Summer Garden Murder

by Ann Ripley

  “And the reason Downing couldn’t just declare that the deal was invalid? The SEC investigation must enter in.”

  “It probably does,” said the lieutenant. “I think Hoffman took a big roll of the dice. Decided Downing wouldn’t risk a public flap over the sale of Hoffman Arms when he could face serious charges of industrial spying. It explains Downing’s big profits of late. He’s been the low bidder in at least two competitive bidding situations, because he’s had a spy in his competitors’ plants. ‘First to market’ is the name of the game in the competitive arms business, and Downing apparently made sure he was first to market.”

  “So what’s your conclusion?” asked Bill. “Does this information help my wife?”

  “Not totally. But it opens this mare’s nest of possibilities. I can’t talk about suspects with you, Mr. Eldridge, but you can figure out just as well as I can who the obvious ones would be with this set of circumstances in play.” Then the lieutenant came forth with another bit of good news. “You might like to know that we’ve concluded further tests on Hoffman’s body, and there’s no evidence on the corpse itself to tie the crime to your wife. Of course, there’s still the tarp with her fingerprints on it, the hat, and especially Hoffman’s blood on Mrs. Eldridge’s sweatshirt and on her gardening tool. I agree with Mike Geraghty that some of that could have been there just because Mrs. Eldridge uses that stuff when she gardens. But for the last two items, there’s no explanation at all.”

  Bill tried to control his desperation. “There’s a simple explanation, Lieutenant. The killer planted that evidence. Listen, I want you to understand in human terms what this is doing to my wife. Needless to say, it’s depressing as hell. Fortunately, she has a good book and her gardening to occupy her time, because she’s practically been ordered by your man Morton to refrain from talking to anyone. Her employers have benched her for a few programs just because she’s been innocently caught in a terrible scandal. Not to mention the pickax, which scared the hell out of her. You still haven’t got back to us on that.”

  “The technician who handled your toolshed is off on vacation. We haven’t been able to get hold of him, I’m sorry to say.”

  “It seems too dumb a thing for a technician to do,” said Bill. “Which leads to the possibility of criminal mischief on the part of someone else. Now let me continue. Our daughters are trying to plan an October wedding for Martha, and they’re very upset about this. I, on my part, have to leave soon for Vienna. But I surely don’t intend to go until I know Louise is freed from suspicion. We have lots of reasons for wanting you to find the real killer. Today is Wednesday. I think this Friday deadline of Morton’s for arresting my wife is just plain nonsense.”

  “Mr. Eldridge,” said Lieutenant Trace, “consider the deadline shoved forward a bit. And lest I forgot to tell you, we’re also looking into the consequences of Hoffman’s will.”

  “I’d hoped you would.”

  “The will’s interesting. I can’t share the details with you, but it might bear on the case.”

  Bill said, “That’s what they always say, don’t they, when there’s a murder—find out who profits.”

  “Who profits, and who loses out,” amended Trace.

  “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  “One further thing, and I hope this doesn’t upset your wife unduly. Apparently Mike Cunningham has filed a complaint because she entered his yard and did some damage. A statue was broken, I believe. He’s very upset and is charging malicious destruction of property. Umm, I hesitate to mention this last item.”

  “What’s that, Lieutenant?”

  “He’s also brought up some new details surrounding Mr. Hoffman’s murder that involve your wife. I’d rather sit down and discuss this with you after I hear from Cunningham.”

  “Just what does that mean?” said Bill.

  “Mr. Cunningham is implying he knows of some other connection between your wife and Hoffman.”

  Bill’s voice was shaking. “Lieutenant Trace, my wife had no connections with Hoffman.”

  He could hear the lieutenant expel a breath on the other end of the phone line. “I know this is well after the fact and that right now Mr. Cunningham is very angry at your wife. That’s why we have to go after this carefully. I’m to have a face-to-face with Mr. Cunningham tomorrow. As soon as I do, I’ll get back to you and Mrs. Eldridge.”

