Lavender Lies

by Susan Wittig Albert

McQuaid was studying his bill. “Yeah, sure,” he said absently. “I’ve already seen Powell. Her alibi checks out.” He frowned. “Since when has Lila started charging for coffee refills?”

  “Since yesterday,” Hark said. “I already complained. It’s your turn.”

  “Another thing,” I said, “I talked to Billie Jean Jones this morning, and she told me—”

  He put down a tip and reached for his canes. “Sorry, China, if it’s not critical, I don’t have time.” He gave me a glance. “Looks like your nose is a lot better. Everything’s under control, I hope. The wedding stuff, I mean.”

  “Everything’s under control but the groom,” I said nastily. “I’m counting on his being there on Sunday afternoon, in spirit as well as in body. And getting on that airplane on Monday morning.”

  He slid off the stool and propped himself up. “The wedding’s no problem. I can take a half-day break from the case. But the honeymoon—”

  “McQuaid,” I said grimly, “the honeymoon is no problem either. If the investigation isn’t completed, you can leave it in Marvin’s capable hands. I’m sure he’d be pleased to wrap it up for you.”

  Hark drained his glass and set it down. “ ‘Life of Crime Forces New Husband to Abandon Honeymoon,’ ” he said with gusto. “Another great human interest story, right up there with kids finding murder weapons and double funerals.”

  “Try ‘New Wife Forces Husband to Abandon Life of Crime,’ ” I said, and pitched into Lila’s fried okra. “And while you’re out playing cops and robbers, McQuaid, just remember the job’s only temporary. I’m a permanent fixture.” I lifted my chin. “What do you think of my hair?”

  “Your hair always looks fine to me, whatever you do to it,” McQuaid said, with the air of a man who has delivered the ultimate compliment. He grinned at Hark. “You can hang around and keep China company, Hark. I’ve got a killer to catch.”

  Hark gave a heavy sigh. “McQuaid, you dadgum sonofagun, you don’t deserve this pretty woman. If she’d tell me she’s a permanent fixture in my life, I’d step right up and say ‘Yes, ma’am, here I am. You just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.’ ”

  “Wonderful,” I said enthusiastically. “How do you feel about the Hawaiian Islands?”

  I finished my lunch (except for the tapioca pudding), paid my bill, and walked with Hark as far as the Enterprise. We said good-bye and I went on to the county courthouse to deposit the signed marriage license with Melva Joy. As I was going up the stairs, I met Sheriff Blackie Blackwell on his way down.

  In his white hat, cowboy boots, and brown leather vest with a silver star, Blackie is a familiar figure around the Adams County Courthouse. His father, Corky Blackwell, was elected sheriff in every election for twenty-five years, and his mother, Reba, was the unofficial deputy, cooking for prisoners in the county jail and handling the phone and the paperwork. Blackie grew up riding shotgun with his father and carrying tin plates for his mother, and he never gave a minute’s thought to a career other than law enforcement. He’s stocky, with solid shoulders and sandy hair cut very short, a square jaw, a square chin, and a four-square sense of honesty and fairness that comes from believing in the law and enforcing it with impartiality and singleness of purpose. But beneath his unemotional and mostly uncommunicative exterior, he has a compassionate heart. Even people who don’t like cops like Blackie.

  He took off his hat and grinned. “All ready for the big day, China?”

  “We’re getting there,” I said, displaying the license. “Now, if only McQuaid could wind up the Coleman case—”

  Blackie sobered. “That’s a tough one. Sorry it had to happen when it did. Makes it rough for you, with the wedding and all.”

  “You’ve heard what happened to Letty Coleman?”

  “Yeah. I was in the county clerk’s office a minute ago, and Melva Joy told me. Hard to believe it’s an accident.”

  “That seems to be a generally held view,” I said dryly. “It certainly complicates the investigation.”

  “I’m on my way over there now to talk to McQuaid,” Blackie said. “If I can help, I’d be glad to. Maybe another man or two would make a difference.”

  “It might—if you can get him to accept.” I gave him a searching look. “What’s this I hear about Sheila withdrawing her candidacy for chief of police?”

  Blackie shrugged. “That’s what she told me last night. I’ve got to say I was disappointed.”

  “Disappointed!”

