Mulch (28 page)

Suddenly the door flew open and a thin burst of snow flew in, as if attracted by her or the fire. There stood a big man in mirrored ski goggles and white hooded Goretex ski outfit. A stranger from an alien planet. Louise immediately conjured up a memory of spooky-looking white-clad Finnish soldiers in World War II, fighting Russians, on skis with rifles strapped across their backs.

With one hand the man threw back his hood, lifted his goggles onto his forehead, and pulled down the scarf that covered his lower face. His other hand was bunched in his deep coat pocket.

It was Peter Hoffman, with blue eyes glittering, blond hair in disarray, and what looked like two days’ worth of gray-blond beard.

He stamped in, unbidden, the snow that hung on him cascading onto the flagstone floor.

Louise remained seated, both hands over her heart. “Oh, it’s only you. You about scared me to death! What are you
doing
here?”

He smiled down at her. Again using only one hand, he unsnapped his jacket, removed the goggles, and stuffed them in a pocket. From the same pocket he extricated a pair of bifocals and slipped them in place on his nose. He looked around the room as if to memorize its furniture plan. “Louise. It’s a helluva day, isn’t it? I’m sorry—didn’t mean to scare you.” He looked at the rapidly melting snow he had dragged in. “Didn’t mean to mess up this place, either. But it won’t hurt these flagstones, will it?”

Louise, who was beginning to recover her composure, reflected that she had just waxed those flagstones. She said, “No, don’t worry about it.” She looked at him with her forehead furrowed. “What on earth brought you over here? You really scared me, you know.”

He looked at a nearby chair. “Can I sit down?”

Her solitude was gone, and Louise could hardly conceal her impatience at the loss. “Of course. I’m sorry I’m so short; I’m working. I don’t have a lot of time. But do sit down. Although I think I might have to go soon. The weather looks so bad that I may have to pick Janie up at school.”

“You’re going to have trouble driving. Roads are a mess. Very slippery.”

“Then I wonder how—oh, I suppose the school buses—or maybe they’ll just …” She stopped.

“They’ll just what? They won’t walk all the way home, will they?”

“I doubt it,” she lied. She would love to see the teenagers walk in right now. With an effort, she sought a cordial tone: “So, you walked here, from your house?”

“Yes. You know good and well that my house is less than a mile from here.”

“How did you know I’d be home?”

Hoffman sat back comfortably. “You told me Saturday night. Don’t you remember? You told me lots of things Saturday night.”

Louise quietly pulled herself up in her chair. “Mr. Hoffman …”

“Peter,” he said, cajolingly.

“Well, Peter, then. I may have been a bit tipsy, but I
can
remember our conversation in Janie’s bedroom.” A flash of anger came over her. She glared at him. “Do you think I’m some fool?”

“To the contrary, my dear.” His voice had become low and sexy. “I think you are smart. You are also a very hot woman. And I think your pantywaist State Department husband doesn’t realize just how hot you are.”

She got out of her chair and walked toward him, her teeth clenched with anger. She stood over him, her arms akimbo. “You are so …
inappropriate
I can’t find words for it. Who do you think I am? You have a dirty mind, mister. And I guess it’s because you’re such a macho guy that you don’t even know the difference between a ‘pantywaist,’ as you call it, and a real man. Which is what
my husband
is, and which
you
obviously are not. So please leave. Neighbor or no neighbor, big
shot or no big shot, I don’t want you here.” As she strode past him toward the door he jumped up from his chair and grabbed her arm as if it were tinder. Pain ran through her body, a rank intruder. She couldn’t move without hurting herself.

“How dare you!” she cried.
“Goddamn
you! This is my house!”

She looked down when she felt the gun barrel in her stomach. A large black pistol. She felt dizzy and knew she would fall. He maneuvered her backward with an iron hand and pushed her awkwardly into her chair. Mouth agape, she breathed in little, short gasps. As if warning her too late of danger, her heart started to palpitate, so hard she was sure that her adversary could see the motion. She lowered her head and willed it to stop. How could she handle all this and a palpitating heart as well! As if the prayer were answered, the irregular, nervous rhythm stopped, then was followed a millisecond later with one familiar, dull pain in her chest. She sighed with relief.