  After Bill hung up, he tapped his pen on the desk. He’d hoped to make a cash settlement with Cunningham over the Aphrodite matter. If not, it was better being in court for malicious destruction of property than for murder. But what the hell kind of “connection” between Louise and Hoffman was Mike Cunningham trying to feed to the police? He sat back in his chair, trying to calm down and think. One thing he knew for sure: he was through cooperating with the police, for it hadn’t gotten them anywhere. He wasn’t about to tell his already troubled wife about this latest insinuation that she had something to do with Hoffman before his death.

  Bill arrived home by eight o’clock, and he and Louise hurried off to Old Town Alexandria for a late dinner. Afterward, they bought ice cream cones on King Street and wandered down the brick sidewalks, window shopping as they ate. Home by ten, they found that the house seemed empty with the girls gone. On the plus side, it was more privacy than they’d had for some time.

  Louise was going straight to bed, for she’d had a long day of gardening. But she decided her stomach would appreciate a small glass of milk and a few soda crackers before she took two aspirin to help her sleep.

  She went to the kitchen, flipped on the overhead light and went to the refrigerator for the milk. She paused in thought, then turned around again. Even a quick glance told her something was wrong. Her gaze moved over the counters, the stove and, finally, to the sink. A rush of cold coursed through her body. “Bill,” she called, “come here quickly.”

  By the time her husband arrived in the kitchen, she was standing and staring at the rough-hewn squares of tumbled marble behind the stainless steel sink. The protective Grand Hotel towel was nowhere in sight.

  Her pristine marble tiles were splattered with a brown substance.

  “My God,” cried Bill, “what is it?”

  She reached out and touched some of the discoloration. “It’s garden soil. Someone threw a handful of it at the tiles.”

  “Who the hell was in here?” he demanded.

  She stood very still. “I don’t know. But this isn’t a joke.”

  “And where’d they get the dirt?” Even as Bill said this, he walked over to the counter where the repotted houseplants stood, draining in the tray. “Huh,” he said, pointing to the cape primrose, which was sagging sideways. “They scooped it out of here.”

  “Where’s the Grand Hotel dish towel?” she asked in a hollow voice.

  Bill searched around and pulled it out of a corner. “It was neatly folded and tucked in back of the toaster.”

  “It’s as if someone’s out to get me. It’s all connected—innocent things at first, the re-arranged curio cabinet—”

  “—the pickax, which could have killed you. And now this. Someone’s been breaking into our house!” Bill pounded on the counter, and she jumped at the noise. “That does it, Louise. Somebody wants to harm you. Tomorrow, we get all the locks changed. Right now, we call Geraghty.”

  Louise slumped against the granite counter and stared across at her grimy tiles. “Please, not tonight, Bill.”

  “You’re not safe in this house anymore.”

  “You’re here tonight, so I’m safe. Let’s have a good night’s sleep. Then we’ll call the police first thing in the morning.” She gave him a pleading look. “I suppose I can’t—”

  “No, you can’t clean up your tiles. Leave the dirt there so Geraghty and the skeptical Mr. Morton can see just what the hell some pervert is up to.”

  She said softly, “What else do you think this person has done in our house?”

  He came over and put his arm around her, switched off the kitchen
light and guided her down the hall to their bedroom. “There’ll be plenty of time tomorrow to find out.”

  Lee Downing pulled his Lincoln town car into the curve of Dogwood Court directly in front of Mike Cunningham’s house. He parked the Lincoln with the exaggerated care of one who had recently been drinking a lot of booze. Despite his best efforts, and for the umpteenth time, he scraped the tires against the goddamned curb. After emitting a few choice swearwords, he grabbed a suitcase he had packed with papers, slid out of the car, locked it and strode toward the house.

  He could see through the garage windows the bulk of Cunningham’s car. That was a signal to all that he was home. Downing glanced at his Rolex watch. It was almost one o’clock. It had been a long day, including the shuttle flight home, three hours with the Fairfax sheriff’s office, a good long session with his attorney regarding the SEC investigation, followed by a dinner paid for by the attorney—who would still net plenty off him—and a few hours of unaccounted-for time at the conclusion of which he’d had a few belts of scotch.