  He sighed. “Yeah. But I’m afraid some of it’s my fault. When she first told me she wanted to have a shot at the job, I said I didn’t think there was room for two law enforcement careers in the same family. Since then, though, I’ve got to thinking about the way my mom and dad worked together. Mom didn’t have an official title and she never acted like she wanted a career. But she was right there, all the way, doing what had to be done to keep Dad’s office going. He couldn’t’ve hired somebody to do what she did.”

  He paused, gathering his thoughts. For Blackie, this was an extraordinarily long speech, and it looked like more was coming. I waited.

  “Way I see it,” he said finally, “Sheila’s got a lot of experience, she’s sharp, and she’s talented. It’s not fair for me to ask her to hold back on anything she wants just because she’s my wife. In fact, it wouldn’t be good for our marriage if either one of us got the upper hand. We’ve got to be free and equal or it won’t work.”

  Such a generous wisdom, I thought admiringly. “Have you told her this?”

  His steady gray eyes met mine. “I told her,” he said, “but I don’t think she believes me. She thinks I just want to make her happy. She’s got this idea that there might be political problems, her being chief, me being sheriff.” He chuckled. “Like the county might not be big enough for both of us, politically speaking.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  He looked at me incredulously. “Are you kidding? I’ve never played politics and I never will. I run on my record as a law enforcement officer. If folks don’t like it, they can vote me out and vote somebody else in.” He shook his head, bemused. “I wish I knew where Sheila got that stupid idea. I’d tell ’em to go stuff it.”

  I sighed. I knew where Smart Cookie had gotten the idea. She got it from somebody named Justine Wyzinski, on my front porch. “Want me to tell her about our conversation?”

  “Yeah, that might help,” Blackie said. “Sure, you talk to her. Tell her I want her to go for it. If you don’t mind, that is.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said, feeling that for once, things were working out just the way I wanted. “I’d do anything to keep McQuaid from staying on as police chief a minute longer than necessary. He’s got a nice, quiet, safe job waiting for him at the university. I’ll be glad when he goes back to it.”

  Blackie regarded me thoughtfully. “Maybe. But what if he’s tired of that nice, quiet, safe lecturing job and wants to go back to law enforcement?”

  I stared at him.

  He put his hat back on his head. “It’s not right for me to tell Sheila what to do or hold her back from what she’s got her heart set on. Don’t you try holding McQuaid back, either, China. You’ll be sorry if you do.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Cactus. Grow in the garden and inside the house as a safeguard against burglary and unwanted intrusions. Grow in the bedroom to guard your chastity. Fill a jar with cactus spines, rusty nails and old tacks, pins and needles. Add rue and rosemary leaves to fill the jar, seal tightly, and then bury under your doorstep as a powerful protective device.

  Scott Cunningham

  Magical Herbalism

  Ruby was right when she said that the shop garden looked very pretty. Now that the days were cooler and the nights longer, the salvia had come into its fall bloom and the calendula and Mexican marigold splashed orange along the fence. The Shasta daisies were blooming too, big patches of white among the greens and grays of the herbs. Unless Betsy or Bertha had other ideas, there woul
dn’t be much for the wedding helpers to do but decorate the arbor where McQuaid and I would take our vows—if everything went the way it was supposed to.

  I walked down the path, noticing that there was more than enough rosemary—of all wedding herbs, the traditional favorite—to decorate the tearoom for the reception, as well as use it in the bouquets and boutonnieres. Sometimes our Pecan Springs summers seem so unendingly hot that I wonder why I live here, but one sniff of rosemary, a Mediterranean herb that flourishes in hot, dry summers and mild winters, reminds me. I was fingering a fragrant sprig and remembering what Blackie had said, when Ruby came down the path, wearing a distressed look.

  “Darla Jean,” she said.

  “What?” I asked, startled out of my reverie. “Who?”

  “Darla Jean McDaniels. Jean is Darla’s middle name. Which means that we have to consider her a suspect. Especially since she doesn’t have an alibi for Sunday night.” Frowning intently, she sat down on the wooden bench beside the apothecary garden and stretched out her legs. “What’s more, she didn’t get to the store until after eleven this morning, and she wouldn’t say where she’d been. And she looked as if she might have pushed Letty down those stairs, China. Her face was flushed and she was nervous as a cat on a hot stove. When I asked what she’d been up to—just casually, you know, nothing that ought to have caused suspicion—she practically chased me out of the store.”

