Lavender Lies Page 12

  “And if you held out?”

  Her nostrils flared. “He was going to double it.”

  “That’s robbery!” Ruby exclaimed heatedly. “What a jerk!”

  Ruby’s sympathetic response seemed to collapse Darla’s last defense. She took four more french fries and dredged them in a little paper cup filled with catsup, blinking back tears. “With Barnes and Noble moving into the mall last month, it would have killed me. I’d have lost everything I’ve invested—money, time, all my hopes and dreams.” Four more fries. “I wasn’t going to take that lying down.”

  “So you made a deal,” I said. “You traded your vote for a break on the rent.”

  The food seemed to give her courage. “You’re damn right I made a deal,” she said fiercely. “You would’ve done the same thing, in my place.” She opened another drawer, pulled out a sheaf of papers, and slapped them on the desk. “See for yourself.”

  It was a five-year lease agreement, with terms that I supposed she’d found acceptable, since her signature was on the last page. The document was dated the day before Coleman died.

  “But Coleman didn’t sign it,” Ruby said, pointing to the line left for the lessor’s signature.

  “Of course he didn’t sign it,” Darla said bitterly. “Do you think that scumbag would put his name on paper before he got what he wanted? He was holding off until after the next Council vote. Then he’d sign.” She sighed wearily. “I almost cheered out loud when I heard somebody had shot the bastard, but I wish to hell the killer had waited until the lease was signed.” She paused, reflecting. “Well, it probably doesn’t matter. I figure Iris will let me renew at the old rate for another year, and by that time, the building will be up for sale. Who knows? I might even be able to buy it.”

  “Well, then,” Ruby said brightly, “it sounds like things are going to work out just fine after all.”

  There was silence in the room. “Do you know,” I asked after a moment, “how far Coleman got with the other Council members?”

  Darla took a whole handful of french fries. “You said it didn’t have to become public record.” She looked at me. “Does that mean it’ll be kept quiet?”

  I knew very well what she was angling for. She wanted me to use my influence with McQuaid to see that her name would be kept out of the newspaper. “Nobody can say what direction the police investigation will take,” I said cautiously, “but they might be able to treat this information as background.”

  The statement was vague and meaningless, but it seemed to satisfy Darla. After a moment, she said, half-defiantly, “Well, why shouldn’t I tell you? The question didn’t come to a vote, which means that nobody is guilty of anything, right?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she pushed on. “I don’t know what kind of leverage he used with the others, but he certainly approached most of us. Ken, Winnie, Wanda, Pauline, Phyllis.” She stopped: “Hang on. I don’t know for sure about Phyllis. She’s such a Girl Scout, I doubt Coleman thought he’d get anywhere with her. Winnie was definitely a holdout—she kept talking about how much damage he was doing to the environment—and Billie Jean had already voted yes.” She looked down at the lease. “It’s weird the way things work out, isn’t it? Coleman had the votes he wanted, but he didn’t live to count them.”

  Ruby looked at her intently. “Who do you think killed him, Darla? It had to be somebody who hated him, or was afraid of him, or ...” She frowned. “Maybe it was somebody who had something to hide and knew he couldn’t be trusted.”

  Darla gave a hard, bitter laugh. “Who killed him? Who the hell cares?” With a violent gesture, she swept the lease off the desk and into the drawer. “Good riddance to damned bad rubbish.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lavender’s green, diddle diddle,

  Lavender’s blue

  You must love me, diddle diddle,

  Cause I love you.

  I heard one say, diddle diddle

  Since I came hither

  That you and I, diddle diddle

  Must lie together.

  Variation of “Lavender’s Blue”

  Ruby took me home, promising that she would talk to Ken Bowman first thing in the morning and reminding me that I had an eight-thirty appointment with Billie Jean at the House of Beauty. “Looks like McQuaid’s home,” she remarked, as we pulled into our drive. She was right. McQuaid’s van—the specially equipped one we’ve leased for the duration—was parked in front.

  “Want to come in?” I asked. “There are some cupcakes left over from dinner.”

