“Yeah, I think so.”
Portia closes the back hatch and slides into the driver’s seat. “Where are we going?” It’s clear to everyone she’s not happy.
“Corpus,” Wanda says sitting in the back seat between TB and me with Stinky in her lap. “I’ll come back for my car. No one will bother a patrol vehicle while we’re gone, plus leaving my car here hopefully will make anyone looking for us think we’re still at the hotel. But you need to trade this one in for another one since Jack has seen it and likely has the license plate number.”
“It’s almost seven p.m., what’s going to be open at this hour?” Portia asks.
“The downtown rental office has one that’s open until ten,” TB says. Where did he find time to look that up, I wonder, but no one says a word as Portia pulls out of the parking lot, checks out the highway, and heads for the mainland. As we cross the John F. Kennedy Memorial Bridge one more time, a gorgeous moon rises over the bay.
“Almost full,” Mimi says with a smile.
“That should make everything right,” Portia retorts sarcastically and whatever positive energy we had managed to maintain drains from the car like the floodwaters of Katrina once the city pumps started working.
No one says anything until we hit downtown and TB instructs Portia on where to find the Hertz rental office. We pull in and tell the man behind the desk that our present auto’s not big enough for the five of us, may we please have another, and the man’s happy to supply a larger van. At a much larger price, of course. Portia’s not happy about that either, since it’s all on her card. I think to offer to help but the year’s recession has taken a number on my finances. I’m finally on my feet with freelance offers coming back in, but I have yet to replenish my savings and my credit card’s maxed out.
TB, bless his heart, leans toward Portia and whispers, “I’ll take care of the hotel room tonight.”
Portia shakes her head. “This trip’s my idea and I said I would take care of things.” There’s something less toxic in her voice so I’m hopeful. She even smiles — a little. “You can make breakfast.”
TB grins like a schoolboy. “You bet.”
Unfortunately, Portia must have the last word. “Just don’t use up the guy’s stash in the refrigerator.”
This perks up Mimi. “Another one of those air hotels?”
Portia rolls her eyes and heads out the door, following the Hertz man. Wanda watches her leave, then turns toward us. “I’m really sorry about this.”
“If anything, it’s our fault. We should have told you about the nursery.”
Wanda crosses her arms. “Yeah, you should have.”
“But they did find out information.” Thank you, Mimi.
“And you should have told us about Elena,” I add. “And that she might have been involved with corrupt Texas Rangers.”
Wanda leans in close and we all do the same. “He’s not corrupt,” she whispers. “Jack was like Elena, working undercover trying to get information on the cartel and they must have gotten wind of it. At least that’s what we suspect because he left the payroll and disappeared. No one knew he had a business on Padre Island. He’s more than likely keeping quiet to save his skin.”
“And Elena?”
Wanda swallows. Hard. Her eyes turn dark as she looks out the sliding glass doors. “I just hope to hell he wasn’t involved in getting her killed.”
“If that’s what happened.” I’m trying to be optimistic but seeing Elena means she’s not of this world. I think Wanda believes in my ability and is convinced Elena has died but there’s no use saying it out aloud.
The new van pulls up and whatever darkness descended upon us lifts as TB lights up at the sight. It’s a fancy 2009 black Suburban with tinted windows. While we help the Hertz man move the luggage from one car to another, he starts listing the car’s features, which makes TB even happier.
“There’s a new service that we just received with these cars,” the man says. “It’s satellite radio.”
“On my God, yes,” TB says.
Portia hands TB the keys. “Knock yourself out.”
Wanda orders a cab to retrieve her cop car and stay with relatives while we all head to the Airbnb in Corpus. It’s another house for rent that Mimi found online, this time with the owner living on the second floor while we take over the first. It’s a bit awkward when the owner lets us in and talks non-stop, but after we all yawn a few times, he gets the message and leaves.
“Finally,” Portia says and heads to the room she’s sharing with Mimi. I think to follow my sister and resume our conversation, but there’s something I’m dying to do first.
TB brings our luggage into a room containing a frilly little double with lots of pink accents and puffy pillows, no doubt once a teenager’s room. There’s even a poster of the Backstreet Boys hanging on the inside of the door. Stinky curls up beneath a pillow shame and TB unzips his bag and starts searching its pockets again, biting the inside of his cheek.
I sneak up behind and whisper, “I want to go back to that nursery.”
TB’s eyes enlarge and he throws the bag’s top down. “That’s insane.”
“Yeah, so what’s your point.”
“This isn’t funny, Vi. Remember Natchez?”
It’s the first time we’ve discussed that horrible incident and I look away. “I made some bad choices and….”
“Bad? More like dangerous choices. You were half a second to meeting your maker. If I hadn’t figured out what happened….”
I glance at him imploringly. “I’m letting you know this time.”
He shakes his head, picks up his bag, and moves it to a nearby chair. “No way. That man works with the cartel.”
“Allegedly.” Until a person is convicted, that’s the appropriate word. I learned that in Journalism 101.
“You heard what Wanda said. If a Texas Ranger is hiding out, it must be bad.”
“I don’t think he’s hiding out.”
