A Bitter Taste of Garlic: Episode 18

Meredith's Story: "I Can't Forgive Her . . ."

Previously. After China enlisted Ruby in a scheme for an evening stakeout, she learned from Constance (at the Emporium) that Violett had told her (Constance) about Jo and Roz’s relationship. Intending to caution Violett against spreading rumor, China goes to Violett’s house and learns more than she wants to know about Violett’s unstable psychological state. She leaves Violett with a warning not to spread gossip about Roz and Jo. “It’ll only hurt Meredith,” she says, “and there’s no telling how Roz will react.”

Missed something? You can read (or reread) the earlier episodes here.

It was nearly five by the time I got back to the shop, so I left Laurel to close and went home through the connecting door to my apartment. I poured a sherry and sat down at the kitchen table to think things through, beginning with Violett’s assertion that she had seen Roz in Pecan Springs on the day Jo died—a clear contradiction of Roz’s claim that she had arrived two days later.

Violett’s allegation wouldn’t be difficult to verify. The airlines refused to give out passenger information, so there wasn’t much point in pursuing that tack. But I could call Helen Jenson, a friend who owned Jenson’s Travel. She could check the flights into both Austin and San Antonio and tell me when Roz had flown in. But it was after five on Saturday and Helen’s agency was closed. I wouldn’t be able to get any information until Monday morning.

But if practicing law had taught me anything, it was that there was more than one way to skin a cat. Roz had rented a car and the car was parked on the alley, where Roz couldn’t see it from the cottage. If it wasn’t locked, I might be able to find the car rental agreement in the glove compartment. It would document the day and time she’d rented it.

The red Buick Century was parked beside the cottage. I tried the doors. Locked. I wasn’t going to get my hands on that rental agreement. But there was something else I could get. I copied the name of the rental company—Ace Car Rental, in San Antonio—from the decal in the rear window, as well as the license plate number. Then I went back to the house, dialed information, and got a number for Ace. But when I asked what day Roz’s car was rented, I struck out again.

“Our computer’s down” a harried male clerk said. “Try tomorrow morning.” The clerk sighed the resigned sigh of someone used to dealing with recalcitrant computers. “Or tomorrow afternoon. Sometimes it takes a while to get it up again.”

“How about checking your paper files?” I asked.

A laugh. “No offense, lady, but I’ve got people lined up from here to the Alamo waiting for cars, and no computer. Try tomorrow.”

I put down the phone and reached for the cookie jar, which Laurel had generously filled with a recent bake of Earl Grey and rosemary cookies. Short of breaking into Roz’s car, I couldn’t verify Violett’s statement. But I could hypothesize. Roz had a motive—a strong motive—to silence Jo. She also could’ve had the means: barbiturates and vodka added to Jo’s Hot Stuff.

And if Violett was telling the truth about seeing her in Pecan Springs on the day Jo died, she also had the opportunity. My flimsy structure of guesses and hunches was constructed with too many ifs and shored up by purely circumstantial evidence. But it was beginning to smell like a case a D.A. might be able to live with—except that the name on the charging document would be that of a famous TV personality and fiancée of a U.S. senator who was hoping to move into the Oval Office. Not a case that any DA in his or her right mind would welcome.

I was still turning this over in my mind when somebody banged on my kitchen door. It was Meredith, wearing her new blue tracksuit and running shoes. She was breathing hard, and when I invited her in, she collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table.

“A cookie?” I asked, but she only shook her head. I filled a glass of water and handed it to her. “You haven’t been burgled again, I hope.”

“No.” She closed her eyes and sipped the water. “I still can’t believe this, China. It’s just too incredible. This mousy little woman came over to see me just now, out of the blue. She’s claiming that my mother and Roz Kotner—”

Mousy little woman? “Violett Hall?”

Meredith opened her eyes. “That’s her name. Violett Hall. Do you know her? China, this woman says that my mother—”

I held up a hand, silencing her. I got the sherry bottle and another glass, filled it, and put it in front of Meredith. “What did Violett tell you?”

Meredith traded the water for the sherry. “That Mother and Rosalind Kotner had a . . . had an affair. A love affair.” She gulped the sherry. “Is it true, China?”

I stalled for time. “What makes you think I know?”

