Summer Garden Murder

by Ann Ripley

  “Yes, but I’m resisting. It’s bad enough that I can’t be with you after what’s happened. I’d like to be there with you.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll phone Nora, and she’ll either come over here, or else I’ll go to her place.”

  “That makes me feel better. And just so you won’t feel so hopeless about all this, I have a little project for you... .”

  Ron Radebaugh strolled along the edge of the patio, inspecting Louise’s plants, as she walked by his side to answer questions. “Now why is this yellow peony in bloom in late August instead of May?” he asked her. At the patio table, Mary Mougey was setting out five place settings, while her husband, Richard, poured wine. In Louise’s kitchen, Nora was making a salad. From a far distance they could hear thunder roll.

  “It’s a tree peony,” she told Ron. “It’s the kind that reblooms in late summer.”

  He nodded his approval and moved on to the next group of plants, then turned to her again. “And what’s this?”

  “Cimicifuga purpurea. Nicknamed ‘snakeroot.’ Do you like it? I just divided it and will happily give you a clump.”

  “Nora and I would love a clump.” He stole a look at her. “Are you also dividing those dynamite daylilies?” he asked, pointing to an array of rose-colored flowers with deep maroon throats.

  “Ron, I’ll happily give you some of those, too.”

  He grinned down at her. “I don’t come to visit your garden often enough.” Looking into this gray-haired man’s rugged face and gentle brown eyes, Louise wondered why Nora had ever been tempted to stray from their happy home.

  Just then Nora came out on the patio with a big black bowl. “Here’s the salad. Time to eat!”

  Her neighbors, laden with carryout, had made their friendly invasion of Louise’s place as soon as they discovered that Bill was delayed at the office and she was alone. She was hardly dressed for company. Because she’d needed solace after her mortifying visit to the TV station, she had changed into her oldest gardening clothes. In these clothes, she could be her real self, just a woman who loved family and gardening.

  Richard took a ceremonial taste of the white wine in his glass, closed his eyes and smiled. “Friends, I think you’ll like this one from our cellar. A nice little 2002 Greco di Tufo, from the Campagna region.” Cellar was a bit of a stretch, thought Louise, since like many Sylvan Valley residents, Richard and Mary’s house was on a concrete slab. The modest wine cellar was part of a kitchen addition on the first floor.

  “Pretty high-class wine to accompany Chinese carryout,” said Ron, serving himself some moo shu pork from among the white cartons on the table.

  Another thunder roll sounded, this one closer. “Are you sure we don’t want to move inside?” Louise asked the others, looking up at the roiling clouds forming above the tall trees. “The storm’s coming.”

  “We always prefer sitting amidst your flowers,” said Mary. “Let’s not move in until we have to.”

  As they ate dinner, they talked about other things, about the Radebaugh’s planned vacation and Richard’s second thoughts about quitting his job. It was not until they were finished that Ron asked, “Anything new, Louise, from the police? I hear they were poring over your property again today.”

  Nora tossed her head in what seemed like a futile gesture. “Let’s not talk about murders this evening. I find it very debilitating.”

  Mary Mougey laughed. “My dear, what else is there?”

  “Yes,” said Richard, nodding his long face. “It’s all the neighborhood will be able to think about until they take that yellow police tape down. Later, maybe we can have a party to celebrate the fact that a killer is no longer loose in the neighborhood.” He slyly added, “Though our numbers will be a bit down, now that Cunningham’s among the deceased—”

  His wife put a small rebuking hand on his arm. “Richard.”

  Nora said, “Murder and mayhem isn’t ‘all there is.’ ” She held up a small volume she’d brought with her. Her gray eyes widened hopefully. “I could read you a poem. This is Billy Collins’s latest.” The others looked at her without responding, and their poet friend’s shoulders slumped in discouragement. “He once was poet laureate.”

  “Sure, darling, do read us one,” said Ron, reaching over and caressing his wife’s arm.

