“Hi, Stu,” I managed. “Hey, this is China Bayles. Is Margie there?”
“Oh, hi, China.” He chuckled. “You’ve reached my cell phone, not our home number.”
“Sorry.” I made a left onto Limekiln Road. “Hope I didn’t disturb you.”
“Not a problem. Margie’s out at Donna Fletcher’s place today. You know they’re going into business together?”
“Yeah, I heard,” I said. “Sounds like a great idea to me.”
“Me, too. Donna needs the help. And being a farm owner will give Margie more credibility when she talks about our book.” He chuckled again. “Covering all the angles.”
“I’ll call out there,” I replied. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Like I said, not a problem. Talk to you soon.” He clicked off.
Heading west on Limekiln, I sorted through what I knew, wondering how many other angles Stuart Laughton had covered. He had taken a group of students to Mexico, including a girlfriend who had turned out to be a mule for a drug cartel—at least, according to Shannon Fisher.
But it stood to reason that Gloria Graham hadn’t come up with the Mexican connection all by herself. Somebody else had to have been involved. Stuart? He knew the area, Shannon had said. He organized the trip, made all the arrangements. Had he set Gloria up to bring those pieces of pottery across the border? If he had, then what? Had she gotten cold feet, decided to go to the police?
I shivered as I thought the unthinkable. Was Stuart Laughton responsible for the murder of Gloria Graham?
And then another thought, and more questions. Jessica had been involved with Stuart somehow or other—involved enough for him to call and try to persuade her to see him. Had they been lovers? Or maybe it wasn’t a romantic relationship at all. Maybe it was a business deal. Maybe he’d been trying to set Jessica up to do what Gloria had done and she was planning to blow the whistle on him—to write a story, maybe—and he had called to try to persuade her to be quiet. When that hadn’t worked, he had—
But there was no point in speculating. I needed more facts. I glanced at the scrap of paper, checking the number I had written down for Jessica’s roommate. She had said that she and her boyfriend were camping—this was his cell phone number. I put it in. After a moment, a male voice answered.
“Steve here,” he said brusquely. “What’s up?”
“I’m trying to reach Amanda.” I hoped he wouldn’t ask me her last name. I hadn’t a clue. “It’s about her roommate, Jessica Nelson.”
“Amanda? Yeah, sure. Hold on a sec. She’s over by the lake, catching some sun. I’ll get her.”
I was rattling across the old iron bridge over Cedar Creek before Amanda finally picked up. “My name is China Bayles,” I said. “I’m a friend of Jessica’s. Maybe she’s mentioned me?”
“Sure. You’re the one who owns the herb shop, aren’t you?” Amanda’s voice was as soft and Southern as molasses. I had to turn up the volume on the phone. “And you write the garden column for the Enterprise?”
“That’s me,” I said. I came up behind a tractor pulling a slat-sided livestock trailer loaded with black and white goats. “Listen, Amanda, I’m calling because Jessica has disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” she exclaimed, shocked. “Oh, no!”
“I’m afraid so. No one has seen her since Monday afternoon, and she missed an important deadline at the paper. The editor has filed an official missing-person report.” I slowed to a crawl behind the tractor, waiting for a chance to pass. The road along here is only two lanes and there are plenty of curves, so it could take a while. “I’ve spent the morning checking with people who might know where she could be. I wondered if you could help me out.”
“Sure, if I can. Should I maybe come home? I mean, I was planning to be gone for a few more days, but I’ll come back if I’m needed.” Luckily, she didn’t ask me where I’d gotten her boyfriend’s cell phone number.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said, without trying to clarify my exact role in this. “At least, not yet. But maybe you could tell me if she’s been seeing anyone recently. Dating anybody, I mean.”
There was a pause. “Well,” she said slowly, “there was somebody. They saw one another pretty seriously for maybe three or four months, but then she called it off.”
I swung out, made sure that the road ahead was clear, and sped up to pass the tractor. As I waved, I noticed that the driver was a woman—Becky Sanders. Sanders’ Animal Services must be branching off into goats. “She called it off? Why?”
