Lavender Lies (7 page)

“For Pete’s sake, leave it the way it is,” I said. I looked at my watch and saw that it was after ten. “Oops! I’d better open up.”

“Isn’t Laurel coming today?” Ruby asked.

“At eleven.” Laurel Wiley works full time in the shop, which gives me more time for the gardens. I’ve also started letting people know that I’m available for garden design work, to add to the income from the shop and the herb cooking and crafting classes I teach. When you’re in business for yourself, you’ve got to find creative ways to make more out of what you already have.

Ruby followed me through the newly installed French doors that open into Thyme and Seasons. A matching pair opens from the other end of the dining area into the Crystal Cave. Our plan, you see, is to attract tourists to drop in for a cup of herb tea and a few savories and sweets and then lure them into our shops, where they will discover many fascinating items on which to spend whatever money they have left after tea-and-something. Or conversely, to attract them to the shops and then entice them into the tearoom. That’s the theory, anyway.

I tied my khaki Thyme and Seasons apron over my jeans, took the cash drawer out of its hiding place under the dust rags, and put it into the antique cash register. I unlocked the front door and propped it open with a ceramic chicken planter filled with hen-and-chicks, letting in the morning sunshine and fresh air. Thyme and Seasons is a small shop, and I use every square inch of it. Herbal soaps and cosmetics, bottles of vinegar, packages of tea, and tiny bottles of essential oils and baskets of potpourri and other herbal products, many of them handmade, fill the wooden shelves that are fitted along the walls. A rack of herb books and garden magazines occupies the space beside one of the windows, and dried herb-and-flower wreaths, red pepper ristras, and garlic braids hang from the ceiling. On the floor stand baskets of blood-red celosia and love-lies-bleeding, bright yellow yarrow and tansy, and silvery artemisia and baby’s breath. Outside the open door a lush, fragrant rosemary tumbles onto the flagstone path that leads to the rose arbor and fountain McQuaid built a couple of years ago. That’s where we would be married on Sunday—if all went according to plan. After discovering that the groom had the wrong weekend in mind, I wasn’t sure just what lay ahead.

Ruby seemed calmer, now that the green-paint dilemma had been resolved. “I guess I’d better open up too,” she said. “But there are still a few things to decide about the wedding. Have we agreed on Pachelbel’s
Canon
for your entrance?”

“How about ‘Oh, Pretty Woman’?”

Ruby’s look was reproving. “If you don’t get serious about this, you’re not going to have any music.”

“That wouldn’t hurt my feelings,” I said. “Anyway, I have to ask McQuaid what he thinks. It’s his wedding too, you know.”

“Okay,” Ruby said, “but you’d better do it today. It might take a little while to find the CD you want. Also, we need to locate another punch bowl. We’re having two different punches. One of them is a great lavender-mint punch, the other is spiked.”

I knew which kind I’d be drinking. “The punch bowl is easy,” I said. “Call Fannie Couch.” Fannie is the oracle of Pecan Springs, a seventy-something lady with a daily two-hour radio talk show and a large group of dedicated fans. If she didn’t have a punch bowl herself, she’d tell her listeners about it and that would take care of the problem. Last year, when the Pecan Springs Free Library was collecting books for a book-sale fund-raiser, Fannie put out the word and the books rolled in by the truckload.

“Good idea,” Ruby said. “I’ll call her.” Reaching into the pocket of her jumper, she pulled out an envelope with about thirty items written on it. She scanned the list. “Oh, yes. Rice. I’d like to dye it blue, for loyalty and devotion, and put it in pretty tulle bags tied with lavender ribbons. We could even have little paper hearts with China and Mike written on them, and the date. Wouldn’t that be romantic?“

“No rice,” I said firmly. “Birdseed. And how about putting it in Baggies instead?” I had just about reached my limit on organdy and lavender ribbons, not to mention romance.

“But birdseed has no symbolism!” Ruby waved her hands. “Rice represents fertility. It makes a lovely tribute to the goddess.”

