by Ann Ripley
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 Washington—or 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 abroad—”
“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, Janie—you 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. ‘Messianic,’ I think they call it. I guess you both are like that—”
“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?
“Sure. Peter Matthiessen.”
“Just remember the moral of the story. Some people don’t think they have to be saved.”
17
Sunday, August 19
The men were playing the net. Lee Downing hit the ball viciously at Mike Cunningham. “Those papers yielded nothing!” he hissed. “If I didn’t think it was so absurd, I’d say someone was cooking the books.”
Cunningham quickly twisted his body and slammed the ball back. “Bull!” he grunted. “It’s all there.”
Martha ran back to get the ball, but heard Downing say, “There’s no ‘there’ there, goddammit.” She sent the ball in Hilde’s direction, then ran forward so as not to miss what was said next.
Almost head to head with Downing at the net, Cunningham was red-faced and looking desperate. “For Chrissake,” he muttered, “not here.”
Downing stopped in his tracks. “Then where?”
Cunningham got in position to lob a ball back in Martha’s direction. “Your call.”
She returned the ball and hustled back to the net.
“Fine,” said Downing. “I’m in New York tonight, but I’m due back Wednesday. Let’s meet at your house for a late dinner.”
Apparently distracted by her partner, Hilde missed the shot and yelled, “Mist! ” Martha recognized that as an inoffensive expletive. She herself would have been inclined to say something much worse. Throwing her arms out in a gesture of helplessness, Hilde shook her head and said in a plaintive voice, “I try and try ...”
Cunningham came over to her and put an arm on her shoulder. “So sorry, Hilde. We lost it there for a minute.” He turned back to Lee Downing. “Ready to finish this game and call it quits?”
“Sure am,” said the unsmiling Downing.
This tennis game was more fruitful than Martha could have imagined. The tension between the two men had grown noticeably since the four of them had met in the cul-de-sac last night. This morning, Cunningham had exclaimed, “What a picture we make! But that’s mainly because we have two of the best-looking gals in metro Washington with us.” Hilde, in her skimpily cut tennis dress, had smiled shyly at the compliment.
Downing had sourly rejoined, “Let’s cut the talk and get going. It’s too damned hot already to play tennis.” Because of Martha’s heavy picnic basket, they had driven the short distance to the Sylvan Valley Swim and Tennis Club in Downing’s Lincoln.
And now, after an hour, the match was abandoned and they decided to eat. Threading through the woods, they found an open picnic table. Apparently few club members were braving the midday heat. Martha set out a cloth, paper plates and the food, and Downing opened the wine. On the nearby path, people passed on their way to and from the swimming pool and the courts. Martha was impressed to note that Hilde knew quite a few of the passersby: Sam Rosen and Greg Archer, the Kendricks, and other Sylvan Valley residents whom she herself had never met. She warned her companions, “Any moment now, my family may come down the path. They attended the ten o’clock services at the Presbyterian Church. It’s just two blocks away.”
“Good to know someone could be praying for us besides my mother,” said Downing brusquely. “Hope it does us some good.”
Cold chicken, gourmet salads and wine mellowed the men’s moods. Lee Downing turned his attention to Martha, prodding her for details of her university major and her intern work in the inner cities of America.
In effect, he shunned Mike Cunningham and Hilde, who eventually left the table
and took a stroll down the path. It startled Martha to see that the two looked like lovers. Yet she could not believe Hilde would get involved so quickly with this man who was twice her age. From what she’d heard, Hilde had arrived in Sylvan Valley only six weeks ago. Cunningham had moved into his house a month or so before. Yes, she decided, time enough to start a relationship, even if it was, in her opinion, a foolish liaison.
Their absence gave Martha a good opportunity to find out more from Lee Downing.
“Now tell me something, Lee.”
“What do you want to know, my dear?”
“About your buyout of Peter Hoffman’s company.”
Lee Downing flinched, but quickly covered it with a cough. “Now, would a lovely girl like you really be interested in those details?” Martha had her elbow on the table and her arm casually upraised. He reached over and took her hand and laced it in his.
