The Perennial Killer: A Gardening Mystery

by Ann Ripley

  “You can try to stay out of the way, but if you find yourself deep into it, you have to use all your wits. It becomes a question of who survives the final battle.”

  Ann shuddered. “Good grief, Louise, that sounds awful! A final battle?”

  “Believe me, Ann, nothing like that’s going to happen. I’m talking about a couple of situations that got out of hand. What happened then could never happen again.”

  As they left the Rattlesnake Grill, she and Ann made arrangements to go to the wake together. Ann would pick Louise up; that way, the land officer would have a chance to talk to the Porter brothers and do a little persuading. And Louise might be able to get in a private word with Frank Porter about using the ranch for location shooting.

  Ann said, “Maybe we can get Pete Fitzsimmons to drive with us tonight. You know, just to have a little moral support…”

  “You mean, if we have a man around we’ll be safer?” twitted Louise.

  The other woman smiled. “Something like that. It’s probably fallout from our luncheon conversation about final battles, and about Josef Reingold chasing you. I’ve never been exposed to the treacherous side of the man. I see him only in public settings.”

  “It’s true Pete seems safe. He’s nice and big, and he carries a shotgun in his truck. But something bothers me.” She looked at Ann, who was brushing her blond hair back in a gesture that reminded Louise of her teenage daughter Janie. She didn’t want to disillusion this woman, any more than she would have wanted to disillusion her young daughter.

  Yet she had to go ahead now, or Ann would wonder what she was concealing. “It was strange that Pete had an empty gun rack the day we went up and found Jimmy Porter’s body.”

  “Oh, not strange,” Ann replied. She didn’t even recognize the suspicion in Louise’s remark, so trusting was she of the beguiling Pete Fitzsimmons. “He probably had it home cleaning it—he cleans it all the time. He’s an equipment freak who keeps stuff in tip-top condition. So he’s always prepared if he needs to use it.”

  Chapter 21

  LOUISE KNEW WHAT SHE WAS doing was a bit foolish, but she was sure there would be plenty of people at the Justice Center, even on a Saturday. She came to see Earl Tatum, for he now seemed as central to the Porter murders as Mark Payne, Josef Rein-gold, Eddie Porter—or her buddy, Pete. If he asked her why she had come to see him, however, Louise intended to say she was concerned about the safety of Frank Porter—which she was.

  Once at the Justice Center, she found she had guessed wrong about one thing. The place was deserted. She felt a moment of panic as she saw the sheriff’s official white car in the parking lot near the entrance, its engine running. Then the man himself trotted out the double doors toward her. It was now too late to run away without looking foolish.

  “Miz Eldridge,” he said in a booming voice. He was out of uniform today, wearing jeans and an expensive-looking plaid shirt instead. And a big cowboy hat in black—a good choice for the man, she thought. The usual big dark sunglasses, so no one could read his soul through his eyes. Provided that he had one.

  “Hi, Sheriff Tatum. I just dropped by…” She didn’t like the look of him today and wished she’d left when she had the chance. “But I see you’re leaving, so I’ll go on my way.”

  His chin was elevated, as if he wanted to look down on the world more than even his six foot-two frame allowed. Or was this some vain mannerism that he hoped stretched the wrinkles out of his mid-sixties neck and made him more attractive to the opposite sex?

  “No way, Miz Eldridge, I won’t let ya go. Hop in, and whatever you want to say to me, you can say on the way ta Boulder Falls. Rescue’s goin’ on there and I gotta check it out.”

  She looked him over from behind her own dark shades. He was five inches taller than she, outweighed her by fifty pounds, and was not in top physical condition because he probably didn’t exercise. The red veins in his face suggested he was a drinker. So, was she safe with this man? Not completely. But curiosity won the day.

