Lavender Lies (28 page)

A Dictionary of British Folk-Tales
K. M. Briggs

 

 

 

“Well,” Leatha said, “I wondered when you were coming home.”

The scene in my kitchen did not inspire confidence in my mother’s skill as a cake baker. The counter was heaped with sacks of flour and sugar, cartons of eggs, cellophane bags of coconut and walnuts, and boxes of raisins and currants and confectioners’ sugar. The sink was full of dishes and on the drainboard sat three cake racks, each holding a cratered and crumbling cake layer about the color and thickness of a waffle. The table was crowded with bowls and cups and beaters and cake decorating paraphernalia, and the plastic garbage can in the comer overflowed with discarded wrapping and containers. At one point, there had clearly been an accident with an egg, and my clean kitchen floor was decorated with a delicate tracery of floury footprints.

“It looks like you’re having fun,” I said, avoiding the sight of the crumbling cakes.

“Oh, I
am!”
Leatha exclaimed, in her honey-and-magnolia drawl. She had changed into slacks and a red roll-sleeve shirt and had topped herself off with McQuaid’s black barbecue apron, which proclaimed in red letters that she was Smokin’ Hot. Her face was smudged with flour, her eyebrows and lashes were dusted with it, and her arms were white to the elbow. “It feels so
good
to be doing something useful.”

“Wonderful,” I said. I headed for the broom closet. If the flour wasn’t swept up, it would get tracked into the rest of the house.

The door banged open and Brian came into the kitchen. “Did you see the cakes Grandma baked?” he asked excitedly, heading over to the drainboard to point them out. He was carrying a shoebox with holes punched in the lid. His shoes bore traces of dried mud, and his dirty shoe prints mingled with Leatha’s floury ones.

“Next time, take your shoes off at the door,” I said, taking out the broom.

The door banged again. “Did you see your wedding cakes?” Melissa asked. “Brian’s grandma made them.” She, too, went to admire the sad-looking layers, Howard Cosell trudging behind. Now there were two pairs of smudgy shoe prints, plus a quartet of doggie paw prints. “But she’s making a couple more, just in case,” Melissa added. She turned to grin at me and in her face I saw the unmistakable likeness of the woman I had met this afternoon, the woman who claimed to have given birth to Melissa—to Elena—in prison.

Leatha wiped her hands on McQuaid’s apron and frowned at the box. “What have you got in there? Nothing that
hops,
I hope.”

“It’s only a little green snake,” Brian said. “We found it in the garden. Want to see?” He began lifting the lid off the shoebox.

“Heavens, no!” Leatha backed up, making a face. “Get that slimy creature out of my kitchen!”

Her
kitchen?

“But he’s not slimy,” Brian said earnestly. He opened the box lid. “Here. Feel, Grandma. Snakes are really very dry.”

Leatha put both hands behind her back. “Put that lid on,” she commanded, “or you won’t get any of the extra cake.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” I said, “why are you baking multiples? In case of what?”

Leatha made an effort at nonchalance. “My first effort wasn’t ... that is, it didn’t ...” She sniffed. “I think I left out the baking powder. And your oven is terribly tricky, China. I don’t know why you don’t buy yourself a new stove.”

“Because I like the one I have,” I said.
“I
know how to manage it.”

“But there’s plenty of time,” Leatha went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. I thought I’d just keep practicing until I get it right. The children will be happy to eat the extra, or I can take it home to the ranch.” She gave me a defiant look. ”Now, don’t scowl, China. The cake will be fine. I
promise.”
She paused, and a furrow appeared between her brows. ”I wonder, though, if you’ve heard about the storm.”

“Yeah,” Brian said enthusiastically. “We’re going to have a hurricane. Her name is Josephine.”

I sighed. “Yes, I’ve heard. We’re making contingency plans in case it rains.” I began sweeping. “Speaking of plans, shouldn’t we give some thought to dinner?”

“Dinner?” Leatha asked innocently. She looked at the clock, which showed half past six. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Just look how late it’s gotten! I’ve been so involved and busy, I didn’t even think about dinner. Well, let’s see. Who’s going to be eating?” She gave me a bright smile. “Why don’t we call up and get something delivered?”

