Mourning Gloria (13 page)

I yanked at a bindweed that was choking the life out of a neighboring lavender plant. The possibilities were infinite. The information was scanty. There wasn’t enough evidence to draw any sort of conclusion. We’d have to wait for the DNA report or the dental records, both of which could take a while. But maybe Terry would come home before then and that part of the mystery, anyway, would be solved.

And in the meantime, I reminded myself that—while I was deeply sympathetic to Donna’s plight—this really was not my problem, and there was no sense in stewing over it. I had lots of other things on my mind, including the fact that McQuaid would be away longer than he had planned. He’d called the night before to say that he had wrapped up the investigation in Memphis but he’d uncovered another angle, and Charlie Lipman wanted him to follow up. Instead of taking a plane home this morning, he was on his way to Knoxville. So Caitie and I would be batching it until Wednesday, at least. Too bad. We were ready for him to come home.

“Hey, China.”

I looked up, startled, squinting against the late-morning sun. “Oh, Jessica. Hi.”

The intrepid girl reporter was wearing denim pants, a white blouse, and a red blazer, and carried a business-like leather bag over her shoulder. “I’ll bet you forgot,” she said in a tone that barely missed being accusing. “About our lunch, I mean.”

“Oh, no,” I lied, and scrambled to my feet. “I just got busy and lost track of time.” But of course she was right. I had remembered our lunch date earlier that morning, but Donna’s call had driven it out of my mind.

She hitched the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. “Why don’t we just go over to Beans’ and get something to eat? Unless you’ve already made sandwiches, that is.”

“I haven’t,” I confessed. I brushed the dirt off my knees. “Beans’ is a great idea. The food is good, and we can sit in the back where there isn’t much noise. Let’s do it.”

 

 

IF you’re looking for Beans’ Bar and Grill, you’ll find it in a tin-roofed stone building between Purley’s Tire Company and the MoPac railroad tracks, across the street from the Old Firehouse Dance Hall. It’s a Texas roadhouse of 1930s or ’40s vintage, with a pressed tin ceiling painted white, a worn wooden floor, an assemblage of mismatched tables and chairs, and an antique mirrored bar that runs the length of the main room. You can go to Beans’ to play pool, throw darts at posters of various politicos, sit at the bar and watch the Longhorns beat the bejeebers out of the Aggies on TV (or vice versa) while you pig out on a chickenfried steak smothered in Bob Godwin’s special cream gravy, with sides of deep-fried pickled jalapeños, beans, or coleslaw. You can also play “Boot-Scootin’ Boogie” on the old Wurlitzer jukebox or carve your initials on the wooden Indian that stands just inside the door. And when you’re ready to settle your tab, you can whistle for Bud, who will pick it up and take it to the cash register. Bud (short for Budweiser) has floppy yellow ears and wears a red bandana and a leather saddlebag with a side pocket for tips. He’s Bob Godwin’s golden retriever—so called, according to Bob, because he retrieves the gold.

Bob, a burly, red-haired Nam vet, has owned Beans’ for the past five years or so. His furry red brows meet in the middle of a rugged, pockmarked face, and he sports a tattoo of a broken heart on one thick forearm and a coiled snake tattoo on the other. He lives in a trailer outside of town and raises goats, some of which occasionally put in a featured appearance on the menu. Bob’s grilled cabrito kabobs—marinated with lime juice, soy sauce, and garlic and grilled with cherry tomatoes and chunks of onion, pineapple, and green peppers—are justifiably famous. His Drunken Goat Stew is even better, but he makes it only for special occasions. It’s like Julia’s
Boeuf Bourguignon
, only more so.

“I think I’ll have the tortilla soup and a salad,” Jessica said, when we had settled at one of the farther tables, away from the crack of pool cues and the wheeze of the ancient Wurlitzer.

“You might want to reconsider that soup,” I said. “It’s heavy on the cilantro.” The four bunches Bob had bought on Saturday were enough to last ordinary people for a couple of weeks. Bob would go through them in a few days.

“What’s cilantro?”

“It looks like parsley,” I said. “But it has its own unique taste. It’s used heavily in Mexican cooking.” I was being evasive. I am not a cilantro fan, but I didn’t want to prejudice Jessica. To each her own.

Jessica nodded carelessly. “The soup sounds fine.”