  “Okay, Sheriff.” As she went to the passenger side of the vehicle, she again noted the scratches on the front fender area. What irony if Tatum himself had engineered these murders, bumping poor Sally Porter into the great beyond with his sheriff’s cruiser. She settled herself in the seat and vainly tried to pull down the skirt of her rather short summer dress, uneasy now. Curiosity did kill the cat.…

  “Now, fasten your seat belt,” he admonished her, casting a free glance at her long legs. As they drove speedily up Boulder Canyon, they passed clusters of funky old green-and brown-painted houses, lodges, and restaurants that clung to the canyon edges close to town. Soon there were only granite cliffs, bereft of humans. She, and Tatum, alone on a canyon road, but with lots of tourist travelers. If all else failed, she could throw herself out of the car door into the path of some unsuspecting Texan.

  He seemed amused at the concern in her face. “Relax, ma’am. All we’re doin’ is talkin’, and you’re the one that came to me. I got somethin’ to say t’you, too. But first, look at those granite walls.” The sheriff was feeling chatty. “Aren’t they somethin’? I been travelin’ up this canyon since I was a kid, and I always thought those rocks was like old men makin’ faces at me. Didja know I was born in Boulder? Yep, I’m one of the natives.”

  Her heart lifted. This was the very opportunity she had sought, to get his story right from his own lips. “I bet you and your family own quite a bit of land around here.”

  “Quite a bit was in the family, y’know, handed down over the generations.”

  “And then you were in real estate, so you must have picked up a lot more during the eighties.”

  He waved a casual hand at her. “Oh, all through the years I’ve picked up properties. That’s one reason”—he gave an unpleasant laugh—“I can afford both alimony and a new wife.”

  “Yes. I saw the picture. A nice young wife.” Louise said the words amiably, as if pronouncing the judgment of the whole world.

  “Yep, I married a young woman the second time around. I’ve accumulated some property. Doin’ well. No law against havin’ an elected sheriff do well in his personal affairs.”

  “Are you in business with Mark Payne?”

  He didn’t look at her, but she could tell the remark was not welcome. “Warn,” he said, distancing himself about twenty miles in two seconds, “I’m in business with a lotta people. My business affairs are no concern of yours, I’m sure you’d find them much too complicated to understand.”

  “The little woman just can’t understand, huh?” She couldn’t resist the barb, but he didn’t even consider it an insult, so low was his sensitivity.

  “That’s right,” he said. “I truly find women do not understand land deals the way men do.” Well, Louise thought, that was probably the end of his self-revelations.

  Up ahead, the canyon road was clogged with sheriff’s and fire department vehicles, and vans from two Denver television stations. “Here we are,” he said, pulling into a spot across the road from the falls. They walked together across the busy highway. “Funny,” he said, as he swept an arm out to encompass the canyon’s rock walls, “you’d be surprised at how many people fall from here.”

  “And die?”

  “Lotta the time, yeah,” he said matter-of-factly, guiding her down the stone steps to the tourist outlook for the falls. “Some of the rocks are slipperier than a seal’s coat. They hardly ever survive, if they do, they’re vegetables, and their families take ’em back to Michigan or Indiana, or whatever flatland they come from, and have to tend ’em the rest of their lives in bed. This one here’s a water rescue. Not promisin’.”

  On the narrow trail, they passed a stricken-looking blond woman with a sunburned face who was being shepherded up to the road along with her two young sunburned children. With a jolt, Louise realized it was her husband who was churning about in that cold water.

  “That’s-the family, with a victim advocate,” verified the sheriff. They descended
the stone steps to the tourist outlook.

  “You mean,” said Louise, “he fell into the falls?”

  “Worse’n that. He got stuck under the falls. That rescue team is tryin, to find him.” To Louise, it looked like a modern ballet, with men on the shore holding out ropes to support men in the water in wetsuits and red vests and helmets. They tumbled about with flailing, muscular arms, trying to win the victim from the grip of the ferocious river, as cameras onshore recorded the struggle.

  “He went off up there,” said Tatum, pointing out a high cliff over the falls.

  As they watched, a deputy sheriff came up to Tatum to give him a report. It produced first a nod of affirmation from the sheriff, then a few crisp orders. Louise was impressed with his take-charge manner. All tourists had been shooed away during the rescue. Suddenly, the rescue workers’ heads shot up in unison, and they were yelling excitedly to the people on the shore.

