Lavender Lies

by Susan Wittig Albert

  I gave his arm a sympathetic pat. “You don’t look like the sun’s shining for you this morning. Something on your mind?”

  Gloomily, Charlie shrugged out of his brown suit coat and slung it over his shoulder, hooking it with one finger. “Nothin’ thet a good two-week border drunk wouldn’t cure. I feel like I bin chewed up, spit out, an’ stepped on.”

  Charlie does not talk like this all the time. He grew up in a wealthy suburb of Dallas, acquired a first-class education, and is perfectly capable of addressing the bench, the legislature, or a New York City client in Standard English. The rest of the time, he talks like a good old boy.

  “The mayor looked a little hot under the collar,” I agreed, suspecting that Pauline had done most of the chewing and spitting.

  He sighed. “Hot as a ten-dollar whore on the Fourth of July.”

  “Is she mad at you or at McQuaid?”

  “Both. You know Her Honor. You cain’t tell that woman a thing she don’t already know.” He eyed me warily. “She said you and she had a talk last night, so I s’pose you know about this Coleman bidness.”

  “Some of it,” I said. “Enough to make me hope Pauline has an alibi for Sunday night.”

  With a heavy sigh, Charlie loosened the knot of his tie. “Pauline was howlin’ like a stuck hog. Dorrie musta heard ever’ word she said, which means it’ll be all over the whole damn town by suppertime.”

  “Dorrie was dispatching, listening to Fannie, smoking a cigarette, and doing her nails, all at the same time,” I said. “She might not have heard.” I gave him a slantwise look. “You’re saying that Pauline doesn’t have an alibi?”

  Charlie unbuttoned his shirt collar, pulled out his handkerchief, and mopped his face. “Damn that bastard Coleman,” he growled. “I cannot for the life of me figger how a woman smart enough to get herself elected mayor four times would fall into bed with a sorry sonofabitch that ain’t worth spit.”

  I thought about Pauline, sobbing into her hanky. Oh, what a fool I’ve been. What a stupid, idiotic, romantic fool. No wonder she was worried about Charlie spilling the beans to her husband. Darryl Perkins is a kind, mild-mannered man who owns the Do-Right Used Car dealership and does right, generally speaking, by everybody. He is, however, notoriously and publicly jealous, much to Pauline’s embarrassment.

  “Women do inexplicable things in the name of love,” I said. “How about Darryl? How much does he know?”

  “Love!” Charlie snorted. “Is that whut it is?” He stuffed his handkerchief into his pocket with the sad, sour look of a man who has lost whatever illusions he once had. “I sure am glad I never bin tempted to git married,” he said gloomily. “Sure as shootin’ I’d pick somebody who’d make a fool of me. I’d end up in the same perdicament as Darryl Perkins. Forced to defend my marriage when I heard my wife was in the sack with somebody else.”

  Aha. “Does Darryl have an alibi?”

  Charlie’s shoulders slumped as if the sins of the world had suddenly settled on them. “Goddamn that Coleman,” he repeated softly. “Goddamn him to hell.”

  “I really appreciate your direct, forthcoming answers,” I said. “You could’ve told me that this was none of my business.”

  He looked at me innocently. “Hell, China, you know I cain’t go talkin’ ‘bout this case. That’ud be unethical.” He paused. “Speakin’ of gittin’ married, ain’t you ’n’ McQuaid tyin’ the knot on Saturday? Seems like I got an invitation on my desk somewhere.”

  “Sunday,” I said. “Four o’clock, in the garden at the shop. We’re having a reception afterward. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

  “I ain’t too crazy about weddings,” he replied, “but I guess I’ll make an exception in this case.” He frowned. “I sure do hope you know what you’re doin’. I bin in the divorce bidness long enough to know that marriage ruins a whole lotta good sex. But I’m lookin’ forward to kissin’ the bride.” And on that happy note, he walked off.

  McQuaid put down the telephone and pushed his chair around to face me. Since he had signed on for only a month or two, he’d decided not to bother with a uniform. He was wearing jeans, a plaid cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, a denim vest, and a silver star. He looked like Wyatt Earp.

