Summer Garden Murder

by Ann Ripley

  “Thank you, Mrs. Baumgartner,” said Martha. She introduced Hilde. “Hilde’s from Switzerland, and is living and working in Sylvan Valley for a while.”

  Elsebeth smiled at the girl. “And I am originally from Vienna.” She turned to Martha with a concerned look. “You, dear, you must do what your sister does and call me Elsebeth. You make me feel very old otherwise,” said the woman, who was not much older than fifty or so.

  “We’re assembling our Vogerlsalat and crabmeat salad.”

  “But you’d call it ‘Nüsslisalat,’ ” said Elsebeth, turning to Hilde.

  Hilde shrugged her bronzed shoulders. “I call it Vogerlsalat,” she abruptly said.

  Martha glanced at Elsebeth and watched the woman’s face darken with displeasure. At her side, the indifferent Hilde was still busy arranging greens. It wouldn’t do to have the irreplaceable Elsebeth ticked off by an outspoken luncheon guest, though what was wrong with Hilde’s remark, Martha couldn’t fathom. Could Elsebeth be jealous because there was another German speaker in the house?

  She touched Elsebeth’s arm and gave her a wink. Elsebeth smiled back at Martha. The tense moment passed.

  Martha returned to Hilde’s side and unceremoniously plopped the crabmeat in the center of the greens. “There,” she said. “Now we’re getting out of your way, Elsebeth, and I know you’ll be glad of that.”

  “I am, Martha,” said Elsebeth. “I can stay only three hours today. So, Hilde, ‘Servus.’ ”

  Hilde smiled. “Servus.”

  Martha and her guest carried the trays to the patio. As they sat down at the glass table, Hilde said, “I thought your sister was to be here, too.”

  “Me, too,” said Martha. “But I left the crabmeat and, uh, Vogerlsalat in the fridge, and Janie can assemble her own salad if and when she arrives. Now, Hilde, tell me more about Charlie Hurd. It’s nice that you’ve become friends. I’ve heard stories about him for years from Ma.”

  Hilde smiled. “I called my mother ‘Mama.’ ”

  “That’s nicer than just ‘Ma.’ Is your mother—”

  Hilde had a stoic expression on her face. “She died two years ago. My father died the previous year.”

  “I am so sorry,” said Martha. “You are so young to have lost both of your parents.”

  “There’s little to be done when people die, except to mourn them properly.”

  There was a long moment of silence, during which Martha thanked her lucky stars that she still had her loving—though sometimes annoying—parents. Then she said, “So, getting back to Charlie. Do you think he’s a smart man?”

  Hilde suspended her fork over her plate. “He is quite intelligent, I think, but naive in certain ways.” She gave Martha a knowing look. “Do you have a sense of what I mean?”

  Last night, when the three of them went to a bar in Georgetown, their drinking, talking and taking turns on the dance floor was not an opportunity to get to know someone in depth. She did notice that Charlie was absolutely gaga over this luscious female. Yet Martha guessed that if she’d come onto the reporter the way Hilde came onto him, he’d probably have fallen in love with her, too. Her final assessment of Charlie: egocentric, vulnerable and probably decent at the core. She didn’t share this opinion with Hilde, on the theory that the less she shared of her own opinions, the better.

  “I know he did some brilliant detective work in the past,” said Martha. “Yet he is a little kiddish—maybe that’s what you mean.”

  “Kiddish is a good word for it,” said Hilde, and took a small, elegant bite of French bread. “I hope I do not hurt him.”

  Martha waved a hand casually. “Sometimes it’s hard, isn’t it, not to hurt men? I had the impression he’d like nothing better than to have you, or maybe you and me, trot around with him and help him find Hoffman’s killer—just so he’d have a good story. I had to tell him I was busy with wedding preparations, but there’s nothing to stop you. It might be fun to do a little detective work, wouldn’t it?”

  Hilde shrugged. “Maybe. It would be a new thing for me.” She slanted a gaze at Martha. “Like you, I have other friends as well—”

  “Yes, Mike Cunningham, for instance.”

