by G M Barlean
In the sunroom of an assisted living facility, four wrinkled old women confess the details of their involvement in a forty-year-old crime. Newspaper editor, Gloria Larson, plans to write a book about their story, and to make them confess to something more—
Which one of them is her birth mother
THORNS OF ROSEWOOD
ROSEWOOD SERIES—
BOOK 1
Gina M. Barlean
Copyright © 2014 by G. M. Barlean
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Any characters, dialogue, or behavior ascribed to the characters are fictitious.
This is a novel, a product of the author’s imagination.
Less Traveled Roads Publishing
http://lesstraveledroads.wordpress.com
“Each time I had to shut down my kindle between chapters of Thorns of Rosewood, I couldn’t wait to get back to the cast of characters and twists that G.M. Barlean created.
That is what I’d call a successful cozy mystery.”
—Kay Bratt, best-selling author of The Tales of the Scavenger’s Daughters
"This is one mystery that caught me completely by surprise, in more than one way! The characters made me laugh, and made me cry. I loved the story, and the ending couldn't have been more perfect, or more satisfying."
—Victorine Lieske, NYT best-selling author of Not What She Seems
Acknowledgments and Dedication
I dedicate this book to my friends. So many of you have inspired and guided me. I appreciate every person who has shown me support or kindness during this journey.
Thank you to the Thorns. You know who you are. Thanks to my writing group, the Local Muse for cheering and correcting along the way. Thank you to my team of beta readers who brought so much expertise to my work. Dr. Joyce Sasse, for your insight into the field of psychology. Scott Gray, for your legal knowledge. Laura Cooper, for your police experience. Thank you to my hometown’s local newspaper editor, Larry Pierce, for your beta read. To Donna and Wayne and anyone else who read and offered suggestions. To Lisa Kovanda, the President of the Nebraska Writers Guild, who gave me great insight from an adopted child’s perspective. It takes a village to write a book and I have a pretty great village.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments and Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
About the Author
Other Novels by G. M. Barlean
Chapter 1
Hard, cold eyes whitewashed from a camera’s flash stared up at Gloria Larson from the yellowed newspaper. The 1974 headline read Thorns of Rosewood Go Free. The four women in the black-and-white photograph had been informally accused of foul play in the missing-person case of a judge’s wife.
One set of eyes in particular held Gloria in an inky gaze. She traced her finger around the woman’s face, wondering what thoughts were behind her glare. The other women’s faces had also become familiar over the past couple of years. She’d read this paper many times.
Below, another article showed a picture of a striking woman with flowing red hair and high cheekbones. The title read Naomi Waterman Talbot Still at Large. According to the item, Naomi Talbot had been a prominent woman in the community. Came from money. The judge’s wife.
Gloria’s eyes trailed back up to the first article. Not enough proof, apparently. The women either weren’t guilty or had gotten away with… murder?
Too many questions were unanswered. Her reporter’s instinct wanted facts the newspaper of the time hadn’t given. She had some of her own questions, too.
Gloria had lived in Rosewood for six years and had told herself this job as editor of a small-town weekly paper was a stepping-stone to something bigger and better. But somewhere along the line, she’d forgotten to step.
This story about these four women—the Thorns of Rosewood—is what was holding her here.
Her parents were none too happy about her moving to Rosewood, Nebraska, a small town nestled in a valley along the Platte River. The peaceful Midwestern community boasted brick-paved streets and sleepy storefronts in hundred-year-old buildings. Very Mayberry.
And Gloria Larson loved small-town life. The fresh air and green lawns, the fences trimmed in roses, and those big blue skies. It was idyllic. A comfort—like a warm blanket in a soft bed.
Boring? No. Gloria had always been able to turn wherever she was into someplace interesting. It was the reporter in her—full of questions and a desire to learn every last detail.
Moreover, this little town had a long-kept secret she was determined to get to the bottom of, which was why her parents had balked in the first place. When she found out why her parents didn’t want her to move to Rosewood, Gloria became even more determined to take the position.
From as early as she could remember, Gloria had sensed she was adopted. Her auburn hair, green eyes, and athletic nature were different from everyone else in her family. They didn’t act or look the way she did. They were short, blond, and brown eyed for the most part. She’d asked the big question when she was five and they’d answered her. “Yes, Gloria. We adopted you. You are so special to us. We chose you and will love you forever. This will always be your home, and we will always be your family.”
She’d grown up believing she’d been selected like the freshest, most perfect fruit picked from the vine. But when Gloria was around twelve, she could no longer fight the festering question of why the woman who’d given birth to her had chosen to walk away.