“That would work,” I said, “if you want pizza. This is Pecan Springs, remember? We don’t have much in the way of gourmet takeout.” I pushed the broom under the stove—my old green Home Comfort stands up on legs—and swept out a dead mouse.

“Hey, look!” Melissa nudged Brian. “It’s the one that got away!”

Howard Cosell hurried over to see whether the escapee was something he should personally take responsibility for. I scooted it onto the dustpan and tossed it into the trash. “Cancel one mouse,” I said, firmly. “Howard, you need to stick to dog food and milk thistle seeds.”

“Milk thistle?” Melissa asked.

“It’s an herb,” I said. “Howard is taking it for his liver.”

“You don’t have to order any pizza for me,” Brian announced. “I’m going to Melissa’s house.”

“May
I go to Melissa’s house,” I said.

“Oh, sure,” Melissa said, grinning wide enough to show all her braces. “Dad is cooking hamburgers on the grill tonight. I bet there’s enough.” She looked at Leatha and asked, politely, “Would you like to come too?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and put my hand on her shoulder.

“I was just correcting Brian. He needs to ask permission before he makes dinner plans.”

“Oh,” Melissa said, disappointed. “If you came, we could look at where I want to dig Jennie’s herb garden, and give me some ideas about how big it should be.”

“May
I?” Brian asked.

“Yes, you may,” I said. I gave Melissa a quick hug. “Ask me again soon, okay? I’d love to look at your garden site.” If Rachel Lang’s assertion checked out, Melissa’s world would soon be rocked by a major earthquake. She’d need all the friends she could get.

“I forgot to mention that Mike called a little while ago,” Leatha said, as Brian and Melissa left with their snake and Howard settled down under the window, chin on paws, to brood over the mouse that got away. “He won’t be coming home for dinner. He said something about a murder investigation.” She dusted her hands, sifting more flour onto the floor. “After everything that happened this spring, his getting shot and all, I hope he’s not planning to go back to police work, permanently, I mean. I thought he was so well settled at the university, with a good salary and job security. Really, China, at your ages, I should think you’d be—”

I cut in sharply. “Whatever McQuaid decides to do is fine with me. People have to follow their bliss.” I swept up the pile of flour and bits of mud I had gathered and dumped it on top of the dead mouse. “Did he say where they were with the investigation?”

“Not really,” she replied vaguely. “Oh, wait. He said to tell you something about a fingerprint.”

My head snapped up. “What about the fingerprint? Whose fingerprint? Did he say they’d found a match?” Was Jorge the killer, after all? “Did he say whether they’ve located Garza?”

“My goodness, China.” Leatha took off the apron. “You can’t expect me to keep track of things like that. If you want to know all the gory details, you’ll have to call Mike and ask him to tell you. But it did sound as if he had his hands full.” She put a carton of cream and a bowl of eggs back into the refrigerator. “Since it’s just us, let’s run out for a quick bite. I want to make another practice cake tonight, and it takes an hour and a half to bake.”

Another practice cake? If it were me, I’d give it up as a bad job and go look for a baker in Austin. But I had to admire Leatha’s resilience in the face of adversity. And it’s the thought that counts—right?

“How about having a sandwich here instead?” I asked, putting the broom away. “We’ve got the makings for subs left over from last night, and I need to see somebody at seven this evening.”

To tell the truth, a quick sandwich was about all I had time for. I still had the combination to Coleman’s floor safe, and I had to decide what to do with it. I could hand it over to McQuaid, who would then have to spend valuable time sorting a batch of stuff that might not amount to a hill of beans. Or I could go over there and poke through the safe myself, with the same outcome. Either way, it was probably a waste of a good hour. But I’m only human, with as much healthy (or unhealthy) curiosity as the next person, and I couldn’t help wondering what sort of dirt Edgar had dug up. Quite apart from its potential relevance to his murder—and perhaps to the death of his wife, as well—whatever was in that safe might have a certain tawdry entertainment value. So I thought I’d squeeze in a trip to Coleman’s office later in the evening.

Before I did that, though, I needed to get out of the clothes I’d been wearing all day and into jeans. Then I had to stop by the Pack Saddle Inn and find out for myself whether Rachel Lang was who she claimed to be, and, if so, what was ahead for Melissa. And sometime this evening or tomorrow, I
had
to go to Ruby’s house and see exactly what she intended to wear to the wedding. Between Leatha’s experimental wedding cake and Josephine doing pirouettes in the Gulf, I had enough anxiety for three or four brides. I didn’t need to be fretting over whether my matron of honor was going to remind people of something out of a Cecil B. DeMille extravaganza.