  “I don’t think so,” Ruby said. “I’d better go on home.” She cleared her throat. “But speaking of cake,” she added, with a great show of carelessness, “do we need to check back with Adele?” I had ordered the wedding cake—a three-layer confection with the traditional bride and groom on top—from Adele Toomes, at Sweets for the Sweet. The shop began as a bakery, but Adele has expanded it to full-scale catering.

  “Is there a particular reason,” I asked warily, “for checking back with Adele?”

  Ruby wasn’t looking at me. “My friend Lulu called tonight and said that Annie quit and took the bus to Tucson this morning. Which leaves Adele with nobody but Maureen. And Maureen doesn’t do cakes.”

  “Ruby,” I said with a sigh, “I don’t need to hear this.”

  “Oh, I’m sure everything’s just fine,” Ruby said hurriedly. “Just the same, I think I’ll stop in and have a chat with Adele tomorrow morning.” She put the car in gear. “Don’t fret, dear, and don’t forget about your beauty appointment.”

  Brian’s light was still on upstairs, so I made a quick detour to give him a good-night kiss, stumbling over Howard Cosell on the way out. Back downstairs, I found McQuaid at the kitchen table, with a can of Coors, a bag of tortilla chips, and a bowl of his favorite incendiary salsa, made from some of Blackie Blackwell’s homegrown Rica Reds. They’re only a little cooler than the temperature on the surface of the sun.

  “Glad you’re home,” McQuaid said, sounding as if he meant it. “What have you been up to?” He grabbed my hand and pulled me down for a quick kiss. His lips were like fire. Literally.

  “Oh, just girl stuff,” I said. “You know how it is the week before a wedding.” Surreptiously rubbing my tingling mouth with the back of my hand, I opened the refrigerator to look for a beer and found a plate containing three small sunfish, each about the size of a silver dollar.

  “The kids went fishing while you checked out the creek,” I guessed.

  “Right,” McQuaid said. There was mud on his jeans and a smear of mud on his shirt. “They were lucky.” He scratched his leg above his boot. “All I got is chiggers.”

  I brought my beer to the table. “So what do you figure?”

  “The gun was probably tossed out of a car as it went over the low-water crossing,” McQuaid said. “No clues in the area. The computer’s down tonight, so we don’t have a make on the registration yet. Marvin took the gun to Austin for ballistics, blood work, and prints.” He gave me a glance. “Sorry about that scene at supper. He means well, but he can be a real ass sometimes.”

  “A real ass most of the time,” I said. I sipped my beer. “If that’s Coleman’s blood on the gun, he must have been shot at point-blank range.”

  “Yeah,” McQuaid said shortly. “Left side of his face, above the upper lip. Tattooing around the entrance wound. The back of his head wasn’t pretty, either.”

  “So it was somebody who knew him well enough to get up close,” I said. “Somebody he wasn’t afraid of.” I frowned, thinking back to our lunchtime conversation. “What’s the situation with Darryl Perkins? Is he still one of your suspects?”

  “Darryl’s got an alibi, of sorts,” McQuaid said, dunking a chip in salsa. “He was in Waco, at a Lions Club conference that went on through Monday evening. Or rather, that’s where he was supposed to be. He claims he got food poisoning from a bad bologna sandwich and spent Sunday evening in his hotel room, throwing up.”


  “Waco’s only a couple of hours’ drive,” I said. “He could have driven back here, shot Coleman, then hot-footed it to Waco again.”

  “He could have,” McQuaid said, “but I’ve got my doubts.” He drained his beer. “Darryl’s all hat and no cowboy. I can see him jealous and spoutin’ off to his buddies about what he’s going to do when he gets his hands on a gun. What I can’t see is him shoving it in Coleman’s face and pulling the trigger.” He frowned. “Hate to say it, but I’d sooner put my money on Pauline. It isn’t true,” he added, “that Darryl filed for divorce. Apparently he never quite got up the nerve—and now they’ve patched it up. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded. Pecan Springers think of Darryl as a big man because he owns the car dealership and a piece of the radio station. But behind the scenes, Pauline has always been the bigger man. Darryl might have a fit of jealousy every now and then, but if Pauline’s passions were stirred, she’d be far more likely to do something about it.

