Mourning Gloria (16 page)

“Well, if our Girl Reporter is hot on the trail, she hasn’t bothered to let me in on the secret,” Hark growled. “I’m holding two columns above the fold, page one.” He looked up at the clock. “It’s getting late. And all I’ve got to lead with is the county commissioners’ meeting tonight. Or the rodeo. Whoopee. Maybe I can get Ruby to do a story on bull riding. She tells me she has a date with one of the bull riders.” His sigh was laced with sarcasm. “She’s always loved cowboys. Likes to live dangerously, I guess.”

I frowned. “Jessica hasn’t phoned?”

“Nope.”

“Then where is she?”

“How the hell should I know? Keeping track of delinquent interns isn’t in my job description.”

“I am not your enemy, Hark,” I said succinctly. I leaned my shoulder against the door jamb. “I am your friend. And I am worried about Jessica.”

“What’s to worry about?” He put up his feet, tilted his chair back, and clasped his hands behind his head. His shirt showed circles of perspiration under his armpits. “It’s true that I expected more from her, yeah. It’s also true that I expected her to be professional enough to meet her deadlines.” He was being sarcastic. “But hell, she’s only a kid, China. Kids don’t take their responsibilities seriously.”

“This one does.” I stepped into his office and stood in front of his desk. “Do you know what she’s up to?”

“Up to? Yeah. She’s covering the trailer fire. I probably shouldn’t have assigned it to her, but she’s been after me to give her something she could get her teeth into, and I thought she was woman enough to handle it.” He glanced across the room at a whiteboard on the wall, where assignments and story lineups were posted. “Looks like she’s also got the ribbon cutting at the high school tomorrow and the rodeo this weekend. After that—”

“She’s not just covering the trailer fire, she’s involved in it. Her mom and dad and twin sister died in a house fire. She wasn’t home that night, so she escaped. This story is intensely personal to her, especially after she learned that the victim was alive when the fire got to her. She wants to find out everything she can about the girl. She wants to get acquainted with the killer. She—”

Hark’s frown had been getting darker and darker. Now he dropped his feet and his chair came forward, hard. “She
what
?”

“You heard me. She has read
In Cold Blood
and taken it to heart. She wants to be Truman Capote when she grows up. The investigative journalist, getting to the heart of the crime—and the criminal.”

“Aw, hell,” Hark growled disgustedly. “What do they teach them up there at the college? I tell these interns, over and over. Stay objective. Don’t get involved. But do they listen? Hell, no. She’s probably hoping to win a Pulitzer.”

“Have you tried calling her place?”

Instead of replying, he flipped through his Rolodex, found a number, and punched it in. When the answering machine began to pick up, he cut it off. “No answer,” he said unnecessarily. “Nobody’s there.”

“I think she said her roommate had gone camping for the week.” I put my hands on my hips. “So what are we going to do?”

“Do?” Now he was snarling. “I am going to bang out a two-column story about a girl who burned to death in a trailer on Limekiln Road on Saturday night, that’s what I’m going to do. I am going to call the sheriff’s office and get the latest on the investigation. I am going to send Gene and his camera out to take a photo of what’s left of the trailer—since the reporter I assigned to the job hasn’t met her deadline.” He narrowed his eyes and poked a finger at me. “And
you
are going home. You are going to do whatever you had planned for the evening. Cook dinner for McQuaid and the kids. Go bowling. Weed your parsley. Whatever.”

I bit my lip. “But don’t you think we ought to—”

“Ought to what?” He was shouting now. “Jessica is over twenty-one, damn it. She doesn’t need anybody holding her hand. All she needs is to file her story, whatever the hell it is. All she needs is to meet her responsibilities.”

I looked up at the clock. My daughter was waiting for me. My friend would be over soon to pick up my husband’s truck. I had responsibilities, too. I sighed. “Okay, go ahead and write the friggin’ story. But give me her address and home phone number. I’ve got her cell.”

He almost threw the Rolodex at me. I copied the phone number and address (on Santa Fe Street, north of the campus) and left before our friendship could be irrevocably damaged.

“I told you so,” Ethel said darkly, as I hurried past her desk. She stuck another pencil into her beehive. “Didn’t I tell you so? Didn’t I say to tippy-toe back there?”

