Lavender Lies (16 page)

“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.

Sheila laughed, but without humor. “Actually, I didn’t call about that,” she said. “Do you happen to know Iris Powell?”

“Edgar Coleman’s secretary? I don’t know her, but I know who she is.” I paused. “Why are you asking?”

“She’s more than his secretary,” Sheila said.

“So I understand,” I said dryly.

“I didn’t mean
that,
either. She was his office manager. She knows his business, inside out.”

I wondered briefly whether Iris knew about the deal that Darla had made with Coleman. “How are you connected with Iris Powell?”

“Paula, my administrative assistant, is Iris’s sister.”

I remembered Paula. She had joined Sheila and me for lunch once or twice. “It’s a small world,” I said.

“It’s a small town. Paula’s very worried about Iris.”

“Worried?”

“According to Paula, Iris has a pretty good idea who killed Coleman and why. She says Iris is afraid that she might be the killer’s next target. She wants us—you and me—to talk to her.”

“You I understand, since you’re Paula’s boss and a cop—sort of. But why me?”

“Paula says Iris needs to talk to a lawyer. You keep up your bar membership, don’t you?”

“Yes, but that’s neither here nor there,” I said firmly. “Iris needs to talk to McQuaid.”

“She has, already. But Paula says that Iris was afraid of telling him too much. She didn’t want him to guess how deeply she was involved with Coleman’s business. I got the impression that she has information about illegal activities, and she’s not sure what to do with it.”

“Paula strikes me as the exaggerating sort,” I said. Actually, this was an understatement, for the time or two I had seen Paula, she had related a couple of sensational stories involving dramatic psychological crises that might have been drawn from
All My Children.
Her tale about Iris might have more to do with an overactive imagination than with the facts of the matter.

“Paula’s inclined to blow things out of proportion,” Sheila admitted, “but I’ve got the feeling there’s something to this.” She paused. “I know you’re busy, China, but I think we ought to go see Iris. Paula could let her know we’re coming.”

“Okay,” I said. “Can you pick me up at the shop at eleven-thirty?” I stopped. “No, that won’t work. McQuaid and I are getting our license today, and I’ve got three or four other urgent things to do, starting with a hair cut.” The day was already so full, I wasn’t going to have time to breathe. “How about late afternoon? Want to pick me up, say, at four-thirty?” Laurel was closing today, so I could leave a little early.

“I’ll ask Paula to set it up and leave a message at the shop to confirm.” Sheila paused, shifting gears. “Speaking of weddings, we really have to make some decisions about the music. What do you think of using ‘Greensleeves’ before the ceremony, and the old Dinah Shore song about lavender—” Lavender’s Blue.’ Then the
Bridal Chorus
for your entrance and the
Wedding March
afterward.”

“I like greensleeves,” I said, and ‘Lavender’s Blue’ is perfect. But I wish we could think of something besides the traditional marches.”

“Everybody expects them,” Sheila said. “That’s why they’re traditional.”

“That’s why I’d rather have something else.” I thought for a moment. “For the recessional, how about ”Home With the Armadillos’?”

Sheila groaned. “This is serious, China. The wedding is only three days away.”

It was my turn to groan. “Okay, okay. Scratch ‘Armadillo.’ How about Beethoven’s
Ode to Joy
for the recessional?”

“I guess that would work,” Sheila said, sounding doubtful but relieved. “That just leaves the bride’s entrance.”

“ ‘At the Hop’?” I suggested. I glanced at my watch and stuck my feet into my leather sandals. “Oops, gotta go. I’m late for my hair appointment.”

“Have fun,” Sheila said, sounding resentful. “I wish I didn’t have anything to do but loaf around getting beautiful.”

“You’re already beautiful,” I said with a sigh. “I’ve got to work at it.”

Old Devonshire song

Folk Saying

 

 

 

Pecan Springs may not be much bigger than a peanut, but where essential services are concerned, we’ve got our bases covered. We have two banks, three Baptist churches, four barbecue joints, five auto dealerships, and more beauty shops than you can count. There’s the unisex shop in the mall, which is frequented by adolescents with green hair and rings in their noses, and a couple of dozen small shops in garages and rec rooms, where neighborhood women flock to trade gossip and get their hair shampooed and set while their preschoolers scribble in coloring books on the floor. And there is Bobby Rae’s House of Beauty.

To appreciate Bobby Rae’s, you have to have lived in a small town at one time or another in your life—and you have to be a woman. Although Bobby Rae does the occasional man, her House of Beauty appeals mostly to the female of the species. From the pink plastic flamingo outside the door to the powder-pink decor inside, from the dotted swiss pink-ribbon-trimmed curtains to the bouquet of pink silk flowers on the magazine table, from the hair fashion photos on the wall to Nora’s Nail Fashions table in the corner, Bobby Rae caters to the small-town Aphrodite. A fly-specked sign on the wall promises that a trained beautician or spa specialist will cut, style, set, and blow dry your hair; bleach it, color it, correct it, curl it, or straighten it; color your eyelashes and your eyebrows; peel your face and wax your legs and painlessly relocate your “bikini line”; and cover your real nails with gel, acrylic, fiberglass, silk wrap, or just plain plastic. Or, if you prefer, you may purchase a Bountiful Beauty Package to pamper yourself or a friend: a Lady Executive Escape, a New Mom Morning, or a Bride and Groom Getaway. I was contemplating this information in some amazement when I was accosted by a sizable woman in pink jeans and a silky pink smock, a basket of sausage-sized foam curlers in one hand.

“Mornin’, dear,” Bobby Rae said cheerily. “How can we do you today?”