“I can’t believe this,” he muttered, his face pained. “I somehow got it into my head that the wedding was next week.” He paused. “Listen, China, this is a big investigation. I mean, there are a lot of angles to cover and a long list of suspects to—”
“McQuaid, my love,” I said softly, “I am not disparaging your competence in conducting a homicide investigation, but I do hope you haven’t forgotten that you are an interim police chief.”
His face tightened. “Yes, I know, but things have been quiet all summer, China. All I’ve done is shuffle paper and keep the staff morale up. And whether you like Coleman or not, he was a big player in this town. I can’t just walk out on—”
“Of course you can,” I said reasonably. “Appoint a backup who can take over if you haven’t collared the killer by Sunday afternoon. And don’t forget the party on Saturday night.”
“A backup?” He snorted. “Like who, for instance? You know the situation in that department. With Bubba gone, there’s not a trained homicide man in the lot. That’s one of the problems with this dinky little police force. They need new blood. They need somebody who can—” He stopped, pulling his black brows together. “What party?”
“The dinner your parents are giving for us at the Pack Saddle Inn. Your mother has reserved tables for thirty, hired a mariachi band, and conned her bridge club into making crepe-paper palm trees. Shall I tell her that the groom may be off playing Columbo?”
He growled something indistinguishable.
“Okay, I apologize. That was tacky,” I said. “Well, if there’s nobody on the force who can help, how about asking Bubba to back you up? He may be mad at the City council, but he’s not mad at you.” Bubba Harris, who had been Pecan Springs’s police chief for nearly thirty years, had quit in a huff over the sensitivity training the Council mandated for the police force.
McQuaid shook his head. “Bubba and his wife got a new RV and went to California to see their grandkids.”
“Then ask Blackie. He’s the county sheriff.”
Another shake. “Pecan Springs isn’t Blackie’s turf. Anyway, he’s in the wedding, too. He’s my best man.”
“Yes, but he’s not going on our honeymoon.” I scowled. “Well, I suppose you can always call in the Rangers.” The Texas Rangers are available to lend a hand when the local police don’t have the resources to handle a case.
McQuaid looked at me. “What would you think about possibly postponing—”
It was a very, very good thing that Pauline Perkins chose that moment to knock at the kitchen door. Otherwise, there might not have been a wedding. Pauline, who works as hard for Pecan Springs as if she were working for real money, is the town’s four-term mayor. She was still wearing her mayor’s uniform, a tailored navy suit with a yellow jewel-neck blouse, pearl choker and earrings, and sensible navy shoes. She also wears about thirty extra pounds, including a spare chin and a pair of love handles. In spite of this tendency to chubbiness, she is usually briskly confident and brimming with mayoral authority and civic pride.
Not tonight, however. Tonight, she looked as if she’d just lost the primary.
“Is Mike here?” she asked. “I need to see him about a ...” She swallowed and tried again. “A personal matter.”
I generally think it’s a good idea to stay on cordial terms with your boss. As mayor and head of the City Council, Pauline is McQuaid’s boss. And I like her, although she’s sometimes a teapot tyrant. “Of course, Pauline,” I said warmly. “Come in and have a cup of coffee.”
While McQuaid greeted her, I poured coffee. “I’ll leave you two,” I said, picking up my kitchen shears and a basket and heading for the door. “I want to cut the basil while it’s still light enough to see.”
Pauline put out her hand. It was trembling. “No, stay, China, please. You’re awfully good at solving ... well, problems. Maybe you can help.”
McQuaid nodded and I sat down. But while Pauline obviously had something urgent on her mind, we had to wait while she fumbled incoherently through several false starts, trying to decide what part and how much of it she was going to tell.
Finally, McQuaid leaned forward and said, “Does this have anything to do with what happened this morning, Pauline?”
Pauline set her cup down hard enough to slosh coffee into the saucer. “Well, yes,” she managed.
McQuaid’s face was very serious. “Do you know something about Coleman’s murder?”
Pauline jumped as if somebody had dropped a firecracker down the back of her yellow blouse. “No!” she cried. “Whatever makes you think I—”
“Well, then, what is it?”
