by Ann Ripley
“I gathered that,” said Sarah, bitterness in her voice. “Who else would strike out at a man, a sick man at that, who’d treated her like his own daughter?”
“I’ll take care of her.” Louise glanced up quickly at her friend and gasped. Sarah was holding a foot-long gun and had it pointed straight at Hilde’s heart. Hilde had seen the weapon, too. The fight suddenly went out of her. She wilted back on the ground like a spent flower. Louise loosened her hold, sat back and tried to catch her breath.
“Good!” Sarah cried. “And don’t move again. My husband had better not be hurt, Hilde, or I’ll kill you with no hesitation at all.”
Louise had to do something quickly. She got to her feet. In the calmest voice she could muster, she said, “Let me hold that gun. Then you can go to Mort.”
Sarah’s voice was dangerously harsh. “You’re hurt, Louise. You can hardly walk. Get out of the way now. I’ll handle Hilde.” As she tried to shoulder her aside, Louise decided she’d have to use force to take the weapon from her friend. At that instant, a car careened around the corner. She saw the headlights of Bill’s Camry, turned on bright in his attempt to see through the rainstorm. He parked at an angle so that the lights lit up their little tableau. Sarah stopped in her tracks and shielded her eyes with one hand. Bill leaped out, stuffing his phone in his pocket as he ran toward them. “Hey, what’s going on?” he cried.
“Bill, hurry!”
He touched her shoulder and said, “Thank God you’re safe, Louise,” then quickly moved to Sarah’s side. “Sarah,” he said quietly, “let me take that gun while you tend to Mort.”
Sarah looked up at him with a mixture of tears and rain on her face. She handed over the weapon, then ran to her husband.
Bill shook his head. “I can only guess what’s happened here.”
“Keep that gun aimed at Hilde. She’s Kristina Weeren’s sister and has been out for vengeance. Not only did she kill two people, but she’s injured both Charlie Hurd and Mort, I don’t know how badly—”
“Charlie’s hurt, too?”
“He’s in Sarah’s studio. I think he’s pretty bad off. If you hand me your phone, I’ll call the police.”
“I’ve already called them. But Hilde—I can hardly believe it.”
“Yes—Hilde. And Bill, never tell me again that your timing’s off. Your timing’s perfect.”
As her husband focused his attention on the beautiful, bloody-faced villain in their midst, Louise could hear police sirens in the distance. Finally she felt safe. She gave way to the pain in her injured leg and slid down onto the puddly sidewalk. Unlike some Sylvan Valley sidewalks, it mercifully had no jagged edges sticking up.
35
Saturday, August 25
Bill took a final look out the front door and then joined Louise in the living room, where she lay on the couch, wearing her reading glasses. In between phone calls and visits from neighbors, she was reading her book.
“I see a U-Haul and some wooden crates being stacked at Sam’s front door,” said Bill. “Sam and Greg are standing out front, talking.”
“Arguing, or just talking?”
“Talking, but they both look kind of unhappy. Did Sam and Greg break up?”
Louise, her injured leg stretched out on the living room sofa, sighed. “I hope that I didn’t have anything to do with it, but I’m afraid I did. I can see why Greg might think I monopolize Sam on Saturdays.”
Bill grinned. “That’s because you do. I just accept that you both are compulsive gardeners.”
“Maybe Sam didn’t like the fact that Greg was so anxious to point the finger at me in those murders.”
“Greg did see a person in sweatshirt and hat riding that cart at the time Peter Hoffman was killed. Dan Trace told me that, amidst his effusive apologies last night. But he doesn’t think Greg was the one who phoned in on Mike Cunningham. He believes that person was Hilde herself, or rather Margit Hilde Weeren.”
“Greg suspected me of murder, Bill. And he may have embellished his story to make it worse.”
“You don’t know that for sure, do you?”
She looked over at her husband. “No, I don’t.” Why did he always have to put his finger on the truth? She was having guilt feelings enough about possibly ruining her friend Sam’s life. Talk about the need to apologize. Even with her gimpy leg, she needed to get over to her neighbors before it was too late.
She sat forward. “Uh, Bill, why don’t you hurry out and peek at them again.”
