“After rehab was up, your dad and Elena went to Jack’s and was hoping he would get them back to McAllen safely and put your father into a witness protection program. Jack insists the two of them saw Manuel Ruiz kill those girls in the park. Apparently, one of the girls was a mule — a person who carries drugs over the border by swallowing heroine packets, — and one of them burst inside of her.”
“Oh, the poor dear,” Mimi says.
“Yes, it’s a horrible way to go.”
“Then what happened?” TB asks.
“The cartel was using the park as a meet-up place and when the girl arrived, she was half gone. They killed her with the weapon Vi uncovered, buried her just where Vi found the body.”
Stinky doesn’t lift his head or open his eyes but a howl emerges.
“You mean Stinky found the murder weapon.”
Wanda gazes at me and my cat like we’re lost our minds. “Yeah, okay.”
“And my dad was there?” I ask, getting the subject back on track. “He was at the Bentsen-Rio Grande Valley State Park where the murders occurred?”
Wanda shakes her head as if she can’t believe what she’s about to say. “He was looking for that damn owl.”
Portia throws her massive purse inside the window and it lands with a thud at Wanda’s feet. “Sorry, can only carry that baby so long.”
“Wanna come inside?”
“No, keep going.”
Wanda takes a swig of coffee from this enormous thermos she’s carrying. Cops and coffee, just like journalists and coffee, only thing we have in common besides trying to get information.
“Jack said he did what he could for your father and Elena but Manuel and his boss, Peter Thomaston, who’s a real badass, showed up at the nursery with a pack of his men,” she continues. “They threatened to kill members of y’all’s family and Jack’s too, so Elena and your dad cooperated.”
“But Elena was a cop.” I’m still in disbelief that anyone would threaten to kill a member of the police force.
Wanda turns solemn and bites the inside of her lip, much the way TB does when he’s nervous. “That family member back in Mexico, they found her tortured and murdered and threatened to do more if Elena didn’t cooperate, so it didn’t much matter what badge she was wearing.”
“Oh, the poor dear,” Mimi repeats, gripping the hem of her blouse and bunching up the material nervously.
“And for good measure, they cut off two of Jack’s fingers.”
That explained the gloves.
“They used the nursery as a drug distribution site,” Wanda continues. “It went on for quite some time. Until one day Jack stood up to the Cartel, loaded down the place with guns and explosives.”
“Did that work?” Portia asks.
“Enough to let John and Elena escape to Galveston and get into witness protection.”
Now I know why we’re heading to that barrier island.
“I don’t understand,” Mimi says. “Why didn’t Jack call in the feds?”
“I’m wondering why a Texas Ranger didn’t kick their ass,” TB says.
I think they’re both being naïve but I must admit, I’m wondering the same things.
“My boss told me last night the Corpus PD has been watching Jack, think he may be involved in the drug trade, used your father and Elena without them knowing. And then, when he had enough, he sent them both away knowing the cartel would follow. Apparently, John and Elena had some evidence on their drug dealings and were heading to Galveston to hopefully meet with FBI agents.”
“Oh, the poor dears.” Mimi has her shirt in knots.
“It’s worse,” Wanda whispers.
“How can it be worse?” Portia asks.
Wanda looks down into her lap and exhales. “Jack may have told the cartel about the evidence.”
I look at Mimi and she appears about to have a meltdown, being so sensitive and all. Before I suggest changing course, my dear husband beats me to it and offers, “Why don’t we head over to Galveston and continue this over lunch?”
Wanda gets the message, agrees, and leaves the car while Portia takes her seat. TB ignites the engine and we’re off again, following Wanda’s patrol vehicle northeast to Galveston.
There’s so many questions swirling in our heads but no one utters a word. Mimi’s pale, still reeling from the injustices, and Portia studies the papers from Primrose. We drive in silence for miles while a rain rattles the van’s rooftop, not a usual Gulf thunderblast but a dreary, drippy kind of rain, adding to our melancholy. We’ve also left the comfort of Gulf waves and lines of sweet pelicans flying by so it’s back to desolate rural highways through the interior of Texas.
