Lavender Lies Read online

  Lavender has an especially good use for all griefes and paines of the head and brain.

  Paradisi in Sole Paradisus Terrestris, 1609

  John Parkinson

  After lunch, Ruby and I left Laurel to keep an eye on both shops and adjourned to the tearoom to make centerpieces—small pots of lavender and other herbs set into plastic containers wrapped with batting to make them look puffy, then covered with chintz in colors that coordinated with the tablecloths. They would do double duty for the reception and for the grand opening later.

  “Eat your heart out, Martha Stewart,” I said, tying a red ribbon around a puffy chintz-covered pot. In the background, providing an accompaniment to our work, was the hammering and muffled conversation of the two young men who were installing the pantry shelves. In the foreground sat Khat, the large and elegant seal-point Siamese that lives in the shop. I took him to live with me when McQuaid and I moved in together, but that didn’t last very long. Khat and Howard Cosell are not a match made in heaven.

  “What we need,” Ruby said, “is to write the names of the herbs and their symbolism on little white cards. You know, sage for wisdom, mint for virtue, rosemary for fidelity, parsley for ...” She frowned. “What does parsley represent?”

  “The woman of the house is boss,” I said. In one graceful motion, Khat sprang up on the table to see what we were doing.

  “No, seriously.”

  “Yes, seriously. That’s what it means. They used to say that about a lot of herbs, actually. ‘Rosemary grows where the woman is master,’ that sort of thing. Back when herbs were mostly used as medicinals, a woman who grew them knew her stuff, poison-wise. You probably didn’t want to mess with her.”

  “Well, we certainly can’t write that,” Ruby said, moving her material aside so Khat would have a place to sit. “McQuaid wouldn’t want people thinking you have the upper hand, even if it is just a joke.”

  “McQuaid is too busy with his murder investigation to think about anything else,” I said. “Over lunch, he added more names to his suspect list. It now includes all but two members of the City Council.” Purring throatily, Khat lay down, arranged his paws, and gave us a penetrating Siamese stare.

  “The City Council!” Ruby looked baffled. “Why?”

  “Because Coleman seems to have been applying a little covert leverage to get the votes he wanted.” The minute the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Giving necessary information to an investigating officer is one thing. Gossip is another. I tucked some basil into a pot and added, to cover my blunder, “Basil means ‘the enemy is near.’ You could write that down.”

  “Ha ha,” Ruby said. “Where do you get all this weird stuff?”

  “That’s not weird,” I said, glad of a new subject. “The Victorians had all sorts of meanings for herbs and flowers. They made up floral dictionaries and—”

  The French door flew open and Laurel Wiley staggered in with a tall stack of punch bowls. “Where do you want these?” she asked, holding the top one with her chin.

  Ruby’s lips moved as she counted. “Six punch bowls?”

  “And that’s not all,” Laurel said as I took the bowls and put them on the floor. She straightened up and flipped her brown braid back over her shoulder. “There are five more in the shop, and more on the way. I just got another couple of phone calls.”

  “Well, for heaven’s sake,” Ruby said plaintively, “tell them we don’t need any more! I hope these have names on them.”

  “Some do and some don’t,” I said, inspecting.

  Ruby groaned.

  “I’ll tell them,” Laurel said, and disappeared. Khat, imagining that she had gone to find him a treat, leaped off the table and went after her, his black tail in the air.

  “I guess asking Fannie to find punch bowls wasn’t a very good idea,” Ruby said.

  “It was too good an idea,” I replied. I looked at the chintz-covered pots lined up on the table. “How many of these do we have to make?”

  “A dozen.” Ruby picked up another pot and began to work. “What’s this about Coleman and the Council and leverage?”

  Rats. I thought I’d successfully dodged that bullet. “I’m sorry, Ruby. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Actually, it’s not a surprise.” Ruby tied a green ribbon around a pot of sage. “I ran into Pauline when I went to lunch. She was sitting by herself on the patio at Dos Amigas, looking wretched. I sat down with her and two minutes later she whipped out her hanky and started to cry.”

  “And the more she cried,” I guessed, “the more she talked.”