  Nora shook her head. “No, though the poems are charming and thought-provoking.” She laid the book on the table. “I’ll leave it here for Louise to enjoy later. I think maybe it’s better for us to talk about what’s happened.”

  Louise looked gratefully at her friend. “I could use your help. You’ve heard about how the police found Mike Cunningham’s ring in our house. I could be arrested any time now.”

  Ron quietly asked, “Since the ring was in your house, why wouldn’t they suspect Bill just as well as you?”

  “Because I’m already a suspect in Peter’s murder, since they found my bloody sweatshirt in his grave. Because I am supposed to have a motive. And because I allegedly had the opportunity to kill both of these men.”

  “Ridiculous!” cried Mary.

  “Bill knows I’m feeling desperate,” continued Louise, “so he suggested that I write down everything I can remember about that party on August fourth, and anything that happened afterward. He thinks I might recall something important.”

  “For one thing, Peter dreamed up a phony conversation with you that night,” said Mary, recounting it almost sentence by sentence. “And finally he said, ‘Of course, Louise, I’d love to talk to you ...’ He was just acting.”

  “What amazed me,” said Ron, “was that the police didn’t slap the guy in jail for going over to your house and practically assaulting you.”

  Louise said, “That’s because George Morton believed his story. And he had corroborating witnesses: Sam Rosen, Greg Archer and even Mort Swanson. Hoffman was expert at twisting reality.”

  “It kept him from landing in jail for assault,” said Ron.

  “He said something extraordinary to Hilde Brunner that night, too,” said Mary. “I remember it. He said”—Mary’s voice now became low and intimate—“ ‘My dear girl, you are like a dream.’ ”

  The others laughed at her imitation of a lothario. Louise recalled that remark, too, for though she was ashamed of it now, she’d wished her husband said things like that to her.

  Nora said, “It was rather banal, don’t you think?”

  Richard laughed. “Men dream up those remarks and then practice them in front of the mirror before they deliver them.”

  “I also recall he likened her to a Botticelli,” said Nora. “Or was it Titian?”

  Mary, who was fanning herself now, said, “It’s because Hilde is a dream with that rosy hair and coloring and lovely figure. Peter was always bowled over by every pretty woman who crossed his path.”

  Louise said, “The way he said it sounded odd.”

  “I agree, Louise,” said Mary, “but I’m really impatient with our police. Why should we have to sit here and deconstruct everything said at a neighborhood party to try to save the reputation and future of an honest woman like you? Surely with all their manpower, they can find the person who did these ghastly things. There must have been a dozen police milling around your yard yesterday and today.”

  Nora added, “And especially with all the information that Bill has dug up for them.” Nora had always admired Bill, sometimes to the point where it was uncomfortable for Louise, back before she knew Nora’s loyalty as a friend superseded any predatory thoughts she might have about her husband. “He’s so smart,” she told the others. “Louise tells me it’s he who led the police to uncover the murky business deals of Lee Downing.”

  Louise filled them in on the details, after which Richard said, “Everything points to Downing. No question.”

  “Martha played tennis with him,” recalled Louise. “She thought he was awfully tough. Do you remember him saying anything that might be useful?”

  Her friends shook their heads.
Ron leaned back in his chair. “I read him as a fairly ruthless entrepreneur, not much into talk, just into making those quarterly results meet market expectations.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I conclude from what you said that he has plenty of trouble now with the SEC.”

  “How about Mike Cunningham?” persisted Louise. “Did he leave us with any hints? Personally, I can’t remember one meaningful thing he ever said to me, though he did divulge a few details about the Hoffman Arms sale.”

  Nora sniffed and said, “I remember nothing but sexual innuendos.”

  Mary lowered her eyes. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but the man was horrible.”

  The silence that followed her statement indicated the others’ agreement.

  A few raindrops fell on them. Louise saw her guests worriedly looking at the lowering sky. “You need to go home before the storm breaks,” she told them.

  Ron frowned and looked at her. “But Louise, have we helped you at all?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” she replied.

