Lavender Lies (12 page)

“The Meaning of Lavender,” by China Bayles
The Pecan Springs
Enterprise
Home and Garden Section

Folk saying

 

 

 

The afternoon was almost over, and I had more to do than play Watson to Ruby’s Holmes. Ruby took me back to the shop, where I checked on the afternoon’s traffic (encouragingly brisk), counted the newly arrived punch bowls (six more), and unpacked the shipment of the herb books that Bertha and Betsy had agreed to autograph. By that time, it was nearly five, so I helped Laurel close, cleared the register, and headed home. McQuaid had a case to solve. I might be a successful small-business owner with an important event scheduled for the weekend, but I still had groceries to buy and dinner to make.

Howard Cosell was sitting, like a grumpier old man, in front of the kitchen door. I said hello to him, got a grunt in reply, then unloaded the groceries and poured myself a glass of sherry. Then I went out on the back porch, cut a leaf from an aloe vera plant, slit it, and rubbed the cool gel on my nose and under my eyes, not looking in the mirror. Sherry first, reality later.

But some realities have to be dealt with immediately. The answering machine was blinking furiously, and I pushed the button. The first message was from Brian, announcing that Melissa was coming to supper and hoping this was okay, because like he’d already told her it was, if I knew what he meant. Since a foot-long homemade submarine sandwich—my ingenious plan for tonight’s supper—can be stretched almost to infinity, I wasn’t worried about not having enough to go around, especially when the second message turned out to be from McQuaid, who said he’d be home late and not to wait supper, and hoped my nose was better.

“Hey,” he added sternly, “I
love
you, remember? Whatever shape your nose is in.”

The pleasant feeling generated by McQuaid’s remark was abruptly extinguished by the third caller, the absent Harold Tucker, who owns our house. “We wanted to let you know that we’re in the States,” he said, in his clipped, dry, English professor’s voice. He gave a mailing address in Indiana and added, “We came back a few months early to take care of some urgent business. We’ve had an unexpected and rather surprising change in plans. We’ll be in touch with you to see what we can work out.”

I hit the erase button with a vengeance. It sounded as if the Tuckers were hoping to move back home early. Well, if that was their idea, they could jolly well think again. The lease stated clearly and unequivocably that McQuaid and I were entitled to live in their house through the first of January. A change in plans, phooey! I knew a first-rate lawyer—me—who would tell them exactly what they could do with ...

These litigious thoughts were interrupted by a rap at the door. When I snatched it open, I saw Fannie Couch standing on the front porch. Fannie has always dressed like a sweet little lady in lace-trimmed grandmotherly dresses and flowered hats the size of Edwardian parasols. But a few months ago she celebrated her seventy-fifth birthday and announced that now that she was an old woman, she intended to wear purple, shock the Ladies League, and scare the horses. This evening, she was decked out in what looked like race-walking gear: brash purple shorts with a slick finish, a baggy yellow T-shirt, purple-and-white striped knee socks, and running shoes with treads that would have looked right at home on an eighteen-wheeler. But she hadn’t jogged all the way out here. A car—not Fannie’s old red Ford but a classy silver Lincoln—was parked in the drive. Somebody was sitting in the driver’s seat, waiting for her.

Fannie frowned. “What in tarnation did you do to your nose?”

I explained about the door.

“Oh,” she said. “Well, I sure hope that purple under your eyes fades away before Sunday. If you’ve got an aloe vera plant, you might try cutting a leaf and—” She stopped. “Hell, you’re the expert. Why am I giving you advice?” She pursed her mouth. “I’m not interrupting your supper, am I?”

“Not yet,” I said. “Listen, Fannie, I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but would you please tell your fans to turn off the punch bowls? We’ve got enough to serve punch at the next Texas-OU game.”

“That’s gratitude for you,” Fannie said. She gestured toward the Lincoln. “Letty Coleman’s out there. She wants to talk to you.”

“Letty Coleman?” I was taken aback. “Why?”

Fannie fixed me with her bright blue eyes. “Letty’s friend Charlotte is on the nursing home board of directors. Charlotte told her how you straightened out that bad business with Opal Hogge a few months ago, and Letty was hoping that maybe you could help straighten out some of her bad business.”