Well, okay,
I thought. “I’ll have a burger.” There’s nothing not to like about Bob’s burgers, which are thick and juicy and beyond reproach. He gets his beef from a local rancher over in Blanco County. Grass-fed. No factory-farmed animals.

A moment later, Bob himself was standing beside our table. “China Bayles!” He dropped an exaggerated kiss on my head. “Ain’t seen you in a dog’s age. What’cha been doin’ with yerself?” He stepped back for a closer look. “And what’n the hell did ya do to them eyebrows, girl?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Got too close to a bonfire, huh?” He chortled merrily. “Where’s yer old man these days? Ain’t seen him lately, neither.”

I grinned. “He’s in Knoxville, digging up dirt on somebody for Charlie Lipman.”

Bob rolled his eyes expressively. “Prob’ly divorce dirt. Charlie makes a bundle off them divorces. Sure made a bundle off mine, years back.” Bob was married to the woman who used to own the Resale Shop, until he caught her stepping out with an oil rig worker. For his friends and bar buddies, the episode rivaled
As the World Turns.
He tilted his head, regarding Jessica with a teasing leer. “And who’s this purty little lady? You got a name, sweetheart?”

Jessica blushed. I introduced her, adding, “She’s working as an intern at the
Enterprise
this summer.”

I was impressed by the speed with which Jessica turned off the blush and switched to reporter mode, all stations alert. “Actually, I’m covering the trailer fire out on Limekiln Road on Saturday night,” she said. “Have you heard about it?”

Of course he had heard about it—probably two minutes after the fire trucks went out. He pulled his furry brows together. “Turr’ble thang, that fire, jes’ turr’ble,” he muttered. “Somebody said the girl that died was a student over at the college.”

“Oh, really?” Jessica asked intently, leaning forward. “Where’d you hear that?”

Jessica probably didn’t know this, but Beans’ is one of Pecan Springs’ gossip centrals, along with the Nueces Street Diner and the mayor’s biweekly prayer breakfasts. When Hark wants to catch up on the news, he drops in here.

Bob stroked his chin. “Might’ve been Scott Sheridan told me. He was in here yestiddy afternoon. He owns the place—the place that burned, is what I’m sayin’.” He took an order book out of the pocket of his greasestained apron and a pencil from behind his ear. “So what’ll it be for y’all? Them cabrito kabobs is really good today, if I do say so m’self.”

We resisted the cabrito kabobs and gave him our orders. When he had gone, Jessica said, in a low voice, “I talked to Scott Sheridan this morning, China. He didn’t say anything to me about the victim being a student. In fact, he told me he had no idea who she was or what she was doing in the trailer.”

“Maybe Sheridan was just blowing smoke for the boys at the bar,” I said. “Or maybe it was somebody else who said it. Bob might not be remembering accurately.” Or maybe Sheridan just didn’t feel like giving an eager girl reporter something she could turn into a story. Me, I was impressed by the fact that Jessica had followed up with him. “Did Sheridan tell you anything helpful?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, he did. At least, I think so.” She took a reporter’s narrow notebook out of her bag and leafed through the ruled pages, scanning her scribbles. “He said he bought the place because he thought the land was a good investment. The trailer was pretty run-down, but a couple of students were living there, a guy and a girl, on month-to-month. He would’ve let them stay on until the end of the semester, he said, but they were doing drugs. He told them he wanted to work on the place and get it ready to rent for the summer. He was planning to start repairs next week.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. That pretty much squared with what Sheridan had told McQuaid. “Did he give you the names of the renters he evicted?”

She flipped a page. “He couldn’t remember the guy’s name right off and was going to look it up for me. But the girl was . . .” She flipped another page. “The girl was Lucy LaFarge. He remembered, because it sounded like a name in an old B movie. The good thing about a name like that,” she added, “is that it’s easy to track down.”

“Easy for a crack reporter, maybe,” I said with a grin.

She was very serious. “Actually, I’ve already dug up an address for her. LaFarge has an apartment near the campus, 101 North Brazos. I don’t know that she’ll be able to tell me anything about the victim, but she can tell me what it was like to live in that trailer. That’s the angle I’m after, you know. Human interest.”

“Sounds like you’re making progress,” I said approvingly, as Bob brought the iced tea we had ordered and a plate of nachos we hadn’t.

“Nachos are on the house,” he said, and put a big hand on my shoulder. “You gotta come around more, China. You ’n’ McQuaid. Don’t see y’all near often ’nuff.”

