Mourning Gloria (19 page)

But there was no answer on her cell phone and the answering machine picked up at her house. I followed up with a call to Hark, catching him in his car on his way to the Nueces Street Diner for breakfast. He sounded hungover. He hadn’t heard from Jessica either, he growled, and asked why I was bothering him about it.

“Because I think somebody ought to be bothered about it,” I said, nettled. “After all, she was on a story and—”

“Yeah, well, that somebody ain’t her editor. I checked out her house, and that’s all I’m going to do. Period. Paragraph. She’s fired. You find her, you tell her so. And damn it, China, I mean it.”

Maybe Hark wasn’t really one of the good guys after all. Then I thought of something. I had leverage.

“Trade you,” I said.

A wary silence. “Trade me what. For what?”

“Trade you a breaking news story for Jessica’s job.”

“Breaking news?” Eager, not so wary. “What’s up? Another trailer fire? We’ve got a serial arsonist?”

“Jessica’s job,” I reminded him. “Trade.”

“Okay.” He sighed heavily. “Trade. But it better be good.”

“Sheriff Blackwell’s not running again. He’s hanging up his star at the end of this term.”

“Damn!” It was the howl of a wounded editor. “Gene was supposed to be covering that meeting! He should’ve let me know!” He clicked off abruptly. I had not made his day. But I had saved Jessica’s job. Maybe.

Caitie said she’d rather stay home to help Pumpkin get acquainted with his new place and practice her violin. That was okay with me, since McQuaid would be back in the early afternoon and Caitie wouldn’t be alone all day. Also, Tom Banner, our up-the-lane neighbor, works from home and is usually around in case he’s needed. But I thought again that living in the country might be difficult for a young girl, especially in the summer. All her friends lived in town. Would she be lonely? But she didn’t seem to mind, especially now that she had Pumpkin, and I didn’t push it.

I had told Ruby that I would be late getting in, so the shop was covered. My first stop, on my way into town, was the burned-out trailer. I drove up to what was left of the place, parked, and got out. I didn’t know what I was looking for—evidence that Jessica had been here, maybe?

If so, I was disappointed. There was plenty to see, all of it ugly. The scarred hulk with its remains of burned furnishings. The blackened foliage of the trees in front and on the hillside where the firefighters had subdued the flames. The tire tracks left by the trucks and the drag marks of the hoses. The crime scene tape was gone, which suggested that the fire marshal’s and the sheriff’s investigations were concluded. There was no sign that Jessica Nelson had been here on Monday with her camera. And if something had happened to her here, there wasn’t a trace. None, at least, that I could see.

I was about to get back in the car and be on my way when a battered black Dodge Ram pickup, the tires and door panels plastered with splashes of Texas mud, pulled up the drive and stopped beside my Toyota. There were four bales of hay and three dogs in the back of the truck, two blue heelers and a short-legged beagle, all barking their heads off. The driver—a young woman, tall, wearing jeans, a red Western shirt, scuffed cowboy boots, and a blond ponytail—got out and shushed them, then came around the truck.

“Hi,” she said, putting out her hand. “I’m Becky Sanders. I live in the double-wide up the road a mile or so. The place with the blue roof and the dog kennels out back? Sanders’ Animal Services.” Her speech was fast and clipped, Yankee-style.

“Oh, sure,” I said. “I’m China Bayles. I live a few miles past you.” I had noticed the sign, which offered dog training, grooming, and baths. When I saw it, I wondered briefly if this was something Howard Cosell might like—the grooming and bath, that is, not the training. Howard is confident that he is already perfectly trained and knows everything a dog should know.

Becky looked at the charred wreckage, wrinkling her freckled nose at the smell of burned wood and wet carpet that still hung over the place. “I was driving by on Saturday night and saw the fire—the fire trucks and the ambulance, too. I didn’t want to stop, though, with all the emergency vehicles around. Do you know what happened?”

“The police say it was arson,” I replied.

“Arson?” She frowned. “The insurance, maybe? But that’s pretty silly—not that much insurance money involved here, I would think.”

“A woman was killed,” I added. I thought it might be a good idea to leave out the details until the sheriff’s office released them.