“Oh,” she said, surprised, and he immediately released it.
“Sorry. I—”
She quickly returned to the subject of their conversation. “Don’t forget, Lee, I have a double major: urban studies and economics. Of course I’m interested in your buying Hoffman Arms. I’m always interested in the business world and how deals are made.”
He gazed at her, his blue eyes full of admiration. “Well, honey, this buyout just took place. His arms manufacturing setup dovetails nicely with the other military products we manufacture. The business media has commented a lot on how good a match it is. And understandably, our stock has taken quite a boost.” His mouth twisted down, and she suspected she might learn what the trouble was between him and Mike Cunningham. “That’s not to say there aren’t problems. There are always problems getting full disclosure when you pull off something of this magnitude.”
“I’ll bet,” said Martha, all sympathy. She laid her hand close to his on the table to indicate there were no hard feelings about the previous hand incident. “I gathered maybe there was some unfinished business when you were talking to Mike during the game.”
“Yeah.” His voice was hard, on the edge of brutal. “But don’t think it won’t be worked out to my satisfaction. If people thought Hoffman was tough, they hadn’t met me. You see, Martha, I’m not just one man, I’m one man with”—he spread his arms out wide—“a helluva lot of resources, all sorts of resources. I don’t mean to be threatening, but no man in my position can afford not to have a little muscle—uh, intellectual muscle, I mean—on the side.”
She turned and gave him a close-up look. Very cold blue eyes, square-jawed face damp with sweat, and thin lips that had a capacity to indicate displeasure and even cruelty. “I bet that’s true. You are a tough man. A rugged American entrepreneur who understands that growth is not only good, it’s obligatory if we are to survive. It’s what’s made this country great.” Martha nearly choked on these clichés. But Downing positively glowed at her words.
“My God, girl,” he said, “are you sure I can’t hold your hand?”
She smiled the kind of smile that gave men promise. “I’m sorry, Lee. But you and I both know it’s not the right time.”
Sam Rosen and Louise were going to work on the new vegetable garden. It lay in a fortuitous patch of bright afternoon sun on the border between Sam’s yard and hers. A couple of weeks ago, they did the hard work of removing the extant soil and replacing it with compost-rich garden dirt. Sam phoned this morning to remind her that they needed to plant crops. He also volunteered to help her replant the wild azaleas, which languished now in plastic bags near the abandoned garden bed in the woods where the body was found.
He was waiting out in the yard for her, looking garden-ready in jeans and matching jeans shirt. “Sam, hello,” she said. “I need to get my gardening hat and shovel,” she said.
“I have two shovels right here,” said her neighbor. She headed for the toolshed for the hat, then remembered it was still with the police being analyzed, no doubt, for hairs, fibers and maybe even cooties. She had no idea if or when she would get it back. She turned and joined Sam at the edge of the property. He had a sweet face, the kind a mother could love, and the smile on it right now as she approached made her glad he was her friend.
“Let’s do the azaleas first,” he said. “I’ve been looking at them and worrying they’d die.” A faint rebuke that she hadn’t had the fortitude to come out and replant them yet?
The three big shrubs were encased in black polyurethane bags and sat where she’d left them the night she found Peter Hoffman’s body. “They look different,” she said.
“That’s because I watered them thoroughly, then slipped another bag over the top of each one. Otherwise, I didn’t think they’d make it.”
“Sam, thank you,” she said. They uncovered the plants, which were in surprisingly good shape, and quickly restored them to their spot in the garden.
“Now for the fun part,” said Sam, as they moved their operations to the vegetable garden. “I bought a lot of onion sets. And it’s not too late for a crop of green beans. At least it’s worth a shot.” The garden was exceptionally deep, built on a natural crevice in the land and supported on its two ends with timbers Sam had patiently sawed.
It wasn’t until they were actually planting that Sam brought up the crime that was obsessing the neighborhood. “What do you think happened, my friend?” said Sam.
