Summer Garden Murder (19 page)

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Authors: Ann Ripley

BOOK: Summer Garden Murder
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Janie ran like the wind, taking every curve in the irregular path with knowledge and grace. Now she could hear the footsteps behind her and, to her horror, realized they were striking the dirt path more quickly than hers! She had to get away, for if someone attacked her here in this big woods, no one would find her until the morning. There was a side path ahead, not the surest route to her house, but perhaps not as well-known to her pursuer.
Chancing another look behind her, she could barely distinguish a figure in dark clothes. Then came the turn onto the side path, and she took it fast, narrowly avoiding a root sticking up from the raw dirt. The person followed, and Janie heard a cry as her assailant stumbled on the obstacle and crashed into the bushes at the side of the path.
Giving a wordless prayer of thanks, Janie reached the road and crossed through the patch of woods that was part of their back neighbors' property. To get home, she had to barge through the plantings near their house. She thanked her lucky stars that she could distinguish the roses, with which she didn't want to tangle. Soon she was almost home free, running through the woods in back of her house, rounding the corner and slipping by the bamboo garden until she'd reached the front of the house and her bedroom window. Though breathless, she dared not rest. She gathered up a stump that lay nearby as part of the forest detritus, set it beneath her window and climbed up. Never had her neat blue bedroom been so welcoming.
With shaking hands, she replaced the screen in the window, then shut the window and locked it. For long minutes, she stood in the dark, breathing heavily and staring out the glass pane, waiting for someone to come around the house. No one came. Finally, Janie went into the bathroom and got herself a glass of water. Returning to her bedroom, she slipped under the sheet, groaned once, and fell into an exhausted sleep.
24
Tuesday, August 21
 