Finally, TB leans over and turns on the radio. I send him a frown and he shrugs. As the BeeGees sing of how to mend a broken heart, I think how appropriate this song is for the occasion.
“This was originally sung by Al Green,” TB says, the expert on seventies music. “Why seventies?” I asked him once and he simply replied, “What not?”
We’re all about to cry at the sad lyrics but things take an even deeper turn when Marvin Gaye comes on singing about what’s going on and “There's far too many of you dying.” At this point, we all start bawling like babies. Except for Portia, of course, who shakes her head and tells us to toughen up, that what’s ahead may be the worst yet. That makes us cry even harder.
“Oh, please, y’all,” Portia says, then starts crying herself.
Finally, after the entire song is sung, Mimi straightens and blows her nose. Hard. And that’s all it takes for us to get a hold on things.
“Jeez, Mimi, that’s quite a horn you got there,” TB says, and we all start laughing.
“Two sinus surgeries will do that to you,” she says, laughing herself. “That and living with allergies in the Deep South.”
Portia slides the papers back into their envelope and throws it behind her into the back compartment. “Nothing here. Nothing to help us figure out anything.”
We’re silent again until Mimi takes Portia’s hand and places her other on my shoulder. “We need to let go and let the universe show us what we need to see.”
Portia huffs. “No offense, Aunt Mimi. But the universe isn’t showing us diddly squat.”
“On the contrary, sweetheart. We’ve gotten far with this investigation and what’s ahead may be the final answers.”
Portia’s not convinced but while we contemplate Mimi’s advice, the Beatles come on the radio singing Let It Be and shivers run up my spine.
“That’s weird,” TB says.
“Not weird at all,” Mimi answers.
Portia pulls her hand free and crosses her arms about her chest. “You’re saying you did that?”
Mimi offers that warm smile that I equate with apple pie and fresh morning coffee. “No, dear.”
Portia huffs again. “I thought for sure you were going to take credit for that coincidence.”
“We did it,” Mimi replies.
I look back at my aunt and she’s dead serious.
“It’s called clairaudience,” Mimi explains. “Like clairvoyance, which means seeing things that are out of our normal senses. But that’s just one of several psychic abilities. Clairaudience deals with messages in sounds, music, voices.”
Portia shakes her head. “What?”
“It’s the ability to tap into the psychic realm through auditory means.”
We all look at each other, confused as all get out.
“You know when you’re thinking about something and then a likeminded song comes on the radio?”
“No,” Portia says, but I get it, have had that happen to me before.
“Yes,” TB and I say at the same time, then look at each other and smile.
“Once, I was at this traffic light and the Doobie Brothers came on,” TB says enthusiastically. “When I was coming home that day, and at that same traffic light, the same song was on the radio.”
“Coincidence,” Portia says, her arms still
crossed firmly about her.
“There’s no such thing as coincidence,” Mimi says.
Portia offers up a smug smile, tilting her chin skyward. “Okay, what’s the next song going to be?”
Even I know that psychic ability doesn’t work that way. “It’s not like that,” I tell her.
“Oh, that’s convenient.”
Mimi’s countenance never falters why we argue, she’s as calm as Buddha. Finally, she tells Portia, “Think about what you want in life. And see what comes on next.”
Portia sighs and rolls her eyes.
“It doesn’t work if you don’t believe,” Mimi inserts.
Well, there goes that, I think, but Portia’s resistance slowly falls away. She purses her lips thinking and I’m almost — almost — convinced she’s on board. A peacefulness descends upon her face and a smile tries to break through, and I wonder if she’s dreaming of working at home, having another child.