  It was supposed to be the moment for a showdown with Cunningham, a man whom he’d started out liking almost as a friend, but whom he now despised. They were to sit in Cunningham’s glitzy living room and get down to brass tacks, instead of playing the old game of accuse and deny. He intended to give the lawyer an ultimatum, an offer he couldn’t refuse, because there was no way in hell that he was going to be screwed the way Peter Hoffman and Mike Cunningham had planned for him to be screwed, even if it meant airing his dirty linen in public. Especially when Downing had an inkling that Mike Cunningham had a secret. He was fairly sure that Cunningham was the one who’d conveniently removed Hoffman from the planet.

  He tried the front door and found it open. Entering, he called, “Mike, I’m home. Late, I know, but better late than never.”

  Silence. Mike could be asleep, though the man normally stayed up late. Downing did what seemed normal under the circumstances, went to the master bedroom door, which was ajar, and noted the bed was empty and neatly made. He called in a loud voice. There weren’t many rooms in this house where he wouldn’t have been heard, except downstairs in Mike’s exercise room. He went to the stairs, opened the door and called again. Again he was greeted with silence. He went down the stairs and walked through the luxurious little panoply of exercise equipment. That would be a logical thing to do, just to be sure that Mike hadn’t keeled over in some freak accident.

  Mike wasn’t here. He might be nearby, messing around with that young Swiss woman, Hilde, although Mike would have more logically brought the girl to his house, because Hilde, to his knowledge, didn’t have a car. And it would be a little obvious for an attorney of his stature to trundle through the neighborhood to that studio apartment of hers to get laid. Or maybe not. Sex drove even important people to do very dumb things.

  Even if he was down the street doing Hilde, would a paranoid guy like Mike Cunningham leave the front door open? A normal person wouldn’t.

  Downing went into the front hall, picked up the stack of mail that lay near the front door and tried to determine how many days it represented. One, maybe two days, maybe three. Downing had been in New York since Sunday night, arriving back in Washington early this morning. It would be hard to know when the man went missing, unless the neighbors noticed something.

  Would he be thought foolish calling the police? He tried to put it in perspective. This was a neighborhood where one man already had been found dead in the past seven days. What the hell was he waiting for?

  He started to call information, then cancelled that call and dialed 9-1-1.

  28

  Thursday, August 23

  Louise was still in bed, and Bill was in the bathroom, shaving, when there was a simultaneous ringing of the front doorbell and a loud knocking on the door itself.

  With shaving cream on the side of his face, Bill peered around the bathroom door and said, “Who the devil is that?”

  Louise slid out of bed and into her robe lying on the apricot bedside chair. “I’ll see.”

  Bill raised a finger and warned her, “Look first, honey. Don’t open the door if you see someone suspicious out there.”

  Without pausing to find her slippers, she hurried to the front door. Peeking through the vertical side window, her heart gave a thump. Looking in at her with wide, intent eyes were Dan Trace, George Morton and Mike Geraghty. She opened the door, though she didn’t want to. The presence of these three men could mean nothing but trouble.

  She set aside formalities such as “hello.” “What on earth are you doing here?” she asked. “My husband and I were just about to phone you people.”

  Lieutenant Trace said, “Ma’am, we’re pursuing a tip we received a short while ago. Uh, what was the nature of your call? Is it an emergency?”

  Yes, Lieutenant, it is: dirt splashed on my kitchen tiles, indicating an intruder has been in our home. She could tell by Trace’s expression that her intruder problem would pale in comparison to whatever matter it was that had brought three officers to their house at seven-thirty.

  “Why don’t you tell me first, Lieutenant Trace, just why you’re here.”

  “Is your husband at home, Mrs. Eldridge? I’d hoped we could talk to both of you at the same time.”

  Bill, who was still tying his robe, came up behind her. He said, “Hello, Lieutenant. Good morning, detectives. What can we do for you?”