 

 

 

If you find yourself in Pecan Springs overnight, you might consider staying at the Pack Saddle Inn, on River Road, or at least dropping by for dinner. (You won’t be sorry if you order the asparagus with hollandaise and potatoes roasted in olive oil and herbs to go with your medium-rare rib eye.) Bring your camera and plan to make time for a leisurely stroll along the crystal clear Pecan River, which loops through the landscaped grounds, wide swaths of native wildflowers and ferns growing lush along each bank. It’s an idyllic spot.

My first stop was the reception desk, where I had better luck than I deserved. Linda Davis is the Pack Saddle’s manager and a longtime friend. She was behind the registration desk, giving the harried desk clerk a hand with last-minute check-ins. As I came into the lobby, the last person in line was getting her key and Linda was switching on the No Vacancy sign beside the lobby door.

“Looks like you’ve got a full house,” I said, after we traded greetings.

“There’s a conference at the university,” Linda replied, going back behind the counter. “We get the overflow when they can’t handle it.”

Linda Davis has a bright, alert face, snappy dark eyes, and a quick smile. She’s a little over five feet tall, and beautifully trim—one of those tiny dynamos that never seem to stop. She attributes her mile-a-minute energy to a combination of daily workouts at the new health club, the ginkgo biloba she buys at Thyme and Seasons, and the meditation classes she takes from Ruby. Whatever the source of her vitality, Linda is an adventurer. In her belted khaki suit, neat white camp shirt, and zebra-striped silk scarf, she looked as if she were about to set off on safari.

She flipped her hands through her brown, curly hair, tossed me that quick smile, and said briskly, “Hey, China, how’re things? I see we’ve got you down for Friday night, wedding party of fifteen, with a mariachi band. Your big day must be right around the corner.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Sunday. Outdoors in the garden at Thyme and Seasons.”

She moved the vase of wildflowers to the end of the counter and squared a stack of untidy promotional flyers. “Sunday, huh? Have you been watching the weather? Do you know about Josephine?” She lined up the plastic display racks so they faced out, and straightened the brochures. “They’re saying it could come ashore around Corpus Christi, which means rain for us.”

“Yeah,” I said. I made a face. “If it happens, I guess we’ll move the wedding into the shop.”

“Into the shop?” Linda raised an eyebrow. “That’d be a little crowded, wouldn’t it? How many people are you having?”

“Only forty or so,” I said. “It isn’t a very big wedding.”

“If you need more room, you might think of moving it here. The Garden Room isn’t booked. We’ve had several weddings there, and it works fine. The room opens onto the river, which is just a few yards away from the windows. There’s a pair of resident swans and quite a few geese and ducks. Serene and romantic.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “I was a guest at Maureen Rodman’s wedding, and it was lovely. I’ll think about it and let you know. One way or other, we’ll manage.”

“Right,” Linda said cheerfully. “Life’s a blast. If it isn’t one damn thing, it’s another. You’ve just got to take it as it comes and be flexible—that’s my motto.” She picked up a stack of registration cards and began to riffle through them. “How can I help? Want to go over the menu for Friday night, or is Mrs. McQuaid taking care of everything? Do you need to make some reservations for out-of-town guests?”

“No,” I said, “I need to ask you to do something mildly illegal.”

She stopped riffling and looked at me with interest. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. You’ve got a guest named Rachel Lang. At least, that’s the name she gave me. I’d like to see her registration card.” I spoke half-apologetically, not knowing how squeamish Linda was about breaking the law.

She went back to the cards. “Care to tell me why?”

“The woman came to see me today. She says she’s the biological mother of one of Brian’s friends. She claims that her daughter was abducted by the child’s father nearly ten years ago. I need to verify her story, if I can. I know that you check driver’s licenses at registration. If she’s registered with you as Rachel Lang, I’m safe in assuming that’s the name on her license.” The Pack Saddle is old-fashioned that way, checking IDs on all their guests. The practice only antagonizes drug traffickers and other villainous types; honest people don’t mind proving they are who they claim to be.