  “That’s Pauline,” Ruby said philosophically. “She’s a very tough lady, but she’s got no give. When something gets to her, she goes to pieces. She’s afraid Darryl’s in trouble. She wasn’t clear about the details, but it has something to do with Coleman and the annexation proposal and her being a romantic fool. I got the impression that Darryl had a good reason to be jealous of Coleman.” She looked at me. “McQuaid doesn’t think Darryl did it, does he?”

  “McQuaid doesn’t think anything yet,” I said. “The investigation is just getting underway.”

  She tucked tissue paper around the pot and gathered the chintz with her hands. “So what’s this about a list of suspects?”

  Since she already knew about Pauline and Darryl, it wouldn’t hurt to tell her a little more of the story. “Well,” I said cautiously, “it may be that Coleman was killed because he was attempting to blackmail somebody.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Ruby murmured, looping the rim of the pot with a lavender ribbon. “Like, a Council member, maybe?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Like Phyllis Garza? Was that why she was here this morning? I saw her when she left, and she looked pretty upset. What did he do, send her a letter? Call her on the phone?”

  “Ruby,” I said, “will you stop? I really don’t think McQuaid would like it if I said anything else.”

  Ruby was silent for a minute, regarding her handiwork. “If you wanted me to,” she said at last, “I could find out whether Coleman tried to get Darla McDaniels’s vote. I went to school with her. We were both on the cheerleading squad our junior year and we had a crush on the quarterback.” She giggled. “But she married the jerk.”

  “You were a cheerleader?”

  “Sis boom bah.”

  “Knowing you, I find that hard to believe.”

  Ruby tossed her frizzed curls. “I don’t see why. I mean, I was a perfectly normal Texas teenager.”

  “That’s the part that’s hard to believe,” I said. “And Darla McDaniels was a cheerleader too? She must have ... well, changed.” Darla is on the high side of one-eighty.

  “We’ve all changed,” Ruby replied. “But we were good friends once. I’m sure she’ll open up to me about Coleman. You should come too, though, and hear what she says.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for us to talk to anybody. McQuaid won’t want us messing around with his investigation.”

  Ruby frowned. “Maybe so. But if McQuaid asks Darla whether Coleman was blackmailing her, she’ll say no. I mean, I would.” At my questioning glance, she added, defensively, “Well, I would. If I said yes, I got a letter or a phone call or whatever from that turkey, McQuaid would put me on the suspect list immediately, which would mean that he’d want to interrogate me and check my alibi and all that police stuff. And if Coleman was blackmailing me, it means I’ve done something I don’t want anybody to know about, so I wouldn’t be anxious to tell the cops anything.” She tossed her red curls, warming to her subject. “On the other hand, if I’d killed Coleman to keep him quiet, do you think I’d tell the police he was blackmailing me? Not on your life. That would be criminally stupid.”

  “Dang,” I said. Sometimes Ruby’s logic amazes me.

  “In either case,” she went on, “it would be a heck of a lot easier to deny everything and save myself a lot of grief, and maybe some public exposure I could
n’t afford. Take it from me, China, McQuaid’s investigation will still be at ground zero on Sunday afternoon. He’ll probably show up for the wedding, but you can forget about the honeymoon. Unless we help.”

  “He’s called the Rangers,” I said. “They’re sending an officer. That ought to be enough. ‘One riot, one Ranger,’ remember?”

  “A Ranger?” Ruby gave me a scornful look. “That’s not the kind of help he needs. Anyway, it’s just another reason to worry. Have you ever heard of a police officer—especially an interim officer, taking off on his honeymoon and leaving a Ranger in charge of a big investigation? Why, it’s against the code of honor, or whatever they call it.”

  I hated to admit it, but Ruby was probably right. McQuaid would leave only if he had a suspect in custody and either a viable confession or a strong evidence-based case that the county attorney could go to work on. And even then—

  “Anyway, this isn’t a case for the police, and you know it.” Ruby looked at me. “Did you ever, in all the years you practiced as a criminal attorney, hear of a single living soul who actually volunteered to be a suspect in a murder investigation?” She answered her own question with an emphatic shake of her head. “Of course not. Phyllis would never in the world have gone to McQuaid on her own, or to any policeman. Darla isn’t going to be any more forthcoming—to an official investigator, that is. But we are not officials. We are not investigators, public or private. We are sincere, helpful people who might be able to get our friends out of a jam. Do you see?”

