by Ann Ripley
“Bill, that sounds stuffy.”
“Then how can I make it plainer? That guy’s going to find that scarf, and it won’t take him long to figure out who ‘L.E.’ is. He’s going to come after us, and you know it. How the hell can I explain at the State Department why I was out at midnight vandalizing a statue in my neighbor’s front yard?”
26
A couple of sherries and Bill was ready for bed, joining Louise, who was already in her nightgown. When they heard the girls coming in the front door, she said, “Do you think we should check with them and see what they’ve been doing?”
Bill nodded. “That’s a good idea.” She opened their bedroom door and called to them.
Martha came to their bedroom door. “Hi, guys. Want to come out and talk for a minute?”
They settled in the living room. Janie was flopped on the couch and looking worn out. Her pretty white cotton dress was rumpled and grass-stained from whatever the day’s activities had been, her blue sash dragging. Louise noted how lovely she was, even in this state of dishabille. Their equally handsome older daughter, wearing jeans and tan blouse, looked as fresh and wide awake as she’d been this morning. She sat in the antique straight-backed chair, looking like a professor conducting a late-night seminar. Her straight back and high chin said it all: I’m in charge.
Martha said, “Janie and I’ve been all over the place, and in fact we saw the two of you a little while ago skulking in the woods.”
Louise, tucked into a corner of the couch, looked amazed. “You mean you and Janie were out there too?”
Janie shrugged. “Sure. Just checking out the neighborhood.”
Bill bowed his head. “We all have to remember that this murderer could be some distant business connection of Hoffman’s, or it could be someone local. Martha, I thought I told you to not get Janie involved in something dangerous.”
“Dad, tonight is the first time Janie’s come along.”
Janie gave her sister a cold look. “Thanks. Why are you all being so careful of me, when I’m more experienced than Martha is?”
Bill put up a cautionary hand. “Are we talking or just bickering? So where did you go tonight, and did you notice anything at Mike Cunningham’s house?”
Janie said, “We circled his house, then camped out back when we saw Hilde come visit. A very insect-heavy experience. Then they started making out on the couch. And then you two came along, and we retreated into the forest, so to speak. Didn’t want to upset you, Ma.”
“We saw you leave,” continued Martha. “Then we saw Hilde leave. Then we heard a big crash out front. We were afraid to move at that point. Mike Cunningham was cussing up a storm, yelling something about how he’d get even ‘with the asshole who did this.’ What did you do, break his statue?”
“Yeah,” said Louise. “I bumped into it. I couldn’t believe it would break so easily.”
“Good,” said Janie. “It was a horrible statue.” She giggled.
“Janie,” Bill admonished, “this isn’t funny. Your mother’s initialed scarf was torn off. He’s going to know we were there.”
Their younger daughter found it hard to keep the smile off her face. “Well, Ma, maybe you’ll get the death penalty for that.”
“Very funny,” said Louise.
Martha said, “Cunningham sounded apoplectic. We hunkered down for a long time before we dared sneak home.”
“Okay,” said Louise, “can we get off the topic of Mike Cunningham? You were headed downtown today. Did you go shopping?”
Martha briefly recounted their trip to Saks and subsequent lunch at the same restaurant as Phyllis Hoffman and Mort Swanson. “I think he’s her lawyer,” said Martha.
“And,” said Janie, “she’s not a happy camper. In fact, she’s frantic.” Her big blue eyes grew bigger as she related the tale. “Maybe she’s not getting any money from Peter Hoffman’s will or something. So if she offed her old man, it’s not been worthwhile.”
“Janie.” Louise’s rebuke was gentle but firm. “Don’t be too rough.”
“Ma,” said Janie, “I know murder’s hell and you don’t like it and the violence that surrounds it. But I’m only describing to you what I saw.” She smiled. “I got all that just from reading Mort and Phyllis’s body language, which your fine older daughter told me I should do. Of course, I knew all about that already.”
“How remarkable,” said Louise. “Your father and I peeked in Phyllis’s window about an hour ago, and she and Mort were busy looking in file cabinets. Bill, maybe it is a will they’re after.”
Bill stroked his chin, rubbing the day-end whiskers gently with his fingers. “Could be. Okay. Now let’s think about any significance to the fact that Mike Cunningham is involved with a young woman like Hilde Brunner. Do you think there’s any more to it than—”
“Than what,” asked Martha, “lust?”
“Yeah,” said Janie, “he’s even got a pot belly. Why doesn’t she go with someone her own age?”
Martha paused for a moment to gather her audience’s attention. “I think it’s a power trip for Hilde. An older, prestigious Washington lawyer takes a fancy to her and she thinks she’s succeeded in this country. I don’t know if you heard this, Dad, but Ma’s reporter friend Charlie Hurd is nuts over our Swiss Miss. So it isn’t as if she hasn’t had some younger man’s attentions paid to her. But Charlie doesn’t turn her on at all. Maybe she likes older men, just like older men like younger women.”
Louise noticed that Martha had the grace to blush.
“For instance, when we played our tennis foursome on Sunday, I found it quite easy to, um, flirt with that silver-haired devil Lee Downing. He must be fifty if he’s a day. He would have been game for anything.”