“Thanks,” I said, and smiled. Friends are one of the very nicest things about Pecan Springs. You’ll never catch a bar owner in Houston or Dallas giving away a plate of nachos just because he hasn’t seen you in a while.

Jessica reached into her leather bag and took out a minirecorder. She put it on the table between us and flicked the switch. “Now it’s your turn, China. I’d like to hear all about that night—the night you found the trailer on fire. Let’s start with what you were doing earlier that evening and take it from there. Okay?”

“It’s not a very appetizing mealtime story,” I warned. I didn’t want to go through the experience again, but I had promised. I made it quick and graphic. I was finished by the time Bob delivered my burger and Jessica’s tortilla soup and salad.

But Jessica didn’t notice the food. She was totally engrossed in what I had said. Her eyes were wide, her expression horrified.

“Omigod,” she whispered, as she turned her tape recorder off. “I thought the shooter killed her. I mean, I heard that she’d been shot and I thought she died right away. Nobody told me she . . .” She gulped. “Nobody told me she was still alive when you got there. That you heard her screaming. That she
burned
to death.”

“I’m afraid it’s true,” I said. I looked down at my burger, which was thick and juicy and luscious-looking. But suddenly I was hearing the woman’s voice again. And discovering that I wasn’t very hungry after all.

“She must have been . . .” Jessica’s voice dropped. “She must have been so . . . so frightened. Knowing that she was going to die, not being able to get out.” She pulled her soup bowl toward her and dipped her spoon into it. She took a large swallow and wrinkled her nose distastefully. “Yuch. Tastes like soap. Soap and aluminum foil.” She reached for her iced tea. “Is that the cilantro I’m tasting?”

I nodded, refraining from saying
I told you so.
“Lots of people love the taste. But for some, even a little cilantro is too much.” I picked up my burger, thinking that Jessica most likely knew Terry Fletcher from her work at the farm, and wondering if I should tell her that Terry had been missing since Friday. I decided against it. There was no evidence, either direct or circumstantial, to tie Terry to the trailer fire. Her absence could be a coincidence. And for all I knew, she had already shown up back at the farm, in time for lunch. At least, I hoped so.

There didn’t seem to be much else to say. Jessica abandoned her soup, focused on her salad, and finished off the nachos. I nibbled on my hamburger, and when Bud came with the check, I tipped him with a couple of fair-sized chunks of burger and a slice of dill pickle. Bud loves pickles.

We got into Jessica’s green Ford two-door to drive back to the shop. I was planning to spend the afternoon alternating between weeding and dusting—two chores I can perform on autopilot—until it was time to take Caitlin for her violin lesson.

“So how are you spending the rest of the day, Jessica?” I asked, as we swung around the corner.

She answered my idle question with purpose. “I’m driving out to the trailer to take a few more pictures. On my way back into town, I think I’ll stop at the auto parts place and interview Scott Sheridan again—I want to see if he’s found the name of the guy he evicted. After that, I’ve got an appointment at the sheriff’s office to interview Sheriff Blackwell and see the crime scene photos. Then I want to see if I can get Lucy LaFarge to talk to me. After that, I’m going home and write the story.” Her face was serious. “I have the house all to myself this week. My roommate’s gone camping—which may not be as good a thing as I thought. I’m having trouble with a neighbor. He’s a real jerk. Last night, he . . .” She stopped. “But you don’t need to hear about that.”

I wasn’t surprised to hear about her interview, but I’d bet that Blackie wouldn’t let her look at the crime scene photos. I had no great desire to see them myself. They wouldn’t be pretty.

“You’re really digging away at this story, aren’t you?” I remarked. What did Jessica want? Was she simply a good journalism student, trying to do her best? Or an ambitious reporter, eager to add a juicy story to her portfolio?

She shook her head, frowning. “Well, it started out being just a story. I mean, I wanted to do a really good piece. I
need
to do that, because there will be a lot of journalism grads out there looking for jobs. But when you told me what really happened—that made it even more real, China. More personal. The idea of that poor young woman, a student maybe, lying there on that sofa, knowing that she was about to be burned to death . . .” Her hands were clenched on the steering wheel, white-knuckled. “That’s how I lost my twin sister and my mom and dad, you know. They burned to death. It happened ten years ago this month. I wasn’t home that night—I was on a school trip. If I had been there, I would be dead, too. Like my sister, Ginger. Like the girl who died in the trailer.”