  Louise stared, open-mouthed, as she saw a body come floundering toward them through the surging waters of North Boulder Creek, looking like a very large, dead fish. The men on the bank plunged into the water and intercepted it in front of where she and Tatum were standing.

  She wrapped her arms around herself in a reflexive gesture of self-protection.

  Guiding the pale body to a quiet eddy behind a large rock, they called for the Utter. After carefully strapping the victim to it, they immediately began CPR. Other rescue workers covered him with blankets.

  “So there he is,” muttered the sheriff. “Hope he has a chance.” The remaining members of the rescue team wearily maneuvered themselves out of the punishing stream, took off their flippers and their hats, and solemnly passed by on their way back to their vehicles, giving the sheriff a thumbs-up.

  “Good job, men,” said the sheriff. They acknowledged him with solemn nods. “They think he’s gonna make it. That’s what that means. But as I was sayin’, people pay a high price for a little showin’ off. Most folks aren’t as lucky as that fellow.”

  Louise walked a little farther from the stream and settled herself down on a flat rock. Tatum crouched near her on his haunches and lit up an unfiltered cigarette. She rather expected a flask to appear from his back pocket, but guessed he wouldn’t do that for fear the public might throw him out of office sooner than he would like.

  He expelled some smoke, then gave her a big smile, as if to assure her of his friendly intentions. “Now, I’d like to use all this as sort of a parable, Miz Eldridge. We don’t like tourists getting their brains jellied for just goin’ some place they shouldn’t have gone. And you”—he pointed a nicotine-stained finger at her as if it were a small pistol—“you’re doin’ the same kind of dangerous thing—goin’ where you shouldn’t.”

  “What exactly do you mean?”

  His chin jutted out. “You’re comin’ too close ta things. I hear you were up at that ranch agin this mornin’.”

  “Now, why would you have heard about that so quickly?”

  “I got my ways,” said the sheriff. “Now, it’s one thing to have locals killed by poachers, or whatever we finally determine happened up there to Jimmy Porter, and then Sally.”

  “Those were murders, Sheriff.”

  “Whoa.” He sniffed in annoyance. “Murders? We’re thinkin’ Sally’s death was an accident—and we still have grounds for thinkin’ Jimmy took that shotgun charge from a poacher—”

  “If that’s what happened, then why are you warning me to be careful?”

  “Because I could be wrong, that’s why. And that’s how cornel have a sheriff’s car makin’ an occasional round up there, t’see that Harriet Bingham’s safe.” So that explained the white four-by-four she’d seen up there this morning.

  But Harriet was pretty much alone up at her ranch. What if Earl Tatum had an alternative scenario—not of protecting Harriet, but snuffing out her life? Since she’d already favored him by selling him prize sections of her land, maybe she had also given him some advantage in her will, such as first option to buy Bingham Ranch.

  Louise tried to pull her mind back to what Tatum was saying. “We don’t want anyone killed, including you. Remember—you already got shot at. What would people think if you—a TV personality—got murdered out here in Boulder County?”

  “It would be embarrassing for you. It would attract a lot more publicity than the two murders on Porter Ranch, right?”

  “You’re exactly right. We’re busy trying to close those two cases. Don’t need any more.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that I had business up at Porter Ranch? I’m in business, Sheriff Tatum, just like you.” She spread her hands. “You’re in the law business. I’m in the media business. This morning, I had two business matters about location shoots. That’s the only reason I was up there.”

  “Oh. I guess I see.” His mouth twisted in a grimace, and he thought this over for a few seconds. “Even so, Miz Eldridge, can I ask you a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Stay clear of Porter Ranch unless you’re shootin’ up there, or whatever you say your TV crew intends to do.” He shook his head with its big black hat. “It’s not safe, I’m tellin’ ya.”

  Louise stared at the rushing falls. What did this man fear, and from whom? Was she interfering with some large plan to exterminate Porter family members who were sympathetic to the county—or was it something else, something to do with Harriet? Whatever it was, it wasn’t recorded on paper, only in Tatum’s head. And that, she thought, was exactly why these insiders were so annoying. Why, they could commit grand larceny every day with their land-deal shenanigans. Who would ever know? The word “cover-up” kept springing to her mind. She guessed that Sheriff Tatum would be the master at it, if anyone was.