  “We have a serious situation, I’m afraid, Mr. Eldridge,” said the lieutenant. “I don’t know if you noticed police activity in the neighborhood late last evening.”

  “Nope,” said Bill. “We were both too tired. What happened?”

  “Mr. Mike Cunningham, your neighbor, is missing.”

  “He is?” said Bill. “What does that have to do with us?”

  “Just a few minutes ago, the sheriff’s office got a tip as to where he was located.”

  “And where was that?”

  Louise gave a gasp, then prayed that what she feared wasn’t true.

  Lieutenant Trace looked calmly down at her from his great height. “We were told by this anonymous tipster that a person was digging in your vegetable garden late last night.”

  “No, no,” Louise said, and took a step backward until she felt Bill’s strong presence right behind her. She felt as if her body were melting. Bill kept her upright by putting his arms around her waist.

  “This is ridiculous,” snapped Bill.

  The lieutenant shrugged. “Well, let’s just see, shall we? It could be a prankster. But in view of the fact that Mr. Cunningham’s missing, we have to follow this up.” He gave Louise a smile. “Now, do you want us to get a court order or could we just, uh, go ahead?”

  “What do you think, Louise?” asked Bill. “I say just let them dig up the vegetable garden. They’ll get permission anyway, if they go to a judge.”

  Louise felt numb and cold. “Go ahead. How could we stop you?”

  “But first,” said Bill, “did this person say anything else?”

  The lieutenant bowed his head. Louise could see George Morton itching to interrupt, but he didn’t dare. Trace said, “Our tipster said the person was wearing a gardening-type hat, so we’ll want to investigate that shed of yours again. And the person was using your garden cart.”

  “Oh, my God,” she said, trembling, “the same tip you received before I dug up Peter Hoffman. Greg Archer, I bet that’s who called you.”

  Bill’s arms tightened around her.

  The lieutenant shook his head. “I have no idea, Mrs. Eldridge. We couldn’t determine who it was, man or woman. Let’s just put first things first, okay, and see what we find in that garden. Now we’ll give you and Mr. Eldridge time to get dressed and maybe have some coffee.”

  Louise and Bill dressed hurriedly and went first to the kitchen, where like an automaton Louise went through the machinations necessary to make Chemex coffee. Putting on the kettle, grinding the Kona beans, setting the coffee filter in the beaker-shap
ed pot, letting the water cool to just a few degrees below boiling, wetting the grounds first, then continuing to pour the water through the grounds until the glorious brown liquid rested in the pot. While she did this, Bill made toast.

  When they’d settled at the table, he said, “Let’s try to relax and enjoy a bite. Let them dig up your garden and not worry about it. I know you didn’t bury a body in with the onion sets. I was with you all evening.”

  “I might have tucked in a murder and a body burying after you fell asleep at eleven.” They clung together and laughed. But her body was still trembling.

  The next person at the front door knocked first and then opened the door. “Louise, Bill, it’s Sam Rosen. Can I come in?”

  Louise and Bill were still at the dining room table, drinking a second cup of coffee.

  Their neighbor’s eyes were wide with concern. “The cul-de-sac is filled with TV trucks again. Meantime, the cops out back are ruining our onions!”

  “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll get you coffee. Black, right?”

  “Right. They told me they got the tip early this morning. Just like the last one about Peter Hoffman.”

  Bill said, “You mean the press people are here already?” His eyes narrowed. “That’s interesting—they must have been tipped, too.”

  Sam accepted his cup of coffee from Louise with a smile and a nod. “Look, we can fix the garden, maybe even get some fresh onion sets. But what bothers me is that someone’s out to get you, Louise. It’s damned puzzling.”

  She sighed. “I tell you, Sam, I don’t know what to think. I’m at the end of my rope. I’m just going to hole up in my house and hope that the police can solve this thing. And before I forget, have you seen any strangers around our house? We’ve had a few funny incidents, as if someone may have broken in.”

  Sam laughed. “You mean strangers other than the constant stream of cops and press that hang around? Seriously, though, you know I’d tell you if I saw anything suspicious.”