Another pause. “She thought this guy and his wife were separated, but it turned out they weren’t. The wife heard he was playing around and moved out. Went back home to her mother, was what I heard. Jessica didn’t want to get between them, so she broke up with him.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Not long. Three or four weeks, maybe. I don’t think he was very happy about it, because he kept calling her.” She cleared her throat. “You’re probably wondering who, but I don’t know if I ought to tell you. I mean, he’s kind of an important guy around the university. I don’t want to get anybody into trouble.”
“You’re talking about Dr. Laughton, aren’t you?” I was passing the burned-out trailer now. I didn’t want to look at it.
“Yes, he’s the one.” She seemed relieved that she didn’t actually have to name him. “So you know about him?”
“Yes. You said he kept calling. Did Jessica seem concerned about his persistence?”
“Well, she wished he wouldn’t, if that’s what you’re asking. I think she was more annoyed than concerned, though. She said he didn’t seem to be able to take no for an answer.”
“I see. Was she dating anyone else?”
She thought about that. “Well, there were a couple of guys before she started seeing Dr. Laughton, but they’re ancient history. Last year, I mean. I don’t think she’s seen anybody lately.” She giggled a little. “She even talked about taking a vow of chastity for a while. She said guys were too distracting—they wanted more involvement than she did.”
I gave an encouraging “Uh-huh,” and she went on.
“Yeah. I mean, Jessica didn’t want to get seriously involved with anybody. What she really wanted, more than anything else, was a break that could help her get ahead as a journalist. She was hoping she’d get a good story to work on. She kept saying that there had to be more to life in Pecan Springs than the mayor’s prayer breakfasts.”
I sighed. Jessica had gotten a good story, all right—more than she’d bargained for. “What about your neighbor? The one Jessica called ‘the jerk.’”
“Oh, him,” she said disgustedly. “That’s Butch Browning. Next door.”
“Any reason to think that he might know where she is?”
“I hope not,” Amanda said fervently. “We’ve been keeping our blinds closed at night, but Butch is a creep. There are people in and out of that house at all hours, and he’s not the kind of guy who has a lot of friends. We’re pretty sure he’s dealing. If he . . .” Her voice rose. She sounded scared. “You don’t think he did anything to her, do you? If he did, I’ll hate myself forever!”
“Why?”
“Because she got mad one night and wanted to report him to the cops for peeping into our windows, and I wouldn’t let her. His mom owns both his house and ours, and I was afraid she might kick us out. So I told Jessica not to call the police.” She paused for breath. “If Butch has done anything to her . . .”
“There’s no evidence that he has,” I said soothingly. “But I’ll certainly pass that information along to the police. Anyone else you can think of?”
“No,” she said, more quietly now. “No, really. Jessica is kind of a loner, you know? Her sister, mom, dad—they died in a fire years ago. Her grandmother died a while back.”
“Right,” I said. “I wonder—did she ever mention going on a trip to Mexico? Maybe with one of her classes?”
“Mexico?” She paused. �
��Well, yes. When she was seeing Dr. Laughton, she mentioned that he’d invited her to go along on a trip. But that was before she broke up with him. Why are you asking?”
“Just checking. If you think of anything that might help us locate her, could you call me?” I gave her my number, then added, “Is this the best way to reach you? The number I called?”
“Yeah. I dropped my cell into the lake.” She paused, and I could almost see her frowning. “How’d you find—”
“Thanks very much, Amanda,” I said briskly. “You’ve been helpful. The police will contact you if they have other questions.” I clicked off.
I slowed and made the left turn onto our lane. I had just tied up one very substantial loose end—at least, that’s what it felt like. The man who had called Jessica was Stuart Laughton, and Amanda had confirmed that Jessica had been seeing him. I was going to have to give the information to the police, I thought, and immediately felt sorry for his wife. The cops would no doubt question him in Jessica’s disappearance, and his relationship to Gloria Graham was going to come out. If Margie had hoped to move past her husband’s marital transgressions, or keep them private between the two of them, she was going to be bitterly disappointed.