“It also makes a mess,” I said, checking the answering machine for messages, “while birds go cuckoo over birdseed. And I seriously doubt that a little symbolic rice will have any effect on my reproductive system. The hands on my biological clock have just about reached midnight.” I paused to answer the phone and write down the number of a customer who wanted to know whether I had any fennel plants. “I vote for Baggies of birdseed,” I resumed. “If it’s symbolism you’re after, we can stir in some dried rosemary for remembrance and rose petals for love.”

“There’s an idea,” Ruby said, scribbling it down. “Now, for guest favors—”

She was interrupted by the day’s first customer—Phyllis Garza, a small, pretty blonde with a quick smile, who owns a day-care center. I met her a few years ago when she called to ask for some legal advice about a program that she and her husband, Jorge, had established at the church where he was the assistant minister. They were helping resident aliens qualify for American citizenship—a worthy project, if a risky one. Some of their clients had probably slipped across the Rio Grande without bothering to stop and say hello to Immigration. The project is still alive and both continue to be involved, although Jorge has left the ministry for a job as a social worker for a state agency.

Phyllis said an unsmiling hello to both of us and added, “If you’ve got a minute, China, I need some advice.”

“Time for me to open up,” Ruby said tactfully, and headed for her shop, closing the door behind her. The instant she disappeared, Phyllis pushed a business-sized envelope across the counter. “This came in the mail. Please read it and tell me what you think.”

The envelope had been neatly slitted. Something in Phyllis’s face told me that it would be a good idea to open it carefully and hold it by the edges. I took out a plain white sheet of paper. It bore a brief message, typed and unsigned.

I whistled softly. “What do I think? I think this is bad news. When did it show up?”

“One day last week,” Phyllis said, “I don’t know exactly when. Jorge didn’t tell me about it until yesterday, and then he made me promise to keep it a secret.” She leaned forward. “You know how Jorge is, China. Please don’t tell him we’ve talked. He’d be furious with me.”

I nodded. Jorge does not handle stress well, to put it mildly. I’ve often wondered how he got into the ministry, and more recently, into social work. I turned the envelope over. It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Jorge Garza and bore a San Antonio postmark. “Any idea who sent it?”

She shook her head. “You know how it is with a project like this. You make enemies. And Jorge makes things tough. He can’t seem to—” She stopped. “Lots of people might be angry with us,” she finished, almost lamely.

“Is the charge true?” I raised my hand, thinking better of the question. “No, don’t answer that, Phyllis. I don’t need to—”

“But I
want
to answer you.” Phyllis pulled herself up. “Of course it isn’t true. A few immigrants might’ve tried to deceive us about their status, but Jorge and I have been careful to stay within the law. As for illegal papers, we’d never do anything like that. There’s too much at stake. That’s why I don’t understand this thing about evidence. There can’t
be
any evidence! It’s impossible.”

I shook my head. “Sorry, Phyllis, but I’m afraid it is possible—which has nothing to do with its being true. Imagine me as one of the enemies you mentioned. If I wanted to set you and Jorge up, all I’d have to do is forge a set of fraudulent papers in your names, then hand them over to Immigration. There’s your evidence.”

She stared at me. “You’re kidding.”

“Think about it,” I said. “Has Jorge received any instructions yet on how to respond?”

“No, nothing,” she said bleakly. She was silent for a moment, then burst out, “I can’t believe the blackmailer wants money. Jorge’s salary is better than what he used to get at the church, but it doesn’t go very far. I started the day-care center last year, and it’s still struggling. Where would we get money?”

That opened up a new puzzle. I glanced back at the note. “The writer says he—or she—wants ‘teamwork.’ What do you think that means?”

Phyllis shrugged wordlessly.

Teamwork.
Where had I heard that word recently? I remembered suddenly, and things began to make sense. “You’re on the City Council, aren’t you, Phyllis?”

“Yes,” she said, “since early this year.” She managed a smile. “I’m not Hispanic, but I work in the Latino community. A group of women got together and helped me get elected, which makes me very proud. I consider myself their representative.” She paused and added quietly, “The Council meetings haven’t been pleasant lately. There’s too much wrangling.”

I knew what they’d been wrangling over. “Is it possible that Edgar Coleman sent this note?”

She pulled back, startled. “Edgar Coleman? But why would he—?”

“Because he wanted your vote on the annexation project.”

She was silent for a moment, considering. “Well, I suppose,” she said, and then added bitterly, “Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but Coleman is such a crook himself that he might figure he could make a crook out of me.”

