Lavender Lies (15 page)

“Something to do with his death?” Darla was spirited. “That’s bullshit, Ruby. You can’t possibly imagine that I—”

“Oh, of
course
not,” Ruby said, with an excess of reassurance. “Anyway, I’m sure you have a what-do-you-call-it ... an alibi? He was killed on Sunday night.”

In the silence that followed Ruby’s question, the lines on Darla’s face noticeably deepened and she grew paler under her makeup. “I didn’t kill him,” she snapped, “and I have no idea who did. And what’s more, I resent your implication. You’ve got a lot of nerve, Ruby, considering all we’ve been through over the years.” No alibi, I thought, with interest—and the lack of it was worrying her.

“What did Edgar Coleman offer in return for your vote on the annexation project?” I asked.

“My vote?” There was an edge of panic in Darla’s voice, but she clung to her defenses. “I’d like to know what gives you the right to—”

“We’ve learned that Coleman attempted to bribe other Council members,” I said. “But I can understand why you don’t want to talk about it—to us, anyway. I’m sure you’re saving the information for the police. Bribery of a public official is a felony.” I nudged Ruby. “Come on, Ruby. We can tell McQuaid to—”

“Other Council members?” Darla asked nervously.

“Right,” Ruby said. “The cat’s out of the bag.”

“Shit,” Darla said. She closed her eyes for the space of a couple of heartbeats, then opened them with a sigh. “What the hell,” she said, resigned. “Marge will spread it all over town, anyway. She’s a good bookkeeper, but she doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘confidential.’ ” Her hand went to the french fries, took two, and stuffed them in her mouth. “He gave me another five years with no increase.”

“And if you held out?”

Her nostrils flared. “He was going to double it.”

“That’s robbery!” Ruby exclaimed heatedly. “What a jerk!”

Ruby’s sympathetic response seemed to collapse Darla’s last defense. She took four more french fries and dredged them in a little paper cup filled with catsup, blinking back tears. “With Barnes and Noble moving into the mall last month, it would have killed me. I’d have lost everything I’ve invested—money, time, all my hopes and dreams.” Four more fries. “I wasn’t going to take that lying down.”

“So you made a deal,” I said. “You traded your vote for a break on the rent.”

The food seemed to give her courage. “You’re damn right I made a deal,” she said fiercely. “You would’ve done the same thing, in my place.” She opened another drawer, pulled out a sheaf of papers, and slapped them on the desk. “See for yourself.”

It was a five-year lease agreement, with terms that I supposed she’d found acceptable, since her signature was on the last page. The document was dated the day before Coleman died.

“But Coleman didn’t sign it,” Ruby said, pointing to the line left for the lessor’s signature.

“Of course he didn’t sign it,” Darla said bitterly. “Do you think that scumbag would put his name on paper before he got what he wanted? He was holding off until after the next Council vote.
Then
he’d sign.” She sighed wearily. “I almost cheered out loud when I heard somebody had shot the bastard, but I wish to hell the killer had waited until the lease was signed.” She paused, reflecting. “Well, it probably doesn’t matter. I figure Iris will let me renew at the old rate for another year, and by that time, the building will be up for sale. Who knows? I might even be able to buy it.”

“Well, then,” Ruby said brightly, “it sounds like things are going to work out just fine after all.”

There was silence in the room. “Do you know,” I asked after a moment, “how far Coleman got with the other Council members?”

Darla took a whole handful of french fries. “You said it didn’t have to become public record.” She looked at me. “Does that mean it’ll be kept quiet?”

I knew very well what she was angling for. She wanted me to use my influence with McQuaid to see that her name would be kept out of the newspaper. “Nobody can say what direction the police investigation will take,” I said cautiously, “but they might be able to treat this information as background.”

The statement was vague and meaningless, but it seemed to satisfy Darla. After a moment, she said, half-defiantly, “Well, why shouldn’t I tell you? The question didn’t come to a vote, which means that nobody is guilty of anything, right?”