  “I do,” I conceded, “although a sincere helpful person who rats to the cops is a pretty lousy friend. Anyway, I don’t know where that leaves us, as far as the honeymoon is concerned. McQuaid still has to interrogate every single—”

  “McQuaid can do anything he wants,” Ruby said, “any time he wants. Meanwhile, we’ll just poke around a little bit and see what we can find out that might expedite his investigation. There’s no law against a private citizen asking a few questions of her friends, is there?” She had a gleam in her eye.

  “Not as long as the private citizen doesn’t obstruct justice,” I said cautiously. “But on the whole, it’s not a good idea to get in the way of an official—”

  “Right. We won’t stand in front of any police cars.” Ruby pursed her lips. “Really, China, I should think you’d be anxious to get this case wrapped up so that you and McQuaid could get on with your lives.”

  “Well, I am. But—”

  “Good.” Ruby smiled. “The Council has seven members. Why are there only five on your list?”

  I took out my two “fors” and five “againsts” and explained the arithmetic. “McQuaid is concentrating on Pauline and Phyllis,” I said, ticking them off. “Which leaves three. Darla McDaniels, Winnie Hatcher, Wanda Rathbottom.” I frowned, thinking that I knew all of these people, one way or another. Pecan Springs is a small town.

  “Wait a minute,” Ruby said. “Why couldn’t one of the ‘fors’ have killed him? Maybe he laid a little blackmail on them before the first vote was taken.”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” I asked.

  “Because you subconsciously wanted to keep the list as short as possible, hoping to speed things up.” Ruby had shifted into her brisk, take-charge mode. “Who are they?”

  “Ken Bowman,” I said. “And Billie Jean Jones.”

  “Well, that’s easy,” Ruby said. “Ken Bowman lives just across the street from me. He can help me jump-start my car tomorrow morning.”

  “Your Toyota?” I asked, surprised. “It’s almost new. What’s wrong with it?”

  “Whatever it is,” Ruby said with a twinkle, “it will go wrong first thing in the morning, just as Ken is on his way to work. And Billie Jean works at the House of Beauty. You’re going to get your hair done before the wedding, aren’t you? Why don’t you make an appointment with her?”

  “I suppose I could, although I was thinking maybe I’d just shampoo it.” I rubbed a strand of hair, thinking that it felt pretty dry. I’ve started to think about getting it frosted, to hide the streak of gray that runs down the left side, but I never manage to find the time.

  “You will get a style cut,” Ruby said emphatically, “and a manicure.”

  “A manicure! Not on your life.”

  “A style cut, a manicure, and a facial,” Ruby said. “That should give you plenty of time to give Billie Jean the third degree.” Pointing to Winnie Hatcher’s name on the list, she ignored my strangled protest. “And don’t forget that Winnie offered to give us roses for the wedding. So we’ve got a good excuse to go talk to her.”

  I shook my head. “If Winnie got mad enough, she wouldn’t hesitate to bash Edgar Coleman with anything she could reach. But she wouldn’t shoot him. She’s led the anti-gun lobby at the legislature every session for the last ten.” Not that it’s made any difference. Texans would sooner give up their wives than their guns.

  “I agree,” Ruby said, “but Winnie is a very smart woman and knows everybody and his nephew, so we ought to start with her. And that just leaves Wanda Rathbottom.” She gave me a meaningful look.

  When Ruby revs into high gear, you either have to climb on her bandwagon or get out of the way before she careens over you. “I guess I can talk to Wanda,” I said. “But we’re not exactly bosom buddies. I doubt that I’ll be able to get anything out of her.” Wanda Rathbottom owns a nursery called Wanda’s Wonderful Acres, which makes me her competitor—in her mind, anyway. We’ve never been very friendly. We’ve gotten even less so since I took over her job editing the Home and Garden page for the Enterprise. No matter that Hark fired her before he hired me. The way Wanda sees it, I’m the one who killed her promising career as a garden columnist.