And then I thought of something else. Margie and Stuart were hoping for a great deal of positive publicity about their new book. This could throw a huge monkey wrench into the works. When word got out about this scandal—and it would, whether Stuart was criminally responsible or not—their upcoming book promotion plans might be affected. And then another thought followed on the heels of that one: could Stuart Laughton have killed to keep this scandal quiet?
Or maybe there was more. It didn’t seem likely to me that Gloria Graham had made her own independent connection with the cartel. Somebody must have recruited her. Laughton? I didn’t like the idea, but I had to consider it. I had seen enough in the criminal courts to know that smart, well-educated, personable people with good ideas can make bad choices and get dragged into ugly situations. Once in, they lose control. And once they’ve lost control, all bets are off. Like it or not, something like that could have happened to Stu Laughton.
A few minutes later, I had collected Caitlin and we were on our way again, back to town. She had brought several books to read to Baby Grace, and she was energized and bouncy. But she had also been thinking, and she had a new idea to try out on me.
“I found something really interesting in the book rack beside the sofa this morning,” she said, in her most grown-up voice. “A chicken catalog.”
“Sure. It’s mine. I sent off for it last summer when I was thinking of maybe getting chickens. So we could have our own fresh eggs.”
“How come you didn’t? Get chickens, I mean. So we could have eggs.”
I turned to look at her. Should I say it? I did. “Because we got you,” I said lightly. “For keeps. Remember? And I thought that a new kid in the family and new chickens might be a little too much. I’m a member of the one-thing-at-a-time club.” Well, not exactly. But I would like to be.
She giggled at that, and her girl-giggle was so infectious that I had to smile, too.
“So it was me or chickens?” she asked.
“Yep.” I paused, wondering what was coming next. “We decided we’d rather have you. I am happy to report that Uncle Mike and Brian and I are thrilled with the way things turned out.” I gave her a sidelong glance. “So why are you asking about this catalog? There must be a reason.”
“Well, there is. The baby chicks looked really cute and fluffy. So I was thinking maybe we should have some. Like maybe two that would grow up to be red chickens, and two that would be speckled, and two that would be white? That’s six.” She paused. “I don’t know if we should have a rooster. Do you need a rooster to get eggs?”
We had arrived at a teachable moment. But what did I want to teach? Should we have a mother-daughter discussion of the birds and bees, or was the question of responsibility more important? I opted for responsibility.
“Whoa,” I said, holding up my hand. “You’ve just adopted a cat, haven’t you? Or did I dream that?” I shook my head as if in bewilderment. “You know, I could swear you took in a cat—just a day or two ago, wasn’t it? A straggly-looking, down-at-the-heels character who has obviously spent eight of his nine lives looking for a home. And now it’s chickens? Heaven help us.”
Another giggle.
I sighed heavily. “Well, you know, Caitlin, chickens have to be taken care of. And since I have a shop, gardens all over the place, a husband, a son, and a daughter—not to mention a dog, a shop cat, a house cat, and a collection of loose lizards—I am not about to volunteer for chicken duty. Uncle Mike is busy, too, you know.”
“I promise I’ll take care of the chickens,” she said earnestly. “And the cat. Anyway, he’s mine. And Brian is supposed to take care of his lizards, isn’t he?”
“He is. And he does, mostly, except when they get loose. But you have your violin, too, and Dr. Trevor says she would like you to be in the orchestra, and maybe in a recital. Will you have time for chickens?” I grew up in the city and chickens have not been a part of my life, so I didn’t know how much time they would take. But it was something she ought to consider.
She sat back in the seat. “I’ll make time,” she said very seriously. “And I can pay for them myself, you know. I’ll use my baby-sitting money to buy the baby chicks, and I’ll sell their eggs to buy their chicken feed. I read that they need special food, that we can buy at the chicken-feed store. But I won’t sell all their eggs. I’ll keep enough so you and Uncle Mike and Brian and I can have scrambled eggs for breakfast whenever we want, and deviled eggs, too. And eggs for cakes and stuff.”
