Summer Garden Murder (25 page)

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Authors: Ann Ripley

BOOK: Summer Garden Murder
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“Yes, he had a perfect motive for both murders.”
Their meals had arrived. Charlie picked up his fork, but before he started eating, he looked over at Hilde and said, “It's all about motive. Without motive, there's no crime.” He reached over and took her hand. “Now, I'd consider Sam Rosen on account of he's savvy and the kind of guy who'd catch the irony of burying someone in an onion patch. But he has no more motive than you do. But people like Lee Downing, Phyllis Hoffman and, forgive me, Mort Swanson, are the ones that I have to look into more thoroughly. Use all my resources, the Internet, local contacts, court and police buddies. In all cases, the question is, ‘Where is this person coming from, and where has he been?' ” He laughed. “It has sort of the same cadence, doesn't it, of that famous question about Richard Nixon from the Watergate hearings, which I doubt you know much about: ‘What did he know, and when did he know it?' ”
She pulled her hand away and narrowed her eyes as if she were analyzing his words. “Charlie, you are a very smart man, smarter than I am.” She stopped, and her face colored.
“Huh,” he said, “what were you going to say? I'm smarter than you thought at first?”
“Charlie, let me finish—”
“Naw, that's what you meant, and it's not very flattering. What did you think at first, that I was a dunce?” Then he caught himself. What was he doing getting angry at a gorgeous woman like this, a woman a guy didn't meet but once in a lifetime? Hurriedly, he said, “But since you no longer have Mike Cunningham to admire, hell, I'll be happy to take his place.”
She gave him one of those devastating smiles. “I do admire you, Charlie, more and more each day. You are an excellent reporter and investigator and a fine human being. Promise me you'll tell me everything that you find out. In fact”—she looked at the slim gold watch on her wrist—“Sarah wants me to finish hundreds of those cat figures by a deadline, and that is why I was going to work tonight. But if you want me to do research with you tonight, I could postpone my work and come.”
“Hilde,” he said, reaching over and taking her hand, “it's like asking me, ‘Am I human?' Of course I'd like you to come with me.”
After an hour or so of sitting side by side in his apartment and poring over computer searches with this girl, who knew what might happen?
31
Friday, August 24
 
I
t wasn't until they'd had their second cup of morning coffee that Louise told Bill about the gold ring and her second police interrogation of the day.
“Goddammit,” he said, “no wonder you look shot.” He went to the kitchen and grabbed for the phone to call Lieutenant Dan Trace. Leaning against the kitchen counter as the call was put through, he impatiently tapped on the granite surface, trying to frame words that would adequately express his outrage.
Though it was only eight, the man in charge of the double murder investigation was in his office. When Bill made his case, Trace sounded abashed. “I know how you must feel, Mr. Eldridge.”
“I don't think you do,” replied Bill. “If you'd followed up on information we gave you about an intruder in our house, you'd know that the ring was just more fun and games on the part of that trespasser. And those include a life-threatening trick of setting a twenty-pound tool over the toolshed entrance so that it was bound to fall on the person who opened the toolshed door. It was only luck that it missed hitting Louise in the head. There's no doubt in my mind, and there should be none in yours, Lieutenant Trace, that our trespasser is your killer.” He found himself breathing fast and tried to quiet his voice, even though he felt like yelling at the bastard on the other end of the phone line.
Trace hurriedly added, “We told you that we were hindered in tracking down the technician who handled the toolshed. He'd already worked an overtime weekend on the case, and then he took off for a canoeing vacation with some buddies at the Boundary Waters. Even his wife doesn't have a cell phone number for him. The guy claimed he needed to get ‘all the way away.' ”
Bill groaned with disgust. “Isn't that nice for him. Meanwhile, the one who's suffered for this is my wife. She's mistrusted and disbelieved by your local detective, George Morton, who acts at every moment as if she's going to be summarily arrested for murder.”
Lieutenant Trace cleared his throat in the background. “In view of all this, Mr. Eldridge, there's no deadline hanging over Mrs. Eldridge's head. But don't forget, there's still a lot of evidence against her.”
“Find the answer to the trespasser in our house and you'll find your murderer,” snapped Bill. “Quit misdirecting your efforts, Lieutenant. I'm about ready to file charges against the Sheriff's Department.”
“Uh, I wouldn't do that, Mr. Eldridge,” said the lieutenant. “Not until we get this sorted out.”
“As far as I'm concerned, you don't have much time left,” warned Bill, and hung up. It was an empty kind of threat. What could he do to get the police off his wife's back? But it made him feel a little better.
 