Just then, the first riffs of Bruce Springsteen’s guitar breaks the silence left behind by the satellite DJ’s voice and it’s a ballad to the decline of the American dream and the need to escape and follow your heart. I’m not sure anyone else in the car sees the connection between Born to Run and Portia’s desire to leave the law world and be a mom for a while, and I’m not positive that’s what I’m thinking until Portia looks my way and smiles. And without anyone commenting on the so-called coincidence, we all break into song, singing along with Bruce about hitting the open road as we sail up the coast of Texas.
Once we arrive into the outskirts of Galveston, the soft blues of the Gulf waters come back into view. That and houses torn apart with piles of debris lining the highway. Galveston was hit hard by Hurricane Ike in September, right after Hurricane Gustav played havoc with Louisiana. It was one of those weeks when Mardi Gras and a good gumbo aren’t incentives enough to live on the Gulf Coast. But, like most coastal residents, we’re still here.
Wanda’s patrol car pulls over to the side of the road and we follow. She saunters once again to the side of our van and I slide the window down halfway because there’s a new chill to the air.
“We swear we were only going sixty, officer,” TB says out my window. When did my husband get so funny?
Wanda grins and shakes her head. “I talked to the local PD on the way over and he gave me some information about where your father and Elena lived during their time here.”
“Great,” Portia says. “Are we heading over there?”
Wanda looks at me, which causes the rest of the van to do the same.
“I have a friend who works at the Hotel Galvez,” I tell them. “It’s the big historic hotel in town. I gave her a call this morning after breakfast and she’s giving us a special rate and, because I did a story on the hotel last year, a free lunch.”
“What?” TB asks, excited.
I shrug because it’s not ethical on my part. “She offered.”
“Cool.” Wanda taps the part of the window that’s still open. “Y’all follow me and I’ll take us there.”
After I roll up my window and Wanda sashays back to the patrol car, Portia asks out loud what we’ve all been thinking, “Do we get our own rooms?”
We pass more devastation and piles of debris on the ride up Galveston island and a darkness once again descends upon us. Good thing the windows are up for the smell of mildew on sheetrock is not something I will ever forget and I don’t want to relive it today. I try to change our focus by offering insights into the lovely grand old hotel we’re about to enjoy, explaining its one-hundred-year history which includes surviving one of the worst hurricanes to hit the United States, back at the turn of the century.
When the massive Hotel Galvez and its Spanish Mission architecture comes into view and we drive up the dramatic entrance lined with palm trees, our mood brightens instantly.
“Must be named after Bernardo De Galvez,” Mimi says and I concur. “He was the Spanish governor of the territory which included Louisiana at one point.”
“And an American Revolutionary hero,” I add.
“Huh?” Portia says, giving me that older sibling look that I’m either crazy or stupid, but I don’t have time to explain that yes, Louisiana had two revolutionary battles, both headed by a Spanish colonial governor. We’ve reached the entrance and her attention goes elsewhere. Portia’s usually insistent upon self-parking, not trusting of those valet drivers, but today she lets someone else unpack our things and park our car. It’s close to one p.m., too early for check-in, but my friend Sarah Meyers insisted that since it’s a Tuesday during the week before Thanksgiving, rooms are plentiful. She also mentioned to keep Stinky in a carrier and out of sight, which we do.
The attendant rolls our mound of luggage into the enormous, open-air lobby — Stinky included — and we all stand in awe of its beauty. On one side is a bar and restaurant and the other, wicker furniture and extravagant rugs next to oversized windows looking out to the hotel’s garden and the Gulf beyond. I could dress like the cast of Downtown Abbey and feel right at home.
“This is gorgeous,” Mimi says.
“I’ll like it better if I get my own room,” Portia adds.
Sarah comes out from a back office and gives me a big hug, careful not to wrinkle her silk blouse; PR people are always exceptionally dressed and I’m feeling self-conscious in my jeans and long-sleeved birding T-shirt I got in McAllen that says, “I got up early, there was no worm.” Sarah accompanied a group of travel writers on a press trip that I attended last year and we got to be good friends, many times over cocktails at both the Hotel Galvez and its elegant sister property, The Tremont House, which has an exceptional rooftop bar and view.