“You were her friend. You must have known.” Her chin trembled. “Is it true?”

I had to play it straight. Whatever Jo’s reservations about telling her daughter about Roz, Meredith needed to know the truth.

“I don’t have any direct knowledge of their relationship, Meredith. I moved here after Roz left, and I only saw the two of them together a few times. But there were letters from Roz in the boxes your mother left for me to dispose of. The few I’ve glanced at are pretty explicit about the relationship. There’s also a copy of Roz’s will, leaving everything to your mother.” I paused. “Judging from that evidence, I’d say that Violett is telling the truth.”

Meredith sat silent, struggling with the idea. “I suppose that explains why Mother cut me out of her life. She didn’t want me to know.” Her laugh was sharp and bitter. “It’s crazy, China.”

“What’s crazy?”

“My mother was a feminist from the word NOW.” Another laugh, even more bitter. “And all the time she was afraid to come out of the closet. The biggest feminist issue in her life, and she ducked it.”

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” I said. “But this town doesn’t award medals for alternative lifestyles. Your mother had to live with these people, work with them. She needed their cooperation.”

“We’re not talking about this town.” Meredith’s voice was brittle as thin glass. “We’re talking about my mother’s daughter. Abought me. I can forgive her for not coming out to other people. I can’t forgive her for not coming out to me. I can’t.”

“Maybe she thought you wouldn’t approve,” I said gently. “Maybe she wanted to protect you.”

Meredith hunched her shoulders like a hurt child. “I’m surprised that it mattered to Mother whether I approved or not,” she muttered, tight-lipped. There was a long silence. Then she sighed. “Well, she would have been right, damn it.”

“You’d have disapproved?” I asked, surprised.

“Not the lesbian part. If Mother wanted to take a woman lover, that was her business, not mine. And her right. I only ever wanted her to be happy.” She shook her head angrily. “No, it’s Roz. That’s what I don’t understand. That woman has an ego that won’t quit. A TV show, a toy empire—that’s not big enough. What she’s got her eye on now is the Keenan money, the Keenan name, the White House.” She shook her head again, misery drawn on her face. “Why would my mother choose her for a lover?”

I was silent for a moment. “Sometimes we don’t choose,” I said. “Sometimes we’re chosen.”

My words surprised me. They sounded like Ruby’s. But I had the feeling they were close to the truth. Whatever Jo’s reasons for loving Roz, they must have risen like an artesian well out of an unconscious source—a source that she couldn’t control in the same way she controlled the ordinary events of her life.

Meredith gnawed her lower lip. I waited, but she didn’t say anything. After a minute I asked, “Did Violett tell you anything else?”

“Well, yes,” Meredith replied slowly, “she did. She said she saw Roz here on Monday. The day my mother died.” Her frown furrowed deeper. “That perfume I smelled, China. Do you suppose it was Roz’s? Was she in Mom’s house that morning?”

I winced. I’d rather Meredith didn’t pursue this line of questioning. “I don’t know.”

Meredith sat forward on her chair, elbows on her knees, arms clasped. “I didn’t notice her perfume at the memorial service.” She was speaking low and slowly, more to herself than to me. “But that was outdoors. And when we went to dinner the other night, she wasn’t wearing her own perfume. I remember you saying she’d showered with lavender soap.”

I didn’t say anything.

But Meredith did. “China, if Roz was here on Monday, why didn’t she say so? Why did she lie?” She raised her head and looked at me, working it out. “And if it was Roz’s perfume I smelled that day, the day Mother died, was it the same perfume I smelled after the burglary?” Her voice rose. “Was it Roz who broke into the house? But why? What was she after?”

There wasn’t any point in trying to stop her. She was thinking too fast, gathering momentum, crafting her own story made of question after question.

“And if Roz was here on Monday, was she with Mother before she died? Or when she died? Did she help my mother kill herself?” She half-rose out of her chair, her eyes wide. “Or did Rosalind Kotner kill my mother?”

I put out my hand and gently pushed her down again. I wasn’t prepared for this. I was afraid she’d want to take some kind of action—what, I wasn’t sure. I had to slam on the brakes, keep her from going further.

