Mourning Gloria (11 page)

I sighed. Ruby is capable of losing her heart on a moment’s notice, and I fervently wished she would lose it to Hark. In my book, he’s one of the good guys. He’s been there for her when her current love affair has failed, and he doesn’t deserve to be treated carelessly.

But even good guys occasionally have their bad points. For some, it’s rodeo and bull-riding and outrageous flirting. For Hark, it’s pool.

 

 

To get to Mistletoe Creek Farm, you drive south from Pecan Springs to Comanche Road, which traces a twenty-mile loop off State Route 39. This area used to be farming and grazing country, but sprawling real estate developments and exclusive gated communities have gobbled much of it up, like angry locusts consuming the land. Without irrigation, farming has always been a chancy business here. If a creek or a stream crosses your property, you’re lucky. If not, you have to irrigate with water pumped up from the aquifer, hundreds of feet below—and both the Trinity and the Edwards aquifers, which supply this part of the Hill Country, are seriously threatened by overpumping.

Donna is lucky. Her small farm straddles both sides of Mistletoe Creek, a shallow, fast-moving stream that flows into the Pecan River west of New Braunfels. When the fields don’t get enough rain, she irrigates with water from the creek, so that her vegetables did fairly well, even during last summer’s long dry spell. Her market farm is really taking off, energized by the community-supported agriculture movement that’s gathering steam among folks like Stuart and Margie Laughton and the other members of the Local Food Society. And Donna herself is putting not only muscle power but imagination and mental energy into the farm. She’s developed a website, a biweekly eletter, and offers subscriptions for the weekly delivery of seasonal vegetables. (If you want to subscribe, it’s too late for this year—all the places are filled. But go ahead and put your name on her waiting list, and maybe you’ll make it for next year.) She also has a booth at the Farmers’ Market, where she sells what doesn’t go to subscribers.

At this point, the farm has five acres in vegetables. That may not sound like much, but Donna practices organic, low-impact farming. Five acres are about all she can handle, along with the additional acres of olive trees and Christmas trees, not to mention the bees and the chickens and the goats (Nubians—she says they give the best milk) and the computer work that goes into managing the subscriptions and turning out the eletters. She has some help from subscribers who trade hours of labor for vegetables and from a few dedicated volunteers like Jessica. But when push comes to shove, Donna is the one who does most of the work. She might not welcome her sister back with open arms, but she (and Aunt Velda, too, I imagine) will likely be glad for whatever help they can get from Terry.

Ruby and I passed the Mistletoe Creek Farm sign at the corner of Comanche Road and turned down the narrow, bumpy lane, potholed from the recent rains. On the left, along the little creek, were the olive trees, green and lush. They were several years old now, and just beginning to bear well. On the right were the Christmas trees, twenty acres of pines, in various stages of growth. Ahead of us, at the end of the lane, stood the small house where Donna and Aunt Velda live. Behind the house was a substantial chicken coop (the sign on the door reads: Quiet, Hens at Work), and a red barn that houses the farm office, as well as the milking stations for Donna’s goats. We were meeting on the deck in back of the house, under the shade of a large pecan tree. I pulled up in the graveled parking area, where a dozen cars were already parked.

As we got out of the car, Margie Laughton—a soft-faced, brown-haired woman in her early forties—hurried toward us, almost skipping. I’ve recently seen Margie wearing a forlorn expression when she thinks nobody’s looking, and I’ve wondered if it was because of the problems she and Stu have been having. But just now, she was wreathed in smiles. She was carrying a copy of their new book,
Small Farms
.

“See?” she crowed, holding it up. “Isn’t it beautiful? Don’t you just
love
the front cover? Look—it’s a photo of Donna’s farm!” She turned the book over. “And on the back, there’s a photo of Stu and me, with baskets of fresh veggies.”

“It’s gorgeous, Margie!” Ruby replied, and enveloped her in a hug so huge that Margie was almost pulled off her feet. “We’re so proud of you!”

“And believe it or not, our publicist says that she’s setting up an interview on
All Things Considered
,” Margie said, righting herself breathlessly.

“Wow,” Ruby breathed, awed. “You and Stu—on
All Things Considered
! The national publicity will be great for you!”

“I want a dozen copies of the book for the shop,” I said. “Where do I order it?”