  “Maybe she had second thoughts about telling us so much last night,” I said, recalling Darla’s last words. Who killed him? Who the hell cares? “Or maybe she just wants to forget the whole thing. After all, her problem is solved now that Edgar Coleman is dead. He can’t raise her rent from the grave.”

  “That’s true,” Ruby said. She pulled off her hat and began to fan herself with it. “But look at it this way, China. Suppose Darla Jean was having an affair with Edgar. It was perfect ammunition for him. If she doesn’t vote his way, he’ll raise her rent and tell what they’d been up to into the bargain. But even if she gives him what he wants, she knows she can’t trust him, so she goes to his house and shoots him. Darla Jean’s big problem is solved, once and for all—until Letty finds out about the affair and begins to suspect whose finger pulled the trigger. In which case Darla Jean has another big problem. Right?”

  “It’s all circumstantial,” I said. “There has to be something, some piece of evidence ...” I stopped.

  There was one thing, of course. The fingerprint on the gun. It was time to tell McQuaid what we had found out, whether he wanted to hear it or not. He could question and print both Darla and Bonnie Jean. Darla might refuse to talk to Ruby about where she’d been that morning, but she’d have a harder time evading McQuaid’s questions. And then I thought of something else. Darla’s car.

  “Ruby,” I said thoughtfully, “what color car does Darla drive?”

  “What color? Ruby screwed up her mouth. ”Blue, maybe. I noticed it in the lot last night, but it was dark and I didn’t pay much attention.”

  “If that was her car I saw, it was blue,” I said. “A blue Mercury. Rena Burnett reported that a blue car turned around in her drive at nine-thirty this morning. And McQuaid told me at lunch that they’ve found a print on the gun. It’s time to call in the big guys.”

  “The big guys?”

  “The law. McQuaid and Marvin. It’s obvious that Darla isn’t going to phone us and confess, and I don’t think you and I should try breaking her fingers all by ourselves. I’m speaking metaphorically, of course,” I added, at Ruby’s raised eyebrows. “I don’t know about Marvin, but McQuaid doesn’t break fingers.”

  If Ruby was disappointed, she managed to contain herself. “All I want is for this to be over,” she said, “so we can concentrate on getting you married and off on your honeymoon. With your husband.”

  I agreed with that, too. We went back to the shop, to the crowded closet that serves as my office, and I called McQuaid. He and Marvin were out, Dorrie informed me importantly, on a missing-person call. When I asked who was missing, she grew coy.

  “I don’t think I ought to tell you,” she said. “It’s classified. Breaking news.”

  “Come on, Dorrie,” I said. “This is China. The boss’s wife. It’s all in the family.”

  She was stern. “Not until Sunday.”

  “Pretend this is Monday. Anyway, he’ll tell me when I see him, so what’s the harm?”

  I could hear her chewing her gum. “Okay,” she said at last. “But keep it under your hat, will you? I mean, I don’t want the chief to think he’s got leaks.”

  “No leaks,” I promised. “Who’s missing?”

  She lowered her voice. “Mr. Garza. Ranger Wallace called to get him to come in and be fingerprinted, and his wife said he was gone.”

  “Gone!” I echoed blankly. “Gone where?”

  “Mexico maybe. He left some sort of a note, but I haven’t heard the details yet. Miz Garza was pretty upset.” She paused. “Whut do you want me to tell the chief?”

  “Tell him,” I said slowly, “that I need to talk to him about Darla McDaniels and Billie Jean Jones. He questioned them both earlier, but I think he ought to talk to them again. Have him call me when he gets the chance, and I’ll fill him in.”

  Dorrie agreed, and I put down the phone with a profound regret. Whatever had prompted Jorge Garza to leave town, it would have the effect of bumping him up to the top of McQuaid’s suspect list. And if he’d gone to Mexico, the chances of finding him were very slim. That was his home territory, and he had family there. He’d know where and how to hide out, and the Mexican police aren’t known for their diligence in ferreting out missing persons, especially those with Spanish surnames. I thought once again, sadly, of Phyllis.

  “What was all that about?” Ruby asked curiously. “Somebody’s missing?” When I told her, her face changed. “He’s run away to Mexico? Why, that almost amounts to an admission of guilt!”

