Lavender Lies (14 page)

China Bayles
China’s Garden

 

 

 

Arranging a wedding is a lot like throwing a big party, except that people tend to have an emotional investment in weddings and want to see their favorite fantasy rituals played out. While McQuaid and I were determined to keep things simple, I also had to think about the other people who were involved—McQuaid’s parents, Leatha, Ruby. Each of them had an idea of what our wedding ought to be, and I wanted to satisfy them, within reason, of course. I drew the line at Leatha’s plan for me to wear her wedding dress, which had a train long enough to reach to San Antonio. And at McQuaid’s mother’s suggestion that her friend Erma could sing “I Love You Truly,” and at Ruby’s idea that the guests should release a hundred white balloons with our names on them in pink letters. I had no intention of littering the jet stream with personalized rubbish. Otherwise, I was trying to be accommodating.

So after McQuaid and Marvin went off with the kids, I sat down at the table and began scanning my latest list. Clothes, food, flowers, license and rings, music, Bertha and Betsy—Good grief, I’d almost forgotten about Bertha and Betsy, who were due in tomorrow afternoon. They’d be sleeping here, sharing the guest bedroom next to the one my mother always occupies. My mother, Leatha, would be arriving, too, although I wasn’t sure when, along with her husband, Sam.

I rushed upstairs, found the clean sheets I’d tucked away with lavender sachets, and hurriedly changed all three beds. While I was at it, I flicked the dust off the bed tables and put out fresh towels, the rose-geranium soap I’d made in one of my soap-making classes, and citrus and spice potpourri. I was on the way to the kitchen, thinking that it would be nice if we had dinner at home tomorrow night, when the phone rang. It was Ruby.

“Darla said she could talk to us tonight,” she said without preamble. “Are you free?”

“Darla who?” I asked, still thinking about tomorrow night’s dinner. Something easy and quick, yet elegant. Roast chicken with lemon and rosemary, maybe, and fresh vegetables. There would be breakfasts, too, Continental style. Betsy and Bertha were doing something very nice for me, and I wanted them to enjoy themselves while they were here. Meals meant another list. And maybe I’d better call Leatha and find out what time she planned to show up, and whether Sam was coming early, with her, or later, for the wedding.

“Darla McDaniels,” Ruby said patiently. “City Council member, former Pecan Springs High cheerleader. Possible target of Coleman bribery attempt, according to Winnie. You
do
remember our investigation, don’t you?”

“Oh,” I said. “Sure.” I glanced at the clock. It was after eight. “It’s not too late?”

“She’s still working. I’ll pick you up.”

I’d been so engrossed, first with Letty’s story and then with the discovery of the gun, that I’d more or less forgotten about Ruby’s determination to interview the Council members. On the way to Darla’s, I filled Ruby in on the new developments. She was intrigued with the gun and the blood droplets I had spotted on the barrel.

“Will they be able to find out who owns it?” she asked.

“The records will probably show who bought it originally—although that person may not own it any longer. It could have been sold, stolen, or lost. Anyway, it might not even be the murder weapon. Who knows? It may have been lying there for weeks. It may be totally unrelated to—”

“Spoken like a defense attorney.” Ruby swung down the alley and into the parking area behind Darla’s store, which is on the west side of the square. She parked next to a blue Mercury that bore BOOK I vanity plates—Darla’s, most likely. “Poor Letty,” Ruby said, turning off the ignition. “I must say, Edgar Coleman was one hardworking Lothario. Pauline Perkins, Iris Powell—and now a third woman? Whew!” She dropped the keys in her purse. “Letty didn’t tell you her name?”

“I didn’t want to know,” I said. “At that point, I wasn’t sure I wanted to get involved.”

She shook her head disgustedly. I knew she was thinking that Kinsey Milhone wouldn’t have missed a chance like that. “But you’ve changed your mind.”

“Yes,” I said. Seeing a blood-spattered gun lying on my kitchen table between an innocent cabbage and an irreproachable tomato might have piqued my curiosity. Or maybe it was the recollection of Letty’s ambiguous glance. I was positive she was concealing something. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Good,” Ruby said. “Let’s go talk to Darla.”

We got out of the car and headed toward the back of the store, where a light was burning in what I assumed was the office. Darla McDaniels owns Bluebonnet Books, the only independent, full-service bookstore between Austin and San Antonio. When Darla leased the century-old building a few years ago, she had to sweep out the bat droppings, refinish the original wooden floor, repair the pressed-tin ceiling and limestone walls, and install new lighting and windows, as well as bookcases and shelves. She had obviously made a major investment in renovations, not to mention what she’d tied up in her sizable inventory of books and gift items. That’s a big hunk of change, plus her emotional investment, which is incalculable. Darla probably spends more hours in her store than she does with her husband—the former jock she had once shared with Ruby.

Ruby rapped four times on the alley door, and after a moment Darla opened it. There is no trace left of the trim, athletic cheerleader she was once. Now, she is a very large woman with broad shoulders and hips. But rather than play down her size, Darla plays it up, with a sizzle. She wore a gauzy royal-purple tunic and matching piazza pants with a cranberry-and-orange chiffon scarf looped around her neck. She had outlined her eyes in purple liner and used purple shadow and black mascara liberally. The effect was, well, striking.