“Oh, good lord, no!” Her eyes widened in alarm. “It wouldn’t be . . .” She corrected herself. “No, of course not. Not Lucy. She and Larry moved out several weeks ago. But there was somebody else living here? I didn’t know the place had been rented again.”

“It wasn’t,” I said. “It was supposed to be empty, according to the owner.” I eyed her curiously. “So you knew the people who rented this place?”

She scuffed the dirt with the toe of her cowboy boot. “I didn’t know Larry except to wave at—he was gone a lot. Classes and stuff like that. But I met Lucy one afternoon when I was out walking with the dogs.” She waved her hand toward the hill. “There’s a trail back there—I like it because I can let the dogs run. We got to talking, and after that, we got together sometimes. You know, we’d sit down and talk over coffee, here or at my place. She’s a student at the university.”

“Lucy LaFarge,” I said helpfully.

“Yes, that’s her. Lucy. You know her? She’s okay? You’re sure she’s not the woman who . . .” She shivered, frowning. “Really? Somebody died here?”

“That’s what I heard. But so far as I know, it wasn’t Lucy.” By this time, I was feeling more comfortable about telling this woman more of what I knew. “She was wearing a bracelet, engraved with the initials G.G. Does that ring a bell?”

“G.G.?” She squinted thoughtfully. “Sorry. Don’t know anybody with those initials.”

I nodded, and took it a little further. “My husband heard that the renters might’ve been doing drugs. Did you ever see any sign of it?”

She gave me a sideways glance. “Well . . . how come you’re asking?”

“Oh, just out of curiosity, I guess.” I shrugged. “Not that I care. Maybe I’m just nosy.”

“Yeah, that’s me, too. Nosy. But not in a bad way. I just like to know what’s going on in the neighborhood.” She paused. “I never noticed that Lucy was actually stoned, but you could certainly smell pot when you went in the trailer. And she mentioned that Larry was doing some sort of research on plants.” She grinned. “I figured maybe he was studying marijuana, with the idea of growing some. In fact, I kinda wondered if he was cultivating a pot plot back in the woods somewhere. People do, you know. But I didn’t ask.”

I returned her grin. “She probably wouldn’t have told you, anyway. Did you ever notice anybody hanging around here? After Lucy and Larry moved out, I mean.”

She tilted her head. “Well, I saw the A-Plus Auto Parts truck a couple of times. That’s the guy who bought the place, Lucy told me. He was planning to do some repairs, plumbing and stuff like that. In fact, a week or so ago, when I saw the truck, I stopped and asked him when it was going to be for rent again. My sister is looking right now, and since this is pretty close to where I live, I was hoping the place would be available before the end of June. That’s when Sybil has to move. I gave the guy my phone number and asked him to call me as soon as he was ready to rent. It would be great if Sis and I could be within walking distance.” She looked around regretfully. “I guess that’s not going to happen. Not after this.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” I said. “Aside from the auto parts truck, did you see anybody else?”

She tucked her hands into her jeans’ pockets and thought about that for a moment. “You know, I did. But that was before I talked to the owner. I remember feeling disappointed, like maybe it had already been rented before I could find out for Sybil whether it was available.”

“A car?” I asked. “A truck?”

“A red Mustang convertible. New, too. Parked over there, behind those trees.” She nodded toward the far end of the trailer. “I probably wouldn’t have noticed it unless I’d been kinda keeping my eye on the place. With Sybil in mind, I mean.”

“A new Mustang convertible?” I chuckled. “Come on, now. Really?”

“That was my reaction, too.” She grinned and her eyes glinted. “I kinda wondered, you know.” She glanced around. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with living in a trailer, and this one was really pretty nice, before it got incinerated. Furnished and all, and the carpet and furniture was decent. But most people who drive new cars would probably live in a condo or something. I just thought it was curious.”

“I do, too,” I said. “You didn’t stop to find out who it was?”

She shrugged. “None of my business. For all I know, it belonged to the new owner, or somebody who was helping him. Anyway, it was late one evening, almost dark.” The dogs were barking again. “Listen, I’ve got to get going, Ms. Bayles. This guy is coming to talk about training a boxer. Nice to meet you.” She looked at the trailer and shuddered. “Hate to think of somebody dying in there. It must’ve been just awful.”

“Yes, awful,” I said, and waved as she got into her truck, the dogs barking wildly now, happy to be back on the road.