Without waiting for an answer, she pushed on. “I don’t know what kind of leverage he used with the others, but he certainly approached most of us. Ken, Winnie, Wanda, Pauline, Phyllis.” She stopped: “Hang on. I don’t know for sure about Phyllis. She’s such a Girl Scout, I doubt Coleman thought he’d get anywhere with her. Winnie was definitely a holdout—she kept talking about how much damage he was doing to the environment—and Billie Jean had already voted yes.” She looked down at the lease. “It’s weird the way things work out, isn’t it? Coleman had the votes he wanted, but he didn’t live to count them.”

Ruby looked at her intently. “Who do you think killed him, Darla? It had to be somebody who hated him, or was afraid of him, or ...” She frowned. “Maybe it was somebody who had something to hide and knew he couldn’t be trusted.”

Darla gave a hard, bitter laugh. “Who killed him? Who the hell cares?” With a violent gesture, she swept the lease off the desk and into the drawer. “Good riddance to damned bad rubbish.”

Variation of “Lavender’s Blue”

 

 

 

Ruby took me home, promising that she would talk to Ken Bowman first thing in the morning and reminding me that I had an eight-thirty appointment with Billie Jean at the House of Beauty. “Looks like McQuaid’s home,” she remarked, as we pulled into our drive. She was right. McQuaid’s van—the specially equipped one we’ve leased for the duration—was parked in front.

“Want to come in?” I asked. “There are some cupcakes left over from dinner.”

“I don’t think so,” Ruby said. “I’d better go on home.” She cleared her throat. “But speaking of cake,” she added, with a great show of carelessness, “do we need to check back with Adele?” I had ordered the wedding cake—a three-layer confection with the traditional bride and groom on top—from Adele Toomes, at Sweets for the Sweet. The shop began as a bakery, but Adele has expanded it to full-scale catering.

“Is there a particular reason,” I asked warily, “for checking back with Adele?”

Ruby wasn’t looking at me. “My friend Lulu called tonight and said that Annie quit and took the bus to Tucson this morning. Which leaves Adele with nobody but Maureen. And Maureen doesn’t do cakes.”

“Ruby,” I said with a sigh, “I don’t need to hear this.”

“Oh, I’m sure everything’s just fine,” Ruby said hurriedly. “Just the same, I think I’ll stop in and have a chat with Adele tomorrow morning.” She put the car in gear. “Don’t fret, dear, and don’t forget about your beauty appointment.”

Brian’s light was still on upstairs, so I made a quick detour to give him a good-night kiss, stumbling over Howard Cosell on the way out. Back downstairs, I found McQuaid at the kitchen table, with a can of Coors, a bag of tortilla chips, and a bowl of his favorite incendiary salsa, made from some of Blackie Blackwell’s homegrown Rica Reds. They’re only a little cooler than the temperature on the surface of the sun.

“Glad you’re home,” McQuaid said, sounding as if he meant it. “What have you been up to?” He grabbed my hand and pulled me down for a quick kiss. His lips were like fire. Literally.

“Oh, just girl stuff,” I said. “You know how it is the week before a wedding.” Surreptiously rubbing my tingling mouth with the back of my hand, I opened the refrigerator to look for a beer and found a plate containing three small sunfish, each about the size of a silver dollar.

“The kids went fishing while you checked out the creek,” I guessed.

“Right,” McQuaid said. There was mud on his jeans and a smear of mud on his shirt. “They were lucky.” He scratched his leg above his boot. “All I got is chiggers.”

I brought my beer to the table. “So what do you figure?”

“The gun was probably tossed out of a car as it went over the low-water crossing,” McQuaid said. “No clues in the area. The computer’s down tonight, so we don’t have a make on the registration yet. Marvin took the gun to Austin for ballistics, blood work, and prints.” He gave me a glance. “Sorry about that scene at supper. He means well, but he can be a real ass sometimes.”

“A real ass most of the time,” I said. I sipped my beer. “If that’s Coleman’s blood on the gun, he must have been shot at point-blank range.”

