Summer Garden Murder (12 page)
Read Summer Garden Murder Online
Authors: Ann Ripley
Louise said, “Let's go back to this Lee Downing. Since we'd barely met him before we left on our vacation, I have no idea what he's like.”
Nora nodded. “He's another of those men with a wandering eye. I'm sure he has a wife back in west Texas where he came from. But since he arrived on Mike Cunningham's doorstep a month ago, he and Mike have been acting as if they are Washington's most eligible bachelors.”
“What do they do?”
“They've had people over to Mike's house several times, which is perfectly fine, of course, but the female guests are a dead giveawayâyoung-looking, over-painted and overdressed.”
Mary Mougey made a comical wry face. “Ladies of the night, in Sylvan Valley? It adds a new tone to the neighborhood.”
“How come I missed all of this?” said Louise. She couldn't imagine Nora peeking out her front window. She was too caught up in her inner world, writing poetry or musing over her difficult marriage, to snoop upon others.
Nora smiled. “You missed it because your living room faces the woods. I missed it too, but Ron tends to be outside gardening in the early evening. He's seen them arriving in Downing's car. I try to avoid the two of them, for as you two dear friends know, I have my own domestic issues.”
“How are you and Ron doing, Nora?” asked Louise. “Um, are you going to that awareness conference in California?”
“Actually, Ron and I are doing much better. Things improved three weeks ago, the night of the party that Peter crashed. I so admired the way that my Ron handled that intrusion.” A radiant smile passed over her face, and Louise saw again how beautiful her troubled poet friend was. “I told him that night how I admired him. And it was as if a burden fell off our shoulders. We were able to ... come together like new lovers.”
The three women fell silent in the cool house, and Louise suspected they were all thinking about new love. Her friend Mary, she noticed, had sorrowful lines on both sides of her mouth, despite the expert application of makeup and creams. No wonder: Mary and Richard's lovemaking probably was on hold because of his deep depression.
But it was no better for her and Bill. Things hadn't been quite the same in the bedroom since the night that the loathsome Peter Hoffman had invaded their home. Louise had to admit that, since then, she had been a distracted and disengaged lover. Unlike Nora, who sometimes told her two friends more than they wanted to hear, neither Louise nor Mary was about to share any of these marital woes.
Louise gave a little laugh, and her friends looked at her as if grateful for the distraction. “Not to change the subject, but it's been two hellish days since Peter Hoffman turned up in my garden. I really need exercise if I'm to stand the least chance for new love. Anyone for a swim at the club?”
16
M
artha was sprawled on one end of the living room couch. “I sure do miss Jim.”
artha was sprawled on one end of the living room couch. “I sure do miss Jim.”
Janie, propped against pillows at the other end of the couch, put down her book and flipped her long blond hair back from her face. In Martha's opinion, she should have left the hair where it was, for her uncovered face held an unpleasant pout. “What do you think? I miss Chris just as much.”
Martha slanted a glance at her younger sister. “Sorry. I didn't mean to say you didn't. Bet you can't wait till he comes home from Baltimore. Talked to him in awhile?”
“ No.”
Martha laughed. “Why don't you phone him and see if he's cheating on you?”
Janie roused herself from the couch. “Not a bad idea. What're you doing tonight?”
“I need to walk a little after all that shopping we did today.” Shopping for hours, and finding nothing, not a wedding suit or a maid of honor dress that the two could agree upon or that wasn't outrageously overpriced. Martha sauntered across the living room and eased out the front door, leaving Janie safely behind.
She'd kept an eye on the neighborhood for the past hour by little walks in the yard and frequent glances out her bedroom window. The Kendricks had departed in dressy clothes for what probably was a dinner party. Sam Rosen and his cute friend Greg Archer had also left. Nora and Ron Radebaugh and Richard and Mary Mougey were spending a quiet evening at their respective homes, as were her own parents.