I shook my head. “Sorry, Fannie. Letty’s husband is dead and she’s a suspect, last I heard. She needs to talk to the police.”

“Now, China.” Fannie was patient. “You surely don’t believe that Letty Coleman has enough gumption to shoot somebody. Anyway, she was with her sister on Sunday night. And she’s already given a statement to the police. She’s not a suspect anymore.”

That was nonsense, and Fannie ought to have known better. Alibi or no alibi, the wife is always a suspect when the husband is blown away by an unknown assailant. A great many timid little women have been known to hire big bad trigger men to put an end to their husbands’ philandering. But if Letty had already talked to McQuaid, there couldn’t be any harm in—

“Straighten out what bad business?” I asked.

“I’ll let her tell you,” Fannie said, and skipped down the steps and out to the Lincoln. A moment later, Letty Coleman was sitting next to Fannie on my living room sofa. She had thanked me for my condolences and both had accepted my offer of a glass of sherry, which I brought in a decanter and set on the old pine carpenter’s chest that serves as our coffee table. I like primitives because there’s nothing you can do to them that hasn’t already been done and left the scars to prove it. There’s nothing fancy about them, either—and I’m not a very fancy person.

Letty was in her mid-fifties. She had been pretty once, and there was still something striking about her almond-shaped dark eyes and high cheekbones. Her coarse, graying hair was pulled tightly back and fastened in a low bun at the nape of her neck. She was predictably dressed in a black dress, black stockings, and black low-heeled shoes, and she wasn’t wearing any jewelry. She looked even thinner than she did the last time she had come into the shop. Her hands twisted nervously, and there was a little tic at the comer of her right eye. She spoke with difficulty, in a tense, weary voice.

“Since Edgar died ... that is, since he was ... killed, I’ve been thinking ...” She dug a tissue out of her black bag and wiped her eyes. “I mean, I’ve been terribly worried about ... well, some of the things he was ...” She swallowed and used the tissue again. “But I don’t think anyone can help, really.” Her thin voice broke, and she put one trembling hand to her mouth. “Everything is in such a terrible mess. I really shouldn’t be bothering anybody with my troubles.” That last bit sounded, I thought, a little forced—but she had been through a great deal in the last few days. She was entitled.

“Drink your sherry,” Fannie advised. “China will help if she can.” She smiled at me. “Won’t you, China?”

I took my cue and made a reassuring noise that Letty seemed to take for assent. She sipped her sherry, straightened her shoulders, and made a fresh start. “Edgar was involved in a great many things I didn’t understand,” she said. “He was always getting phone calls in the middle of the night and he rented mailboxes in three or four cities. I know of at least three bank accounts, and—” She broke off.

“It sounds as if he may have had some unorthodox business dealings,” I said cautiously. “But I’m not sure how that affects you, Letty. The police will check the mailboxes and the bank accounts to be sure there’s nothing criminal and—”

“—and there was another w-w-woman, too,” Letty said, in a choked voice, not hearing me. There was a silence.

After a moment, Fannie leaned forward. “I heard something about Edgar and his secretary,” she prompted. Her voice was sympathetic. “Iris Powell—isn’t that her name?”

“Iris?” Letty gave her a distant look. “Edgar was only playing around with her. He did that quite a bit, but it didn’t mean anything.”

“You knew about Iris?” Fannie asked in surprise.

Letty nodded bleakly. “Pauline Perkins, too.” She straightened and returned Fannie’s look with something close to defiance. “Maybe you think I was a fool. But that was the price I paid for falling in love with a younger, good-looking man who was, well, oversexed.” She gave an apologetic little cough. “Unfortunately, I’ve never been ... that way. In fact, for me it’s just the opposite. I was afraid I would lose him if I didn’t let him—” Her face was burning and she dropped her eyes. “If he couldn’t find an outlet for all that ... sexual energy. So I told him he could have his affairs as long as he was discreet. As long as it was just a ... well, just a physical thing. I couldn’t have tolerated it if he’d had any
real
feeling for anybody else. That’s what I would consider infidelity.” She sighed. “But in the past month or so, I began to think that maybe he ...” Her voice trailed off.