“I’ll get you the information—and of course, we’ll be glad to do a book signing.” Margie pulled us along. “Come on. Everybody else is here already. Let’s eat.”

The table was full, with homemade pizza with local-veggie toppings and Margie’s sauce; a variety of greens from Donna’s salad garden; and a half-dozen desserts. One person had brought cantaloupes from the Rio Grande valley, somebody had donated a dish of home-canned Hill Country peaches from the previous season, and another had come up with figs from the tree in her backyard. But the rest of the desserts were about as local as my carrot cupcakes and Ruby’s cookies, so I didn’t feel too guilty.

I was loading my plate when I felt a tug at my elbow. I turned to see Jessica Nelson, cute and perky in cutoffs and a green Mistletoe Farm tee. She leaned close and lowered her voice.

“I understand that you were the one who turned in the alarm on the trailer fire on Limekiln Road last night, China. It must’ve happened while you were on your way home from Amy and Kate’s, huh?”

“News travels fast.” I helped myself to two slices of pizza. “How did you hear about that?”

“Mr. Hibler got the word early this morning and called to tell me. I drove out and got a few pictures for the paper.”

“Yeah. Well, I was the one who turned it in, all right. But if I’d only got there a few minutes earlier, the victim might still be alive.”

“I seriously doubt it,” Jessica said. “I talked to the sheriff just before I came out here, and he said—”

I didn’t get to hear what Blackie had said, for we were interrupted. It was Stu, with a copy of
Small Farms
under his arm and a plate loaded with pizza.

To Jessica, he said, “Hey, aren’t you Jessica Nelson, from the
Enterprise
? I’m Stu Laughton, author of
Small Farms.
”

I was surprised, because I thought Jessica surely knew him from the farm or the market. But I must’ve been wrong, because she replied, “Yep, that’s me. Nice to meet you.” She ducked her head, and I caught a glance that passed between them, a private glance weighed with a significance I didn’t understand.

But the glance was gone in a flash, and Stu’s tone was so casual that I thought I must have been mistaken. “Hark Hibler says you’re reviewing our book for the
Enterprise
. Do you need a copy? I’ll be glad to drop one off for you, if you’ll give me your address.”

“No need to bother,” Jessica replied. “I’m all set. Your publicist sent me an advance reading copy and I’ve already written a draft of my review.” Her expression became serious. “I’ll tell you up front what I think, Dr. Laughton. Everybody needs to know what’s happening with our food—and they will, if they read the book you and your wife have written.” She paused. “I was really impressed with the section on genetically modified crops.”

Stu nodded. “Thanks for letting me know. Margie and I are hoping the early reviews will spark some interest.”

“Spark some interest?” I laughed out loud. To Jessica, I said, “If you really want a scoop, Jessica, ask him about appearing on
All Things Considered
.”

“No kidding?” Jessica’s brown eyes widened. “
All Things Considered
? Now I
am
impressed.”

“It’s not definite yet,” Stu said. But he was grinning that cocky grin of his. “Just a maybe, at this point.”

“When it happens, it’ll be an
Enterprise
banner headline,” I said.

“For sure,” Jessica agreed.

“Certainly hope so,” Stu said, and made off in the direction of the beer.

When he had gone, I went back to the subject. “What was it you were saying about the sheriff?”

Jessica nodded toward two empty side-by-side chairs at a table on the far side of the deck, next to a wooden tub of patio tomatoes, the ripening fruit like bright red jewels. “Let’s sit where we can talk.”

“What’s up,” she said, when we were settled, “is that Mr. Hibler has assigned me to cover the trailer fire story. I’m going to get a byline on it, too.” She paused. “I’d like to interview you, China.”

I wasn’t surprised that Hark wanted the story covered, although it was a little unusual that he hadn’t taken it himself or assigned it to one of his staff writers, instead of handing it over to an intern. He probably wanted to help an ambitious girl reporter beef up her portfolio. But my role in the trailer fire was pure happenstance, and I hadn’t been able to do anything constructive except phone 9-1-1. There’s nothing newsworthy about that.

I said, “Well, I’m glad about the byline, Jessica. That’s great. But the sheriff knows everything I know, and a heckuva lot more. Why don’t you interview him?”

