Lavender Lies (21 page)

 

 

When I left the county clerk’s office, it was just past twelve-thirty. If I was going to get any lunch, it had better be quick. I walked over to the police station to see if McQuaid was back. Dorrie the dispatcher said I’d just missed him, but he’d told her to tell me he’d be at the Nueces Street Diner, catching a quick bite. That’s where I found him, sitting at the end of the red Formica counter with Hark Hibler.

The Nueces Street Diner is owned by Lila Jennings and her daughter, Docia, who recently came down from Dallas to take over the kitchen. The menu isn’t likely to be reviewed in
Texas Monthly.
Today’s comfort-food special, posted on a blackboard out front, was fried okra, meatloaf and garlic mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and apple pie. But the diner itself is a sight for sore eyes. Lila and her husband, Ralph (gone from this world after succumbing to a two-pack-a-day habit), bought an old Missouri and Pacific dining car and furnished it with post-World War Two collectibles: chrome-and-red chairs and red Formica-topped tables, a Wurlitzer jukebox, postwar light fixtures and ceiling fans, old soda pop signs, and framed newspaper clippings from a time when Tom Dewey was touted to beat Harry Truman and Texas hadn’t discovered air-conditioning. Even Lila’s gotten into the act. She got Bobby Rae to give her bleached blond hair a do that makes her look like one of the Andrews Sisters, and her green nylon uniform, ruffled apron, and little white hat are pure fifties.

I sat down on the empty stool next to McQuaid and pulled the license out of my purse. “The mountain comes to Mohammed,” I remarked. I took out a pen and pointed to the designated space. “Sign here.”

“What am I signing?” McQuaid asked, past a mouthful of apple pie.

“Your license to marry me,” I said. “Lucky you.”

“Well, well,” McQuaid said. “Hand-delivered, no less, by the light of my life.” He put down his fork, picked up my pen, and signed with a flourish. “How’d you get Roseann to let you take this official piece of paper out of the county clerk’s office?”

“What Roseann doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” I said primly, and put the license in my purse.

Hark leaned forward to peer around McQuaid. “Speaking of delivering, am I going to get next Thursday’s Home and Garden page before you fly off on your honeymoon?” Hark, who lost something like forty pounds last year, looks the way a small-town newspaper editor ought to look: wrinkled white shirt with collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up, rumpled slacks, a half-day’s growth of dark beard, dark hair in need of a trim. There’s something real and comfortable about him, though. What you see is what you get, no frills, no psychodrama, just plain Hark.

“The page is done,” I replied, “all but the piece on lavender. I’ll get it to you this afternoon. Tomorrow morning at the latest. Do you want it on disk, or hard copy?”

Hark grunted. “What do you think we are, some backwater weekly that still turns out copy on typewriters? I’ll take it on disk.” He frowned at me. “What did you do to yourself? Face lift?”

Lila approached and set a glass of ice water on the counter in front of me. “Hark don’t have room to put good stuff in the paper anymore,” she said sourly. “He’s too busy coverin’ crime and murders. He’s hopin’ to get a Putzer prize to hang on his wall.”

“A Pulitzer,” Hark said, and slid his iced tea glass suggestively in her direction. He was still looking at me. “You lose some weight?”

“That’s whut I
said,”
Lila replied with a dark look. “Don’t we git enough murders on tee vee without readin’ about ’em in the paper? Arnold Seidensticker must be turnin’ in his grave like a whistlin’ dervish, seein’ whut’s happened to his newspaper.”

“Nothing’s happened to his newspaper, Lila,” Hark said, “except that the circulation’s gone up.”

Lila laughed scornfully. “Oh, yeah? When it was a weekly, there was plenty of good news to fill it, family reunions and parades and beauty contests and stuff. Now it comes out every day, there’s nothin’ but crime. Can’t you find anything
good
to write about?”

Hark shrugged. “We cover the news, Lila, we don’t cover it up. Pecan Springs isn’t the sleepy little town it was when Arnold ran the paper. The college is big, Walmart’s moved in, there’s a lot more traffic up and down the Interstate. We print the news we’ve got, and what we’ve got is crime. Which includes vandalism, drugs, and a couple murders every now and again.” He gave his glass another nudge. “Now, how about some more iced tea?” He glanced back at me, light dawning. “I know. You got your hair cut. It’s shorter. Looks real nice.”

“Thank you,” I said modestly. I turned to McQuaid. “How do you like it?”

McQuaid didn’t hear me.
“One
murder, Hark. There’s no evidence that Letty Coleman was pushed down those stairs, and don’t you go saying anything else. We’ve got enough problems without the newspaper complicating the situation.”

“So you didn’t find anything,” I said, feeling regretful and ambivalent. I didn’t want to hear that Letty had been murdered, but I agreed with Ruby that an accident seemed like a too-easy explanation. What’s more, I couldn’t help feeling that Letty’s death ought to
mean
something—at the least, that it should give us a clue as to who killed her husband. But an accident was a dead end. As far as Edgar Coleman’s murder was concerned, it took us nowhere.