  “So what about Pauline?” I asked. “Where was she on Sunday night?”

  “Home alone,” McQuaid replied. “No phone calls, no visitors, no way to verify.”

  “Does Darryl own up to knowing that Coleman was blackmailing his wife?”

  McQuaid shook his head. “There’s no way to say for sure who knew what, or exactly when they knew it. Darryl denies knowing it. Pauline denies telling him.”

  “Pauline may just be trying to save his bacon,” I said.

  “Yeah.” McQuaid sighed heavily. “God, I hate small-town murders. Especially when the victim is the town bully and most of the suspects are Mr. and Mrs. Clean.” He made a wry face. “Give me a drive-by drug killing any day of the week.”

  I frowned. “What about Jorge Garza? Did you talk to him?”

  “Both Marvin and I interviewed him.” McQuaid was somber. “The man is a powder keg. Nervous, angry, volatile. Looks like he could blow at any moment. Apparently, after he got suspended at work—”

  “Suspended?” Phyllis hadn’t told me that.

  “Yeah,” McQuaid said grimly. “I haven’t confirmed the details with his supervisor yet, but he apparently got involved with a family of migrant workers and tried to help them by supplying a set of phony documents. He’s under investigation for forging immigration papers—which means that Coleman’s threat hit him at the worst time. It’s not hard to see Garza pushing a gun into the man’s face—not to protect Phyllis, but to keep Coleman from causing him more grief.”

  “Maybe Phyllis can vouch for his whereabouts on Sunday night,” I said.

  “Nope. Her mother was in the hospital with a suspected heart attack, and Phyllis was with her. Garza has no alibi.” He reached for my hand. “Thanks for getting that letter to us, China. If it hadn’t been for you, this stuff on Garza wouldn’t have turned up.”

  Yeah, thanks, China. Nice of you to implicate your friend and her tough-luck husband. I hoped Jorge wasn’t taking out his angst on Phyllis and made a mental note to give her a call and see how she was holding up. Maybe McQuaid was right. Maybe big-city drive-bys were preferable to small-town murders, where everybody knows everybody else and the facts are tangled up in old friendships, ancient rivalries, and secret debts.

  I leaned forward. “I hate to complicate your investigation, but you need to hear what Ruby and I have dug up.”

  McQuaid groaned. “Don’t you two ever lay off? We’ve already got enough suspects to hold a square dance.”

  “I thought you were on the side of law and order,” I said. “Do you want to hear or don’t you?”

  He nodded, bemused. “Shoot.”

  I shot, giving him a summary of the conversation with Winnie, Letty’s late-afternoon visit, and Darla’s interview, with as much verbatim as I could recall. When I finished, McQuaid sat for a few moments, thinking.

  “Letty didn’t say a word about another love interest when I talked to her,” he said at last. He gave me a long look. “What I want to know is how you got all that information out of those people without a badge or a warrant.”

  “A badge would’ve gotten in the way.” I paraphrased Ruby. “Did you ever, in all of the years you were in Homicide, hear of a single living soul who actually volunteered to be a suspect in a murder investigation?”

  “Well—” McQuaid said.

  “I want to talk to Letty,” I said. “I agree with her that there’s no point in getting the other woman involved unless there’s something to it. And it isn’t the sort of investigation the cops do best.” I grinned. “Can you picture Letty saying anything to Marvin but ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’?”

  “I suppose you’re right,” McQuaid said slowly. He made up his mind. “Okay, talk to her, and report back.” McQaid pushed himself out of his chair and reached for his canes. I stood too, and slid my arms around him. He lifted my chin and kissed me, hard. I could still taste the chile pepper on his mouth, but now its heat mingled with the other warmth rising up inside me. He slid his right hand down the front of my shirt to the first button, his fingers cool against my throat. “We’ve got a wedding night coming up pretty quick,” he whispered into my ear. “Want to get in a little practice?”

  “I haven’t bought my honeymoon nightgown yet,” I objected. “How can I rehearse without a costume?”

  “Easy,” McQuaid said. “We both get naked.”

  “Best offer I’ve had all day,” I murmured.