Gloria had questioned her parents. They’d kept their answers short and factual, said her birth mother had been a woman in her forties who was incapable of raising a child at that age.
At twelve, forty had sounded ancient to Gloria. And once again, her parents smothered her with love and it helped her put the issue aside.
But when Gloria was in high school, the subject once again demanded attention. It gnawed at her as she lay in bed at night. Who was this woman? Why didn’t she think Gloria was special? Why hadn’t she loved her enough to keep her?
“Did you ever meet her?” Gloria asked her mother.
“No.” Karen Larson wiped the already-clean counter with a dishcloth.
“I wonder what she was like.” She pushed.
Mrs. Larson shrugged and kept wiping.
“Do I look like her?”
“We were told she was very beautiful.” Karen rinsed out the cloth and began to wipe some more.
It was like pulling teeth. Her parents obviously didn’t want her to know any more than she had to, but why not?
“And you said she was in her forties? I have a friend in my class at school whose mom had her when she was in her forties.”<
br />
Her mom only shrugged again, still wiping that counter.
“She must have had a good reason, dear. Maybe it was her health.” Her mother wrung out the dishcloth, draped it over the edge of the sink, and left the kitchen slowly, like she was secretly creeping away.
By college, Gloria had stopped asking questions altogether. She got busy with getting her own life started.
After college, she worked at a few different journalism jobs around the state. Magazines, reporter gigs at papers—and when the job opening came up for editor of the Rosewood Press, she was ecstatic. She’d thought her parents would be thrilled, too.
But instead, they’d balked.
“Why? Because I’m moving out of Omaha? You think I’ll get bored in a small town? But I’d be the editor. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”
Yet they continued to act far more concerned than she would have expected. Pacing, hand-wringing, the exchange of furtive glances. There had to be something more to their behavior.
After numerous conversations over several days, Gloria finally badgered them until they coughed up the information.
It blindsided her.
“My birth mother was from Rosewood?” Gloria’s mouth hung open in shock. “Is she still there?” Gloria couldn’t believe the woman had been so close… so findable. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” The air in the room seemed to have disappeared.
Gloria became more confused when her mother began to weep. Then her father, stoic Roger Larson, left his easy chair—a rare event—and returned with a glass of scotch in his hand.
“Scotch? Dad! It’s ten thirty in the morning. What the hell?”
It turned out her birth mother hadn’t been just any forty-year-old woman from Rosewood.
“She was suspected of murder?” The blood drained from Gloria’s face.
Dropping into the chair beside her father, she grabbed his glass of scotch and drank every last drop in one gulp. It burned like hell all the way down, kind of like the new information about her birth mother.
She not only took the job, she practically put an exclamation point after her name on the application. And the first free moment she had, Gloria began searching the old newspapers in the archives for stories. How many significant crimes could there have been in the small town of Rosewood, Nebraska?
Turned out pretty much just that one.
Her birth mother had to be one of the Thorns of Rosewood. Which one, Gloria was determined to find out.
Chapter 2
Gloria had heard about the almost forty-year-old story when she first moved to Rosewood. It remained a legend in these parts—the sleepy town’s claim to infamy. Old folks in the community still spoke of it in hushed tones. Some believed Mrs. Talbot had met her demise at the hands of the Thorns of Rosewood. But the accusation had never been proven.
And to this day, a body had never been found.
The newspaper had done a thorough job of sensationalizing the story. The editor’s opinion pieces all but prosecuted and sentenced the four women. The articles must have worked the sleepy town into a lather.
Other headlines in previous week’s papers were equally slanted. Guilty or Innocent? and Women Refuse to Confess.
So much for journalistic integrity.
But I bet they sold papers.
She felt guilty about even thinking such a thing, but she was, after all, the editor of a newspaper and selling subscriptions was a hurdle she had to jump each week.
After investigations found no proof, all news articles about the incident became small stories buried in the sports section. But the people in town hadn’t buried the speculation. They spoke of it to this day.
Of the four women, the only one who had ever given a statement to the press had been Debbie Coleman—the face with those hard, cold eyes. And all Debbie had ever said was “No comment.”
Smart women. Whether they did or didn’t have anything to do with Naomi Talbot’s disappearance, keeping their mouths shut seemed to be the key that unlocked their cell doors, so to speak.
So, for the years she’d been editor of the Rosewood Press, Gloria had allowed herself a certain amount of time each week, reading all the articles from 1974 about the Thorns of Rosewood. At first she’d been gung ho to start the search for her birth mother. But something held her back. A strange panic rose in her chest at the idea of crossing the line and looking for the truth. With all the love and support her parents had given her over the years, she knew searching for her birth mother would cause them pain. They didn’t deserve that. She loved them and would always consider them her real parents. They’d earned the title. Yet, the woman who gave her life sat like a shadow at the back of her mind.