  “Yes, Mike. I do not have all my time for driving around with Charlie.”

  “Mike seems like an interesting man,” offered Martha. This young woman might know just how interesting.

  “Mr. Cunningham is very intriguing.” A shy smile passed her face. “I really know nothing about him except he seems willing to advise young people like me with their careers.”

  “Does he talk about his business?”

  Hilde seemed almost shocked. “Oh, no. I think he’s too professional to do that.”

  This conversation is yielding nothing about Mike Cunningham, thought Martha. She dropped her detecting mode and decided to relax and enjoy lunch. Diving into her crabmeat salad, she said, “On to another topic, and Europe is always one of my favorite topics. Tell me about what you’ve studied. We never got a word in about such things last night. I know you’ve been specializing in more than pottery, although pottery is certainly a, uh, wonderful thing.”

  Hilde giggled charmingly. “Yes, last night there was too much talk about deadlines not met, and a country editor furious with Charlie—”

  “I think it’s a city editor who’d get furious with Charlie.”

  “Yes, yes. You want to know about my major. This might sound ... inbred, perhaps, but I studied European cultural history, specializing on the years 1933 through 1945.”

  “I guess that means focusing on Hitler and the Holocaust, and all his works.”

  “Yes,” said Hilde, eyes narrowing. “Some of us are trying very hard to see it straight.”

  “That’s a good thing.” Martha realized, despite the fact that she looked and walked like an international model, that Hilde was very serious-minded, apparently part of the European students, most of them German, who wanted to see history through a clear lens. This made her feel warmly toward her new acquaintance. Some acquaintances remained just that: passing acquaintances. She had a feeling Hilde was more than that. Hilde was a keeper.

  Hilde said, “Tell me more about your life, Martha. Your fiancé is with the government? And if so, why?”

  “He’s an assistant district attorney at the moment, but he’s running for public office—the job of alderman in the city of Chicago. And why does he do this? I guess it’s because both of us love the urban environment. We have this ridiculous sense of pursuing justice. You know, of trying to make better cities, and better lives for people in cities.”

  Hilde casually plucked a cherry from the fruit bowl. “Pursuing justice. In many ways, that is what I’ve been doing. Men are okay, aren’t they, Martha? But pursuing justice is much more important.”

  Martha laughed. “All the more reason for you to go out with Charlie and try and get a line on Hoffman’s killer.”

  22

  Louise’s cell phone rang as she was driving home from Sarah’s. It was Marty Corbin, returning her call.

  “Hi, Marty. Thanks for getting back to me.”

  “Hey, Lou. I’ve been keeping track of you through the TV and the newspapers. You and Bill must be feeling pretty low. Bad luck to find that guy, of all people, buried in your garden.”

  “Definitely bad luck. But here it is, three days later and I’m getting used to the bad news. I’m sure they’ll clear me in short order.” She pulled the car into the driveway and was glad that she was off the road, for she didn’t like the tone of her producer’s voice. It was too cool, too removed. Marty, a big man with curly brown hair and warm brown eyes, most of the time was one of the friendliest people she’d ever known.

  “Look, Lou, we’ve got some considerations here. According to the GM, it’s not exactly the best publicity in the world for our station when you get in these scrapes.”

  She sat stunned. “Sorry about besmirching WTBA-TV. But I had no control over the fact that some murderer left a body in o
ur yard.”

  “No, no,” he hurriedly said, “I’m not accusing you of anything. You’re not to blame, of course, not at all. I’m just saying there’s quite a bit of notoriety left over from some past things you’ve gotten yourself into... .”

  Louise slumped in the front seat. “And now this, huh? Well what do you want to do about it, Marty?”

  “I thought of a solution. It’ll ease the pressure on you, too. You probably don’t feel like traveling out on location anyway right now. In ten days, we tape the first of four fall shows—”

  “I know the schedule, Marty, and I have input for that show, and the ones following—”

  “I thought we’d get your sidekick to step in and host at least the first two of ’em.”

