Mourning Gloria (5 page)

“Terry’s back?” It was Ruby Wilcox, coming through the door from the Crystal Cave. She sounded surprised. “When, Donna?”

“Two weeks ago.” Donna straightened. “Terry’s my sister, and I know I shouldn’t feel this way. But I do, damn it. Life is complicated enough, trying to manage the farmwork and keep up with Aunt Velda’s various weirdnesses. Things were going along pretty well, though.” Her mouth twisted. “Until Terry showed up again, more Terry than ever.”

“Well, we’re not all a hundred percent perfect,” Ruby said sympathetically. She put an arm around Donna and gave her a quick hug. She had to lean over to do this, because Ruby is six feet plus in her sandals and Donna is five feet two in hers. And since Ruby was entirely dressed in yellow today (yellow cropped pants, yellow top, yellow floaty scarf tied around her frizzed carroty hair), it was a little like Big Bird cuddling a munchkin. I would have smiled at the sight, but the news about Terry was sobering.

“Where Terry’s concerned, I’d settle for twenty-five percent perfect,” Donna replied wryly. “Or even ten.” She made a face. “I know I promised to be here for her when she got out of prison, but she’s not making it easy. Between her and Aunt Velda—well, I’m about at my wits’ end.”

To tell the truth, I couldn’t much blame Donna. Her sister had been sentenced to prison in California for selling dope, but she served out the last part of her term in Texas on an arrangement with both states, since she had what are euphemistically called “supportive ties” in Texas. In Terry’s case, these ties were her sister and her aunt.

Ruby may look like a certified dingbat, but she has a practical soul. She spoke with her usual common sense. “Terry’s got a green thumb. She’ll be able to help with the farm, won’t she?”

I refrained from saying that it was Terry’s green thumb that sent her to prison in the first place. She had been extremely successful as a market gardener—growing marijuana.

“Yeah, she could help.” There was an edge of bitterness in Donna’s voice. “For instance, she could have been around to help this morning, instead of taking the farm truck yesterday and going off God knows where. It was a good thing Jessica came out to give me a hand with picking and loading. Good thing Roger loaned me his truck, too. Otherwise, I’d have missed today’s market.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ruby said compassionately. “You’ve got enough to worry about without Terry running off with the truck.”

“Yeah.” Donna looked down and lowered her voice. “I’m sorry, too. I don’t know why I’m spouting off to you guys. There’s nothing you can do. Best I can hope for is that Terry will find a job and get another place to live. The way she’s acting, it’s clear that she doesn’t like staying at the farm. She’s even ticked Aunt Velda off, and that takes a heckuva lot of doing.”

“How is Aunt Velda?” I asked. Donna’s elderly aunt is a character, to put it mildly. She was abducted by extraterrestrial aliens a few years ago and taken on a long sightseeing excursion around the galaxy. She might still be up there somewhere, lost in space, but she says that her hosts got tired of her sass and dropped her off at home. The last time I saw her, she was wearing the purple “I Am a Klingon” badge the aliens had pinned on her shirt. She says it’s her ticket to the next space voyage. She’s packed and ready to go whenever they come for her.

“Aunt Velda?” Donna frowned. “She’s mostly okay, although Terry’s causing her grief. Terry keeps pestering her for money—and not in a very nice way, either.”

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“Oh, dear.” Ruby sighed.

“Right. I really hate it when Terry is mean to her,” Donna said regretfully. “Aunt Velda is a big help, in spite of her age. She just keeps on truckin’.” She sighed again. “Speaking of truckin’, I’d better go. Jessica’s waiting to take me back to the farm. I just dropped in to remind you that the local food folks are meeting at the farm tomorrow evening. Hope you’ll be there.”

“Stu reminded me,” I said. “I’m planning on it.”

Donna turned to Ruby. “Why don’t you come, too, Ruby? Stuart and Margie have promised to hand out copies of the first chapter of their book.” She looked proud. “My farm is in it, you know. Maybe we’ll get some good publicity when the book comes out. Oh, and we’re having pizza—with Margie’s secret sauce.”