“I ... well, you see—” She swallowed, bit her lip, and finally got it out. “Well, to put it bluntly, Edgar Coleman was threatening me. He said that if I didn’t do what he wanted, he would—” She stopped, gnawing on her lower lip. “He said he would tell—” She stopped again, stuck.
If somebody didn’t prod her, we might be here all night. “Threatening you?” I asked gently. “You mean, he was blackmailing you?”
She flinched at the word, but it brought her around. “Well, yes, I suppose you could call it that. Only he wasn’t after money. It was ‘teamwork’ he wanted.” Her round cheeks were bright as fire and her chins trembled. “That was his word. ‘Teamwork.’ ”
“He was after your vote on that annexation project?” McQuaid asked.
“I ... suppose,” Pauline said. Her voice dropped to just above a whisper. “Actually, he hadn’t yet told me what he wanted. That was Edgar’s way, you know. He’d never come straight out with anything. He was always so devious. He’d hint and insinuate and promise and ... and—” Her bosom began to heave and her words dissolved in huge, gulping wails. “Oh, what a fool I’ve been,” she sobbed, pulling out a yellow hanky. “What a stupid, idiotic, romantic fool!”
McQuaid made a high sign. I got up, took a bottle of brandy and three small snifters from the cupboard, and poured. Pauline snatched hers and tossed it down. I poured again, and after a moment she was calmer.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve had this on my mind for an entire week, you see, ever since he phoned me and told me what he would do if I didn’t—” She shook her head heavily, her pearl tear-drop earrings swinging against her mottled cheeks. “Then when I heard he was dead—well, I know it’s not Christian of me, but I was actually relieved. The longer I thought about it, though, the more nervous I got, so I decided I had tell you.” She drew a deep breath, tanking up for a long confession. ”You see, it all began when—”
McQuaid held up his hand. “Wait a minute, Pauline. Before you say anything else, we’d better call Charlie.”
She looked at him blankly. “Charlie? Charlie Lipman?”
“He’s your attorney, isn’t he?” McQuaid asked.
Pauline stiffened her spine. “Of course he is. That is, he’s Darryl’s lawyer.” Darryl Perkins is Pauline’s husband. “But I don’t need to pay Charlie Lipman good money to listen to—” Then it dawned on her. Her eyes grew as round as daisies and her voice was freighted with offended dignity. “You can’t mean that I ... that you suspect me of ... Why, I’m the mayor of this town! I would never stoop so low—”
McQuaid looked at me. “Maybe you’d better tell her, China.” He reached for his canes and hoisted himself to his feet. “I think Brian needs some help with his homework.”
“Homework!” Pauline smacked the table furiously. “You just sit your fanny right back down in that chair and listen to me, Mr. Michael Acting Police Chief McQuaid. I’m going to get this Coleman nonsense off my chest tonight, and you’re going to hear me out.” The two large red spots on her cheeks made her look like a belligerent clown. “That’s an order, do you hear? An order!”
But Pauline was talking to McQuaid’s retreating back. As he stumped out of the room, she turned to me. “I could fire him for failure to follow a direct order,” she snapped. She narrowed her eyes, liking the idea. “And by golly darn, that’s exac
tly what I’m going to do! He doesn’t need to think he can get away with flouting my authority. First thing in the morning, I’m calling an emergency meeting of the Council. We’ll just see who’s the boss in this town.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Pauline,” I said quietly.
She straightened her shoulders and shot me a look like the one Harry Truman must have worn when he signed General MacArthur’s walking papers. “And why not? If there’s anything I hate, it’s insubordination.”
Pauline isn’t dumb, but sometimes she’s like the old Texas mule—it’s next to impossible to get her attention. “McQuaid isn’t being insubordinate,” I said. “He’s being careful. Don’t you get it, Pauline? Coleman’s attempt to blackmail you has given you a motive for murder.”
She stared at me as if I’d whacked her with a two-by-four. “A motive!” she gasped. “But I had nothing whatever to do with—”
I checked her denials. “Now that he’s heard about the blackmail, McQuaid has no choice. Like it or not, he has to treat you as a suspect, which means advising you of your right to legal representation before saying anything—anything at all, Pauline—that might relate to the crime.”