She told him about the manner of the crime and how the evidence pointed to her. “It’s sure to be Hoffman’s blood on my sweatshirt,” she said. “The question is, who’s done this to me and why?”
“Well, who?” asked Sam, intent on his digging.
“Mike Cunningham, Lee Downing, Phyllis Hoffman, or maybe Mort Swanson.” She laughed. “I’m being facetious. I’m not accusing anyone. Those are just the names that my friends have put on a suspect list.” She neglected to say that Mary Mougey insisted that Greg also be on the list. “This leaves out, of course, all the business people who may have had a grudge against Peter Hoffman.”
Sam said, “I saw your daughter Martha over at the tennis courts this morning with Hilde Brunner. You could always include Hilde on the list. She’s all over the neighborhood like a blanket. On the other hand, she may be too vacuous. She asked me the other day who my favorite rock star was, as if at age forty-eight I have a favorite rock star. But maybe Peter Hoffman tried to make time with her. That could be a motive.”
Louise laughed. “Don’t you have to know a person longer than two weeks before you murder them? Who else could we pin this on?”
“There’s always the iron-handed Sarah Swanson.”
“Oh, please, Sam, she’s my friend.”
“Think about it. Ever notice that strong body and those strong hands? I remember how that woman hated Hoffman. She practically had a hissy fit when he broke into the party at the Radebaughs. If Ron hadn’t thrown him out, Sarah Swanson would have.”
“She’s strong, I’ll concede that, but not violent, not murderous. My friend Sarah could never have done this.”
“Well then,” blithely answered Sam, “knock her off the list. I’m just wildly speculating. Knowing nothing that the police know—”
“Same here. They’ve told Bill and me nothing.”
“Trouble with me is that I’m not home much, so I’m not well-acquainted with the likes of Messrs. Cunningham and Downing. But my favorite candidate is Phyllis Hoffman, with help from a guy.”
“Hmm. Hadn’t thought of a conspiracy, but if you think about murders, and how they take planning and execution, I bet a lot of the unsolved cases are conspiracies.”
“Sure,” said Sam, “two children, anxious to have the grandmother die so that they can inherit, two partners pissed off at a third one who’s givin’ them trouble ...”
Louise had finished her rows of onions and got to her feet. There now were neat little rows of green onion tops before her. She leaned down and brushed the dark brown compost-rich soil from her gardening pants, then straightened to see someone peering at her through the woods.
It was Greg Archer, just barely visible through the leaves as he stood behind the high brick wall on Sam’s patio. Only his head was visible. He stood in silence and stared her way. She was sure he was the one who had spied the killer riding off in the cartita and who later heard the sounds of quiet digging. Greg had thought it was Louise ... or did he know quite well that it wasn’t her but someone else wearing her garden hat and sweatshirt?
At the very least, the man was devious. Why hadn’t he been decent enough to talk to Louise about all this?
Sam looked up from his work, which was now done, and from her expression must have guessed she saw something or someone she didn’t like.
“What, Louise? Is Greg home?” He smiled and waved at the younger blond man. “We’re just getting done in time then. He’s been out all afternoon at an antiques show, and I promised to have dinner on the stove.”
“I hope it didn’t burn. We’ve been out here for more than an hour.”
“Oh, no,” said Sam confidently. “I put everything in a crock pot. It’ll be done perfectly.”
“Crock pot. I’ve never owned one.” If Sam used it, it must be good. The man had once won a cooking competition among Congressional legal aides on Capitol Hill.
Her neighbor gave her a fond look. “Maybe it’s time, Louise. Tell you what. I’ll loan you mine and you can see if you like it. If you do, you can use it to prepare that gourmet dinner you promised the neighbors.”
Dinner party! She’d forgotten that rash promise. A sensation of vertigo overcame her, and she had to plant her feet wider apart so she didn’t fall. Too much heat, too much bending, too little lunch, too many promises to the neighbors. “Oh, Sam, I’ll never be able to have that dinner until I get this albatross from around my neck.”