“I’d love to come—if China doesn’t mind picking me up,” Ruby replied. “Amy’s using my car tomorrow to drive to San Antonio.” Ruby isn’t a convert to eating locally, but she’s interested, and she and Margie Laughton are longtime friends. She took a flyer from the counter and handed it to Donna. “Could you post this at the farm? It’s an advertisement for the lecture China is giving in my shamanic garden in a couple of weeks, for the Pecan Springs Garden Club. The public is invited.”

If you’ve already met Ruby Wilcox, you know that—in addition to owning the only New Age shop in Pecan Springs—she teaches classes in astrology, Tarot, the I Ching, and runes. She’s also a grand master of the Ouija board. It’s no surprise that, earlier this year, she decided to plant a shamanic garden.

Donna held up the flyer, reading aloud. “Magical, Mystical Plants. Come to Ruby Wilcox’s Shamanic Garden and learn about some of the many mysterious plants that have taken people on magical journeys. Tobacco, morning glories, datura, wormwood,
Salvia divinorum
, and many others. Garden talk by China Bayles. Guided garden visit by Ruby Wilcox.” She raised her eyebrows. “You two aren’t offering drug trips, are you?”

“Of course not,” Ruby said, pulling herself up indignantly. “People are forever asking about plants that have been used for divination in different cultures. I thought it would be fun to plant a shamanic garden, and China agreed to help. And then Alison Hart—she’s president of the Garden Club—heard about what we were doing and asked if the club could visit.”

“The garden is in Ruby’s backyard,” I put in. “We thought it would be safer there.”

At first, Ruby had suggested planting it at the shop, where there are plenty of other herb gardens—culinary, medicinal, dye plants, and so on. But I pointed out that security might become an issue. If some of the local teens heard that we were growing psychoactive herbs, they might stage a raid. After consideration, Ruby agreed that the garden would be safer inside her backyard. If any unauthorized persons tried to climb her fence and score a big one, Oodles would sound the alarm. Oodles, who belongs to Ruby’s next-door neighbor, is a miniature poodle. He’s about the size of a four-legged football, but he has the bite of a snapping turtle and the heart of a pit bull. Bark for bark, he can shout down Rambo.

“Right,” Ruby said. “And China’s talk is entirely academic, all about how the plants were used by shamans in traditional societies. Then we’ll walk around the garden and look at the plants themselves. There’s no experimenting—and every plant is legal and can be grown right here in the Hill Country.”

“Really?” Donna wrinkled her nose. “It’s legal to grow
Salvia divinorum
in Texas?”

Salvia divinorum
has gotten a lot of media attention lately, most of it negative. Unlike other garden-variety salvias, this species is highly psychoactive. Mazatec shamans, as part of their religious practices, used the plant to produce trance states and visions. You can eat it, drink it, smoke it, or take it as a tincture and it will make you high—although you can’t prove that by me. I use plants in all sorts of ways, but getting high isn’t one of them. I’ve never even smoked tobacco, which is one of the most mood-altering herbs available.

“Of course it’s legal,” Ruby said huffily. “You don’t think I’d grow a prohibited plant, do you?”

“It’s legal until the Texas legislature gets around to adding it to the Controlled Substances list,” I amended. “The proposed bills I’ve seen control only the sale of the plant, though. They’re not planning to make it illegal to grow the stuff—as long as you don’t harvest it.”

Donna laughed shortly. “And just how do our good-doing legislators plan to enforce a no-harvest rule?”

“Not a clue,” I replied. “I guess we’ll have to post a lookout for the garden police.”

“The garden police?” Ruby opened her eyes wide, alarmed. “You don’t really think—”

“Just kidding,” I said hastily. “We don’t have anything to worry about, Ruby.”

“That’s a relief.” Ruby turned to Donna. “You’ll post the flyer, won’t you?”

“Sure.” Donna sighed. “Terry will probably want to come to your program. She was saying she needed to find a supplier who could get her some pot.”

“Uh-oh.” Ruby frowned. “Now,
that’s
illegal.”

“Yeah,” Donna said sourly. “It would be all I’d need, wouldn’t it? Aunt Velda taking another trip around the galaxy and Terry getting busted—again—for possession. Why couldn’t I have
normal
relatives?” There was a honk outside, and she lifted a hand in a good-bye wave. “That’s Jessica, wanting to get back. On my way, girls. See you tomorrow evening.”