“All that could be true,” I said carefully, “but it’s all speculation, questions. Just a story. We don’t have enough facts to go on, Meredith. We need—”

Meredith wasn’t listening. “I think she did!” she cried. “I think she came over to the house, mixed pills and vodka for a great double whammy, and poured in enough of that spicy tomato stuff to cover up the taste. She did it to keep Mother from telling people that they’d been lovers. That would ruin her chance at the White House!”

I raised my hand. “Hang on, Meredith,” I said. “Do you really think Roz would worry about Jo spilling the beans? She’d know your mother wouldn’t risk damaging the Anti-Airport Coalition. If Arnold Griffin got wind of this, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it.”

It worked—for a minute. Then she straightened up.

“You’re right. Mother wouldn’t have told the world. But she had something fierce in her. If she was hurt or angry at Roz, or hurt, she might have threatened to tell Senator Keenan—and back up her claim with the letters. And that would have fixed Roz’s wagon.” She barked a laugh.

I shifted uncomfortably. Circumstantial or not, the case against Roz was very strong. But this conversation was getting out of hand in a hurry. All Meredith needed was to fit one more piece to the puzzle and—

She got it. “The letters!” She jumped out of her chair and paced furiously around the table. “Once Roz shut Mother up, she still had to get her hands on the letters. That’s why she broke into the house the other night!”

“Oh, come on, Meredith.” I laced the words with sarcasm. “You can’t really believe that the fiancée of a presidential candidate would risk breaking into—”

“Of course she would! Those letters must be terribly incriminating. Once she has them, she’ll be home free.” She stopped pacing and swung around. “I want those letters, China. Roz’s will, too. Give them to me. I’ll put them in Mother’s safe deposit box at the bank.”

But I couldn’t give her the letters. Number one, they were the bait to the trap I had planned for the evening. Number two, there was Jo’s instruction not to let Meredith read them. I could finesse the first, that was easy. But not the second. I had read only three of the letters, but I knew what private emotions they touched—not the kind of thing Meredith ought to be dealing with. Not right now, anyway.

I held up my hand. “I suggest that you go home and let this thing simmer over the weekend. On Monday, we can start collecting evidence. A friend of mine owns a travel service. I’ll ask her to check Roz’s flight schedule for us. Then we’ll know for sure when—”

“But that’s Monday!” Meredith exclaimed. “Roz could be out of here then!”

“I doubt it. She’s trying to get those letters. Anyway, what if she leaves? That’s why we have extradition, you know. If we have the evidence, if she’s guilty—”

“If she’s guilty!” Meredith slammed her fist on the table. “What the hell do you mean, China? Rosalind Kotner killed my mother—your friend—and you know it!”

“I don’t know anything of the kind,” I said firmly, “and you don’t either. Now, I suggest—”

“You lawyers are all alike,” Meredith gritted. “I’m supposed to be a good girl. Go home and watch television. Sit on my butt and twiddle my thumbs.”

“I’m just trying to keep you out of trouble., Meredith” I picked up the sherry bottle and gestured toward her empty glass. “Accusing someone of murder is serious business. Let’s calm down, have another sherry and—”

Meredith jumped to her feet. “You can take your goddamned advice and stuff it, China. I will take care of Roz Kotner!”

She stalked out the door and slammed it so hard that the dishes rattled in the cupboard.

Thanks for reading, everyone! Paid subscribers, your Reader’s Notebook, Episode 18: Meredith’s Story, should drop into your inboxes any minute now. I always enjoy our conversations, so please join us in the comment space.

A quick update: When we’ve finished A Bitter Taste of Garlic, we’ll move into a different format, with a slow read (a chapter or two a week) and a book from another of my mystery series. The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree, the first book in a series set in a small Southern town in the early 1930s. The book is widely available in print, ebook, and audio. You might also be able to find it at your local library or via Interlibrary Loan.

I’m also planning to add several books to our Guerrilla Readers read-along. Three titles I’m considering for later in the year:

• American Nations: A History of the Eleven Rival Regional Cultures of North America, by Colin Woodard;

• Paper Girl: A Memoir of Home and Family in a Fractured America, by Beth Macy; and

• Firestorm: The Great Los Angeles Fires and America’s New Age of Disaster, by Jacob Soboroff.

If you have other suggestions, please drop them into the comments.