“I plan to, just as soon as he’s available.” Jessica’s expression was serious. “But I really want to interview you, China. There’s a strong human-interest angle to this, and I aim to give it my best shot.” She gave me a crooked grin. “After all, this may be the only big story I get this whole summer. I don’t mind telling you, I need it.”

And want it, I thought, remembering what Hark had said about Jessica being competitive. “I can understand that,” I replied reluctantly. “I hope you’re not planning to do the interview right now, though.”

She shook her head. “How about tomorrow? Lunch? Okay if I bring a tape recorder?”

“The tape recorder is fine, and so is lunch. The tearoom is closed on Mondays, but there’s usually stuff for sandwiches and salad in the fridge. We’ll have the place to ourselves.” I grinned. “Unless you’ve got an expense account. In which case—”

“Expense account?” She snorted a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding. Mr. Hibler is as tight as a tick when it comes to expenses. But I don’t want to panhandle,” she added hastily. “I’ll pick up the tab.”

“No tab when we’re eating out of the fridge.” I paused. “What was it you were saying before Dr. Laughton interrupted us? You mentioned that you had talked to the sheriff and he said . . .” I trailed off, prompting her.

She leaned toward me, her voice conspiratorial, her face purposeful. Her intensity reminded me of myself at her age. “He said that the victim was shot, China. Tied up, hands and feet, and shot.”

“I know,” I said, and was immediately sorry. Jessica had thought she had a scoop. I softened my tone. “Chief Dawson is a friend of mine. We spoke about the situation late last night. The sheriff had already filled her in, and she passed on the news to me.”

Impatiently, Jessica threw up her hands. “This town. Everybody’s connected to everybody else. Who the hell needs a newspaper?”

“I’ve often wondered that myself,” I said ruefully. “Gossip travels at the speed of thought. Sometimes I think everybody is hardwired into some sort of central processing unit.” I regarded her. “Did the sheriff say anything else? Anything about drugs, for instance?”

“Well, yes. Apparently, they found some drug paraphernalia in the place. I didn’t ask him what, specifically.”

“Could’ve been left by the previous tenants.” I picked up my second piece of pizza, pondering the flavors in Margie’s secret sauce. Basil—lots of basil. Thyme and maybe savory. And bay, of course.

She tilted her head, her glance sharpening. “Previous tenants?”

I nodded. “According to my husband, the new owner—Scott Sheridan, at A-Plus Auto Parts—evicted them when he learned that they were doing drugs. I don’t know whether he had time to clean out the place yet.” I gave her a sidelong glance. Jessica—aka Lois Lane, Girl Reporter—was jotting down the information on her paper napkin. I had just made up for spoiling her scoop.

“Thanks,” she said with satisfaction. “Scott Sheridan. A-Plus Auto Parts. I’ll talk to him.”

“Don’t tell him I sent you,” I cautioned. If my ex-cop husband knew I’d leaked that information to a reporter, he’d be annoyed.

“Don’t worry,” she said, with just a trace of self-importance. “I don’t reveal my sources. Unless I’m subpoenaed, that is.”

“Don’t be,” I said, beginning on my last slice of pizza. “Subpoenaed, that is. It’ll probably happen sometime in your career, but you want to put it off as long as possible. It is definitely not fun.”

“Right.” Jessica stood up. “I’ve got to take a couple of photos for the story on this meeting, and then I’m heading for dessert. What did you bring?”

“Carrot cupcakes. Featuring locally grown carrots and pecans, plus wheat flour from America’s breadbasket and exotic spices flown in from the far corners of the earth. I’d hate to calculate the carbon footprint of those cupcakes.”

Jessica chuckled. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“Do thoughts have carbon footprints?”

“I’ll try the cupcakes,” she said, and left the table.

I had finished my pizza and was about to make my way to the desserts, when Donna appeared. She sat down beside me, took off her yellow baseball cap, and rubbed her face with her sun-browned hands.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. As I know from my own gardening experience, it’s always something. If it’s not rabbits in the lettuce, it’s vine borers on the squash or hornworms on the tomatoes. At least it hadn’t hailed in the past few days—but there’s always next week.

“It’s Terry,” she said bleakly. “She still hasn’t shown up. Which means I still don’t have a truck.” She dropped her hands, her face hard, her mouth set. “When that woman gets back here, I am going to kill her. At the very least, I’m throwing her out. She can find someplace else to live. She can get her own vehicle, too, damn it.”