TB looks at me with a frown and I wish I could explain what I just said. It popped out of my mouth before I had time to think. But then, there’s that vision I had of the space behind Cottage Number 15.
“I know where she’s buried.” I take his hand. “It’s in a place that’s not on McDonald’s property, at least not in the part we visited. It’s in back of the nursery and the auto court, next to that state park next door.”
“Boy, they like public parks, don’t they?”
“There’s got to be a parking lot by the park entrance. We could sneak over and into the back of the nursery. No one will be the wiser.”
TB shakes his head again. “Vi, Jack McDonald knows about us and what we’re looking for. You really think we can just waltz over there and look around and he’s not going to know.”
I sit down on the bed and run my hands over my eyes. It’s a stupid idea for sure. And yet, something keeps telling me I need to go.
“We can bring Stinky,” I finally say, looking up at him with a pleading gaze.
TB closes his eyes and exhales. I know he’s still going to talk me out of it so I use my trump card. “If you’re with me what could happen?”
He sits next to me on the bed and looks at the far wall. “I’m not a superhero.”
I turn so that I’m facing him. “That’s the second time you’ve said that. And so far, you’ve been as close to a Marvel man as I’ve seen on screen.”
He stands up so fast the bed shakes like an earthquake. “I don’t like doing it, Vi. I’m not like that.”
I grab his hand. “I’m not asking you to save the world, I’m asking you to drive me over there and be close in case something happens. I have a feeling this must be tonight. He might be moving the body for all we know.”
TB doesn’t just close his eyes this time, he grimaces as he shuts them hard. Anyone else standing before me — Portia for instance — would insist that Elena Gomez isn’t our problem, that she’s not what we’re here for. Mimi would prefer a safer, more natural route, maybe s
omething incorporating that full moon-to-be. But TB….
He sighs and looks heavenward, his shoulders dropping. “I’m driving.” He looks at me one last time before grabbing his keys. “Only because we didn’t go by the grocery store.”
We must travel across the bay bridge and then up Padre Island so we have time to talk and discuss plans. Instead, the two of us say nothing, me petting Stinky who’s comfortable in my lap. After ten minutes, I can’t stand the silence so I turn on the radio. The radio face lights up and lists what song is playing and by whom.
“What?”
Finally, TB lightens up. “It’s satellite radio.”
I play around with it a little and find all kinds of stations coming in from outer space without commercials, one called Coffee House playing cool, soft tunes and another spotlighting Bruce Springsteen. When I hit 70s on 7 my placid husband nearly bursts a blood vessel. Did I mention he loves music of the 70s?
“Runaway by Jefferson Starship,” he says before I have time to look at the screen.
I laugh because he knows every song written in that decade. “You’re amazing.”
“It’s a sign.”
“What is?”
He nods toward the radio and I get it. But I’m not hearing that we need to run away from Elena and head back to the safety of our pink room but how much the singer wants to put his arms around the person he loves because he misses her so much.
You don’t know how much I love you,
But I love you like the sun….
I look over at my husband and the thought of how much I care for him fills me with a light so powerful it’s hard to breathe. If he asked me to run away with him to Tennessee, I’d pack up my little mother-in-law unit in Lafayette and go.
But I still don’t know how he feels about me. Or if he loves that snippy real estate agent back in New Orleans.
We turn northeast on Highway 361 and don’t drive far before we hit the entrance to Mustang Island State Park, passing the Palm Court Nursery with its high metal walls and locked gate, all dark and foreboding inside. Once we see the park entrance sign, however, our hopes fade.
The park contains miles of Gulf beaches on one side and the Corpus Christi Bay on the other with sand dunes and grasslands in between and not a tree in sight. Padre Island is a barrier island so it’s flat and wide open in these protected acres with little places to park or hide. If the sun were up we’d be able to see for miles. By the time we reach the park office on the Gulf side with a campground and other amenities, we’re pretty far from Palm Court.
TB pulls off the road, places the car in park and looks at me. “What now?”
I try to “feel” the answer like Mimi suggests but nothing’s coming. With no place to hide the car I haven’t a clue. I’m fearful we won’t be able to pull this off and we wasted time driving out here, not to mention if Jack spots us we’re busted and not in a good way.
I’m about to admit as much when Stinky wakes up from his place on my lap, looks out the window and howls. I roll down the window and the cool Gulf breeze ruffles the curls on my neck, gives me the shivers.
“You cold?” TB asks. “I brought your sweater.”
I send him a smile because he’s always been this considerate, always thinking of everything. People give women credit for being organized but we never left the house with Lillye without her diaper bag full, never went through a day without her meds in order and her special meals prepared, thanks to my husband. TB smiles back and for a moment I have hope that we might be a couple again.
And then Stinky really starts howling.
We both lean forward and try to make out why Stinky’s gazing out across the parking lot but it’s impossible to discern what’s hanging outside a small camper. Stinky turns to growling so TB turns the car back on and drives slowly toward the campsite. When we finally drive up next to the camper I notice the item’s a blanket sporting a piece of medieval artwork. I lean out the window and the image becomes clearer. It’s the angel Gabriel delivering the annunciation to Mary, when he explained how she was pregnant with Jesus. In his hands are white lilies, a sign of purity, but for me it means something else entirely.