“You told him you were getting married, didn’t you?” asked Louise.
“No.”
“And why not?”
“Because, Ma, a good investigator doesn’t go around talking about herself. The less people know, the better.”
Janie nodded in agreement. Louise was happy the two girls appeared to be getting along better than previously.
“Okay,” said Bill, “now let’s talk about Lee Downing. What did you learn about him?”
Martha stifled a yawn, now unable to disguise her fatigue, which meant she was catching up with the rest of her family. “To put it mildly, he has issues with Mike Cunningham. Talked about someone ‘cooking the books.’ It must be over the sales deal of Hoffman Arms—what else could it be? He had a mess of files with him the night I first met him. Then Sunday, the day after that, he complained to our neighbor lawyer that he couldn’t find some information he wanted from the files. Alas, I didn’t pick up any details, only that the two of them seem seriously pissed with each other.”
“Martha,” admonished Louise.
“Sorry, Ma, it’s late, and I’ve been associating with Chicago politicians. But anyway, lots of people say ‘pissed.’ ”
“Martha,” said Bill, “the police should have been told.”
“They have been. I phoned Mike Geraghty and told him my little tennis gossip right after the game. I would have told you, too, but we haven’t crossed paths for a day or so.”
“Okay,” said Bill, “ point taken. Today your mother heard that Hoffman was the one who reported to the SEC about Lee Downing’s industrial spying.”
Martha’s eyes shone. “That’s an even stronger motive, isn’t it? Mr. Downing seems to be between a rock and a hard place.” She turned to Louise. “There, see, I said it poetically, instead of just saying he’s being screwed from both sides.”
“Never mind, Martha,” said Bill. “Well, girls, I congratulate you on your observational powers. What else are your mother and I missing out on?”
Martha ticked off the items. “As of today, we know Mort Swanson is trying to help the anxious and troubled Phyllis Hoffman—”
“Probably signed on as her lawyer,” said Bill. “Sorry. Continue.”
Martha went on, “As
of two days ago, we know Mike Cunningham and Lee Downing are arguing over the lack of papers, possibly headed for a lawsuit or at least a fistfight.”
“As of tonight,” said Janie, “we saw that Sam Rosen and Greg Archer have had a serious falling out. Yet Greg has no motive to kill, or does he?”
Bill said, “I don’t think he does.”
Martha continued. “On the lighter side, the Entertainment Tonight segment of our investigation, we know Mike Cunningham and Hilde are fooling around, and she’s teasing him and not wanting to go the whole way. Right, Janie?”
“Right,” said Janie. “I interpreted that couch scene the same way. She’s what I believe one would call a cock-teaser.”
“Janie,” said Louise, “you don’t need to say everything you’re thinking. So, I guess everybody admires Hilde a lot.”
“Everybody except Elsebeth,” rejoined Martha.
Bill raised an eyebrow. “Elsebeth met Hilde and didn’t like her?”
“Yes,” said Martha. ”She met her when she came over for lunch. Elsebeth was a little annoyed at Hilde—some minor flap over language.”
“So that’s your report.”
“Yes,” said Martha, “and you are free to share any of this with the cops, of course. But now I think I need to leave for Chicago. I talked to Jim earlier today, and he’s stressed out over the wedding. Can’t seem to find time to handle all that detail about the church and the reception and still campaign for alderman. He needs me there.” She turned to her younger sister. “And I think I need Janie.”
Louise heard this and sat up. “Yes, you both should go. Janie will be a big help.”
Their younger daughter perked up. “I’d love to go. I’m the perfect wedding planner. Does that mean we drive together to Chicago?”
Martha looked at her sister. “There’s no other way unless we pay a fortune to the airlines. It’ll give us a chance to get, uh, you know, in sync.”
“Yeah,” said Janie, relaxing back on a sofa pillow, “or else kill each other.”
Ignoring this remark, Martha said, “Once in Chicago, we can hit a lot of discount stores and buy clothes. As for flowers, Ma, I’ve decided I’m going to carry fall crocuses. You know, those pale lilac flowers.”
“Colchicum autumnale,” said Louise.
“Won’t that be fab?” said Martha.
Louise looked benignly at her daughter. “What a wonderful idea. I can just picture it.”
“There’s just one shadow on the wedding plans, Ma,” said Martha.
“What’s that?” asked Louise.
“The question is, will you be there or will you be in jail? Nobody’s going to care what I wear as a bride if my mother’s in prison for murder.”
Bill jerked his head up and glared at his older daughter. “Martha, your mother’s not going to be imprisoned for murder. I’ll see to that. We love you very much, and you’re a fine person. But it’s just as well that the two of you leave. I think it will be a relief for all of us. You get the wedding planned, and we’ll resolve things with the police.”
“If you really think you can do without us,” said Janie, her blue eyes wide with concern.
“We can, Janie,” said Louise. “But don’t think we aren’t grateful to you for all that you and Martha have done.”
“Just one more thing,” said their younger daughter. “Be careful, because the murderer is someone who lives in the neighborhood, not some distant business connection.”
Bill frowned. “How can you be so sure of that?”