  “John will love how this is working out.”

  “John’s been very nice about it,” said her producer. “He understands the situation.”

  Louise could picture her cohost John Bachelder, he with his dark-fringed brown eyes, handsome face and athletic thirty-six-year-old body perfected with the help of a personal trainer, positively gloating over the chance of doing two shows on his own after a season of being cut from show after show. The fact that John was younger than she was no longer insignificant. Now it was she who would be left on the cutting room floor. No, it was worse than that. She wouldn’t even be in the tape. Obviously, Marty had talked with John, and John had agreed. The deal was done.

  “The deal is done.”

  “Essentially, yes.” Then he returned to his more familiar tone. “Forgive me for this, Lou. I feel real bad about it, but there’s pressure from on high. The GM, that is. Now, if you want to drop by some day and give me your input on those shows ...”

  The air in the closed car was getting intolerable, so she opened the car door to let in some air from the overheated garage and held it open with a sandaled foot. “What will you do when the police discover who the killer is?”

  “Then all the pressure will be off, Lou. You can climb right back in the saddle and get back to work. Is that detective friend of yours helping much?”

  “You mean Mike Geraghty? He’s not heading the investigation, but he’s doing what he can. In fact, he’s probably the only reason I’m not already in jail. Lots of evidence points to me as the killer.”

  “Damn!” said Marty Corbin. “I’m sorry to hear that. The papers haven’t said that, though the suggestion is there because of your past link with the guy.”

  “Don’t I know it. The whole sordid story of the mulch murder, how Hoffman attacked me back then, how he copped an insanity plea and got four years, how we had a fight after a neighborhood party ... All the viewers and readers have to do is draw their own logical conclusion: ‘That woman had plenty of reason to kill him.’ ”

  Marty’s voice was low and solemn. “You did have a lot of reason, Lou. I wouldn’t blame you if you’d buried that guy in your garden.”

  She could hardly believe her ears. Her producer wasn’t totally convinced of her innocence. She wondered how many other people felt the same way—neighbors, friends, maybe even relatives, like Bill’s mother. Her mother-in-law’s imagination—or was it lack of imagination?—had always made her suspicious of Louise’s detecting adventures. When Bill phoned his parents and told them of this recent discovery in the Eldridge garden, his mother, Jean, had been horrified. In contrast, Louise had been gratified at the way her own dad and mom had not only believed in her, but even offered to come to Washington and offer their support in person. She’d declined the offer, saying that she and Bill would be in the Chicago area soon enough for Martha and Jim’s wedding activities.

  Marty was saying something. She could hardly process it. He was trying to retrench, adding words to soften his harsh message. Now he was saying good-bye to her. “Just get some rest for a week or so, Lou.”

  “Good-bye, Marty,” she responded, pressed the “end” button and got him out of her life.

  It was urgent now. She had to do something to get herself out of this mess. Her job was in jeopardy, and the world was beginning to believe that Louise Eldridge, TV garden show host and fierce protector of all things organic in gardening, was a cool, calculating murderer. What was almost worse was that people would believe that she’d screw up her wild azalea garden by stashing a body underneath it!

  Because Louise’s mind was so overloaded with thoughts, her drive downtown was on automatic pilot—up GW Parkway through a hoard of cars, into the curving wave of traffic that led to the bridge over the Potomac, into the white-knuckled driving competition in the District of Columbia. It hardly registered. On a couple of occasions, when she had swerved out of her lane, she noticed fellow drivers looking anxious and tacking away from her, like sailboats flitting out of the way of a predatory powerboat. In what seemed like only a few minutes, she was at her destination, parked in a lot a few blocks from Wilson and Sterritt. Her dentist was in the neighborhood too, but there was nothing wrong with her teeth; she had no intention of stopping there.