  “Early for lunch, aren’t you?” he asked. “It’s not even eleven-thirty. I still have three more phone calls to make before I can knock off.”

  “A lovely morning to you too, cupcake,” I replied sweetly.

  “Sorry.” He relaxed and leaned back in his chair, brushing his dark hair out of his eyes. “I’ve been here since seven and it’s been a roaring bitch the whole way.”

  “I know. I saw Pauline sailing down the street with her war flags flying. After that, I ran into Charlie, who told me that neither Pauline nor Darryl have alibis for Sunday night and that Darryl knew that Coleman was blackmailing Pauline. He was gloomier than usual.”

  McQuaid reached for his canes and stood. “Charlie told you all that?” he asked, sounding slightly amazed.

  “Well, not in so many words,” I admitted. I took his cowboy hat from the deer-antler rack on the wall and held it out to him. “Did you remember that today is the day we’re getting our marriage license?”

  “Of course I remembered,” he lied. He reached for his hat, then for me, his mouth coming down on mine. After a moment, his lips against my hair, he murmured, “Just like in the movies. Boy meets girl. Boy gets girl. Boy and girl get married and live happily ever after.”

  “Boy and girl get married this Sunday,” I said, and kissed him again. There was a brief interlude that Sheila (who devours romance novels) would have called “steamy.”

  After a moment, I murmured, “Who’s your backup? Just in case you haven’t made an arrest by the time we have to catch our plane.”

  He gave me a final husbandly peck and dropped his arms. “I took your advice. I called Ranger headquarters. They’re sending somebody.”

  “Wonderful! That’s the best news I’ve had all morning.”

  “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “The more I think about this case, the more it feels like a nest of ornery rattlesnakes. Not just murder, but a mayoral sex scandal and the attempted bribery of a public official.”

  “Have you interviewed any of the other members of the Council?”

  “Not yet,” he said. He gave me a narrow look. “Why?”

  “Because the mayor’s vote might not have been the only one Coleman was trying to buy. Would you prefer to hear the details now or over lunch?”

  He jammed his hat on his head and reached for the pair of aluminum canes that are a legacy of the shooting. “Over lunch,” he growled. “I don’t think I can handle any more good news on an empty stomach. But it’ll have to be a quickie. I’ve got a hell of a lot to do.”

  “A quickie,” I said. “The story of my life. What did you have in mind? Taco Bell?”

  Instead of Taco Bell, McQuaid took me to Bean’s Bar & Grill, which is only slightly more romantic and not nearly as clean and well-lit. Located between Purley’s Tire Company and the Missouri-Pacific railroad tracks, Bean’s is owned and operated by Bob Godwin, who bought it a few years ago with the cash settlement from a motorcyle accident. The place looks like a Texas roadhouse, with the food up front, the fun—pool tables, dart boards, and pinball machines—in the back, and a mirrored walnut bar down one long side. It’s a good place to go if you’re in the mood for chicken-fried steak or barbecue. It’s a bad place to go if you’re counting fat grams. There is no such thing as chicken-fried lite. However, when Bob’s current girlfriend, Maria Sanchez, is cooking, she makes a fine black bean soup, which I highly recommend, and her German coleslaw is crunchy and perfectly sweet-sour, with just the right amount of caraway and celery seed. Unfortunately, she doesn’t cook for Bob all the time, so you take your chances.

  When I had ordered, Bob leaned over and whispered, with a sly grin, “Cuttin’ calories so you can get into that weddin’ dress?” There’s not much of Bob’s ginger
y hair left on his head—it’s all migrated to his eyebrows—and he carries a heavy paunch under his apron.

  McQuaid lifted his Lone Star in salute. “You coming to the wedding, Bob?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Bob replied in his nasal East Texas twang. He poured my iced tea out of the side of the plastic pitcher, being generous with the ice. “Wanna see you make a honest woman outta this sweet li’l gal.” He ran an approving eye over my plaid shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. “She’s cuter’n a speckled pup.”

  I must be getting used to it—I no longer bristle when Bob lavishes one of his infamous compliments on me. I smiled. “Getting married is a serious step. We didn’t want to be hasty.”