“Yes, Ethel,” I gritted, “you did.” I am ashamed to say that I slammed the door, hard, on my way out.

As a Valentine’s present, McQuaid had fitted my car with one of those hands-free cell phone devices. I used it now, trying Jessica’s cell as I drove to Amy’s house to pick up Caitlin. No luck. I tried the house phone as Caitie and I headed for home, and got the answering machine. Tried the cell phone again. Still nothing.

When we got home, Donna was waiting on our back porch.

“I have some good news,” she said, as I handed over the keys to McQuaid’s truck. “Margie Laughton and I are going into partnership together. We signed the papers today, so it’s official. We’re putting it in the farm’s newsletter this week.” She let a smile creep across her mouth. “Really good news, for a change.”

“Wow—that’s exciting, Donna. How’s it going to work?” My impulsive question sounded nosy. “If you don’t mind my asking,” I added apologetically.

But Donna didn’t seem to mind. “Margie is buying fifty percent of the business. She’s going to be responsible for marketing and sales, while I manage production.” She chuckled ironically. “Production. That’s a fancy word for planting and harvesting, of course, same as always. Hard labor.”

Fifty percent? That made Margie a full partner in the farm. “But what about—”

“What about Terry?” she interjected. Her mouth hardened. “Terry and I thrashed this all out before she . . . went away. She wasn’t in favor—mostly because she doesn’t like Margie. Or maybe it’s Stu she doesn’t like.”

I was nonplussed. “Stu? Why?”

“Who knows? Terry gets strange ideas sometimes. I had no idea the two of them had even met.” She straightened her shoulders and looked me full in the eye. “My sister is totally out of the farm, China. Totally. After she was released from prison, she said she needed money and she wanted me to buy her out. I didn’t ask why, because I was sure it had something to do with drugs and I didn’t want to know.” She made a face. “I didn’t have the cash, but Aunt Velda loaned it to me. The whole amount, bless her heart. So I paid Terry a fair market price for her share. She and I are square.”

You didn’t have to be an accountant to see that this was painfully unfair. Terry had contributed neither labor nor cash to the business during the years she’d spent in jail, and any success the farm now enjoyed was entirely due to Donna’s hard work.

“Sounds to me like Terry took advantage,” I said, beginning to understand Donna’s attitude toward her sister—and glimpse a possible explanation for Terry’s sudden disappearance. I was guessing that the two women had a big fight.

“I’ve been trying awfully hard not to let it get me down,” Donna replied with a little shrug. “But I don’t mind telling you I’ve been pretty crazy about it. You can imagine how relieved I was when Margie Laughton offered to buy in, out of the blue, really. I jumped at the chance. I’ll trade Margie for Terry any day. And now that she’s officially on board, I can use her funds to pay Auntie back for Terry’s buyout.” She grinned ruefully. “I don’t mind telling you that I’m glad to have the help, especially with marketing and sales. Margie has a knack for that. And with the new book, she and Stu will be making a name for themselves. That should be good for business, too.”

“It should,” I agreed—enthusiastically, because I like Margie Laughton. She’s not as charismatic as her husband, maybe, but she’s a hard worker with plenty of common sense.

Donna turned toward the door, then hesitated. “About Terry,” she said. “I know you think I’m avoiding the obvious, but I somehow don’t think it was her in that trailer, China. Terry is tough and powerful and as strong as most men, you know. She doesn’t let anybody mess with her. I can’t believe she’d get into a situation where somebody else could get the upper hand.”

I nodded. I hadn’t seen Terry for quite a while, but my experience with her had given me that impression, too. However, if you’re unarmed and somebody pulls a gun on you, it doesn’t matter how tough or how strong you are. Which brought up another question.

“Does Terry have a gun?” I asked.

Donna shifted uncomfortably. “She’s . . . she’s not supposed to, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. As a felon, she is banned by federal law from ever possessing any firearm or ammunition, anywhere, inside or outside her home. If she was caught, she could get up to ten years in prison. “But . . .” I let my voice trail off. But plenty of felons possess guns. Sometimes they use them.

Donna tightened her jaw. “Yes, Terry has a gun. One of those ugly little Saturday night specials. I made her hide it out in the barn. I didn’t want it in the house.”