  Mort Swanson’s office was where she was heading, but if she was lucky, she might also look in on Mike Cunningham. Knowing these were two men who would rather not talk to her at all, she’d taken pains to at least look good. She’d worn a pale green linen pantsuit that brought out the hazel in her eyes, put on her makeup with great care and brushed her hair into a gleaming pageboy. Granted, the suit was wrinkled already, but that was impossible to avoid on such a hot day. She blended perfectly with the other people, men in summer suits, women in stylish cottons, in this low-key but exclusive part of the nation’s capital.

  The tenth floor opened to the quiet splendor of Washington’s top law firm. Summoned by the receptionist, Mort Swanson walked into the reception lobby in shirt sleeves, busily rubbing at his horn-rimmed glasses with his handkerchief. He smiled at her. Other than the dark circles under his eyes, he looked quite in charge, like a partner of the firm should. “What a pleasant surprise,” he said. “Of course I have time to talk to you, dear friend—a little time, at least.” He squired her past an administrative assistant opening mail and into his corner office. He seated her facing him across a big desk, so that she looked through slim blinds into the sunshine of the nation’s capital.

  Mort’s glasses were halfway down his nose, and from over them he sent her an avuncular look. “I’m guessing you’re here because you need legal representation.”

  Of course he would guess that, thought Louise, with deep relief. It took a load off her shoulders, for she hadn’t known how she would approach Mort Swanson without offending him mightily. She couldn’t have come in and announced: Your wife Sarah is desperately worried that you might be mixed up in Peter Hoffman’s murder.

  “I—I might need a lawyer,” responded Louise. “I thought I’d wait until I was actually charged. But one must be prepared.”

  “Louise, if you need me, I’ll be there for you.”

  “Thanks, Mort. In the meantime, what do you think of all this? Knowing Peter Hoffman as well as you did, have you any idea who could have actually killed him?”

  Mort leaned back in his executive chair and swung halfway around, so that he could see the Capitol Building and the Washington Monument in the distance. “I was his close associate for some years, during those expansion years of Hoffman Arms. But that changed, Louise ...”

  “You mean after he murdered Kristina Weeren?”

  Swinging around again to face her, he said, “Absolutely. That’s when Cunningham took over the criminal case. Peter thought it would be simpler if Mike did everything for him from that time on. Oh, I’ll admit that occasionally I was asked for my input on various decisions—”

  “Such as?”

  The attorney stopped and looked at her in surprise. “Come on, Louise, you’re expecting too much of me.”

  “I need information. In case you hadn’t heard, the police think I might have been the one who killed Peter Hoffman. Unless other evidence turns up, they intend to arrest me at the end of the week.”r />
  “I’m sorry.” Louise could see his tired eyes reassessing her, finally figuring out that she hadn’t come here to hire him as her lawyer. He sighed. “Louise, this is turning into another of our verbal sparring matches. Of course my sympathies are with you, but all that attorney-client information is confidential. You should know that.”

  She flipped her hand in a careless gesture. “Don’t mind me, Mort. I don’t know the etiquette of lawyers at all. Not to be repetitive, but do you know anything specifically about the sale of Hoffman Arms? Bill and I’ve been thinking that the sale might be related to the murder.”

  Mort Swanson was now at attention, sitting straight in his chair, looking a bit impatient, as if this unexpected visitor had taken up her allotted time. “I will repeat that attorney-client communications are—”

  “Come on, Mort, give me something that isn’t sacrosanct.”

  “I do know some details, but not all of them. The sale was pretty standard. Hoffman took half the proceeds in stock in Lee Downing’s corporation, the other half in cash.”

  “Who inherits from Peter—Phyllis?”

  “Damnit, Louise. Again, it’s Mike who handled all that—Peter’s business, Peter’s estate. The police can find out all about it. The sale of the business is in the public record, you know. You could dig out the information yourself, if that’s how you want to spend your time.” He made a point of looking at his watch. “Speaking of time, I really should get back to these.” He patted a pile of tan folders sitting on his desk.

  “Of course. It’s good to know that you’d represent me if worse comes to worst.”

  “I’d do that, because I have great respect for you and Bill.”

  Louise rose from her chair. “I had lunch with Sarah today.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Your wife’s a little worried about you.”