After a casual hello to me and a cheek-to-cheek with Ruby that paid tribute to their longtime friendship, Darla led us past a closet-sized office in which a gray-haired woman was hunched over a checkbook and a calculator, to her own slightly larger office, littered with computer printouts, boxes of old invoices and records, and stacks of books. A gold plaque on her desk read DARLA J. MCDANIELS, PRESIDENT. I wondered briefly what she was president of

Darla lowered her hefty bulk into an office chair and gestured at the two straight chairs against the wall. “Haven’t seen you around lately, Ruby,” she said. “Keeping yourself busy?” She pushed aside the remains of a take-out hamburger. The odor of french fries filled the stuffy room, overlaying the musky scent of Darla’s perfume. High on the wall, a portable air conditioner labored noisily, but it didn’t do a thing to dispel the odors.

“The tearoom is opening in a couple of weeks,” Ruby said, sitting down. I sat down beside her. “It’s been a lot of work. And China and Mike McQuaid are getting married on Sunday.”

“Getting married!” Darla said, with an inflection that suggested surprise. She added, with a chuckle, “I don’t know that I’d want to be a cop’s wife, but if you do, well, congratulations.”

“He’s only interim,” I said, remembering that Darla, too, was one of McQuaid’s bosses.

She shrugged. “Some of the Council would love to have him stay on.” Under the pitiless fluorescent light, her purple costume was garish, her rouge streaked, her lashes clumped with mascara. The sizzle looked tawdry.

“You must be pretty busy too, Darla,” Ruby said. “I don’t know how you juggle everything—the store, the Council, your family.” She smiled reminiscently. “But you were always good at the balancing act. Remember that pyramid formation we used to do, with Piggy and me on the bottom and you on top?” She giggled. “Those were the days, huh? Drove the crowd crazy, didn’t we?”

Darla’s laugh was a little sour. “I’m still on top, thank you very much. Only nowadays, it takes brains. And will power. A little capital doesn’t hurt, either.” She glanced at Ruby. “So. What’s so urgent that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

“We talked to one of your colleagues on the Council this afternoon,” Ruby said. “She thought you might be able to help us.”

“Hmm,” Darla said. She focused on the cold french fries, reached for one, then restrained herself. “Help you what?”

“Help us out of a dilemma,” Ruby said. “China and I have uncovered something—in an unofficial way, of course—that might speed up the police investigation of Edgar Coleman’s murder.”

Darla’s gaze fastened on Ruby, her hand still poised over the french fries. “Edgar Coleman?”

“The person we talked to mentioned that Coleman had dealings with several members of the City Council.” Ruby leaned forward. “She said, for instance, that he had been talking to you. We wondered if you could—”

Darla’s eyes narrowed. “To me? What would Edgar Coleman want to talk to me about? Why, we hardly knew one another.” She pushed the french fries away. “And just who the hell is this Council member who goes around spreading stories about—”

“I understood,” I said quietly, “that Edgar Coleman was your landlord.”

She stared at me, her teeth catching her lower lip and working it for a moment. Then she realized what she was doing and rearranged her mouth. “Yeah, sure,” she said, straightening her shoulders and becoming very businesslike. “But I had no idea you were talking about
that.
That’s totally separate. It’s got nothing to do with Council business. I would never—”

“Darla?” The three of us looked up to see the gray-haired woman standing in the door. She held a pencil in one hand and a piece of paper in the other, and a pair of plastic-rimmed reading glasses dangled around her neck on a gold-colored chain. “I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation, but it’s late and you know how men are. Charlie throws a fit if I’m not home to cook his supper. I won’t be writing checks again until the fifteenth of next month, and I wanted to mention something important that you might want to attend to before—”

“What is it, Marge?” Darla asked, cutting off the flow of words. I didn’t blame Darla for her impatience. Marge was obviously a talker.

Marge held out the paper. “Well, I was writing the rent check for October when I saw a reminder on the invoice saying that November’s rent has been doubled. I know you and Mr. Coleman worked out a compromise before he ... passed on. So I thought maybe you’d better call Iris and let her know what the two of you arranged, so she can correct the billing, which was obviously mailed before you two came to your agreement.” She pursed her mouth, tapping her lips with the pencil. “Such a total shock, his going that way. Why, I’ve never in my entire life known anybody who was
murdered.
And to think that only the day before it happened, he was here, in this very office! Sure brings it home, doesn’t it? Mortality, I mean. Death and all that.” She rolled her eyes and made a sad, clucking sound with her tongue,
tch tch tch.
“Poor Letty. I feel for her. It must be so
hard.”

Darla was suddenly struck by a fit of coughing. I was next to Marge, so I took the statement out of her hand and handed it to Darla. It was an invoice from Coleman Enterprises.

“Totally separate, huh?” I remarked idly.

Darla picked up a paper napkin and blew her nose. “Thank you, Marge,” she said. “I’ll see you on the fifteenth.”

“Sure,” Marge said. “But don’t forget to call Iris and get it straightened out. You did sign the new lease, didn’t you? Both you and Mr. Coleman? If so, you need to make sure she has a copy of—”

“Thank you, Marge,” Darla said sharply, biting off the words. She opened a drawer and shoved the invoice into it. “Go home before Charlie starves to death.”

When the bookkeeper had left, I said, “Maybe you could tell us about that compromise, Darla.”

Darla’s firm jaw was set and her eyes were narrow. “Why should I? Just because some nosy Council member decides it’s a crime for a tenant to talk to her landlord? I don’t think so.”

“Just because,” Ruby said, very thoughtfully, “we might be able to help you keep this information from becoming a matter of public record. If people found out about it, they might think you had something to do with his death. Which might make trouble for you in the next election. Might not be good for business, either.”