Unaccounted for were Mike Cunningham and his house guest, Lee Downing. Those were the two people in whom Martha was interested. She was determined to get to know them, but she didn't want her younger sister tagging along. From the stories Nora Radebaugh had told her, Cunningham and Downing were acting like overaged lothariosânot the kind of men to whom the annoyingly attractive Janie should be exposed. In fact, Nora had told her that she was sure Downing was married and just playing the role of a single man during his stay in Washington.
Martha was wearing the skimpiest of clothes, short shorts and T-shirt she'd carefully preserved from her days in junior high school, and well-worn running shoes. People who saw her would guess she was out for an early evening jog in the sultry evening air. She decided to position herself in the Mougeys' plot of woods, which would make it logical to assume she'd just come in from a constitutional on Rebecca Road, a favorite route for joggers.
She hoped the Mougeys wouldn't spot her skulking in their woods. Fortunately, there was a sweet gum stump to sit on. After a few minutes' wait, she saw car lights swing into the cul-de-sac. It was Mike Cunningham's green Jaguar.
By the time he'd maneuvered into his driveway, Martha had jauntily run up the curved sidewalk and right by the front of his house, which sported a new evergreen tree hedge. He stopped the car. His car window slid down, and he called, “Who's that? Come back!” Just about what she'd expected of him when a girl in tight shorts and T-shirt with a really good body bounced by.
She pirouetted, ran back and leaned down to smile at him. Since she'd only met him on the fly two days ago, this was the first good look she'd taken of the man.
She had to admit Cunningham was kind of cute, but in a few years he'd have jowls. And what was with that hair? Did he think he was a game-show host?
She shoved a hand in the car. “Hi. I'm Martha Eldridge, Bill and Louise's daughter from Chicago. I met you when we got home from the beach Thursday night.”
“Great to see you again,” said Cunningham. “You're lookin' good.”
She straightened and looked at his house through the gathering gloom. “So you bought this place. How do you like living in the woods in this naughty liberal neighborhood?”
“C'mon now,” he said in a scoffing voice, “those old stories about wife-swapping ... I bet they aren't even true.”
“Now don't spoil the image of Sylvan Valley,” she said, laughing. “Modern houses plunked in the middle of all of this northern Virginia tradition ...”
“I'm adding a little tradition to my modern house. I'm having a fountain built in the front yard. It's going to have one of those Aphrodite statues holding a pitcher of water.”
Martha smiled. “That should be interesting. There's a dearth of garden statues in Sylvan Valley. No metal bird statues or concrete squirrels or gnomes, no statues of Mary or pagan goddesses.” She grinned at him. “What's the next step? Classical columns for the front porch?”
He gave her a long look. She could tell by his shifting expression that he'd decided she was being humorous and not putting him down. “You are your mother's daughter, aren't you?”
Martha shrugged. “Maybe. Is that a good thing?”
“Not always, but, hey, I'm not going to carp. So the neighbors might not like my statue, but I'm not that crazy about pure modern. It's meaningless.”
“You think so?” asked Martha. “My guess is that back in the fifties, the people who built a house in Sylvan Valley believed in something, and their beliefs were reflected in the architecture of their homes.”
Cunningham cocked his head at her. “You sound like some kind of urban historian.”
Martha leaned closer to him. “I am. Urban studies is my specialty at Northwestern. I'm getting a combined degree thereâB.A. and master's.”
“Oh. We'll have to get together and talk sometime. Actually, this house is just for convenience, a place to sleep when I'm in town. The place I really call home is out on the bayâa big old place on the water. And if you really want to know, the thing I'm doing next on this house is to install a security system, because though you think this is a liberal neighborhood, liberal doesn't equal safe.” He looked in his rearview mirror. “But wait, now. Yeah, here comes my ... friend. I've got to get going. Do you know Hilde Brunner? She's in the neighborhood too.” He laughed. “She's more your age than mine, but I'm hoping that doesn't matter.”