“Just say it’s a premonition,” said Janie.
Louise gave the girls a good-night hug, then turned to her husband. “Come, darling. We both need some rest.”
Louise wished she were as sure as Bill was about her future. Although she probably would never be convicted, it would be heartbreaking to be arrested by the Fairfax sheriff’s department, the beneficiary of so many of her intuitions.
27
Wednesday August 22
Under the ever-watchful eye of a still-lingering TV crew, Louise helped Martha and Janie load their suitcases into her car and drove them to the rental car lot in Alexandria. Her last words were to urge them to find Martha a wedding gown.
“You mean a proper wedding gown,” teased Martha. “I bet you want me to change my mind and wear white.”
“No, I don’t,” Louise said. “Any gown will do, darling.” And she embraced each of them. Once she’d picked up a few groceries in town, Louise had little interest in doing anything but return home. She’d thought of a gardening project to keep her busy for the day. She headed south again on the GW Parkway.
The irises in the front sorely needed dividing and resetting, as did the Cimicifuga purpurea in the patio garden. Snakeroot, with its pure white snaky tasseled flowers on purple stems, was one of her favorite plants. But she didn’t want to work where newspeople could see her and decide to intrude on her privacy. Instead, she was going to tackle a tough project in the deep woods. She donned her hard-core gardening clothes, long-sleeved shirt, her oldest gardening pants and steel-toed work boots, then took her tools from the shed, secateurs, loppers and two saws, and headed for the bamboo mini-jungle in the far corner of the yard. It was the neighbors’ bamboo, but had spread onto their property. Bill worried about its invasive ways and would be delighted if she got rid of some of it.
As for the bamboo in her Asian-style garden, she’d assured her husband that the few graceful plants there couldn’t spread because of the foot-deep plastic barrier with which each plant was surrounded. She didn’t tell Bill that some roots had sneaked their way down beyond the plastic; she just saw to it that each tender new shoot popping up outside the barrier was lopped off.
Her arms weighed down with her tools, she marched through the woods to confront the bamboo. Within minutes, she was immersed in her work and had set aside all thoughts of the body in the garden.
Two hours later, she returned to the patio. Her next project would be to repot her cape primroses. These houseplants spent the summer on the patio, growing by leaps and bounds in the muggy summer air. Once she’d shaken the old dirt off the roots and supplied them with new dirt, she carried them into the kitchen and carefully watered them in the sink. She took out a big cookie sheet and set it on the corner of the counter, then put the plants on it so that they could drain properly.
With care, Louise cleaned the kitchen counters and sink with a soapy sponge and straightened her Grand Hotel dish towel behind the faucet. Only then did she realize it was two o’clock and she hadn’t eaten lunch. She opened the refrigerator and got out the makings of a big sandwich. She thought she deserved one.
Bill sat in the green glow of his Art Deco desk lamp in his office in downtown Washington and tried to pull his thoughts together. Events were churning in the Middle East, and he knew he had to leave the country soon. But his wife was sitting at home at this very moment, a police suspect in a murder. He had to do something to influence those overeager Fairfax County police and get Louise off the hook. Searching a phone number out of his wallet, he dialed Dan Trace.
“Glad you called,” the lieutenant said, in his baritone voice. “Of course I can give you an update, provided you’re circumspect about whom you share this with. It’s okay to relieve your wife’s tensions by telling her.”
“You mean you’ve found the murderer?”
“No, but we have uncovered a lot of detail about Mr. Hoffman’s business affairs.”
“So have I. Louise heard something that could be important. Peter Hoffman was the informer who alerted the SEC ethics hotline to Downing’s business tricks. Also, he was intending to flee the country.”
“Uh-huh,” said Lieutenant Trace. “We’ve heard that, too, probably from the same source, Mrs. Hoffman. We’ve finally been able to interview Lee Downing, and he’s shed a lot of light on the purchase of Hoffman Arms. You probably know the broad parameters of the sale: The buyer and seller must agree on a value, which in fact is established by the
IRS. It considers equipment, the goodwill or ‘name’ value of the company and its viability. In other words, is it up and running and healthy.”
“So what happened here?” said Bill. “Rumor has it that Downing was unhappy with the deal after it was consummated. Did someone in fact falsify the books?”
Trace laughed. “They sure did, according to Downing. He charges that Hoffman, with Cunningham of course very much a part of the deal, inflated the business by almost one hundred percent. Hoffman probably wanted to get out of the country before Downing could unravel the details of the crooked deal.”
Bill whistled. “How’d Hoffman manage all this?”
“Since a lot of his business was with the Defense Department, Hoffman saw that the books looked good. Orders were placed a year or more before the product was due, for weapons to be provided for, say, three years, with options to supply them for maybe ten more years. These factors were all woven into the value. But some orders were cancelled, it turns out, and others were only preliminary and had never been finalized. The irony is that this detail was all off-limits to Downing until after the fact, just because they were government contracts. Do you get the picture?”
“Yes,” said Bill. “But it matters when Downing heard about this.”
“Uh-huh,” said Lieutenant Trace. “You put your finger on it. He says he didn’t find out until after Hoffman was killed. This has to be established because it could be a motive.”