 

 

A-PLUS Auto Parts opened at eight. When I pulled into the parking lot, I saw that the front glass window was plastered with signs. An announcement of a gun show, notice of a rifle club meeting, decals of the Texas state flag and the U.S. flag, and a big red, white, and blue We Support Our Troops banner.

It was eight ten when I opened the door and went in, but I was already third in line, behind two guys. One of them—a hulk the size of two Dallas Cowboys linebackers—wanted a fan belt for a ’98 Honda Civic. (If the Civic belonged to him, how did he fit into it?) The hulk got what he asked for. The other guy didn’t. He needed a radiator hose for a’95 Saab, but the man behind the counter told him he’d have to get it from the dealer. The customer was disappointed, and not a very good sport about it, either. He muttered something under his breath and slammed the door on his way out. The slam roused an elderly black Lab with a grizzled muzzle, snoozing peacefully under a display rack. He opened his eyes to check for issues he needed to confront. Seeing none, he closed them again and went back to sleep.

It was my turn and there was nobody standing in line behind me, for which I was grateful. Maybe I could find out what I needed to know without being rushed.

“Help you?” Scott Sheridan (the name on the embroidered badge over his pocket) was short and thickset, strands of black hair crisscrossing his bald scalp like carefully laid thatch. The hair might have migrated south from his head, for his Groucho Marx eyebrows were black and heavy, he sported a bottle-brush black moustache, and a mat of dark chest fur showed at the open collar of his work shirt.

I had my answer ready. “I’ll take a can of that oil additive,” I said, pointing to a rack of yellow and blue cans behind the counter. The sign on the rack promised that the stuff would clean my engine, which struck me as a good thing, generally. In a friendly tone, I lied, “My Toyota’s running a little rough, and Mike McQuaid—he’s my husband—suggested I get some of that stuff.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Miz McQuaid. Nice to meetcha. Always a pleasure to do business with Mike. Nice that he’s keepin’ that old truck runnin’.” He grinned as he rang up the sale. “Say, how’s that alternator holding up? He have any trouble installin’ it?”

“Not so far as I know.” Alternators are a mystery to me, but this one must be working, since the truck was running. At least, I hoped it was running, for Donna’s sake. She didn’t need any more problems.

“Great. So what else can I get you today?”

“That’s it, thanks.” Sheridan dropped the can into a plastic bag, pushed it across the counter, and took my ten-dollar bill.

As he counted out the change, I said, in a casual tone, “I wonder—did Jessica Nelson from the
Enterprise
drop in to see you on Monday afternoon?”

“The reporter?” He shut the cash drawer. “Yeah, she was here. Cute girl. Hark sure knows how to pick ’em.” He leaned an elbow on the counter. “She was asking about my trailer. The one out on Limekiln Road. It burned last weekend. Maybe you saw it when you were driving into town this morning, huh?”

“Actually, I’m the one who turned in the alarm. I happened to be heading home on Saturday evening and saw it burning. I was standing in front of it when it exploded.”

“No kidding.” He squinted at me. “Jeez. So that’s where you left your eyebrows.”

“Yeah,” I said ruefully. “Got a little scorched. But not as bad as the woman who was in there. She burned to death.” I shuddered, remembering. “Did you know her?”

“Don’t think so.” He turned away to pick up a parts catalog and add it to a stack beside the register. “Nobody’s told me who she was. Don’t guess the cops have identified her yet. Hell of a thing,” he added gloomily, shaking his head. “Hadn’t had that place more’n sixty days, and now it’s gone. Burned to the ground—nothing left to salvage, even.”

“Insured, I guess,” I said, taking the paper bag.

“Yeah, it was insured. Won’t get near enough to replace it, of course. Now I gotta figure out what to do with that property. Maybe I’ll see if I can find a cheap used trailer to turn into a rental. A repo, maybe.” He put his head on one side. “Why’re you asking about that reporter?”

Was there a suspicious edge to his question? “Because she was going to get in touch with me after she talked to you,” I said. “She didn’t turn in her story, and nobody’s heard from her. Since I was going to stop here anyway this morning, I thought I’d ask. I believe she was trying to get a line on the people who were living there when you bought it?” I put a question mark at the end of my statement, suggesting that I wasn’t too sure about any of this.