He looked down at her. “Is something wrong with you?” he asked crossly.

She shook her head. In a quiet voice she said, “No, I’m just … surprised.”

“Can I trust you now not to do anything foolish?” he pursued, as if talking to a misbehaving child.

Louise’s voice was low. “What on earth are you doing this for? What do you want from me?”

Watching her, he walked to the end of the room and pulled the draperies across the glass doors that looked into the woods. As he came back to his chair, he gave her a smile and
said, “It’s so damned cold and wet out there. I like the feeling of this place, all closed in, just the two of us.”

She stared at him. She felt as if every synapse were at the ready. Did this bastard want to do something to Janie? If so, he had
her
to take care of first.

“Let’s get down to it, Louise. I didn’t come here to rape you … or Janie … Janie, that’s who you’re afraid for now, isn’t it? Just because I admired her the other night. You’re such a clucking mother. Don’t you know every man at that party wanted to fuck her? She’s a little old to be a virgin—how old is she, fifteen? She cried out, in that basal way young females do, ‘I’m ready to be taken, take me.’”

“You bastard,” Louise whispered.

“And you, baby. You have the same quality; you’re just a little better at covering it up. But I know you’d love it.”

She put her hands over her ears and stared at the now prosaic-looking plants that sat in front of her on the table.

He snarled it: “Louise!”

She snapped her head toward him, frightened again, and a whimper escaped her. Her heart threatened to resume its irregular beat, and again she tried to fool it, to pull a veil of calm over her body. Again the palpitations receded.

“Baby, I’ll lay that aside for a bit,” he said, smiling. His tone, she noticed, had softened. “Maybe later we’ll get better acquainted. Not enough time right now. ‘I’m here on serious business.” His tone turned nasal, matter-of-fact.

“You have the key to the little mystery that turned up in your backyard. A mystery that hasn’t been too pleasant, has it? Newspapers, police. Neighbors always asking you about it. You didn’t expect to be the center of such a, shall we say,
disjointed affair.” He laughed uncontrollably at his joke, putting one hand on his belly as if to control its movement, rocking back and forth a little with enjoyment. The other hand attempted to keep the gun level with her head.

She looked at him, her mouth curled down. Her hands were clutched to the inside of either thigh as if to give her some inner support.

“Lighten up, Louise,” he snapped. “I’m telling you a story. I’m
honoring
you by telling you
my
story.”

Suddenly it fell into place. She realized she had only one weapon. This man was attracted to her. Liked to
teach
her things. Like a Svengali. With an effort she let the sneer melt from her face. She crossed her legs, slowly relaxed her hands, and turned them up in her lap. Her survival could depend on how well she did this.

“Ah, better. You were so angry I’d thought you’d burst. Well, to move along … there’s not much time. We have to get outta here.”

“You’re telling me I know something about the body in the bags?”

“Yes. You know what kind of a car was pulling out of Martha’s Lane the night you were there.”

“No. I just remember the headlights.”

“But if you’d gone to the police—I was afraid you might go first thing this morning. I discredited the information, but I still couldn’t count on you. They could have helped you identify
my
Porsche 911 Carrera II, the one with the distinctive lights.”

“Your car,” she said dully.

“Fortunately, Geraghty was out chasing me this morning.
And because you’re so goddamned polite—one side of you is an uptight Presbyterian, isn’t it? The side opposite the sexy, hot, adventuresome side—you wouldn’t have bothered anyone else with it, would you?” His eyes glittered at her. “You get the hots for Geraghty, Louise? You like stocky, middle-aged detectives with bright blue eyes? Can you imagine being in
bed
with that great big law enforcer crushin’ down on you?”

“How do you know he wasn’t there?” She felt the fool. She had even forgotten that she was going to call the detective.

A smile crept about his lips. “I found out through an exploratory phone call. It was easy. I obviously am more interested in this case than
you
are, although right now it’s
your
ass that’s on the line.” His voice rose. “Reason I’m more interested’s because I’m the one who put the
body
there. Can you believe that, or are you still in denial?”

