Page 44 of The Queen of Roses

He took off his cap and ran a hand over his short-clipped brown hair as he thought. “I know she bought it a long time ago when the land around here was mostly wild. There were a few old ranches up here, but most of the action was down in Pasadena. The nursery came later, in the thirties. She’s built quite a reputation for herself.”

“Did she buy the land for the nursery all on her own?” She remembered Miss Pearce describing how she’d struck a deal with Guy Whitley for a dower house of sorts before she’d even accepted his proposal, but Miss Pearce said that Rosewood House stood on three acres. The nursery certainly was larger than that.

“Can’t say I’ve ever thought to ask,” he said.

Theresa glanced down at the watch her uncle Wally had given her as a graduation present. “I should go. Can’t be late for work.”

“More obituaries?”

She nodded. “I’m also the backup cover on the Metro desk, so if I’m really lucky, one of the weekend reporters will call out sick. Then I might get to cover a traffic accident or a house fire.”

“Spooky,” he said.

She shrugged. “Comes with the job.”

He said goodbye and then stepped back so she could pull away. When she glanced in her rearview mirror, she saw him standing in the middle of the road, hands in his pockets, watching her drive off.

When Theresa arrived at work half an hour later, she found she wasn’t lucky. Frank Gilmer, one of the Metro reporters, was sitting at his desk, typing away as a cigarette hung out of the left corner of his mouth. That meant no chance of her picking up a story that Saturday unless something major had happened that required all hands on deck.

With a sigh, she sat down and started writing up the obit for a businessman who had made a good living importing lamps, glass, and mirrors in the thirties. Then it was a B-movie actor who had cycled through five wives and finished his life living alone in a big house on Fair Oaks Avenue. Rumor had it he had steadily drunk himself to death over the course of forty years, but the official death certificate read that he’d died of a heart attack, so that was what would go into the obit.

With both of those stories filed, Theresa found herself at loose ends. There were things she could do, but…

She glanced around her and pulled her address book from her handbag. She flipped to H, scanned down the page until she found Mary Horowitz’s number, and used the end of her pencil to dial the rotary phone.

Mary picked up on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

“Mary, it’s Theresa Johnson from the Pasadena Herald Times. We had lunch at the Honker a couple of months ago.”

“Carla’s friend?”

“That’s right,” Theresa said, remembering how much of a treat it had been to meet Carla, Style reporter for the Herald Times, and Mary, who worked for the Pasadena Sun Tribune and had the honor of being the one woman working the Metro desk in the entire city, on her day off in the place where the well-heeled ladies of Pasadena took a break from shopping. The hit to her wallet afterward? Not so fun.

“DC by way of New York,” said Mary. “I remember. You write obits.”

“That’s right. I hope you don’t mind me calling to ask a favor, but I’m looking for a wedding announcement from the turn of the century. Our morgue doesn’t go back that far and—”

“You want to know if I can ask our librarians to dig it up for you and save you a trip to the public library archives. Happy to help. Do you have a name and a date?” asked Mary.

“Adele Pearce and Guy Whitley. They were married early 1904. Probably in January or February,” she said, remembering what Miss Pearce said about her mother claiming the money would soon run out.

She could hear Mary scribbling down a note on the other end of the line. “What’s special about them?”

The truth was on the tip of her tongue, but instinct held her back. Mary was still with a competitor, after all.

“Guy Whitley died last month, and I got a call from the family complaining about his obit. Said I got some details wrong. Now I have my editor breathing down my neck to issue a correction. I’m going back and reconfirming everything,” she said.

“I’ve been there,” said Mary. “I’m not in the newsroom today, but I’ll call this in for you now.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“You’ll do me a favor one day,” said Mary matter-of-factly. “What are your days off?”

“Monday and Tuesday,” Theresa said. “I’m on the afternoon shift.”

“Come by before you start work on Wednesday,” said Mary. “The librarians should have it for you then.”

They said goodbye, and Theresa hung up the phone with a smile.