Lavender Lies

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Whoever is in there is down on hands and knees, busy with the safe,” I said quietly. “Let’s just walk up and say ‘hi.’ We’ll have the advantage of surprise.”

  “Well,” Sheila said.

  “I don’t know,” Ruby began.

  “Good,” I said. “Come on.” I opened the door and went into the room, Sheila and Ruby close behind. We walked silently across the velvety carpet until we reached the desk. Sheila moved to my right, her gun at the ready. I put both hands on the desk, leaned over it, and said, very plesantly, “Hi. Can we help you find something?”

  There was a yelp of surprise, a scramble of hands and feet, and a flurry of papers. The woman crouching behind the desk turned her pale, startled face up to me, lips parted, eyes wide with fear.

  “Oh, God,” she cried. Her head went down, her hands came up to cover her face, and she burst into wild weeping.

  The woman was Melissa’s step-grandmother. Mrs. Carl Jackson.

  Jennie.

  And then the whole muddy, murky mess became suddenly very clear.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  By Tudor times, lavender seemed to have established

  a hot line to Cupid. If a maiden wanted to know the

  identity of her true love, she would sip a brew of lavender

  on St. Luke’s Day while murmuring:

  St. Luke, St. Luke, be kind to me,

  In my dreams, let me my true love see.

  “The Meaning of Lavender,” by China Bayles

  The Pecan Springs Enterprise

  Home and Garden Section

  Ruby’s Lemonade with Lavender and Rosemary

  1 can frozen lemonade concentrate

  2 cans water

  2 cups lavender-rosemary tea

  Sugar or honey to taste

  To make lavender-rosemary tea, pour just-boiling water over 2 tablespoons lavender blossoms and 2 tablespoons dried rosemary. Let steep for 5-7 minutes, strain. Prepare lemonade, diluting with 2 cans of water. Add the lavender-rosemary tea and serve over ice.

  “Jean,” Ruby said. “I still can’t believe that Jennie Jackson is the Jean we were looking for.”

  “Jennie, Jean—it was a natural mistake,” I said. I glanced up at the schoolhouse clock that hangs over the refrigerator in my kitchen. The hands pointed to midnight, and McQuaid wasn’t home yet. “Letty told Rena Burnett that she’d gotten the name off the answering machine, and that maybe she hadn’t heard it right.” Darla Jean and Bobbie Jean were home free, after all.

  “So Jennie Jackson was having an affair with Edgar Coleman,” Ruby mused.

  “That’s what it looks like,” I said. “She must have found herself in a situation that was getting increasingly out of control, and it frightened her into doing something dramatic. But we’ll have to wait until McQuaid gets home to hear the rest of the story.”

  After we had caught Jennie in the act of rifling the safe, we parked her on the sofa with a large supply of tissues. I offered the phone to Sheila. “Call McQuaid.”

  “You call him,” Sheila said. “You thought this up.”

  “Nobody knows that but you, me, and Ruby,” I said. “The City Council will be impressed when they hear that their future police chief has already solved the crime of the year.”

  “But that’s not fair,” Sheila protested.

  “The truth won’t sell one extra ounce of potpourri,” I said, “whereas you can use the brownie points.” I thrust the phone into her hands. “Call.”

  “If it’ll make you happy,” Sheila said, and dialed. While we waited for McQuaid, I took the opportunity to glance through the documents Jennie Jackson had pulled out of the safe—a picture of Melissa, a print copy of a listing from the Missing Children’s Web site, and a couple of highly incriminating letters Jennie had written to Coleman while they were lovers, before they had their fatal falling-out.

  When McQuaid got there, he took custody of Jennie, detailing Sheila and another cop to collect all the materials from the safe and seal the office.

  “I’m sure you’ll say I’m being irrational to pity a murderer,” Ruby said sadly, “but I felt sorry for Mrs. Jackson. She looked so forlorn, sitting there on the sofa, crying her heart out. I can’t help feeling that she got caught in Coleman’s web, and it wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t have guessed how this was all going to turn out.”