  By the time they’d cleared the table and cleaned up the few dishes, the winds had risen and the tall windows of the house hummed with the vibration. “Let me help you close the drapes,” said Nora, stepping over and pulling one of the cords. “This is the kind of storm that breaks double-paned windows.”

  Louise bade her friends good-bye and said she might come over later. “I have new locks, though, and they make me feel quite safe. Maybe I’ll stay home and read Billy Collins.” They hurried away, and Louise threw the bolt on the front door and went to the family room and closed the drapes. She told herself that now she should settle down with the poetry book. But she was too unsettled. She wondered if she would ever relax again.

  Realizing she’d forgotten to lock the outside garden toolshed, she opened the curtains and the door and hastened across the patio to do so, then hurried back into the house.

  Again her thoughts went back to the murders. She and her friends had gone over that infamous August fourth party. What had they forgotten?

  One thing was obvious: almost everything Peter Hoffman did and said while he was at the party was calculated ahead of time. It was theater. The only unprogrammed moment now stood out clearly in Louise’s mind. He’d expressed amazement at the sight of Hilde Brunner, almost as if he recognized her.

  Why would he recognize Hilde?

  She wished Martha and Janie were still here so that they could talk this over. Taking a glance at her watch, she decided to phone her daughters. She was doubtful she’d catch them, since it was eight o’clock in the Windy City, and Louise couldn’t picture the young people staying home in Martha’s apartment at eight o’clock on a nice summer night.

  32

  Louise felt as if she’d caught a lifeline when her call was answered.

  “We’re eating a pizza from Old Chicago and watching a reality show,” said Janie. “Last night, Ma, we went to Andy’s Lounge. I loved it. A jazz place, you know—really old Chicago at its best with Billy Goat Lounge just down the street. I tripped over a rip in the carpeting at the club, so my ankle’s in an Ace bandage. But the music was worth it.”

  “You sound wonderful, Janie. Um, have you found Martha a wedding dress?”

  “I think so, Ma,” said Janie. “I’ve certainly tried. I’ve been out shopping by myself every day since we got here. Today, I limped out and shopped and put another dress on hold. I think it’s the one. The busy bride-to-be has to get herself over to the store and try it on. But you’re the person we’re worrying about. How are you? Have the cops found the killer?”

  Should she tell her daughter the truth, that her hands were shaking again, that she was losing weight and being criticized for it by her producer, that she was essentially falling apart? “They haven’t found the killer. But I’m doing pretty well in spite of that. So you’re having fun.”

  “Actually, Ma, it’s the first time I’ve been treated like a grown-up by Martha in my whole life. She’s always been a grown-up, while I have always been the kid. And Jim Daley, why, you’d think I was just a friend instead of Martha’s little sister.”

  “That’s wonderful. Janie, I need to talk to your sister for a minute to get some information about ... well, about Elsebeth.”

  “Elsebeth?” said Janie in surprise. “Sure. I’ll put her on in a minute, but first, I can only warn you—take a gun.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I know you, Ma. I can tell by your tone of voice that you’ll be out in the neighborhood poking around again. And we’re not there to stop you. Just take a weapon if you go somewhere, because I have a feeling in my gut that the murderer lives in the neighborhood. Do you promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Now I’ll put Martha on.”

  “Ma, how’s it going?” asked Martha.

  “At your father’s suggestion, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. God knows I don’t dare do anything else or the police will descend on me. But I recalled some odd remarks made by Peter Hoffman the night of that party. There was one in particular. It was about Hilde.”

  “About Hilde? I thought Hoffman didn’t know her.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “What did he say to her?”

  “It wasn’t what he said so much as the fact that he seemed to recognize her. And then I remember another incident about Hilde. She and Elsebeth argued over language.”

  “Ma, it didn’t amount to anything.”

  “Elsebeth is the most amiable woman in the world. If she was annoyed, there must have been a reason.”