Approaching them was a figure that Martha couldn't see at first. She came closer to the car. She made out through the gathering darkness a tall, striking young woman with long hair and a brief sleeveless summer dress with complicated diagonal tucks. It was a kind of dress one didn't see often in Washingtonâor Chicago, for that matter. So this was Hilde. And what, Martha wondered, was she doing here?
Mike answered that. “Hilde,” he greeted her, and reached a hand out and grasped hers. “Miss Brunner's come over this evening to visit me and see some of my photos,” he explained to Martha. “You could join us if you like. I'm an amateur photographer. But first, do you two know each other?”
After they were introduced, Cunningham excused himself to put his car in the garage. As he did so, a Lincoln town car pulled up, scraping its tires against the curved curb of Dogwood Court. Martha thought she heard swearwords from the confines of the closed vehicle. But by the time the man at the wheel had opened his car door, the nearby streetlight revealed a big smiling face topped by a handsome head of silver hair. This had to be Lee Downing, Cunningham's house guest and the man who'd bought Hoffman's company. The town car was probably a rental.
Downing jumped out, his hands full of what looked like records. Muscular and rather short, he approached the group, greeted Cunningham and Hilde, and looked up at Martha admiringly with his bright blue eyes. “A fella needs an introduction,” he said. Cunningham provided it.
Again, Martha recited a bit of her background. “I've been living away ever since the family moved here. College, summer internships in a lot of places, a semester abroadâ”
“Oh, and where did you study?” asked Hilde.
“In Rome, primarily,” lied Martha. “But being away so much means I'm not acquainted with many people around here. I love tennis, but I haven't found a foursome yet. Now that we know each other, I have an idea. Do any of you play?”
Everyone played. And so they made a date for a doubles game at eleven the next morning, at the Sylvan Valley Swim and Tennis Club.
The club was one of the nice features of the neighborhood, Martha thought, though she'd not had much chance to use it except for a few visits with Janie. It wasn't fancy. Some of the tennis courts showed signs of cracking. But it would do. Nothing like a vigorous tennis game in the Washington heat, followed by a charming little basket lunch complete with wine that she intended to bring with her. People might reveal secrets they might otherwise keep.
As Martha was about to say good night to the three of them, she saw Janie across the cul-de-sac, emerging from the front garden gate. Hurriedly, she said, “See you tomorrow, then,” and jogged over to meet her younger sister before Janie walked into the circle of light cast by streetlight.
“What's going on here?” said Janie.
“I was saying good-bye.” She reached out and put an arm around Janie's slim shoulders and steered her toward their house. “Janie,” she said quietly, “I'm going to play tennis with Mike Cunningham and Lee Downing and Hilde Brunner tomorrow morning.”
Janie shook off her sister's arm. “Why are you hustling me away? Why didn't you let me meet Mr. Downing and Hilde? I don't even know those two.”
“Oh, you don't want to have anything to do with Cunningham or Downing, believe me. The more I hear about them, the worse it gets.”
“You know best about everything, don't you, Martha?”
“Well, not everything. But about this, yes. You know how middle-aged lechers lech after you, Janieâyou have to keep your distance.”
Janie expelled an exasperated “Oh! What a sister you are. You act just like Ma, as if I am some baby who has to be watched every minute and protected from all things that you guys think are harmful. Where do you think I'm going to live, in a fairy kingdom by the sea, or in the real world?”
“Now, Janie, don't get mad.”
“Don't call me Janie, damnit. My name is Jane.”
“All right, Jane. Anyway, what do you want? Only four can play tennis at a time. You can meet those people the next time there's a chance.”
“The trouble with you, Martha, is that you have a savior complex. âMessianic,' I think they call it. I guess you both are like thatâ”
“You mean me and Jim?”
“Yeah,” said Janie. “You're into saving the world and all the people in it; I bet you'll have a passel of messianic little brats. But let me ask you: have you ever read
At Play in the Fields of the Lord
?
At Play in the Fields of the Lord
?
“Sure. Peter Matthiessen.”
“Just remember the moral of the story. Some people don't think they have to be saved.”
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