  On school mornings, Brian dashes to the kitchen to toss down a bowl of cereal with fruit before he grabs his books and sprints for the bus. In nice weather, McQuaid and I usually take our breakfasts onto the back deck, sharing the Enterprise and the sweet, early coolness, the air heavy with the scent of lavender and brightened by the yellow rose that climbs over the trellis. This morning, though, McQuaid didn’t linger. He ate his cereal leaning against the counter, frowning as he listened to my report of the message Harold Tucker had left on our answering machine the afternoon before.

  “Guess we’d better have a look at that lease,” he said. “Wonder where I put it.”

  I looked around the kitchen with a sigh. “I hate to think about moving. We’ll never find another place like this one.” I straightened my shoulders. “But we’re staying put until January. The Tuckers will just have to rent a house.” I changed the subject. “Don’t forget about the marriage license. Today’s Wednesday—we really have to get it.”

  “Yeah, sure.” McQuaid chugged the rest of his orange juice. “Why did Coleman have to get himself knocked off the week before our wedding? The department has gone for a couple of months with nothing nastier than petty theft and a few drunk and disorderlies, and now this.”

  I flipped a slice of bread into the toaster. “Is the Council making progress on their search for a chief?” I asked the question very casually.

  He took an apple out of the bowl on the table. “Haven’t heard anything about it lately.” He wasn’t looking at me. “I guess they’ll tell me when they’ve found somebody.”

  I folded my arms and faced him. “McQuaid,” I said quietly, “you know my feelings on this subject. You have a perfectly good teaching job. It pays more money than wearing a badge and does not require you to risk life and limb.”

  He reached for his canes. “Apprehending a D-and-D isn’t very risky.” He bent toward me, gave me a quick kiss, and limped toward the door.

  I raised my voice. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Sure,” he replied lightly. “Eleven-thirty at the courthouse. I’ll be the one with the eager look. Love you.”

  That wasn’t quite the reassurance I wanted, but it was all I was going to get. I went upstairs and checked out my nose in the mirror. The abrasions were still evident, but the blue under my eyes was fading. With luck, I wouldn’t have to listen to any more favorite remedies. I reached for the phone to dial Letty’s number and told her that I agreed with what she’d proposed the night before. It was a good idea to find out whether Edgar had been involved with anyone else, and I
’d like to talk to her about what she knew.

  “Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed. “And I learned something else, just this morning. It’s confirmed what I guessed.” Once again, there was that odd tension in her voice. Anger? Fear? Considering all of Coleman’s extracurricular activities—women, real estate deals, bribery, maybe even drugs and organized crime—nobody could fault her for being afraid.

  “Maybe you ought to go straight to the police,” I said. “If you know something important, you might be in danger.”

  She backpedaled. “Well, I’m not that sure. And I don’t think there’s any danger.”

  “I’ve got an appointment to get my hair cut,” I said. “I’ll come over around ten.”

  “Fine. As soon as you can.” She paused. “And maybe I’ll arrange—” Another pause, then: “Well, we’ll see. Ten o’clock. I’ll be waiting.”

  I was in our bedroom, wrapping myself into a denim skirt and thinking ruefully that maybe I should be out running a few of the extra pounds off, when the phone rang. It turned out to be Smart Cookie. She was glum.

  “I’ve told Blackie I won’t take the police chief position,” she said. “I’m withdrawing.”

  “Oh, no, Sheila!” I exclaimed. “You’d be terrific for the job! Surely you and Blackie can work it out. Anyway, it’s not fair for you to give up something you want so badly, just because it doesn’t fit Blackie’s idea of what his wife ought to be doing. That’s no way to run a marriage.”

  Sheila cleared her throat. “What Justine said about the political angle ... well, she made me think, China. I could cause a lot of trouble for Blackie just by doing my job. I might even keep him from getting reelected. And you know how much he loves what he does. I would never want to get between him and his work.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Being sheriff is almost a mystical experience for him.” I didn’t want to say so, but I was afraid that the same thing was true for McQuaid. If Sheila got the nod, he’d bow out gracefully. If she didn’t, he might be persuaded to take the job.