“Well, if Edgar Coleman wrote this blackmail letter, you won’t be getting any instructions from him.”

She reached for the envelope. “What do you mean?”

I put my hand over hers. “You don’t know?” I asked, surprised. “You haven’t read yesterday’s newspaper?”

“No, I’ve been too busy. One of my teachers has been sick, and I’ve been with the children. Why? What’s happened?”

“Coleman was shot to death on Sunday night.”

She gave a visible start and the breath escaped from her lips. “I won’t waste any pity on him,” she said after a moment, “but I feel sorry for his wife. Letty is kind. She volunteers to take the older day-care children on field trips.”

I let go of her hand. “You’re sure there’s been no further communication from the blackmailer?”

“If so, Jorge didn’t tell me.” Phyllis frowned. “But he’s been very ... upset. He might not have told me everything.” She lifted her head and smiled tightly. “And you are certainly right, China. If it
was
Edgar Coleman who wrote this letter, we have nothing to be afraid of.”

“Not exactly,” I said regretfully.

It would take a good homicide detective about thirty seconds to conclude that Jorge Garza belonged on the list of suspects for the murder of Edgar Coleman. And I happened to know that the man who was in charge of the investigation was a very good homicide detective indeed.

I sighed. I hated to put Phyllis on the spot because I knew that Jorge would make it rough on her. But a man was dead, and there was something she had to do, like it or not.

 

 

McQuaid certainly couldn’t want the police chief’s job for the glamour and excitement of the office. The Pecan Springs Police Department is located on one corner of the town square, in the basement of an old brick building that also houses the town’s Parks and Utilities Department, the Tourist and Information Center, and a sizable colony of Mexican free-tailed bats that swarm out at sunset on mosquito patrol. Dorrie Hull, the receptionist and day-shift dispatcher, sat behind a wooden counter in blue jeans and a fringed Western shirt, pasting glittery gold hearts on her green-painted nails, occasionally speaking into the dispatcher’s mike, and listening to a radio that sat on one comer of her desk. On top of the radio was a silver-framed photo of Buddy Holly. Smoke drifted languidly from a cigarette propped in a green ceramic ashtray shaped like a saguaro cactus.

“Oh, hi, Miz Bayles,” she said, looking up. She turned down the volume on the radio. ‘What a coinkidinks. I just heard Fannie Couch say y’all need a coupla extra punch balls for your weddin’ reception. Barbara—she’s my sister—got one in her bridal show‘r and she’d be pleased as punch to loan it to you.” She chuckled. ”D’ja get that?” She added another gold heart and lifted her fingers, admiring her art work. ”Pleased as punch.”

“Pleased as punch,” I said. “Very clever. Tell Barbara we’d love to borrow her punch ball. She can leave it at the shop.”

“Sure thing,” Dorrie said gaily. She picked up her cigarette, inhaled deeply, and waved it in the direction of McQuaid’s office. “The boss is in there, but he’s got the mayor and Charlie Lipman with him.” She glanced at the clock. “They oughta be ’bout done, though. They been at it for the most part of an hour. Take a chair.”

“I think I’ll wait in the car,” I said. Dorrie is a chain smoker, and the basement waiting room has no windows.

“Yeah,” Dorrie said, her voice sympathetic. “I keep tellin’ the chief them plastic chairs is hard on folks’ tailbones. But he says chairs gotta wait till the new chief gets here.” She leaned back, took another pull on her cigarette, and breathed out a cloud of smoke. “You know, some things don’t make no sense to me. Like how the Council can lay out good money for sensitivity training but no money for chairs.” She shook her head. “Go figger.”

“It’s a mystery,” I remarked, and went back to my blue Datsun, parked diagonally out front. I rolled down the windows and settled back to wait. A minute later, MaeBelle Battersby strolled past in her spiffy blue polyester meter maid’s uniform, buttoned up to the chin like a British bobby and proudly pushing her wheeled coin collector in front of her. MaeBelle declares that the day she put on her uniform was one of the happiest days of her life, second only to the moment she opened her first meter and heard the coins cascading like pennies from heaven into her coin collector. MaeBelle takes pride in her work.