  “Hasty?” He snorted. “Ya’ll are about as hasty as a bullfrog stuck in the ice. However, I reckon it don’t pay to tie the knot till you’re sure. A bad marriage don’t getcha nothin’ but grief.” He took a catsup bottle out of his apron pocket and exchanged it for the one on the table. “Take ol’ Darryl, fer instance.”

  McQuaid became alert. He was wearing his cop face, intelligent, wary, with eyes that see everything and give nothing away. It’s not a face I particularly like. “What about Darryl?”

  “Why, din’t you know?” Bob offered a heavy sigh. “Darryl went to Austin last week an’ hired hisself a big-time divorce lawyer. Says he intends to keep Pauline from gittin’ any part of Do-Right Used Cars, after whut she done.” He leaned forward and added, in a stage whisper, “And with that skunk Coleman, to boot.”

  “Goodness gracious,” I said helplessly.

  “An’ you know whut?” he went on. “I don’t blame Darryl one li’l bit. Pauline was my wife, I’d be hoppin’ mad too.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Let that be a lesson to you, young lady. You make your man jealous enough, he might just pick up a gun an’ go horn-tossin’ wild.”

  McQuaid gave him a hard look. “Are you saying that Darryl Perkins picked up a—”

  “Ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” Bob replied sternly. “You ain’t gonna trip me up with them cop tricks of yers.” He picked up the menus. “But I’ll tell you one thing. No woman who’d shack up with a polecat like Coleman is gonna get my vote. And from whut I hear, ever’ single man in this town feels the same damn way.” And with that parting shot, off he marched.

  “So it’s all over town,” I said. “Poor Pauline. She’ll never live this down.”

  “Poor Pauline, my foot.” McQuaid was scowling. “How come she didn’t tell me that Darryl’s already filed for divorce?”

  “Because it might not be true,” I said, stirring my iced tea. “Or maybe she doesn’t know.” If Bill Gates wants to improve the speed of his computer network, he should come and study our grapevine. It works so fast that half of Pecan Springs can know something before the people who are immediately involved have the slightest inkling of what has happened. “You haven’t talked to Darryl yet?”

  “He’s in Fredericksburg, delivering a car. I’ve left a message for him to come in.” He frowned. “But Darryl’s pretty meek. Somehow, I can’t picture him shooting somebody, even in a fit of temper.”

  “Not even in a fit of jealous temper? You don’t remember the time he took out after that old boyfriend of Pauline’s and all but chased him out of town?”

  “Well, maybe.” McQuaid dipped a nacho into a bowl of salsa, tasted it, and picked up a bottle of hot sauce that was sitting on the table. He likes his salsa so hot that it sears all the way down. “So. What do you know that I don’t know?” He shook hot sauce into the salsa. “How come you think I have to interview all the other members of the Council?”

  “Not all,” I said. “Just some.”

  “Why not all?”

  “Because two of the seven Council members voted for Coleman on the first reading of the annexation proposal. Right?”

  “I guess so. I wasn’t keeping score.”

  I wasn’t either, but I’d called City Hall and gotten a secretary to tell me who had voted for and against. “Take my word for it,” I said. “In order to get the development annexed, Coleman had to get a majority—four votes. He already had two in his pocket, so he needed two more, three to be on the safe side. If he got Pauline’s vote, he was down to two. If he got Phyllis Garza, he’d need—”

  McQuaid scowled. “What makes you think he went after Phyllis Garza?”

  I opened my shoulder bag and took out the plastic folder containing the letter and envelope. “Phyllis brought this to me this morning. I had a tough time persuading her to turn loose of it, but I knew you’d need it—and if she took it back to Jorge, it might disappear.” I laid it on the table. “It’s been handled by both Phyllis and Jorge, so I doubt that you’ll find any usable prints. But you might want to give it a try.”

  He grasped the significance of the letter on the first reading. “You think Coleman wrote this?”

  “Last night, Pauline said that Coleman wanted ‘teamwork’ —the same word this writer uses. It seems like a pretty substantial coincidence.” I paused. “Phyllis said at first that Jorge hadn’t heard anything more from the blackmailer, but when I questioned her, she admitted she wasn’t sure whether he had or not.”