Louise shuddered a little, fighting to keep it from being obvious to her tormentor. She had known he was the murderer, known since he had pulled out his gun. But the reality of his confession, the certifying of the deed in words, was a shock. She was in the presence of some kind of monster. And she wouldn’t be facing him alone except for her hubris—her refusal to take seriously the warnings of others: her husband, even her neighbor Nora—and her witless capacity to be sidetracked by the delivery of a bunch of houseplants. Now she had no weapons, no phone, and she had even left the door open for the monster to walk through!

She held her body carefully, as if it were one of those delicate blown-glass figures that would break on slightest impact. She brought her breathing under control. She kept her lips relaxed and her gaze steady upon him. She had been a
good actress in high school but had left it totally behind; if ever there was a time to call it back, it was now.

She spoke slowly. “So you’re the killer. And who is it that you killed, for us to gather up in the mulch?”

She realized immediately that this was a misstep on this high, dangerous trail. His face grew hard. He was angry.

“Listen, suburban slut,” he snarled, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if saliva had dropped from his mouth. He leaned forward for emphasis, gun steady. “If your little life-style were more interesting—if you’d order mulch from the garden center like
my
wife would do, instead of mopping up after homeowners, picking up other people’s trash like a fuckin’ homeless person or something … if you hadn’t been so
weird
, woman, I wouldn’t have to be taking all this trouble to remove you from the neighborhood and from my life!”

She flinched involuntarily, then steadied. Her voice was even. “You still haven’t told me who it was you … killed.”

He sat back, slightly deflated. The gun hand rested on his right thigh but was still pointing at her.
“That
was a woman. You would have thought so, too.
That
was a woman. Not some suburban breed like you and the others. Worldly, romantic, smart, very smart.” Like an afterthought that explained all that came before, he said, “Austrian.”

“The woman who’s supposed to be in Hong Kong—the one who lives on Martha’s Lane?”

“Lived
, stupid! She’s dead.” His eyes were wide and staring. “I killed her. But that wasn’t the worst part. It was the getting rid of her … the blood in the laundry basins, from
the saw …” He sat and stared beyond her, as if seeing something she couldn’t see.

“So you put her in those leaf bags. But what did you do with the rest?”

He looked at her admiringly. “Ah, you mean the head and the hands? You’re smart: You realize the importance of that. First I thought I’d weight that package and throw it in the Potomac. Then, I decided to, shall we say, keep it nearer at hand.” He smiled a terrible smile. “That’s the beauty of architect-designed houses.”

Then, incredibly, she saw tears come to his eyes.

“You loved her, didn’t you?” For a minute she forgot to be scared. She was intensely curious about this story. If she were to be kidnapped, or raped, or worse, the very least she could expect was to know why.

“Of course I loved her. Want to know why? Because she was loyal. She never criticized me. She loved me for whatever I was—I know I’m a bit of a shit sometimes—and whatever I did, she liked it.”

“You … knew her for a long time, then.”

“Not long enough. Just spring until fall. Then they put the screws in me.”

“They? The … government?”

As if he’d forgotten where he was, he focused back in on her. “People like your goddamn lily-livered, undercover secret spy husband, in his secret State Department spy cubbyhole.”

The polite charade she and Bill had conducted all these years was shattered. They had been hiding their secret, while the whole world knew anyway, even this horrid man! The
explanations she gave of what Bill did for the government. Bill’s glossed-over accounts to one and all about his long absences and strange habits. Here she was with this gross creature, Peter Hoffman, who knew the truth all along. Was he going to kill her because of her husband’s spying?

“My husband, he has had nothing to do with you.”

“Shit, lady, why do you think we were invited to your house Saturday? He was called into play along with the others. They’re observing Hoffman at another Washington party to see if he has any warts showing. I’ve been to lots of parties lately, I’ll tell you that.” His voice was rising again. “Analysis: no fuckin’ warts showing. So what will we do to him next? Do you know they followed me and Kristina for months, except Kristina, because she was so discreet, kept her identity from the whole bunch of them.”

“Kristina.” Louise said the name slowly, knowing this was his soft spot. She needed to buy time. But now her stomach was churning, as if filled with green acid. She could hear it gurgle; would he hear and discover how frightened she was?