  “Maybe she should have given the matter some thought before the two of them fell into bed,” I said tartly. “Anyway, she’s a grownup and presumably mature enough to be held accountable for her actions. If you really want to feel sorry for somebody, feel sorry for Melissa.”

  As Jennie was being hustled into the police car, she turned her tear-stained face to me and asked me to tell her husband what was going on. So Ruby and I drove Sheila’s Explorer back to the apartment, where I left Ruby and picked up my car. Dr. Jackson was watching TV in his bath-robe when I knocked on his door shortly after ten. He was stunned when he heard that Jennie was about to be charged with Edgar Coleman’s murder, and utterly dazed when he learned that Rachel Lang was in town and that she knew he had Melissa.

  “It’s like the roof has suddenly caved in,” he whispered, his face ashen. “What am I going to do? What’s going to happen to Jen? Is Rachel going to take Melissa away from me?”

  Looking at him, at the tears welling in his eyes and the defeated slump of his shoulders, I judged that flight was a very remote possibility. And now certainly wasn’t the time to discuss any criminal charges that might be filed against him, or whether he had learned, after the fact, about what Jennie had done. Now was the time to face up to what had happened and make sure that everyone’s rights were protected.

  “Go talk to your wife, if they’ll let you,” I said gently. “Get her a good criminal lawyer and ask him to represent you, too. Sit down with him and make a clean breast of the last ten years with Melissa so he—or she—knows how best to defend you, if it comes to that. Make sure that Jennie does the same thing. You’ 11 both need all the help you can get.” I looked around. “Is Melissa asleep?”

  “She’s finishing a book report,” he said. “On the computer upstairs.”

  “Why don’t we tell her that you’ve been called out on a patient emergency,” I said. “Since your wife isn’t here, you’d like her to go home with me.”

  “Melissa,” he groaned, rubbing his hands over his eyes. “Melissa, Melissa. How am I ever going to tell her what’s happened?”

  “Rachel Lang has already asked me to talk to her,” I said. “She has to know the truth about herself and her mother, and you, too. She has to build a new life, and tomorrow is the best time to begin.”

  He gave me a despairing look. “I did it for her,” he said. “Only for her. All the running and the hiding, all the times we had to move to a new place and start over again—it was all for Melissa, to keep her from finding out who she was, who her parents were. I had to, don’t you see? I was afraid the courts would give Melissa back to her mother, in spite of the fact that she was unmarried and an ex-con and certainly not fit to raise a child. And my son ...” He closed his eyes, then opened them again. “You know about Jim?”

  “I was told that he died in a fire in Miami,” I said.

  Jackson nodded. “It was all about drugs.” He rubbed his forehead. “If Rachel had married him, he might have been able to straighten himself out, and things would’ve been dif ferent. But when she turned him down, he began to slide.” His voice was bleak. “In the end, he wasn’t a fit parent, either.” There was a long silence; then Jackson said, very softly. “It wasn’t his fault, though. I want you to understand that. It was the drugs. And it wasn’t malice that made me take Melissa away from her mother. I did it because I loved her.”

  “Even addicts are accountable for their actions,” I replied. “And it was up to the court—not you—to decide whether your granddaughter should be with you or go to her mother.” Our judicial system is deeply flawed, but that doesn’t change our moral obligation
to live by the law and fulfill our obligations to one another—especially the children.

  He turned away with a choked sob. “Tell Melissa I love her,” he said. “Ask her not to ... to blame me too much.”

  He got dressed and left for police headquarters. Melissa packed an overnight bag and came with me without question, and I put her to sleep in the other bed in Leatha’s room. My mother sat up when we came in.

  “Wazzat?” she asked. “Whosis?”

  “It’s Melissa,” I said. “She’s spending the night. Okay?”

  “S’fine,” Leatha said. “No snakes.” She fell asleep before I finished tucking Melissa in, her mouth open, snoring gently, foam curlers like fat pink butterfly larvae clustered all over her head.