“He has to—” She stared at me for a long moment. “Oh, God,” she whispered.
“God won’t be much help, I’m afraid,” I said ruefully. “If I were in your shoes, I’d call Charlie Lipman instead. And I’d do it tonight.”
Her lower lip was trembling and her eyes were beginning to fill with tears. “But I ... I can’t tell Charlie. Darryl might find out.” She gave me a pleading look. “You’re a lawyer, China. Couldn’t you—”
Darryl? What did Darryl have to do with this? “Sorry,” I said. “I sleep with the enemy.”
She frowned. “I don’t—Oh, yes, I see.” She sighed. “Well, in that case, I suppose I’d better ...”
She stood and picked up her purse, her face drawn and sagging. Pauline has so much stamina and energy that I’d never thought of her as being any age at all. Now, I realized that she was probably closer to sixty than to fifty and was feeling every year of it. I put my hand on her shoulder.
“Tonight,” I repeated urgently. “Call Charlie tonight. You’ll probably be hearing from McQuaid first thing in the morning.”
“All right,” she said numbly. She turned toward the door. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “What have I done? What have I done?”
CHAPTER THREE
Farther south around Arkansas and Texas a prickly ash grows that was more familiarly known as the toothache tree, Zanthoxylum clavaherculis. The bumpy bark is hot to taste and will help a toothache. So deeply entrenched in the affections of the people has this weird tree become that it has accumulated several other names, including the sting tongue, the tear blanket, and pepperwood. For a toothache, dry the inner bark, powder it, and apply in the aching tooth cavity.
Plant Medicine and Folklore
Mildred Fielder
I don’t know about you, but going to the dentist ranks at the bottom of my list of preferred activities, right along with doing my income tax return and getting my tonsils out. For a long time, I put off even the most necessary dental work until there was absolutely no escape. My attitude improved, however, when Dr. Carl Jackson moved here a year or so ago and took over old Dr. Smelser’s practice. Dr. Jackson is the only dentist I know who has mastered the technique of administering Novacain so painlessly that you never even feel the needle. And while you’re waiting to get numb, he hands you a headset and points to a rack of cassettes. You choose the music and when he starts to drill, you turn up the volume to drown out the noise. I usually pick Wagner, because he’s so loud—The Ride of the Valkyries is good. The Valkyries thunder around the heavens while Dr. Jackson messes around in my mouth.
I showed up in the clinic’s waiting room before nine, as I had been instructed, but I was not Dr. Jackson’s first appointment. That honor belonged to Melissa, who in addition to being Brian’s girlfriend, is my dentist’s daughter. She had come in early to get her braces checked.
If I were choosing a girlfriend for Brian—or a daughter for myself—Melissa would be high on my list. She’s not a cute kid. Her nose is too chunky for prettiness, her face is splattered with freckles, and her hair is a bright orange—brighter, even, than Ruby’s. And there are, of course, the braces. But she’s smart and unselfconscious and independent and seems to have resisted (so far, anyway) our culture’s efforts to convince her that life’s most important decision is choosing the right Barbie doll. I also appreciate the matter-of-fact way she relates to Brian as a buddy, rather than as a boyfriend. She says she wants to be a botanist when she grows up, and a while back asked if she could get some practice by working in the Thyme and Seasons garden. I said an enthusiastic yes, and she showed up last weekend. She has a stout back, exactly as many hands as someone twice her age, and an admirable willingness. What’s more, she brought Brian, who is more interested in lizards than lavender and isn’t quite so willing. Between the two of them, they pulled several bushels of weeds, harvested the yarrow, and deadheaded the echinacea. At the end of the day, she announced that this was even more fun than going camping, and she’d love to come back and help some more.
“Hey,” she said when I walked into the clinic. “Hi, China.”
“Hi, Melissa,” I said, and gave her a quick, affectionate hug. Unlike Brian, who believes he is too old for such things, Melissa hugged me back. I held her at arm’s length so I could look at her. “Hey, that’s a cool shirt.”