Gloria stared at the old newspaper once again. Then she closed it and hung the dowel back in its rungs on the wall of the archive room. She tucked it in like a faithful bedtime story. The account of these women from 1974 gripped her imagination. The faces frozen in time… in print. At first glance, their eyes seemed so angry—but fear and anger often spooned in the bed of emotional turmoil.
She clicked off the light and shut the door behind her. The basement stank like the old room it was. The newspaper office had been built in 1889, back when the town was birthed, back when newspapers were important. It reeked of antiquity. Like dust. Like mold. Like the aroma of old people—just that much closer to death.
As she trudged up the stairs, her cell phone vibrated.
It was her mother. She hesitated for a few rings, then answered.
“Hi, Mom.”
Gloria listened to Karen Larson’s voice as she went into her office, closed the door behind her, and stared out the tiny window at the sleepy Nebraska town. Population 2,500 if you included the traffic driving through to Lincoln on a Husker game day. Her office was no more than a closet, and her old desk sat shoved against the wall like she’d been put in the corner, punished for bad behavior.
“Yes, Mom. I’m getting enough sleep.” Did moms ever stop worrying?
“Well, I hope so. Eight hours are essential. And are you eating right? Leafy greens are important,” Karen Larson said.
Gloria shifted the phone to her other ear and watched a dusty red pickup sputter down Main Street. The old man behind the steering wheel leaned forward like those extra five inches were going to help him see what was coming.
“Yup. Eating healthy, too. Lots of greens. Healthy colon and all that.”
The pickup continued to creep down the brick-paved street. Gloria knew where he was headed—to the NAPA store to meet his brother. They’d go over to the diner for lunch like they did every day of the week. The small rural town ticked along like a clock.
Her mother still asked questions which didn’t need asking. They did this dance every Wednesday.
“Nope. No boyfriend. Guess I’m destined to be single.”
Karen heaved a sigh on the other end of the line. The kind of sigh that always vacuumed up a little piece of Gloria’s soul, then spit it back out like a bad penny. Her mother reassured her she was only concerned, but somehow Gloria managed to hear disappointment in the question.
Pulling her attention away from the small office window, Gloria leaned back in her chair as far as it would allow—just short of falling over backward. Her mother was going on about the joys of a loving relationship. Gloria stretched and yawned but gave no answer. She wondered if Debbie Coleman’s line would work. No Comment.
“Well, you’ll find someone. You’re too pretty to be single,” her mother said.
“So you keep telling me.”
“You’d have better luck if you lived in the city.”
She sighed. Not this again. You’d think her mother would be happy she lived in a safe little town, but no, she wanted her in Omaha.
“There just aren’t jobs available right now, Mom. The economy sucks, remember.”
Since Gloria had moved to Rosewood, she’d fallen deep into the small-town rut. Slowed way the hell down. Even developed her own
predictable routines. Oatmeal for breakfast. Two-mile jog every day after work. Exactly forty-five minutes of reading before she turned out the light to go to sleep at night. And truth be told, she really wasn’t even looking for a job anymore. She liked it here. Rosewood wasn’t her problem.
“But are you happy, sweetheart?” Karen asked.
Happy? What kind of question was that? “Sure, Mom. I’m happy.” Lying to her mother. Going to hell for sure. Happy wasn’t a word she would associate with her life, or her personality for that matter. She just wasn’t the cheerful type. Her life was acceptable. Uncomplicated. Pragmatic. Safe.
But if she was being honest, she’d admit she felt stagnant and a bit empty. Something was missing. And she knew what it was.
Heat climbed up her neck. Time to breach the topic her mother didn’t like to talk about.
“Mom. I’ve decided to find her.”
Karen Larson fell silent.
Gloria could hear the TV in the background. Her dad had on the Andy Griffith Show. Old Roger never tired of it.
“Mom?”
“Are you sure you want to do that? Won’t it take time away from looking for a job? From dating? From the job you have?” Mrs. Larson was grasping at straws.
“You mean the important things?”
More silence.
“You know I’m just worried you won’t like what you discover.” Karen’s voice wavered.
“Well, stop worrying, Mom. This is my decision.”
More silence.
“Sorry.” Gloria cleared her throat.
“If there’s one thing I’ve always known about you, Gloria Marie Larson. You will do exactly what you want to do, regardless of what I think.” Gloria’s mother didn’t sound angry as much as resigned.
The corner of Gloria’s mouth pulled into a half grin. “It’s your fault. You raised me to be independent.”