  “Sheriff,” she said, “I won’t be up at that ranch alone again. The whole crew, my producer, the sound man, the location chief, the cameraman, Pete Fitzsimmons, will all be there with me. Is that good enough for you?”

  He looked relieved. “ ’Atta girl.”

  “And then, I’m pullin’ out of here Wednesday morning, and I must say that I’ll be glad to be going.”

  Chapter 22

  LOUISE HAD TO HURRY TO GET dressed for Jimmy and Sally Porter’s wake. As she did, a jumble of conversations ran through her head. Conversations, things she had seen.

  She took out a fresh, long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and heavy leather belt, and put them on. For a moment she debated pulling out her leather-tooled cowboy boots, then thought better of it and put on her comfy hiking boots. No one around this part of the world got very dressed up, or cared if others did. And tonight, at this wake, was no time to prance around in heels and a dress.

  Over her shirt she put on a man’s fake suede vest she had picked up at the Boulder mall. She slipped Bill’s cellular phone into its inner pocket. Then, as an afterthought, she stuck her pepper spray and Swiss Army knife in the opposite pocket. Bulgy, but well balanced. Not even as heavy as Steffi Corbin’s silver squash-blossom necklace, and a heck of a lot more useful.

  Louise stood still for a moment, all her senses on the alert. She felt a new revelation coming, lurking just below the surface of her consciousness. If she were Simenon’s Maigret, she would retreat to a table in the window of a small café, drink an aperitif or two or three, and brood heavily. At the end, all her thoughts would coalesce, and she would know the identity of the murderer!

  But there was no café handy, and she was not Inspector Maigret. Besides, there wasn’t time for sitting and cogitating. She needed to put on her makeup and get going.

  By the time she had applied a little foundation and lipstick, however, the many fragments had been refiled and resorted, with a different emphasis. While she had been playing detective again, zestfully searching for motives and suspects, she had ignored one significant avenue of approach.

  It was a long shot, but what was there to lose?

  No one had solved the murders yet, certainly not the sheriff, who didn’t seem to want to solve them. The long
shot involved the oldest motive of them all. Either that was the answer, or there was a conspiracy behind the ruthless killings on the ranch—and someone she was very fond of could be right in the thick of it.

  The wake was the place where all of this could be sorted out. All the players would be there.

  But her talk with Sheriff Tatum had left her feeling defenseless. Tatum had warned her to stay out of the Porter matter. She was afraid that if she did get into trouble tonight, she couldn’t count on the sheriff to help. Then she remembered there was help at hand. Sergeant Rafferty in Lyons.

  She called the Lyons substation, and her mood lifted when a woman’s voice answered…“Sheriffs Department, Sergeant Rafferty.”

  “This is Louise Eldridge. I need to talk to you about a touchy situation. I know Sheriff Tatum is your boss, but—is there any way you could help me?”

  They talked about the wake that night, and Louise’s suspicions. Sergeant Rafferty asked a few questions, pausing as if she were writing something down.

  “Let me think about this for a minute.” Louise waited in silence for what seemed like an eternity before the woman spoke again. Her words came out slowly and carefully. “I think it’s only right that the sheriff’s department be represented at the wake. So, why don’t I plan to meet you there?”

  “Thanks, Sergeant.”

  It was the lull between the lunch and dinner shifts. Louise knew she had to be quick, or Ann would be sitting in her driveway waiting. She leaned close to the screen door of the Gold Strike Café, and only then could she see Ruthie Dunn in her faded flowery cotton dress, sitting to one side of the kitchen, her stockinged feet propped up on a three-step folding ladder. Her glasses were resting in her lap and she was staring into space, while a blatting radio voice emanated from the restaurant proper. It was a conservative talk show that Ruthie disliked, but left on for her customers. The woman herself claimed to be a liberal Democrat, which Louise teased her about, saying it made her part of a vanishing species. The show had at least one good point. It had effectively put the old woman into a relaxing daydream.