She thought about that for a minute, doing some mental calculations. “I might need to start with more than just six babies, if I’m going to have enough eggs. Maybe ten?” She got very serious. “Maybe twelve? In case two of them die?”
I fell back on the tried-and-true mom tactic I had first practiced on Brian, when he was younger. “Okay,” I said agreeably. “We’ll think about it.” I gave her a look. “We’ll think about it,” I repeated sternly. “Which means—”
“Oh, goody!” She clapped her hands. “I’ll get four red ones, three speckled ones, and three white ones. And maybe a rooster.”
I sighed.
“And Uncle Mike and I will build a chicken house where they can live. And Howard Cosell can keep the skunks away, because I read that skunks like chickens’ eggs every bit as much as people do.”
“I’m sure that Howard will take his responsibilities very seriously,” I said.
“He’d better,” Caitlin said. “I don’t want anything eating my eggs.”
WE walked into the shop just in time to catch Baby Grace in the act of pulling the books out of the book rack and scattering them on the floor. Caitlin, eager to start earning the money for her chicken-and-egg business, corralled Grace immediately and took her into the corner for a read-aloud time. Ruby was glad to see me, but even happier to see Caitlin.
“Thank heavens you thought of bringing her,” she said, looking relieved. “I love sweet little Grace with all my heart, but she’s about to drive us crazy.”
“Caitie was delighted to be asked,” I said. “She already has plans for the money we’re going to pay her.”
“Music for her violin?” Ruby asked.
“Baby chicks,” I said with a sigh.
Things quieted down a little after that. Millie came in to help Cass make the extra sandwiches, Ruby seated and served customers in the tearoom, and Gina moved capably between my shop and Ruby’s. By two o’clock, the Ladies Guild had picked up their sandwiches and salads, the lunch crowd was gone, Baby Grace was having a nap on her favorite blanket in the quiet cubby under the stairs, and Caitlin was reading a book about chickens she had found on my book rack and had already called the two local feed stores to see if they had any baby chicks for sale. (They didn’t, but they’d be glad to order them for her.)
Things were back on an even keel, and I had time to remember something that I had forgotten earlier.
I picked up the phone and punched in Donna Fletcher’s number. “Ruby said you called the shop with a message for me,” I said, when she came on the line. “But something came up before she could tell me what it was. I thought I’d better check and see if everything is okay.”
“Glad you did,” she said. “I thought you ought to know that we’ve heard from Terry. Well, not from Terry,” she corrected herself, “but about her.” She whooshed out a sigh of relief. “She’s okay, thank God. More or less, anyway.”
I felt glad for her, even though I already knew that much. What’s more, from everything I had learned this morning, it didn’t seem likely that Terry had had anything to do with the arson-homicide.
“More or less?” I asked. “Where is she? What’s the situation?” I was expecting to hear that Terry was in jail somewhere, but that wasn’t it.
Donna sighed. “In Brownsville. She’s been in the hospital there, but she’s out now.”
“Oh, gosh,” I exclaimed. “The hospital? What happened? Is she okay?”
“Not quite okay, but it’s not as bad as it might have been. A broken arm, concussion, bruises. Some teenager ran a red light and smacked into her at an intersection. The truck is drivable, she says. She’s getting it repaired and will drive it home, after she’s released. The kid got the ticket.”
“I’m glad she’s okay,” I said. “And that there wasn’t anything more serious behind her disappearance.”
“Right.” Donna gave a rueful laugh. “Like getting burned up in a trailer fire.” She hesitated. “Have you found out yet who it was?”
“I think so,” I said. “The sheriff has a pretty good lead, anyway. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Not somebody we know, I hope,” Donna said.
“I don’t think so.” I wasn’t going to be the one to tell her that her new partner’s husband might be involved with the death. I said goodbye, feeling relieved that Terry hadn’t been hurt any worse than she had. But I couldn’t shake the fretful worry at the back of my mind, and the bruising question: where was Jessica?
Mourning Gloria Page 23