“That’s a sign,” I whisper.
Now that we got the message, Stinky curls back in my lap. I stare at this freaky cat who acts like he’s out of this world and wonder if he’s Lillye or close to her. But that’s crazy, isn’t it?
“What does it mean?” TB asks, bringing me back.
“Don’t you know your angel history?” He sends me a look. “It’s your Uncle Gabriel giving lilies to Mary on the annunciation.”
I start to ask, “Do you think Stinky might be…?” but TB puts the car in motion and drives out of the camping area and back to the entrance. Instead, I ask where he’s going.
“I have an idea.”
We exit the park, head down island, pass the Palm Court nursery and pull into the parking lot of a Methodist church. Like everything around this place, it’s a building towering over its landscape, surrounded by flat, sandy grasslands. We drive around to the back and TB parks between a dumpster and the Sunday School building and the shadow they cast upon the car gives us plenty of cover.
“What made you think of this?”
TB shrugs. “I was thinking that if I had gone to church more often I might have known that about Mary and then I thought of this church.” With an afterthought, he adds, “Gabriel isn’t my uncle.”
We exit the car, Stinky following behind, and head through the church property that neighbors the auto court. I can’t help getting in the last word. “Great, great, great uncle then.”
The wind’s still blowing good off the Gulf and it howls as we turn the corner of the Sunday School. Voices carry but faint.
“Did you hear that?” TB whispers.
I nod and we head in that direction, towards the back of the auto court which resembles an L on the left side of the nursery property. Six cottages face the nursery office and four cottages at the rear face the main highway and beyond that the Gulf of Mexico. A fence parallels the back of the six cottages and keeps us from going forward, but we spot an opening toward the back, where those four cottages exist. We’re able to climb over brush and sneak behind the cottages in what resembles an alley. Everything ends at Cottage Number 15, the last building in the row.
We pause outside, realizing the light’s on, slight beams of yellow illuminating the alley through slits in the boarded-up window. We tread lightly until we’re right beneath the window and squat down. Now, that we’re out of the wind and away from the water and highway, we have no trouble making out two voices — one man and one woman — shouting at each other. I look over and Stinky’s hair stands at attention, ears perked and eyes alert.
“You shouldn’t have come,” the man says and we realize it’s Jack McDonald. “You’re going to get us both killed.”
“Where is she?” Wanda yells back. “I want to know where you buried Elena.”
“For the last time, I didn’t hurt a hair on that woman’s head, no matter what your crazy psychic said.”
Wanda told him about me? That’s a first, a cop admitting to using a psychic.
“She said she’s buried out back.”
Jack huffs so loud we can hear it and he retorts with what I assume is gritted teeth. “Elena’s not buried out back.”
“Then you won’t mind if I go check.”
We hear something fall and crash to the floor. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Let me go,” Wanda says.
TB makes a move to stand but I grab his sleeve and hold him in place. “She has a gun,” I whisper.
“So does he,” he whispers back.
Another crash and we both stand this time, although neither of us knows what to do. Just then we hear scratching on wood coming from the bottom of the door and look down to find Stinky demanding entrance.
The noise inside stops.
“What the hell is that?” Jack asks. “Who did you
bring with you?”
“No one,” Wanda answers. “I told you on the phone this was just between us. I don’t care what you’re doing out here, just let me bring Elena home.”
There’s that catch in her voice again and I wish I had a gun. I’d go charging inside and pistol-punch that jerk, threaten to bury him out back. But Stinky scratches again and this time Jack comes looking. TB and I quickly hide on the side of the cottage, the place where people used to park their cars.
We hear the door open and footsteps crossing the threshold. Jack’s carrying a flashlight and he shines it every which way but, of course, can’t see us hiding in the shadow of the cottage’s old carport. I pray Stinky isn’t acting stupid in his effort to protect Wanda, the cat masseuse, but the light of Jack’s flashlight begins moving toward a warehouse out back and I suspect Stinky’s leading him off somewhere.
TB gazes around the corner and when he feels we’re safe motions for me to join him and we both turn the corner and enter Cottage Number 15. Wanda leans against an old kitchen table about to light up a cigarette but drops both the cigarette and the matches when she spots us.
“What are y’all doing here?” she screams whispers.
“We’re worried about you,” TB says.
“Are you in danger?” I ask.
“I’m fine. Just not getting any answers.”
“But he was hurting you,” TB insists.
Wanda nods toward the pots and pans littering the floor. “I knocked over some crap.”
All three of us are well inside the cottage’s kitchen — or what used to be called one — so Wanda leans forward, looks out the back door slowly to get a view of what Jack’s doing. I lean as well and see the beam of his flashlight several hundred feet off, then disappearing. I think of Stinky finding that murder weapon in McAllen and wonder if he’s leading us to something new.
Wanda moves to leave.
“I’m going with you,” I say.
“No, you’re not.”
I’m expecting her to add for us to get in our car and head back to Corpus but she doesn’t. I imagine deep down she’s glad we’re there.
“Then I’m coming with you,” TB says.
Ghost Trippin' Page 14