“That he had fallen in love with someone?” I asked gently.

“Yes.” She raised her dark, anxious eyes to mine. “That’s why I’ve come to you.”

I returned the look, wondering what special strengths—or what particular weaknesses—were required of a woman to acknowledge and accept her husband’s adulterous games, one after another. But Letty wasn’t the first and she wouldn’t be the last to tolerate such behavior within the confines of her marriage, even after it became public knowledge. That must be the worst of it, actually—knowing that other people know, thinking about what they’re saying, feeling the humiliation of their curiosity or their censure or their pity.

I cleared my throat. “What made you think there was somebody else?”

“Edgar was ... different. Moody, preoccupied. Most of the time, he was so easygoing and jovial, always making jokes. But lately, he had something on his mind, and it was bothering him.”

“Maybe it was the annexation proposal. The Council turned it down—that couldn’t have made him happy.”

“It wasn’t that.” Letty sighed. “Anyway, there were other things. A note, a couple of phone calls. He was very secretive about it.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“I think so,” she said. Her voice was taut, her fingers twisted into a knot. “But I’m really only guessing about their relationship. I want you to find out if I’m right.”

Fannie leaned forward. “Hold your horses, Letty. This is a matter for the police. If Edgar was seriously involved with somebody else, they need to know.”

Letty whirled to face her. “But what if I’m wrong?” she cried in an anguished voice. “Just look what’s happened to poor Pauline Perkins! I learned today that her husband is filing for divorce, and all because of what Edgar did to her.” I wanted to point out that Pauline herself wasn’t totally blameless, but Letty was going on, becoming more passionate. “You know what people are like in this town. Once you’ve crossed the line, they never forgive you. Pauline’s political career is finished. This other woman ... she’s married, and active in church and volunteer work. Her husband is a professional, and they have a child. They’re decent people, and I don’t want to see their marriage wrecked.” Her mouth tightened and her voice became hard, knife-edged. “Unless it’s true. Then I’ll tell the police myself, with pleasure. I swear I will.” She held out her hands to me, imploring. “Please—will you help?”

“You need a private detective,” I said.

She shook her head. “I need somebody I can trust. Somebody who lives here and knows people and can find things out without stirring up suspicions. Somebody who understands about investigations and the way the law operates. You used to be a criminal attorney, and Fannie and Charlotte say I can trust you. You’re the perfect choice.”

“Aren’t you forgetting that the man I live with happens to be the temporary chief of police?” I asked. “How do you know I won’t go straight to him with anything I find out?”

“I trust you not to tell him what he doesn’t need to know,” Letty said.

I sat back. I wanted to tell Letty that I had a wedding to attend to, which was far more important than discovering which of her dead husband’s sexual infidelities had been fired by love rather than lust. But if I took her plea at face value, there was both wisdom and compassion in it. For the sake of all concerned, it would be far more sensible to conduct a speedy private inquiry. If I found out that there had been another affair, I would turn the names, dates, and serial numbers over to Letty, who would then go to McQuaid with the information. Or I could tell him myself, at any time it seemed appropriate.

But there was something else. For some reason—I wasn’t sure why—I couldn’t quite take Letty’s proposal at face value. I couldn’t get over the feeling that there was another motive behind it, something she wouldn’t or couldn’t reveal. Maybe it was guilt; surely she had to acknowledge to herself that if she had refused to accept her husband’s behavior, he might still be alive. Or maybe it was a flaming anger, deep down inside, where she couldn’t reach it. Fortunately or unfortunately, even the merest whiff of deception or self-deception intrigues me. I’m tantalized by the thought that somebody is hiding something from me or from themselves, and I want to know what it is. And more: I had come away from this afternoon’s conversation with Winnie with the distinct idea that several people knew more about Coleman’s recent activities than they were likely to tell the police. Plenty of murder cases are never solved, especially when the suspect list numbers in the double digits and every suspect has something important to hide. This case was beginning to smell like one of them.