  “I see,” McQuaid said slowly. He looked at me sideways. “You know the Garzas pretty well, don’t you?”

  “I helped them get a few legal issues straightened out when they first started their alien assistance program. I know Phyllis better than Jorge.”

  “Does either of them have what it takes to kill somebody?”

  “That’s an unanswerable question,” I said bleakly. “How can you know how far a person will go to protect somebody or something he—or she—loves?” There are human imponderables here that no forensic psychologist can unravel. People do things when their livelihoods or their loved ones are threatened that they couldn’t imagine doing under other circumstances. “But if I’d killed Coleman, I sure as heck wouldn’t volunteer this letter.” I paused, thinking. “Of course, it was Phyllis who brought it in, not Jorge. I told her about Coleman’s murder, and I swear it was a surprise to her.”

  McQuaid got my point. “What about Jorge? Could he have done something like this?”

  I hate being a stoolie on my friends. “I suspect he isn’t an easy man to live with,” I said reluctantly. “Phyllis has told me enough, now and then, to give me the idea that they’ve had their share of marital problems. And there was that sad business about his leaving the ministry and getting a job as a social worker, which she never tried to explain.” I met McQuaid’s eyes. “I don’t know for sure that there has been any domestic violence, but it’s possible.”

  “Yeah,” McQuaid said dryly. “Ministers and social workers are like cops. The last ones you’d suspect of beating their wives. But it happens.”

  “Do your best to protect Phyllis,” I said, not liking to think what Jorge was going to say—or do—when he found out that the cops had possession of the letter. True, Phyllis knew what I intended to do with it when she gave it to me. But that didn’t keep me from feeling as if I’d betrayed her.

  “I’ll try,” he said. “But this is a murder investigation. If Garza had anything to do with Coleman’s death, we’ll find it out.” He looked at me. “Do you happen to know which of the others Coleman might’ve tried to get to?”

  I took out my notes and put them on the table. There were two names in the “for” column and five names in the “against” column, including Pauline’s and Phyllis’s.

  McQuaid ran his finger down the “against” list. “Blast,” he muttered. “Guess I’m going to have to talk to all of them.” He looked at his watch. “Bob better get out here pretty quick. I’ve got to get back to the office.”

  “That’s the trouble these days,” Bob said, appearing with our plates. “Ever’body’s in too big of a hurry to chew right, an’ when they get the bellyache, they blame the food.” He looked at me. “Maria says to tell you that she dropped a punch bowl by your store a little while ago. She heard you needed one.”

>   “Thanks,” I said. To McQuaid’s questioning look, I added, “For the reception. Which reminds me. We have to decide about music for the ceremony.”

  “How ‘bout ‘Boot Scootin’ Boogie?” Bob said. “That’ud gitcha down the aisle fast.” He two-stepped off, singing it.

  “I don’t want to think about music,” McQuaid said. “Whatever you decide will be okay with me.”

  “Ruby says it should be Pachelbel’s Canon. Would you like that?”

  McQuaid looked confused. “Isn’t that the one with guns and bells?”

  “You’re probably thinking of the 1812 Overture,” I said tactfully. “That has cannons in it.”

  “Oh.” He picked up his knife. “Well, that’s how much I know about music. You choose. Come on, let’s eat. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “If I choose,” I said, “it’ll be something like ‘Devil With a Blue Dress On.’ ”

  “Great,” he said, chewing fast. “That’ll work. And listen, let’s leave the license until tomorrow, okay? I probably should’ve let you go out to lunch by yourself and sent Dorrie across the street for a burger for me. This is a murder investigation. I haven’t got time to be sociable.”

  “For the recessional,” I said darkly, “we can play ‘All My Exes Live in Texas.’ ”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lavender has been the royal herb of Europe. Charles VI of France (who was periodically convinced that he was made of glass) insisted on having cushions stuffed with lavender to sit on wherever he went.... Queen Elizabeth I of England commanded that the royal table never be without conserve of lavender ... and is reputed to have been a great afficionado of lavender tea. This was used extensively for centuries to relieve headaches of nervous origin.

  Lavender Sweet Lavender

  Judyth A. McLeod