  “Believe me,” said Martha, “it was trivial. The Swiss and the Germans and the Austrians all have their own way of using the Germanic language. This was just a little argument, not even an argument, about the word for ‘salad greens.’ I didn’t think it was important.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Not then. But why don’t you call Elsebeth? We never had a chance to talk about Hilde. She probably could tell you more about why she disapproved of her. You’re not thinking—”

  “I’m not thinking anything yet, Martha. As a matter of fact, I’m just sitting here alone as a storm breaks overhead, grasping at straws.”

  “Elsebeth, it’s Louise Eldridge.”

  “Oh, Louise. I’m sorry to hear about this latest horrible discovery in your yard. It was all over the news. Are you all right? Do you need my help there?”

  “Not right now, but thanks for the offer. I’ve called about a small thing that’s bothering me. I just talked with Martha, and she suggested I phone you and see if you could straighten it out. It’s about that young woman you met last Monday when she came over for lunch.”

  “Yes. Hilde. The Swiss girl who’s Martha’s friend.”

  “Hilde’s not really her friend,” said Louise. “She’d just barely met her. She’s here for the summer and lives in the neighborhood.”

  “Oh. If I’d known they weren’t close, I might have said something to your daughter that day.”

  “Did you think there was anything strange about Hilde? Martha told me you didn’t seem to like her.”

  “Oh, I didn’t dislike her, but I certainly disapproved of her. She isn’t who she says she is.”

  “She’s not?”

  “She’s certainly not Swiss.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Elsebeth made some chuckling noises. “I could tell at once. She doesn’t have that singsongy way of talking that the Swiss have. And the salad. She insisted on using the German word ‘Vogerlsalat,’ when any Swiss would have called it ‘Nüsslisalat.’ But I didn’t quarrel with that. It was when I said ‘Servus.’ That’s a German greeting for both ‘hello’ and ‘good-bye.’ A Swiss would have answered me with ‘Ciao.’ Most people know that as an Italian greeting, but the Swiss use it too. Sometimes they spell it the German way—T, s, c, h, a, u—‘Tschau.’ ”

  “So she’s German.”

  “Well, no. I would say with her accent that she’s Austrian.�
��

  Louise felt as if someone had hit her in the solar plexus. Kristina Weeren was also Austrian.

  Now she knew why Peter Hoffman had thought Hilde was “like a dream.”

  Hilde was not like a dream but more like a nightmare.

  “Elsebeth, thank you.”

  “Tschau, Louise.”

  “Tschau.”

  It was impossible to wait, impossible to stay home when she thought she now knew the truth. If only she had someone to go with her she would feel much better. Where was Charlie Hurd, for instance, when she could use him? She looked at the reporter’s number posted on the refrigerator. His phone rang, but Charlie didn’t answer. It was useless to leave a message.

  She thought about her husband’s warnings and Janie’s. She knew that if she were to go out, she needed a weapon in case the strange scenario she suspected turned out to be true. Standing arms akimbo in the living room, she considered getting Bill’s Beretta out of its locked box in the bedroom closet. But guns had always repelled her, and she doubted she’d shoot very straight. She had other perfectly good modes of defense.

  Unlocking the series of locked doors as she went, she retrieved her secateurs from the toolshed, noting that the rain was now beginning to fall in large sheets. Ducking back into the house, she thrust the sharp tool and her telephone into the pocket of her Japanese gardening pants. She was now ready for anything.

  33

  Louise got out of her car just as a huge lightning bolt tore the sky, followed by a thunderclap that made her step back in fright. Only a fool, she thought, would go out in a storm like this one unless she had a mission. And she did. She pulled the hood of her rain poncho closer around her face and tied the string fastening under her chin. The top half of her was dry, though the bottoms of her old gardening pants were soaked the minute she left the car. She ran up the driveway.

  Then she saw the fire. She’d heard of it, but had never seen it before. Saint Elmo’s fire was so spectacular that she had to stop and watch, even though rain streamed down her face and lightning threatened to bolt her to the ground. Like a light show, flame-like pulses of static electricity danced back and forth along the wide roof of the Swanson house.