Mourning Gloria (27 page)

Her sense of smell had grown acute, too, and she knew that the bag held chicken nuggets from McDonald’s. He set the flashlight and the bag on the floor and, without untying her hands or her feet, pulled her upright so that her back was propped against something solid. She had peed her panties some time ago and was still uncomfortably wet. She could smell herself, too, the stale urine and fear. But being wet and smelly were small matters, compared to being hungry and thirsty.

But her hunger and thirst didn’t keep her from glancing quickly around her. In the dim light of the flashlight, she could see that she was in a small room with a concrete floor, about the size of a walk-in closet. The back wall was concrete blocks, the others sheetrock partitions. One of the walls was stacked with boxes, a golf bag leaning against them. A tennis racket, a machete with a badly nicked blade, and a pile of wellread
Sports Illustrated
lay on the floor.

The man took a small gun out of his pocket, so small it looked almost like a toy, and put the muzzle against her cheek. It didn’t feel like a toy. It felt heavy, cold, real.

In a low, growly voice, obviously disguised, he said, “I’m going to pull the tape off your mouth so you can drink and eat. If you so much as squeak, the tape goes back on and you can go hungry. Yell and I’ll kill you. Got that?”

She wanted to ask why he hadn’t killed her before now, why he was keeping her alive, why he was feeding her, what he meant to do with her. But the smell of the food was overpowering, and she nodded. Swiftly, he yanked off the tape—oh, that hurt!—and opened the bag, pulling out a drink cup with a straw. She sucked on the straw, swallowed, sucked again. Coke. It was Coke. She sucked again, hearing the straw stir the ice, feeling the blessed coolness sliding down her throat.

Then, crouching beside her, he fed her the nuggets one at a time, as if she were a dog. She gobbled them at first, almost gulping them whole, then chewed and swallowed more slowly, making them last. He thrust the drink cup toward her, and she bent her head for the straw.

Too soon, the nuggets were gone and she had slurped up the last of the Coke. He was bagging the wrappings when she heard the sound of the outer door opening, and a light female voice calling, “Hey, Joe, bring that box, will you?”

Jessica’s jailor tensed, and she could sense his panic. He snatched up the tape and hastily plastered it across her mouth and shoved her down on the floor, the gun to her head. He picked up the flashlight and turned it off, as a garish overhead fluorescent flickered and came on.

“Thanks, Joe,” said the girl’s voice. “Just set it down. This’ll just take a minute—if I can remember the combination.”

The speaker was not far away, less than ten yards, Jessica thought. The man now had his knee on her back, pressing her shoulders painfully. He put a hand over her eyes, but his fingers, smelling of nuggets and cigarettes, left a gap, and in the bright light, just a couple of inches from her nose, she could see the hem of his jeans, ragged, and his high-topped basketball shoes, striped red and white, with a blue tongue.

“There. That’s it,” the female voice said with satisfaction. “Let’s just slide the boxes in.”

“You sure there’s room?” a guy’s voice asked with a chuckle. “Looks pretty full to me. You’ve got way too much stuff, Janet.”

“Yeah.” The girl sighed. “I keep thinking I’ve got to clean this place out. But not today.”

A door slammed shut. A lock clicked. Footsteps. The light went off. A heavy door closed.

The knee on Jessica’s back relaxed and the hand moved away from her eyes. The shrouded flashlight came back on. The man stood looking down at her for a long moment, then bent over, picked up the McDonald’s bag, and left, closing and locking the door behind him. A moment later, she heard the sound of the heavy door closing.

She lay there until she was sure he wasn’t coming back, and then she got to work.

I was on my way out of the building when a young woman—the girl I had seen napping a row away from Zoe’s carrel—stopped me just inside the door. She was in her early twenties, tall, flat-chested, almost anorexic-looking, with stringy brown hair and a dark tan. She wore shorts and sandals and a striped purple and red knit top, with a chunky pottery amulet on a thong around her neck. One upper arm was tattooed with an art nouveau flower and the other with an intricately embellished Celtic knot. She glanced nervously over her shoulder.

“Listen,” she said, in a tense, edgy voice. “I was in the TA room when you and Zoe were talking about Gloria. I didn’t mean to listen in, but I couldn’t help overhearing. I can’t believe . . .” She chewed her lower lip. “Is it really true that she’s the one who died in that trailer fire Saturday night?”

“The victim hasn’t been identified yet—but yes, it’s possible.” I paused, thinking that this girl had been too far away to “overhear.” She had to have moved closer and deliberately listened in. Why? “I’m China Bayles,” I added. “And your name—”

She hesitated, turning half away as if she were going to leave, then turning back. “You’re not a cop, are you?”

I repressed the urge to smile. “What makes you think that?” I countered, trying to decide whether my being a cop would be a plus or a minus with this young woman.

She tossed her head. “The way you talk. You sound, like, official.” She scrutinized me doubtfully. “You don’t look like a cop, though.”

“I’m not a cop,” I said, and she relaxed a little. “I’m looking for information about Gloria Graham.”

“Why?”

I gave her a steady look. “Because a reporter covering the fire for the local newspaper has disappeared. I think her disappearance is linked to her investigation. What do you know about Gloria Graham?”