When she had gone, Ruby turned to me. “Amy called a few minutes ago, China. She and Kate are cooking out tonight and invited Hark and me to come over for supper. I told her that you’re batching it this weekend, and she wondered if you and Caitlin would like to come, too. I hope you don’t have plans already.”

“If we did, we’d cancel,” I said. “I’d love to come. And you know how crazy Caitie is about Baby Grace. She’ll probably lobby for a sleepover.”

In case you’re new to our little group, Grace is Ruby’s eighteenmonth-old granddaughter—a real cutie-pie. Her mother Amy is Ruby’s wild child, and Kate is Amy’s live-in partner. To Ruby’s eternal credit, she didn’t bat an eye when Amy announced, before Grace was born, that she and Kate Rodriguez were a couple and had decided to live together. From the outside looking in, I’d say that Kate has had a distinctly calming effect on Amy—or maybe Grace has had a calming effect on both of them. Whatever, it’s always a pleasure to see the three of them together.

The door opened and two women came in. “We’re looking for some fennel plants for the garden,” one of them announced. “Do you have any?”

“I think so,” I said. “Let’s take a look.”

While I was supplying them with potted fennel (dearly beloved by the swallowtail butterfly caterpillars in our area), somebody else came in, looking for ideas for planting a culinary garden. I showed her the display garden, gave her a plant list, and she ended up buying two or three pots of every culinary herb I had in stock.

The rest of the afternoon zipped past, with plenty of traffic in the shop and in the gardens. Caitie came back from the bookstore in time to help close, and when I cleared the register and made up the bank deposit, there was a gratifying wad of cash and an equally gratifying bundle of checks and credit card slips. Ruby reported that the Crystal Cave had done well, and the tearoom had been busy until after three o’clock. A successful Saturday all around. The Farmers’ Market was good for us. Good for the bottom line, too.

I hummed a tune as Caitlin and I drove to the bank.

AMY and Kate live in a neat little house on Dallas Drive, on the east side of town. When Caitlin and I got there, everybody was already out in the backyard. At the grill, Kate was cooking hamburgers, hot dogs, and sweet corn. At the nearby picnic table, Amy was arranging bottles of ketchup and mustard and a tray of lettuce, pickles, and sliced tomatoes and onions. Ruby (who had changed into a swirly red-and-brown tiered skirt, a red spaghetti-strap top, and red cowgirl boots) was pouring lemonade. Hark Hibler, an orange UT Longhorns gimme cap pulled down over his eyes, was observing this domestic activity from a comfortable lawn chair in the shade of the willow tree.

“Yo, China,” Hark called, tipping up the brim of his cap and raising his lemonade glass in greeting. “Got that article finished yet?”

I plopped the big bag of non–locally grown potato chips (my busyday contribution to the picnic) on the table and stuck out my tongue at him. Hark is my boss—at least, he likes to think he is. I write a garden column and edit the weekly “Home and Garden” page in the
Pecan Springs Enterprise
in return for free newspaper ads. In my opinion, this is a very fair trade. Hark gets local garden writing for the newspaper and the shop gets great exposure.

“I’m working on it,” I replied. “Don’t worry. I’ve never missed a deadline yet, have I?”

I hadn’t told him that next week’s piece was about Texas plants that have psychoactive properties. I had helped Ruby with the research when we planted the garden early last fall, and I thought it would make a good topic for a column. I wasn’t sure Hark would be pleased, since the “Home and Garden” page usually showcases relatively harmless herbs, vegetables, flowers, and landscape plants. I’ll probably get a few letters from uptight readers who object to a feature about plants that have been used for mind-altering purposes, rather than feeding us or making our yards look good.

On the other hand, maybe Hark will like the column. He says that a little controversy boosts circulation, and he’s always looking for more readers. Since he bought the
Enterprise
from the Seidensticker family several years ago, he has been trying to fetch it into the twenty-first century and make it at least as relevant as yesterday’s TV news. Which is definitely a change from the previous editorial policy. Until Hark came along with a journalism degree from the University of Houston and an insistence on covering all the news, good, bad, or indifferent, every story was pasteurized before it was printed, which left Pecan Springs looking like the cleanest, coziest little town in Texas.