She stuck out her chest. Her green T-shirt said Trees Come First. People Came Later. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s my birthday present from my dad. Yesterday was my birthday. I’m twelve now.”
“Happy belated birthday,” I said. “Twelve is a big year.” At twelve, I got my first period and my first boyfriend, who turned out to be a total jerk. He threw me over for Gloria Gaye, who had curly blond hair and 32-B boobs.
“Thank you.” She bent over to rebuckle the tab of her leather sandal. She straightened up, flipped her hair back, and said, “Listen, if I bring my mom to your shop, will you help her pick out some herbs? I’m digging her a garden in our backyard. It’s a present for her,” she added.
“A good one, too,” I said. I don’t know many young girls who would be willing to do the spade work.
“I like that stuff that’s growing beside the patio at the back of the shop,” she said. “It smells good.”
“That would be rosemary,” I said. “Your mother will enjoy that.”
“Actually, she’s my stepmom,” Melissa confided. “But it’s a pain to keep calling her that, so I don’t bother. How about sage? It’ll grow big enough to have some for Thanks-giving, won’t it?”
“Sure thing. Why don’t you draw a diagram of the garden you’re making, with the dimensions, and we’ll see what we can fit into it. My treat.”
“Cool,” she said. “Hey, about those frogs.”
“Frogs? Frogs? What frogs?” I frowned, pretending to think. Then I snapped my fingers. “Oh, sure—you’re talking about the plate of refrigerated frogs I found between the pickles and the marmalade.”
She giggled. “Yeah. I hope they didn’t gross you out. I was going to put a lid on them but I couldn’t find one.”
“After living with Brian,” I said, “I think I’m gross-proof.” I looked up as the clinic door opened and a petite, pretty woman came in, dressed in a stylish belted shirtwaist that matched her blue eyes. Her ash-blond hair was attractively waved but stiff with spray, like a doll’s hair, and her brows and lashes had the same quality of careful artifice. I shifted, feeling uncomfortably that my jeans and plaid shirt—perfectly fine for the shop and gardens—were out of place in Mrs. Jackson’s company.
She smiled at Melissa. “All finished, my dear? We’d better get you to school before you’re late.” Her voice was soft and cultured.
Melissa made a face. “I’d just as soon be late. It’s English, and Mrs. Carlisle is a bumm
er.” With aplomb, she swung into introductions. “Jennie, this is Brian’s mom. Her name is China.”
“Oh, so you’re the one I’ve been hearing about.” The woman gave a light laugh and extended a hand, her slim wrist decorated with bangle bracelets. “I do hope that Melissa isn’t making a nuisance of herself. She told me about leaving those awful frogs in your fridge.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” I said, trading a brief handshake. Mrs. Jackson’s fingers were cool and delicate and wondered whether she would appreciate her stepdaughter’s present. “Melissa is a girl after my own heart,” I added. “Frogs and all.”
Mrs. Jackson shuddered. “When I was her age, my friends and I were putting on lipstick and perfume and.going to sock hops with our boyfriends-not grubbing around in the mud and weeds, looking for lizards.” She gave Melissa a reproving look. “I’m not asking her to wear dresses or play with dolls—just to learn a few feminine graces. I’m afraid that most of the men in her life won’t be terribly interested in lizards.”
“They will be if she studies herpatology,” I said. Melissa giggled. Mrs. Jackson’s face tightened. The situation was saved by the appearance of Dr. Jackson, a man in his mid-fifties, tanned and slim and as youthful-looking as his wife, with wavy brown hair touched with gray.
“I thought you were off to school, Melissa.” He spoke severely, but with a smile. “Aren’t you going to be late?”
Melissa blew him a kiss. “We’re just leaving, Pops. ’Bye.” She headed for the door.
Mrs. Jackson stepped close to her husband, and put her cheek to his. Their heights matched, their bodies fitted together—a romantic, picture-book couple. He held her affectionately, his arm circling her waist. “I hope you have a good day, my dear.”
She put her hand possessively on his cheek. “I shall,” she said, with something like determination. Her eyes were on his. “Don’t fret, Carl.”
Lavender Lies Page 4