  “It might,” I said. “But he’s been in trouble at work—in fact, he was recently suspended for getting phony papers for some of his clients. Maybe it all began to pile up, and he just decided he didn’t want to stick it out.”

  “Maybe we should call Phyllis and see if there’s anything we can do,” Ruby said. “After all that’s happened, she must be devastated.”

  “We’ll have to wait. McQuaid and Marvin are over there now. They’re probably lifting his fingerprints off various items in the house, for comparison with the print on the gun.” If they found a match, they’d know they had their man, of course—but not finding it wasn’t equally conclusive.

  Ruby looked at her watch. “Laurel agreed to watch the shop for me while I put in some time on the advertising for the tearoom. Are you driving out to Wonderful Acres to talk to Wanda?”

  Wanda Rathbottom. I’d forgotten all about her. “Do you think that’s necessary? McQuaid has enough suspects to keep three cops busy. And I need to do something about the wedding cake.”

  Ruby looked superior. “I thought we were having peanut butter and jelly.”

  “A figure of speech. I’ll call Fannie. She probably knows somebody who can pinch-hit for Adele.”

  “And don’t forget that you and Sheila are going to see Iris Powell,” Ruby continued. “I think you should talk to Wanda, too—for the sake of completeness, if nothing else.”

  “Oh, all right,” I said. Interviewing Wanda was probably a waste of time, but she was the last of the City Council members that Coleman appeared to have compromised. I might as well wrap it up. Anyway, it was a slow afternoon. Laurel could handle things by herself for an hour or so.

  But I didn’t get out of the shop right away. I needed to talk to Fannie, and then my mother came in, announcing that she had driven up from Kerrville with the intention of helping with the last-minute wedding details. “So here I am,” she chirped brightly, “ready to go to work.”

  Leatha and I have not had an easy time of it over the years. When I was young, I used to envy the girls whose mothers d
id motherly things, like making cookies for the Girl Scout bake sale or attending parent-teacher conferences. Leatha didn’t have the time or the energy to do those things because she was far too occupied with her problems, which she marinated in Scotch until both she and the problems were ripe. As you might imagine, I developed a great anger toward her, and focused all my love and attention on my absent father. The fact that he was never around didn’t keep me from adoring him, and the greatest joy of my preteen years was to sit in the back row of the courtroom and watch him at work, feeling an enormous pride. As I grew up, I did all I could to please him and to be like him, an effort that earned me a great many successes: a law degree, a legal career, a lot of money, and a totally lopsided life. It took a long time to outgrow this adolescent hero worship and recognize that my father was just as addicted to his profession as my mother was to her alcohol and that his compulsion had annihilated our family just as surely as hers. It took even more years for me to accept Leatha and to try to build something approaching a normal mother-daughter relationship (whatever that is). We’ve been closer since McQuaid was shot, and his slow recovery has also marked a time of healing for us.

  Still, things are dicey. When Leatha shows up, I get a clutchy feeling in my stomach and I want to be somewhere else. This was especially true this afternoon, because Leatha opened the door to my tiny office just as I was asking Fannie whether she could come up with an alternative to Adele. Fannie said she couldn’t rattle any names off the tip of her tongue, but she’d take the matter under advisement.

  “Let me bake your cake, China, dear,” Leatha said, in her slow, honey-sweet drawl. She was raised on a Mississippi plantation, and her years in Texas haven’t parched the Deep South out of her speech.

  I put the phone down and gave her the first excuse I could think of. “That’s very nice of you, Leatha, but it’s really too much to ask. Don’t worry, we’ll find somebody.” In other words, thanks but no thanks.

  To understand my response, you probably should know that of all the many motherly things Leatha didn’t do when I was a child, baking a cake was at the very top of the list. My absentee father, by virtue of his diligent attention to a high-paying profession, made enough money for us to hire Aunt Hettie, who ran our kitchen as if she were cooking at the Governor’s Mansion, and baked every birthday cake I ever got. My dream mother (who more closely resembled June Cleaver in Leave It To Beaver than I now like to think) would not only have baked those cakes, but would have brought cookies to the Troop bake sale, fed me hot soup when I was sick, and made fried chicken and potato salad for picnics. Leatha might manage Sunday night sandwiches and maybe an instant pudding now and again, but I never once saw her put a complete dinner on the table, let alone bake a cake. Much less a wedding cake.