G
eorge Morton stood in the doorway of Mike Geraghty's office. Mike noticed the specks of glazed sugar that clung to one side of his mouth, a leftover from a stop at the Krispy Kreme doughnut shop a block up Route One. Mike, who was on the South Beach diet at the behest of his heart doctor, avoided the place these days, but looked enviously at his colleague. How well he could remember the gratifying combination of a good cup of coffee and hot, fresh, greasy, sweet doughnuts.
“Did the lieutenant call while I was gone?” asked Morton.
Mike leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, with big news. The Securities and Exchange Commission is starting a probe of Lee Downing.”
“Oh, is that your big news?” Morton asked. “Isn't he the guy we interviewed and then let make a trip to New York? Who gave the lieutenant the tip, Bill Eldridge?”
Mike was determined to keep his temper with this difficult fellow officer, once his subordinate but now the one in charge of the portion of the Hoffman murder investigation handled by the Mount Vernon substation.
“As a matter of fact, it was Bill Eldridge who found out about this and passed it on to Dan Trace. The investigation's still at the private stage, apparently, but about to become public information. This Lee Downing's quite an operator. Seems he's a master at industrial spying.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Morton.
“That's according to Bill Eldridge, but Dan is confirming it. The charge is that Downing has paid big money to spies who've come in and stolen other company's weapons secrets. He took the ideas and used them himself. Made big profits, apparently millions, off an initial investment of, say, three hundred thousand to some clever industrial thief.”
“So. Now let's see where we're at,” said Detective Morton, shuffling uncomfortably, as if he wished that he were sitting and Mike were standing. “Downing had a pretty straight deal with Hoffman to buy Hoffman Arms—”
“We haven't all the details of that yet. They still need to sit down and talk to Downing again. Seems he's been a little hard to schedule in. That happens tomorrow.”
“Just assume the Hoffman Arms sale was a straight deal. What would Downing's motive be to kill the guy whose company he'd just taken over?”
When Mike Geraghty leaned farther back in his chair, it announced it had reached its outer limits by squeaking in protest. He thought for a long moment. “Because I've heard somethin' that makes me think it wasn't a straight deal.”
“What's that?”
Geraghty had received that phone call from Martha Eldridge yesterday regarding the angry exchanges at the tennis game between Cunningham and Downing. He'd passed the information on to Dan Trace, but he had a feeling that if he told this to Morton, George would pooh-pooh it just because it came from the Eldridges. So he phrased it differently. “Everything I know about Peter Hoffman leads me to believe he could have hoodwinked Lee Downing, somehow shortchanged him. That would be a plenty good enough reason to murder the guy.”
“Why couldn't Downing just renege on the deal if it wasn't to his liking?”
Ignoring the squeaks, Geraghty leaned back farther and closed his eyes. “What if Hoffman had found out Downing was facing a federal investigation? Then if he stiffed him in a sales deal, Downing might be reluctant to make a fuss.”
Morton shook his head. “You mean two crooked guys screwing each other?”
Mike nodded. “Yeah. Something's becoming clear to me. Hoffman had a reason for crashing that party and setting Louise Eldridge up. You know why?”
“No, why?” said Morton.
“Say that Hoffman was swindling Lee Downing. He'd figure the only one that might snoop into his shady business affairs would be Louise Eldridge. That's why he made a preemptive strike, to frighten her away.”
Morton's lip faintly curled down. “You sure do shine the best light on that woman. Anything else? They got details on Hoffman's will yet?”
“They're s'posed to have, pretty soon. In the meantime, we're s'posed to, quote, ‘hold down the home front.' ”
“Yeah,” said Morton, his sneer deepening, “we know what that means—controlling the busy Mrs. Louise Eldridge. You gotta call her, Mike. She's gone over the line again.”
“Call her and tell her what?”
“To stay home and stop nosing around.” Morton's big face, Mike noticed, colored as soon as the subject of Louise Eldridge was brought up. He'd never been able to understand the other detective's antipathy for Louise. On the other hand, Louise could be difficult.
Morton said, “I hear that yesterday, besides whatever else she did, she went and talked to Mort Swanson and, more importantly, Michael Cunningham.”
“Two people of interest.”
“Yeah. Go figure. I told her to stay out of this. You've gotta remember, Mike, that despite how you might feel about Mrs. Eldridge, she's our best prospect. We've got more evidence on her than we get in most murder cases: a sighting of a perp wearing her hat, the victim's blood on her clothes, the victim's blood on the weapon, her prints on the tarp—”
“Did you ever think that it could be a frame?”
Morton withheld a sneer. “Did you ever think she left stuff around because she didn't think we'd ever link the crime to her? Hell, we should have her in jail right now.”
Mike Geraghty shook his head. “Lieutenant Trace doesn't want to do that yet, George. It could really embarrass us. Let's let him get more information on Hoffman's business deals and the will. Meantime, I'll give Louise a phone call. She probably didn't do any harm.”
Morton shuffled impatiently. “How are we sure of that? She might have put either one of those guys on guard so that we'll never get useful information out of 'em.”
“Like I say,” said Mike, “I'll call and tell her to cool it.”
Morton turned from the door and wheeled back again for a final shot. “Just remind that woman that it's only because of our good natures that she isn't already in jail on suspicion of murder.”
When Morton left for good, Geraghty got up and closed his office door. In the old days, when he used to drink and smoke, he might have pulled a hidden flask from underneath papers in his bottom drawer. Or at least lit up a cigarette. Or gone out for doughnuts and coffee. He swung his big arms around in a circle to give them a little exercise, then went down the hall and drew himself a cup of stale black coffee. Once he'd drunk that, he went back to his desk to face calling Louise, a woman who was already pissed at him, and for good reason.
 
