountered one of Brian’s free-range lizards, on the loose in the upstairs hall. But apparently Pumpkin had sampled enough lizards to know that they are a leathery and not particularly appetizing snack; the lizard, instinctively cat-savvy, had headed for the nearest heating vent, where he was still holed up. Howard Cosell, on the other hand, had had a close encounter with a skunk in the woodpile beside the pecan tree. Was there anything she could spray on him to make him smell better? Or maybe she should just leave him in his outdoor kennel until Uncle Mike got home, because he really was too stinky to come back into the house. I voted for the kennel.
Things might be going to hell at the shop, but at our house, at least, life seemed pretty normal.
Chapter Eighteen
In very simple terms, aromatherapy is the therapeutic use of pure essential oils to improve the health and balance of the skin, the body, the mind, and the soul. Squeeze a lavender head or a sage leaf and smell your fingers. That aroma is the result of volatile oils, released by the bursting of tiny glands in the plant material. . . . Essential oils have the power to relax the nervous system, stimulate the circulation, lift depression, reduce inflammation, and ease aches and pains. The aroma of an essential oil is sensed by the olfactory nerve located in the back of the nose and carried to the brain, where it has its effect—perhaps stimulating or calming, perhaps imparting feelings of well-being and harmony to the whole self.
Victoria H. Edwards
The Aromatherapy Companion
Fifteen minutes later, I was walking Shannon into the sheriff’s office. By now, she had abandoned every bit of her earlier bravado. I didn’t blame her. If she had come forward with what she knew a week or two earlier, Gloria Graham might be alive today. She’d be in serious trouble, yes—but she would be alive.
“You’ll stay, won’t you?” Shannon asked imploringly, when I had introduced her to Blackie and was turning to go. “Please! I need your support.”
“Not a good idea.” I fished in my bag and took out one of the business cards. “But if you need anything, call, and I’ll see if I can find someone to help you.” I nodded in Blackie’s direction. “Just tell him what you know, and you’ll be okay.”
“Thanks,” she said glumly, and slumped into a chair beside the desk. She was obviously not looking forward to the interview.
Blackie followed me into the hall. “Think she’ll give me a straight story?”
“If she seems to be holding back,” I said, “you might show her the photo of the bracelet and the burned trailer. If that doesn’t work, show her a photo of the victim. I’ve told her that her own safety could be at stake.”
“That was smart,” he said, adding, “I’ve sent a couple of deputies to talk to Zoe Morris and Lucy LaFarge. Thanks for the leads. It’s looking promising. Maybe we’ll have a positive ID on the victim before too long.” He went back into the office.
My cell phone began buzzing just as I was getting into the car. It was Ruby, sounding breathless. “China? I’m glad I caught you.”
I’d only been away for a few minutes and the car was already as hot as an oven. I flicked the key and lowered the windows. “Did you manage to catch Baby Grace before she got away?” I asked, trying to make a little joke.
“That time, I did,” Ruby said tersely. “Listen, China, Gina’s not here yet, and Cass and I are going crazy. I need to call Gina and make sure she’s coming. Do you have her number?”
“Hang on.” I began flipping through the numbers on my phone, but just as I began giving it to Ruby, she interrupted, “Never mind, China. Gina’s here. She just walked in.”
“Thank heaven,” I said fervently. “You’ll be okay now, do you think?”
She was cheerful, but I could tell she was trying to be brave. “Sure. But it’s definitely one of those days. You know? The Ladies Guild just called. They’re sending somebody for twenty-one sandwiches and eight salads—and that’s in addition to the regular lunch bunch. Cass called the girl who helped out in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago. Millie. She’s coming over in a few—” She broke off the sentence with a little cry. “Gina, could you catch Grace and keep her from going into the tearoom?”
“The Ladies Guild?” They’re a rather snooty club that sponsors things like bridge tournaments and style shows. Not our usual clientele, which made it all the more important. “That’s terrific, Ruby! If we could get them to start doing their luncheons with us—”
“I know. That’s why Cass called Millie to help with the sandwiches. She wants to make a good impression.” She took a deep breath. “Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Donna Fletcher called. She asked me to tell you that—”
But whatever Donna Fletcher wanted me to know was lost in a shattering crash of breaking glass. “Grace just pulled down a display,” she said hurriedly. “I have to go. Good-bye.”
A display? Oh, no! Which one? The jars of prickly pear jelly? Or the bottles of aloe lotion? I could only hope that Grace hadn’t been hurt, and that at least some of the jars or bottles or whatever had survived. I folded the phone and rested my forehead against the steering wheel for a moment, feeling an enormous weight of guilt settle on my shoulders. Ruby and Cass needed me, and I wasn’t there. I hadn’t been there for Jessica, either, when she had called on Monday night. And I had left Caitie at home alone today, to cope with cookies and cats and lizards and dogs and skunks and who knows what else.
But nobody can be there for everybody, every minute of the day. Caitie is self-reliant enough to manage, and Tom Banner is on call if she needs him. Jessica was now officially a missing person, with an entire police department on the lookout for her. And I had connected Blackie with somebody who had information that might help him find the perpetrator in his arson-homicide case. So I really ought to go back to the shop and give Ruby and Cass and Gina a hand—and try to keep Baby Grace from wrecking the place.
And then suddenly I had an idea. I wasn’t far
from home. I could zip out there, pick up Caitie, and take her back to the shop with me. She could watch Grace this afternoon, earn a little extra baby-sitting money, and let the rest of us do our work. I phoned her to ask if that would be okay, and got an ecstatic yes. I told her I’d pick her up shortly and phoned Ruby to let her know that her baby-sitting help was on the way.
There were a few loose ends I needed to tie up, but I could do that on the road, with my cell phone. I took out the scrap of paper on which I had jotted down the three items from Jessica’s answering machine. Her roommate’s boyfriend’s cell number. The Caller ID for the man who wanted to see her—the man whose voice had seemed so eerily familiar. And the address Zoe had left. It hadn’t meant anything to me at the time, but now I knew it was the address of Gloria Graham.
I started the car, turned on the air conditioner to high, then put in the Caller ID number. It didn’t seem likely that Jessica’s disappearance had anything to do with boyfriend trouble, but it might be worth checking out. It was, definitely—but not in the way I expected.
“Hello,” a chipper male voice said, as I drove out of the lot and swung out onto the main road, heading in the direction of home. “Stuart Laughton here.”
I was jolted. Stuart Laughton? And then, with a snap, it came together. My feeling that I knew the voice on the answering machine. The odd interaction I had witnessed at the Local Food meeting on Sunday night. The glance that had seemed to have a mysterious significance. Jessica and Stu had been involved in some sort of relationship, maybe even an affair. In fact, that might even be why Margie had left and gone to her mother’s. I remembered the threatening tone of the last few words on Jessica’s answering machine, and my skin prickled again. Stu and Jessica. Stu and Gloria Graham. Gloria was dead. Jessica was missing. How was this man involved?
“Stuart Laughton,” he repeated, impatient. “Who is this?”
I couldn’t go into any of this on the phone. I’d have to think of something else—and fast.
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