  I went downstairs to wait for McQuaid and found Ruby in the kitchen, making sandwiches and pouring lemonade. “What are you doing here?” I asked, surprised. “It’s after eleven.”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” Ruby said. “I’m making us some sustenance. We’ve got to come up with a contingency plan.” She poured me a glass of lemonade. “The Weather Channel says that Josephine is going to dump a ton of rain from Corpus to Beaumont, and miles inland.”

  “The Garden Room at the Pack Saddle Inn,” I said. “It’s got a great view of the river, very scenic, with swans, ducks, and plenty of room for the reception. And Linda Davis, the manager, says it’s available. I’ll call her first thing in the morning and confirm.” I sipped my lemonade.

  Ruby gave a windy sigh of relief. “Good,” she said. “Wonderful. I can stop worrying about whether we can all crowd into the tearoom. Now, about the cake.” With a rueful grin, she gestured in the direction of a half-dozen brown waffle-like layers stacked on the rack. While we were out playing crime stoppers, my mother had been practicing. “Leatha’s heart is in the right place, but baking obviously isn’t the best use of her talents. If we put something like that on the table, we’ll all be embarrassed. Tomorrow, I’ll call Lucy’s Cakes in Austin and order a regular wedding cake. Maureen Rodman got hers there last year, and it was gorgeous.”

  I sipped my lemonade. Ruby certainly had a point. But suddenly Leatha’s cake-baking didn’t seem funny anymore, or embarrassing, or annoying. It seemed sweet and caring. It seemed like the sort of thing a mother would do for a daughter she loved.

  I put down my glass. “No, don’t order anything, Ruby,” I said. “Bertha and Betsy will be here tomorrow, and Bertha will be glad to help Mom with the cake. Maybe I’ll have time to help her, too.”

  Ruby arched her eyebrows. “Mom?”

  Howard Cosell stumped over and flopped down beside me, his great sad eyes asking for the last bite of my sandwich so he wouldn’t starve during the night, alone and abandoned in his doggie bed. I got up, sprinkled a few milk thistle seeds on what was left of my bread and bologna, and dropped it into Howard’s bowl.

  “Yeah, Mom,” I said. “Nobody’s got a corner on perfect. I’ve lived with hard feelings and anger long enough, and I’m tired of hanging on to pain. It’s time to get past that stuff.”

  “Well, good,” Ruby said. She reached under the table, pulled out a box, and put it in front of me. With a secret smile, she said, “Here. Tell me what you think of this.”

  I looked down at the box. The label said Sexy Secrets. Ruby’s mail-order wedding costume. I opened the lid apprehensively, unfolded the tissue paper, and peeked. Sure enough. Laurel had been right. It was a nightgown, fine, filmy, and utterly transparent.

  “Damn it, Ruby,” I said, “you can’t wear this out in public!”

  Ruby looked shocked. “I’m not going to wear it anywhere. Much less in public. It’s for you, silly.”

  “For me?”

  “Sure. What do I want a nightgown for? I always sleep naked.”

  “But—”

  “It’s your nightgown. For your wedding night. How can you go on a honeymoon without a sexy nightgown?” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t answer that. You were probably planning to sleep in one of McQuaid’s old T-shirts. Or you were going to run out to Walmart at the last minute.”

  She was right. It was either the T-shirt or Walmart. “Thank you,” I said humbly. “You’re a good friend, Ruby.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “Oh, by the way. Your machine is blinking.”

  I went to the answering machine and punched the button. It was Harold Tucker. “I just want to make sure you received our letter,” he said. “As we said there, I’ve accepted an offer to teach at Indiana State, and we hope to put the house up for sale as soon as possible. Of course, we’ll be glad to consider any offer you would care to make before we list the house with a real estate broker. Please get back to us as soon as you can and let us know if you’re interested in buying it.” He left a phone number and rang off.

  “Oh wow!” Ruby exclaimed. She threw up her hands. “This wonderful house is for sale, China! What fantastic, marvelous, incredible news! Why, it’s every bit as good as winning the lottery!”

  “Our house is for sale?” I asked, dazed. “We can buy it and live here forever? I don’t believe it!”