 
Mike Geraghty spent more than an hour chewing out Louise for straying off the plantation. Not that she didn't expect it. From the moment yesterday that she headed her car north toward the District of Columbia, she knew she might get in trouble with the police.
After the initial embarrassment faded, she found herself filled with the same restless energy that had driven her yesterday. Only now she'd been absolutely forbidden to do more investigating. She paced up and down the living room until she'd calmed down. She realized that her detecting efforts had yielded nothing. All they did was worry her family and outrage the police. The only thing left to do was to read a book.
She slumped down onto the living room couch and opened her novel. It was hard to get into at first, and she had to reread the first few pages. But then something clicked, and soon she was immersed in T. Coraghessan Boyle's writing, forgetting about the Hoffman murder and Geraghty's threat that she was about an inch from being arrested.
When she heard a ringing, she turned her body a little and wrestled the cell phone out of her pants pocket. It was Charlie Hurd.
“Louise, good news!”
“I could use some good news, Charlie. What's up?”
“I'm getting into this murder now. I just wanted you to know.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said, wishing the reporter would hang up so she could get back to her book.
“You don't sound too curious. But I've got some lines out on Lee Downing. He's a very big fish in the military-industrial complex, y'know. And there's something seriously wrong about him. I can tell when a guy sounds really crooked. And
he's
really crooked.”
“You don't say so.” Louise's detective antenna, which had relaxed, was now humming again. She lay her book down in her lap.
“Mind you, this is just my instinct talkin'. Have you met Downing? He's hangin' out in your neighborhood. I haven't caught up with him yet.”
“I only met him once, Charlie. He's been staying at Cunningham's place across the cul-de-sac. Martha's played tennis with him. Why don't you talk to her? She might know more about him than most people around here.”
“Martha. You don't say. Uh, who else played tennis with him?”
“I believe it was Hilde and Mike Cunningham.”
“Son of a gun. Hilde, huh? Well, I'll ask her what she thought of him. Hell, either Downing or Cunningham could be the killer.”
“I know that.”
“I don't like the idea that she's socializing with them.”
“Who, Martha?”
“No, Hilde. But I don't think Martha should hang with him either, and I'll tell her.”
Louise smiled. No one had ever been able to tell Martha who to hang with. Just let Charlie try.
“Listen, I can tell you're bored.”
“No, I'm not bored at all. I'm so glad you're getting into this.”
“What're ya doing right now?”
“Reading a really great book, or rather, trying to. My heart wasn't really in it, but you know how good writing comes out and grabs you.”
“You can't get into it because you're a feisty broad who doesn't like to be caught in a police trap like this. I think it's crazy of them to suspect you of a murder.”
“So do I. And it's making me jumpy. It's almost as if Peter Hoffman has put a hex on me. I get spooked by things. Altogether, Charlie, life sucks.”
“Whoa, Louise, I didn't think you used that kind of language.”
“I don't. I picked it up from you. Well, at least I have my book for comfort.”
His sigh came across loud and clear. “Wish I had time for things like that. I'll ring you back as soon as I know more, okay? And meantime, I'll debrief Hilde on that tennis game I never heard about.”
 
 
Martha and Janie had just arrived in the sleek, cool world of St. James clothes, an enclave on the third floor of Saks Fifth Avenue that was totally devoted to high fashion. Most of the clothes were hidden behind walls, except for a silk cream-colored suit hanging in splendid isolation on a rack. She turned over the price tag and winced. Then she noticed Janie frowning at her. This gave Martha pause, for they'd been getting on well this morning, better than for days, and Martha didn't want to ruin a good thing.
Janie murmured, “First things first, Martha dear. We have to figure out what we're going to say to Mrs. Hoffman if we run into her.”
“How about telling her, ‘I'm getting married and I need an outfit.' ”
“Just like that, huh?” said Janie. “I don't think so.” Looking deceptively girlish in her wide-skirted lawn dress with blue sash, Janie proceeded to take charge. She strolled across the room as elegantly as a queen and approached a woman who appeared behind a counter. The woman was about forty, with a fashionable but tangled mass of blond hair. Janie said, “Excuse me. We're looking for Phyllis Hoffman.”
Through mascara-laden eyelashes and lens-enhanced blue eyes, the saleswoman spoke with a Russian accent. Her tone was skeptical. “You are customers of hers?”
Janie gave a little shake of her head.
“Friends?” When Janie nodded assent, she revealed, “You have missed her by seconds. She just left the floor to go to lunch. She won't be back, I'm afraid, for an hour or more.”
Martha dashed up beside her sister and said, “Thanks so much,” grabbed Janie and hurried her out of the big room and onto the down escalator. “C'mon, we can catch her.”
Janie groaned and made a face. “There goes our chance to look at some good clothes and get a little advice. Don't tell me we're going to tail her!”
Martha shrugged and said, “Those clothes are way too expensive for me. I'd never buy them. And why not tail her? That's part of why we're here. Anyway, look.”
Having scrambled down the last few escalator steps, they had a view of the nearby exit, where a small blond woman stood.

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