  “You’ll just have to be creative,” Ruby said. “If she acts nervous and suspicious, that tells us something.”

  “Tells us what? I might be nervous and suspicious if somebody came around asking me nosy questions about my private business. And Wanda is a nervous and suspicious woman by nature. She sees a bee in every blossom, and it’s always about to sting her.”

  Ruby waved her hand. “You’ll do fine. Just pretend she’s a hostile witness, and you’ve got her on the stand in front of a judge and a jury. All your old grilling tricks will come back to you. Anyway, what we’re trying to do is eliminate people. We’ll let McQuaid worry about getting the confession.” Ruby looked at her watch. “You call the House of Beauty and make an appointment with Billie Jean, and I’ll give Winnie a buzz and see if we can drive over there this afternoon.”

  “You won’t hear me objecting to a tour of Winnie’s garden,” I said, “but the wedding isn’t until Sunday. We can’t cut roses this early.”

  “We’re not going to cut the roses today, silly. We’re just taking a look. That way, we’ll know how many and what colors Winnie has, and somebody can get them later. And while we’re there, of course, we can discreetly find out what she knows about Edgar Coleman.” She lined up the last chintz-covered pot. “There,” she exclaimed. “All done! China, we make a great team. When we decide to do some- . thing, it gets done right, with no dawdling.”

  “I doubt that McQuaid will be so enthusiastic about our detective work,” I said. “We’d better stop by the office and let him know what we’re up to. We probably won’t cause him any trouble, but I don’t want to run the risk.”

  Ruby frowned. “Is that really necessary—before the fact, I mean? We’re simply gathering information. If we find out anything, sure, we’ll tell him. If we don’t, what he doesn’t know won’t make him mad.”

  Ruby’s response made a certain kind of sense. “Just the same,” I said, “I’d feel better if I talked to him.” I was betting that he’d say no, which would put an end to Ruby’s nonsense. I could go back to getting ready for the wedding and leave the investigating to my future husband. Husband? I shivered. I was still having trouble getting used to the idea.

  “Excuse me,” Laurel said, opening the doors again. “I hate to
keep interrupting you when you’ve got so much to do, but we’re piling up punch bowls out here. At last count, there were eleven, plus a couple of sets of crystal cups with matching trays. Somebody even left a big bag of plastic tableware and a bunch of paper peonies sprinkled with glitter. Where do you want me to put this stuff?”

  “Eleven!” Ruby cried. “Plus six—that makes seventeen punch bowls!” She shook her head. “It’s out of control. I feel like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice with his brooms and buckets.”

  “I thought you were going to tell people we don’t need any more punch bowls,” I said to Laurel. “This is a pain.”

  “I am telling them,” Laurel replied earnestly. “But folks are leaving them outside the door and driving away. I guess I’d better put up a sign, huh? No more punch bowls, please.”

  “Definitely,” I said. “Or hire a sorcerer to get rid of them.”

  Ruby drove her Toyota to the square and parked in front of the police station, next to a green pickup with two bales of hay in the back and a bumper sticker that declared “Oprah is the only mad cow in Texas.” But Ruby was more interested in the car on the right.

  “Isn’t that a Ranger car?” she asked, pointing at the discreetly marked blue Ford.

  “McQuaid’s backup must have got here already,” I said, getting out. “Maybe there are some new developments.” Maybe they had wrapped up the case already, and Ruby and I could go back to other important things.

  “I’ll wait,” Ruby said. “I can read my book. Maybe I’ ll get some ideas for our investigation.” She hauled out a copy of N Is For Noose. Kinsey Milhone is Ruby’s favorite fictional character, which is probably why we embarked on this mission this afternoon. When Ruby grows up, she wants to be Kinsey and live in a remodeled garage and have alphabetical adventures. I tell her that she wouldn’t like the life, but she doesn’t believe me.

  Dorrie was still smoking and playing the radio, but now she was reading as well. The cover of her book featured a beautiful young woman wearing a few tattered rags of leopard skin, clutched in the muscular grip of a Sylvester Stallone look-alike with a handsome black ponytail tied with a raven’s feather. She glanced up long enough to see that it was me.