  The kitchen door opened and McQuaid hobbled wearily in, leaning on his canes. He had a day’s worth of black beard stubble, and the front of his shirt displayed a coffee stain the size and shape of a necktie. Sheila came behind him carrying his briefcase, her holster slung over her shoulder like a bandido. She was still wearing biker shorts and the orange T-shirt, and she hadn’t combed her stringy blond hair. Both of them looked tired.

  “Where’s Marvin?” I asked, looking over Sheila’s shoulder. “Isn’t he with you?”

  “He’s on his way back to Austin,” McQuaid said. “The case is closed, as far as he’s concerned.”

  Which was exactly the way it should be, as far as I was concerned. “You’d better sit down,” I said. “I want you to listen to something.” As McQuaid dropped into a chair, I hit the replay button and Harold Tucker made his astonishing offer for the second time in five minutes.

  “Sold,” McQuaid said. “I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  “Just like that?” I asked, surprised. “But—”

  “Just like that,” McQuaid said firmly. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  “But where will we get the money for the down payment?”

  “I can loan—” Ruby began.

  “Hush, Ruby,” McQuaid said. He patted my hand. “Don’t worry, China. We’ll get the money. This is our house, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “The boss has spoken,” Sheila said. “Ours is not to wonder why.” She glanced at Ruby. “It’s late. How come you’re here?”.

  “I’m waiting for you,” Ruby said. “I couldn’t go to sleep without knowing what happened.” She stood up. “You guys want some lemonade? How about a sandwich?”

  “Yes to both.” McQuaid looked at me. “Jackson showed up at the jail, so I guess you talked to him.” His grin was lopsided. “Thanks, hon. Sorry to shovel that messy job onto your plate.”

  Hon. Oh, well. Some things you have to live with. “It had to be done,” I said. “How’s Jennie? What happened?”

  “Long story,” McQuaid said wearily, lowering himself into a chair.

  Ruby poured the last of the lemonade and put the glasses on the table.

  “Thanks,” Sheila said. She drank half of hers in one long thirsty swallow. “Lovely.”

  “You’re welcome,” Ruby said, returning to the counter for the sandwiches. “I did your laundry,” she added.

  “You did my laundry?” Sheila asked in surprise. “Gosh, that was nice.”

  “It was the least I could do for our next chief of police,” Ruby said. She put the plate on the table and went back for cookies. “Remind me to ask you about that funny little lacy thing, though.” She put a hand on McQuaid’s shoulder as she put the cookies on the table. “Did Jennie confess?”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Ruby,” I said. “First McQuaid reads her rights, then she gets a lawyer
, who tells her not to say anything until—”

  “She confessed,” Sheila said, and reached for a sandwich. “What funny little lacy thing? Are you talking about my new camisole?”

  “Oh, is that what it was?” Ruby asked. She sat down. “There’s milk in the refrigerator, if you want some.”

  I turned to McQuaid. “She confessed? Where the hell was her lawyer? Who coerced her into—”

  “Hold on, China,” McQuaid said, raising his hand. “Nobody coerced her. We couldn’t keep her from telling us what happened, Miranda or no Miranda.” He bent over to rub his bad leg. “She was so anxious to get it off her chest that she just spilled it all. She killed Coleman, and she fully intends to plead guilty. The Letty business is a little more complicated.”

  “She intends to plead guilty now,” I said. “But wait until her husband gets her a good defense lawyer. Heck, not even a good one—a mediocre one will do the same thing. He’ll get the confession thrown out and you’ll have to make a case on whatever nimsy—”

  “It’s her right index fingerprint on her husband’s gun,” Sheila said. “And she knows some details of the crime scene that didn’t make it into the newspaper. It’s a tight case, China. Not even you could get her off.”

  “What about Letty?” Ruby asked.

  “Jennie says she went to the Coleman house after Letty called and invited her,” McQuaid said. “There must have been something in that breakfast conversation at the diner with Dr. Jackson that made the connection in Letty’s mind. Anyway, Letty accused Jennie of having an affair with Coleman and asked her, point blank, whether she had killed him. Jennie said she went to pieces and told Letty the truth. At that point, Letty tried to shove her down the stairs, but fell herself, instead.”