Great. That was just great. I didn’t suppose Donna had thought to mention this when she filed the missing-person report. “She took it with her when she left?”

Donna sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t ask me all these questions, China. And please, please don’t tell anybody about the gun. But yes, she took it. It was gone, anyway, when I checked. Good riddance, too.”

And then another thought came into my mind. “You don’t suppose,” I said, and stopped.

No. Donna had enough on her plate. I wasn’t going to burden her with a wildly speculative guess. But was it so wild? Terry was strong, powerful, tough. Tough enough to tie up a woman, shoot her, light a fire, and walk away?

I shuddered. Yes. Tough enough.

“Suppose what?” Donna asked, frowning.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just . . . nothing.”

She nodded and held up the keys. “Well, thanks again, China. I appreciate this more than I can say. If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know.”

Caitie fed Howard while I reheated some leftover bean soup, sliced cold meatloaf for sandwiches, and poured two glasses of milk. We were just sitting down to our impromptu supper when Howard padded to the kitchen door and stood there, whining. Like most bassets, he is remarkably vocal, with a repertoire of sonorous barks, gruff growls, complaining mutters, pleading whines, and beseeching whimpers. Now, he was offering the low, murmuring whine that he uses to let us know that something unusual is happening on the other side of his back door—might be a blue jay on the porch or an audacious squirrel on the roof or even a thunderstorm brewing.

“I’ll go see,” Caitie said, getting out of her chair. “What’s up, Howard?”

Howard wagged his tail earnestly, shifting from one big paw to the other in that little “Let’s get moving here” dance of his.

Caitie opened the door. “It’s a cat!” she cried. “Look, Aunt China, it’s a lost kitty!”

Definitely a cat, although I didn’t think he qualified as a “kitty.” An alley cat was more like it. A gaunt, scruffy-looking orange tabby with slanted amber eyes and one torn ear. He sat on his haunches and meowed piteously. He was wearing a dirty red collar but no tag—probably somebody’s lost pet, but out here in the country, it was impossible to say whose. From the looks of him, he had been on the road for quite a while. A hard road. With a great many bumps and brambles and ambushes and not much in the way of provisions.

Caitie bent over and gathered the cat into her arms. Without hesitation, he pushed his head under her chin, flexed his paw on her shoulder, and cranked up a gritty purr loud enough to be heard across the room. This was an opportunistic cat. He knew his way to a little girl’s heart.

“He’s starving, Aunt China! Let’s give him some milk.”

This was one of those crossroad moments that occur in every family’s life. You’ve probably been there yourself, maybe more than once. Pour a dish of milk for a hungry cat and he’s yours forever. Tell a little girl that she can’t give him milk, and she’ll remember it forever, too. Which will it be?

I looked at Caitie, cradling the cat, and passed the buck. “Let’s ask Howard Cosell. Maybe he doesn’t like cats.”

This wasn’t exactly fair, because I know from personal experience that Howard doesn’t like cats. He despised Khat from the moment they were introduced, and none of us got any peace until Khat went to live at the shop. It was more than likely that he would detest this scruffy, obviously low-class interloper and make it plain that he was not going to tolerate the intolerable presence for a single instant.

But Howard double-crossed me. Caitie put the cat on the floor in front of him, and I braced myself for the inevitable flying fur. One inquiring sniff, two. The cat sat still, chin up, eyes slitted, managing to look entirely at home, completely in charge, and totally bored, all at the same time. Howard circled around the cat and sniffed at his backside. Then he sat down beside the beast, thumped his tail on the floor, and smiled.

I frowned.

“You see, Aunt China?” Caitie crowed triumphantly. “Howard
loves
him! Does that mean he can stay?”

“Love” was still an open question, it seemed to me, but Howard didn’t object when Caitie poured some of her milk into a saucer and set it on the floor in front of the cat. The tabby put his head down and began to lap hungrily. While Caitie sat on the floor and watched, encouraging him, he emptied the saucer. Howard gave it an extra lick just to make sure there wasn’t anything left for him.

I tried not to show my dismay. “You’d better eat, too, Caitie,” I said after a minute.

Coming back to the table, she asked again, wistfully now, “Oh,
please
, can we keep him?” The cat crouched by her chair, folded his front paws under his orange bib, and closed his eyes. His purr was loud enough to rattle the windows.