 
After his angry conversation with Lieutenant Trace, Bill had a hard time leaving for work. But the pressures there were enormous.
Normally when he left for the office, Louise was ready and eager to get into her own world and her own work. Today, she shuffled about the house in her gown and robe, her hair messy, her face unwashed. And why not? She had nowhere to go and nothing to look forward to except to peek at evidence technicians who might come around and look at the area where the second body had been buried or perhaps plead with her for a second search of the house.
“Bill, take care.” Her voice sounded hollow.
He turned, his brow knit with worry lines. “You're the one who has to be careful, Louise. Remember what you promised. You won't put yourself in danger, and you'll try to stay in the company of friends. Invite Nora over. Or Mary.”
“I will.” When he left, the absolute quiet of the house pressed on her. Looking out the tall windows into the woods, she could see only gray. A storm was on the way. She went to the living room couch and picked up the morning paper, experiencing the final straw—the tremble had returned to her hands.
She plopped unceremoniously onto the couch and threw the paper aside. No matter what she'd told Bill, she had to get out of this house. She would go back to the yoga studio and sign up for more classes. Then she'd drive to WTBA-TV and barge her way into the studio if necessary. There, surely, she would be among friends. Her producer just couldn't kiss her off this way, not without Louise putting up a fight. At the very least, even if her cohost John Bachelder was there busily usurping her job, she could provide, as Marty so tactfully put it, “input” on those upcoming garden shows.
It took a half hour to dress up and put enough makeup on her gaunt face for someone to guess she was a syndicated TV host. She grabbed the numerous gardening notes that she'd been collecting for weeks and hurried off to the studio.
Marty Corbin tolerated her for an hour. Then her buff, dark-haired producer, the picture of good health himself, told her, “Go home, Lou. You've come back too soon. I told you that John would handle the next two programs. And when you do come back, I hope to see that you've gained a few pounds.” A big, friendly, indicting smile. “You look scrawny. We know the camera adds pounds, but not that many.”
She'd driven home and climbed into bed for a long nap.
 
 
The phone awoke her at four. “Honey,” said Bill, “I don't know how I can get out of this late meeting. Damn but I'm frustrated!”
“Bill, take it easy. What's so new about your working late?”
“I feel as if I'm letting you down.”
“It's all right, I know how busy you are. They want you to go overseas right away, don't they?”
“Yes, but I'm resisting. It's bad enough that I can't be with you after what's happened. I'd like to be there with you.”
“Don't worry. I'll phone Nora, and she'll either come over here, or else I'll go to her place.”
“That makes me feel better. And just so you won't feel so hopeless about all this, I have a little project for you... .”
 