“Miz Coleman?” Lila asked in alarm. “Pushed down what stairs? Whut’s happened to her?”

“She
fell
down the steps behind her house,” McQuaid said briefly. “Broke her neck.”

“Omigawd,” Lila whispered, shocked. “Why, she was just in here this morning!”

“This morning?” McQuaid asked. “What time?”

Lila shook her head. “Sittin’ right there where you are, on that very stool, talkin’ to Doc Jackson. She had a cheese and mushroom omelet and biscuits and—”

“What
time,
Lila?” McQuaid pressed. “This is important.”

“This is your chief talkin’, Lila,” Hark said in a theatrical growl. “Tell him what time.”

“Whut time?” Lila twiddled a strand of blond hair that was falling down in front of her ear. “Well, let’s see. It had to have been after the first pan of biscuits, ‘cause the oven wasn’t set right and Docia burned ’em on the bottom and Miz Coleman had to wait for the second pan to get hers. Which she did without complainin’, unlike some folks I know who pitch a fit when they don’t get whut they want right when they want it.” She threw a baleful look at Hark. “Make it, oh, seven. Pretty early for her to be out.” She swiveled her attention to me. “You decide what you’re gonna have?”

Seven. So Letty had been here even before we talked on the phone this morning, which meant that Billie Jean was still in the running as far as opportunity was concerned. I sighed. Quite apart from any personal feelings I might have for Letty, I agreed with Melva Joy when she said it was a pity to lose a soprano with perfect pitch. I would hate to lose somebody who knew how to cut my hair. I looked up. Lila was still waiting, her mouth pursed, her head held to one side.

“The special looks pretty good,” I said.

“You come in at the tail end of the lunch hour, you got to take potluck,” Lila replied. “We got plenty okra and meatloaf and mashed potatoes, but the last piece of pie is gone. On desserts, we’re down to tapioca pudding and green Jell-O.” She sighed. “Lord, I just plain don’t believe it about Miz Coleman. I don’t.”

Green Jell-O. I suppressed a shudder. “I’ll take the meat loaf and okra and pass on dessert. And a double helping of mashed potatoes.” Lila mashes potatoes with garlic. Very tasty. Good for you, too.

“Still got to charge you,” Lila said. “You don’t like Jell-O, have some tapioca.” She eyed McQuaid. “Fell down the steps, did she? Just like that?”

“Far as we can tell,” McQuaid said blandly. “Nobody saw or heard anything that would suggest otherwise.”

“Make it tapioca,” I said, choosing the lesser of two evils. I turned to McQuaid, thinking of those three waiting glasses on the patio table. “Did you check around the phone?”

He gave me a rebuking look. “Of course we checked around the phone. All the phones, in fact. We found a pad with numbers for the guy who mows the lawn, the dentist, and Pauley’s Funeral Home. They’re handling Edgar’s cremation. Guess now they’ll make it a double funeral.”

“A double funeral,” Hark said. “Now, that’s a human interest story.” He tapped his empty glass with a fork. “Lila, ain’t you
ever
goin’ to get me some tea?”

“There he goes, pitchin’ that fit,” Lila said darkly, and stalked off, muttering under her breath. She was back in a minute with a pitcher of tea and my plate. The fried okra, which I have never in my life managed to do just right, looked wonderful. The meat loaf could have used a little more tomato sauce and some thyme and basil would have worked wonders, but you can’t have everything. She put the plate down in front of me. “You lettin’ your hair grow for the weddin’?” she asked. “I gotta say, long hair looks good on you.”

“Thank you,” I said. When she had gone, I lowered my voice and spoke to McQuaid. “Did you turn up anything on the gun?”

“Yeah,” McQuaid said. “I got the report right after I got back from the Colemans’. The ballistics checked out. It was the gun that killed Edgar Coleman, all right.”

“Prints?” I asked.

“One. They’re still looking for a match in the FBI file. Marvin is hauling our suspects back in to get their prints.”

“That’s the gun that the kids found at the creek?” Hark asked.

“That’s it,” McQuaid said. “Piece of luck, their stumbling on it. That area is wild and weedy. It might never have been found.” He frowned. “How’d you hear about that?”

Hark looked shocked. “You don’t expect me to reveal my sources, do you?” He paused. “If you’ve got a fingerprint, you oughta have your man pretty quick.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” McQuaid said. He finished his pie and pushed his plate away.

“What about the registration?” I asked. I picked up the crust McQuaid had left on his plate and nibbled it. He never eats the crust, which for me is the best part.

“According to the manufacturer’s records, the gun was originally purchased about ten years ago by some guy in Miami, Florida. No current address, so that’s a dead end, at least for now.” McQuaid leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek, signaling that he was ready to go back to work. “Okay if I leave you with this sex maniac?”

“Hey,” Hark said, offended, “who you callin’ a sex maniac?”

“Listen, McQuaid,” I said, “I’ve got a couple of things I need to tell you. Sheila and I are going to see Iris Powell this afternoon. Her sister seems to think she might have some information. Is that okay?”

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.