It was a simple enough question, one that an innocent, unknowing person would answer with a shrug and a regretful smile.
Sorry—wish I could help but I don’t have a clue.

But this girl didn’t say that. “Disappeared?” she asked. “The reporter?” She was chewing on her lip, her glance sliding to one side. She had been nervous before, and edgy. Now she seemed out-and-out scared.

“Yes.” I didn’t elaborate. “Are you a friend of Gloria Graham?” I paused, frowning quizzically. “Excuse me—what did you say your name was?”

She hesitated for a moment, trying to decide whether to tell me, then made up her mind. “My name is Shannon,” she said. “Shannon Fisher. No, I am not a
friend
of Gloria.” There was a resentful edge to her voice. “I know her, that’s all.” Another jittery glance over her shoulder, more lip-chewing. “Listen, classes will be out in another few minutes. I might be able to tell you something, but not here. How about the native plant garden, behind the building?”

“Sure,” I said. “If that works for you.” But why shouldn’t we talk here? Who was she afraid of? Or maybe it wasn’t fear at all. Shannon had the look of a drama queen. Maybe this encounter was one of her self-dramatization games, in which she starred as an informant in an espionage caper and I was her contact. If that was true, I wouldn’t learn anything helpful. And it was getting late.

I looked pointedly at my watch. “I need to be somewhere else in just a few minutes,” I said. “If you have information—”

“Do you want to hear this or not?” she demanded.

“Depends on what it is.”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to decide that when you hear it, won’t you?” She gave one more glance, making sure that nobody was around, and then took another precaution. “Wait a couple of minutes before you come. Then take the path to your right, the Woodland Trail. Go up the hill a ways, and you’ll come to a bench. I’ll meet you there.” She headed off.

Well, heck. While I was waiting, I’d put the time to good use by calling Blackie. I caught him on his way to a meeting and gave him a quick outline of what I had learned from Lucy LaFarge and Zoe Morris.

“I think you need to talk to both of them,” I said. “It might be better to drop in on LaFarge unannounced, but Morris is anxious to cooperate. Of the two, Morris may be able to help you identify the victim. I think we have a name: Gloria Graham.”

“Initials G.G.,” Black said. “That works with the bracelet.”

“Plus, she drove a red Mustang—
and
she had a key to the trailer. LaFarge may be able to tell you about the accelerant,” I added, “although I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know anything about the fire. However, she does know quite a lot about turning morning glory seeds into a street drug. You might want to ask her about that.”

“Hang on.” There was a pause as Blackie noted the names and contact information. “Anything else?” he asked dryly.

“Yeah. An address for Gloria Graham. Hill Country Villa, on Sam Houston Drive.” I gave him the information I had jotted down from Zoe’s message on Jessica’s answering machine.

“Good lord, China.” Blackie sounded exasperated. “How’d you dig all this stuff up?”

“By following Jessica Nelson’s trail. She dug it up first. And more, probably. Listen, Blackie, I was on my way to the PSPD to file a missing-person on Jessica. But I’ve just met somebody who may have some more information, and I need to talk to her. Could you possibly—”

“Hark Hibler has already filed the report,” Blackie interrupted. “We just got the notice here.”

“Hark?” I was surprised—and relieved. One less thing I’d have to do. “That’s great.” He was a good guy after all.

“Yeah. I don’t know the details. But there’s an APB on Nelson’s car. Hopefully, we’ll turn something up. Where are you?”

“On the campus—at the Hort Center.” I pushed through the doors and began following the sidewalk that leads to the back of the building. “I have to go and talk to this person. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Do that,” Blackie said. I could hear the grin in his voice. “And any time you get tired of fooling around with plants, you might apply here, as an investigator. I’ll be glad to put in a good word for you with the next sheriff.”

The next sheriff—a reminder that Blackie’s days were numbered. I chuckled. “Maybe you could put in a good word with a certain P.I. we both know,” I said. “I could pick up a few dollars in my spare time.”

He chuckled, too, and we clicked off.

I reached the stone gateway that leads to the garden, hoping that this wasn’t a colossal waste of time. What were the chances that Shannon could add anything significant to the information I’d already managed to collect? More likely, she was just satisfying a need to put herself in the middle of the picture. Meanwhile, Ruby was going crazy at the shop, having to keep tabs on Baby Grace every minute. That was where I needed to be. I picked up my pace. Much as I might like to loiter in the garden, this wasn’t the morning for it.

The Curry Center Native Plant Garden is a not as extensive as the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center in Austin, but it features a similar range of plants and has a similar look, with stone paths and a few stone picnic shelters. There’s a large central space where flowers and native plants are grown in beds so they can be observed and studied. Beyond that, there are twenty acres or so of wild gardens designed to introduce visitors to the plants found in different ecoregions of the Hill Country: the Balcones Canyonland; savannah-like meadows studded with mesquite and wildflowers; and a riparian environment along a small creek. In the spring and fall, when it’s not so hot, the gardens are crowded with visitors and students. Today’s bright sun would soon be daunting, though, and I saw only a few people—a girl sketching a clump of native blackfoot daisies; a young man weeding a flower bed; a pregnant mom with a toddler clutching a pink balloon.