“I really appreciate this,” I tell her and she waves me off.
“Like I said, it’s dead here.” Not the word I want to hear but I smile. “Hurricane Ike scared away a lot of people and those who are still loyal and know we are open will be coming next week for Thanksgiving. So right now this is the calm before the storm.”
Again, too many ironic references.
I introduce everyone, including Wanda who’s arrived after parking her car in the parking garage. Sarah retrieves our room keys — Portia has her own room so she’s thrilled — and explains the hotel amenities. There’s a spa, which makes my sister very happy, restaurants, an inside bar and one at the pool, although that’s closed for the winter. We head toward the elevators while Sarah encourages us to enjoy the Wall of History telling the story of the hotel and to take advantage of their complimentary shuttle to the downtown area. Wanda insisted she would stay with friends so we agree to meet her in the lobby for that free lunch in ten minutes. We invite Sarah to join us but she politely declines, something about sticking to a diet to get into her holiday clothes.
Just then TB’s phone starts vibrating.
“And there’s free Wi-Fi,” she concludes as the elevator doors move shut and we all shout out our thanks.
Mimi and Portia are on the second floor and take a good five minutes getting their things out of the elevator. And yes, the alarm sounds because they take so long. TB and I are to share a room on the fifth and breathe easier when we’re finally alone ascending heavenward. Once on our floor, we follow the hallway to the right and then take a left, finding our room at the end of one of the hotel’s wings and containing a balcony with a dramatic view of the Gulf.
“Wow,” TB says as we enter our room and open the windows.
I place my suitcase on the bed and set my cat free, who takes his time exploring his surroundings, eyes big, haunches down, ears turned back. It’s the first time I’ve seen him so cautious, acting like a normal cat. Meanwhile, TB opens his suitcase and starts riffling through his clothes.
“What are you looking for?”
Finally, his eyes light up and he straightens, smiles. “Nothing. Going to use the bathroom.” He throws his phone on to the bed and heads off.
Once the bathroom door is shut, I gaze down at his phone. The call he received i
n the lobby was from Cookie and my heart sinks. I sit on the edge of the bed and fear my husband is gone for good. Tears threaten but Stinky’s howling takes my mind off a gorgeous real estate agent back in New Orleans who has the hots for my man.
“What is it, Stinky?” I ask my cat.
He hisses and then crawls under the bed.
“What the...?”
Just then, my iPad turns on, playing a Jimmy Buffett song. TB comes out of the bathroom, wiping his hands, looking at me and then the iPad.
I shake my head. “It just went off.”
When Jimmy Buffett starts singing A Pirate Looks at Forty I shiver, remembering my vision from the night before.
“Do you think what Mimi said about clairaudience is true?”
TB shrugs. “The bigger question is why did your iPad turn on.”
“Maybe it’s the Wi-Fi acting up. It’s an old hotel.”
TB’s not convinced and neither am I. Then I remember the brokenhearted fiancé.
“There’s a ghost here,” I say. “I can’t remember what floor is haunted but apparently a woman was waiting for a captain to return to marry her and she was told he was killed at sea. She used to go up to the eighth floor and watch for his ship so when she heard he wasn’t coming back, she went up there and hanged herself. Turned out, the man was really alive.”
“That sucks,” TB says.
I grimace. “Yeah.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“Why would a woman wait inside an expensive hotel for a man to come back to port? Doesn’t she have a home? And then he doesn’t show and she remains here until her death? They gave her a name but when I looked for proof of this person I couldn’t find any.”
TB knows that if I hear a ghost story I need facts to back it up. If someone calls their ghost Mary, for instance, I want to know why. If a college coed fell down an elevator shaft — a familiar urban legend — I want to see the police report. And before you think I’m either too skeptical or rude — or both — I believe that if a person remains on this plane after death there’s a reason and only knowing the truth about them can possibly set them free. Giving them a name and repeating the same fantastical story to scare people does disservice to the dead. At least in my opinion.
Ghost Trippin' Page 17