 
Ron Radebaugh strolled along the edge of the patio, inspecting Louise's plants, as she walked by his side to answer questions. “Now why is this yellow peony in bloom in late August instead of May?” he asked her. At the patio table, Mary Mougey was setting out five place settings, while her husband, Richard, poured wine. In Louise's kitchen, Nora was making a salad. From a far distance they could hear thunder roll.
“It's a tree peony,” she told Ron. “It's the kind that reblooms in late summer.”
He nodded his approval and moved on to the next group of plants, then turned to her again. “And what's this?”
“
Cimicifuga purpurea
. Nicknamed ‘snakeroot.' Do you like it? I just divided it and will happily give you a clump.”
“Nora and I would love a clump.” He stole a look at her. “Are you also dividing those dynamite daylilies?” he asked, pointing to an array of rose-colored flowers with deep maroon throats.
“Ron, I'll happily give you some of those, too.”
He grinned down at her. “I don't come to visit your garden often enough.” Looking into this gray-haired man's rugged face and gentle brown eyes, Louise wondered why Nora had ever been tempted to stray from their happy home.
Just then Nora came out on the patio with a big black bowl. “Here's the salad. Time to eat!”
Her neighbors, laden with carryout, had made their friendly invasion of Louise's place as soon as they discovered that Bill was delayed at the office and she was alone. She was hardly dressed for company. Because she'd needed solace after her mortifying visit to the TV station, she had changed into her oldest gardening clothes. In these clothes, she could be her real self, just a woman who loved family and gardening.
Richard took a ceremonial taste of the white wine in his glass, closed his eyes and smiled. “Friends, I think you'll like this one from our cellar. A nice little 2002 Greco di Tufo, from the Campagna region.” Cellar was a bit of a stretch, thought Louise, since like many Sylvan Valley residents, Richard and Mary's house was on a concrete slab. The modest wine cellar was part of a kitchen addition on the first floor.
“Pretty high-class wine to accompany Chinese carryout,” said Ron, serving himself some moo shu pork from among the white cartons on the table.
Another thunder roll sounded, this one closer. “Are you sure we don't want to move inside?” Louise asked the others, looking up at the roiling clouds forming above the tall trees. “The storm's coming.”
“We always prefer sitting amidst your flowers,” said Mary. “Let's not move in until we have to.”
As they ate dinner, they talked about other things, about the Radebaugh's planned vacation and Richard's second thoughts about quitting his job. It was not until they were finished that Ron asked, “Anything new, Louise, from the police? I hear they were poring over your property again today.”
Nora tossed her head in what seemed like a futile gesture. “Let's not talk about murders this evening. I find it very debilitating.”
Mary Mougey laughed. “My dear, what else is there?”
“Yes,” said Richard, nodding his long face. “It's all the neighborhood will be able to think about until they take that yellow police tape down. Later, maybe we can have a party to celebrate the fact that a killer is no longer loose in the neighborhood.” He slyly added, “Though our numbers will be a bit down, now that Cunningham's among the deceased—”
His wife put a small rebuking hand on his arm. “Richard.”
Nora said, “Murder and mayhem isn't ‘all there is.' ” She held up a small volume she'd brought with her. Her gray eyes widened hopefully. “I could read you a poem. This is Billy Collins's latest.” The others looked at her without responding, and their poet friend's shoulders slumped in discouragement. “He once was poet laureate.”
“Sure, darling, do read us one,” said Ron, reaching over and caressing his wife's arm.
Nora shook her head. “No, though the poems are charming and thought-provoking.” She laid the book on the table. “I'll leave it here for Louise to enjoy later. I think maybe it's better for us to talk about what's happened.”
Louise looked gratefully at her friend. “I could use your help. You've heard about how the police found Mike Cunningham's ring in our house. I could be arrested any time now.”
Ron quietly asked, “Since the ring was in your house, why wouldn't they suspect Bill just as well as you?”
“Because I'm already a suspect in Peter's murder, since they found my bloody sweatshirt in his grave. Because I am supposed to have a motive. And because I allegedly had the opportunity to kill both of these men.”
“Ridiculous!” cried Mary.
“Bill knows I'm feeling desperate,” continued Louise, “so he suggested that I write down everything I can remember about that party on August fourth, and anything that happened afterward. He thinks I might recall something important.”
“For one thing, Peter dreamed up a phony conversation with you that night,” said Mary, recounting it almost sentence by sentence. “And finally he said, ‘Of course, Louise, I'd love to talk to you ...' He was just acting.”
“What amazed me,” said Ron, “was that the police didn't slap the guy in jail for going over to your house and practically assaulting you.”
Louise said, “That's because George Morton believed his story. And he had corroborating witnesses: Sam Rosen, Greg Archer and even Mort Swanson. Hoffman was expert at twisting reality.”
“It kept him from landing in jail for assault,” said Ron.
“He said something extraordinary to Hilde Brunner that night, too,” said Mary. “I remember it. He said”—Mary's voice now became low and intimate—“ ‘My dear girl, you are like a dream.' ”
The others laughed at her imitation of a lothario. Louise recalled that remark, too, for though she was ashamed of it now, she'd wished her husband said things like that to her.
Nora said, “It was rather banal, don't you think?”
Richard laughed. “Men dream up those remarks and then practice them in front of the mirror before they deliver them.”
“I also recall he likened her to a Botticelli,” said Nora. “Or was it Titian?”
Mary, who was fanning herself now, said, “It's because Hilde is a dream with that rosy hair and coloring and lovely figure. Peter was always bowled over by every pretty woman who crossed his path.”
Louise said, “The way he said it sounded odd.”
“I agree, Louise,” said Mary, “but I'm really impatient with our police. Why should we have to sit here and deconstruct everything said at a neighborhood party to try to save the reputation and future of an honest woman like you? Surely with all their manpower, they can find the person who did these ghastly things. There must have been a dozen police milling around your yard yesterday and today.”

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