“Yeah,” McQuaid said shortly. “Left side of his face, above the upper lip. Tattooing around the entrance wound. The back of his head wasn’t pretty, either.”

“So it was somebody who knew him well enough to get up close,” I said. “Somebody he wasn’t afraid of.” I frowned, thinking back to our lunchtime conversation. “What’s the situation with Darryl Perkins? Is he still one of your suspects?”

“Darryl’s got an alibi, of sorts,” McQuaid said, dunking a chip in salsa. “He was in Waco, at a Lions Club conference that went on through Monday evening. Or rather, that’s where he was
supposed
to be. He claims he got food poisoning from a bad bologna sandwich and spent Sunday evening in his hotel room, throwing up.”

“Waco’s only a couple of hours’ drive,” I said. “He could have driven back here, shot Coleman, then hot-footed it to Waco again.”

“He
could
have,” McQuaid said, “but I’ve got my doubts.” He drained his beer. “Darryl’s all hat and no cowboy. I can see him jealous and spoutin’ off to his buddies about what he’s going to do when he gets his hands on a gun. What I can’t see is him shoving it in Coleman’s face and pulling the trigger.” He frowned. “Hate to say it, but I’d sooner put my money on Pauline. It isn’t true,” he added, “that Darryl filed for divorce. Apparently he never quite got up the nerve—and now they’ve patched it up. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

I nodded. Pecan Springers think of Darryl as a big man because he owns the car dealership and a piece of the radio station. But behind the scenes, Pauline has always been the bigger man. Darryl might have a fit of jealousy every now and then, but if Pauline’s passions were stirred, she’d be far more likely to do something about it.

“So what about Pauline?” I asked. “Where was
she
on Sunday night?”

“Home alone,” McQuaid replied. “No phone calls, no visitors, no way to verify.”

“Does Darryl own up to knowing that Coleman was blackmailing his wife?”

McQuaid shook his head. “There’s no way to say for sure who knew what, or exactly when they knew it. Darryl denies knowing it. Pauline denies telling him.”

“Pauline may just be trying to save his bacon,” I said.

“Yeah.” McQuaid sighed heavily. “God, I hate small-town murders. Especially when the victim is the town bully and most of the suspects are Mr. and Mrs. Clean.” He made a wry face. “Give me a drive-by drug killing any day of the week.”

I frowned. “What about Jorge Garza? Did you talk to him?”

“Both Marvin and I interviewed him.” McQuaid was somber. “The man is a powder keg. Nervous, angry, volatile. Looks like he could blow at any moment. Apparently, after he got suspended at work—”

“Suspended?” Phyllis hadn’t told me that.

“Yeah,” McQuaid said grimly. “I haven’t confirmed the details with his supervisor yet, but he apparently got involved with a family of migrant workers and tried to help them by supplying a set of phony documents. He’s under investigation for forging immigration papers—which means that Coleman’s threat hit him at the worst time. It’s not hard to see Garza pushing a gun into the man’s face—not to protect Phyllis, but to keep Coleman from causing him more grief.”

“Maybe Phyllis can vouch for his whereabouts on Sunday night,” I said.

“Nope. Her mother was in the hospital with a suspected heart attack, and Phyllis was with her. Garza has no alibi.” He reached for my hand. “Thanks for getting that letter to us, China. If it hadn’t been for you, this stuff on Garza wouldn’t have turned up.”

Yeah, thanks, China. Nice of you to implicate your friend and her tough-luck husband. I hoped Jorge wasn’t taking out his angst on Phyllis and made a mental note to give her a call and see how she was holding up. Maybe McQuaid was right. Maybe big-city drive-bys were preferable to small-town murders, where everybody knows everybody else and the facts are tangled up in old friendships, ancient rivalries, and secret debts.

I leaned forward. “I hate to complicate your investigation, but you need to hear what Ruby and I have dug up.”

McQuaid groaned. “Don’t you two ever lay off? We’ve already got enough suspects to hold a square dance.”