He did as instructed and came back. “Well, now they’re going back in the house. They’re bringing the crates back in.”
Relief flooded over her, and she sat back and sighed. “Maybe they’re giving it another try.”
“Louise, you didn’t do anything on purpose.”
“The trouble with me is that I’ve never gotten to know Greg. Actually, I know Hilde better than him. I even have a certain empathy for her.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m just saying that after I heard her story, I could see how she did these terrible things. Peter Hoffman was wealthy and hired the best lawyers. He spent only a brief time in a comfortable mental hospital as his punishment for killing and dismembering her sister. It ruined her parents’ lives as well as hers, and now she’s totally alone in this world. If that had happened to you or me, what would we have done?”
Bill shook his head. “We wouldn’t have gone after the perpetrator like she did, and the auxiliary players as well. She thought you’d also profited from her sister’s death. You might have been the next person on her list.”
She gave her husband a sober look. “I didn’t want to tell you, but her idea was to kill me and make it look like suicide. Then she could have calmly finished her summer internship and returned to Europe.”
He whistled between his teeth. “I knew you were in danger. But I didn’t know what direction the danger came from. Why did you begin to suspect her?”
“Only when you asked me to write down that journal. When they came over last night, Nora and Ron and Mary and Richard and I talked about the weird things Peter said at the party. That included the big fuss he made over Hilde. When I remembered how he looked at Hilde as if he knew her, I began to concentrate on her instead of the usual suspects. I recalled she’d had a disagreement with Elsebeth Baumgartner. So I called Elsebeth and learned the truth. We would have known much sooner that Hilde was Kristina’s sister if either Martha or I had talked to Elsebeth after she met the girl, for she knew right away that Hilde was flying under false colors.”
Bill chuckled. “The Swiss flag was not her flag.”
“You can honestly say this was a volunteer effort, Bill, with family and friends helping. Without Martha getting out and getting acquainted with people, we’d never have come to know about Hilde, nor would we have been able to tell the police about Downing’s antagonistic relationship with Mike Cunningham. Mary was the one who learned that Peter tattled on Lee Downing—”
“Not that business corruption had a thing to do with this,” said Bill.
“How does all this leave Phyllis Hoffman, I wonder?”
“Better off than when Cunningham was claiming the major part of Hoffman’s assets. On the other hand, she’ll have Lee Downing trying to cut into them. In spite of whatever the SEC charges him with, he was swindled by Peter Hoffman in that sales deal.”
Louise winced as she moved her sore leg. “At least I know our injured friends are improving. Charlie Hurd’s still in the hospital, but he’s improving. He wants to write what he calls a ‘groundbreaking’ first-person story about his encounter with a killer.”
“We could expect no less of Charlie,” said Bill, smiling.
“And then Mort. He’s out of the hospital and at home with Sarah. He told Sarah why he’s been so troubled.”
“And why was that?”
“He knew more than he told police. He knew the bare outlines of Mike’s and Peter’s deal with Lee Downing. Though he tried to
stay out of it, he suspected the worst kind of deception on their part. And he knew more about Phyllis Hoffman than he wanted to, even suspected these might be contract killings that she’d arranged.”
“They certainly did benefit her.”
“But she was his client, so he was reluctant to tell police his suspicions. It turned out they were groundless.”
“That sounds like Mort,” said Bill, shaking his head.
“Last night, when they brought over dinner, I heard news from Nora and Ron and Mary and Richard.”
“Oh, what of our troubled friends?”
“Not so troubled as they were. Nora and Ron are taking a quiet vacation on an island south of Cancún, to celebrate her fiftieth birthday.”
Bill smiled. “Maybe turning fifty will do it for her.”
“And Richard’s going back to work three days a week. He’s very happy.”
“He’s one of those men incapable of being retired, or anyway, not at fifty-five.” He moved closer to her on the couch, as close as her leg would permit. “Now let’s talk about us, Louise. It’s going to take me a while before I regain that sense of safety that I usually feel. I think I let you down, deserted you—”
“No, you didn’t, Bill.”
“The only answer is for you to come with me to Europe.”
She laughed in delight. “What a hardship. I’d love to.”
“We’ll leave early next week. You can wander the streets of Vienna while I’m in meetings, or else sit around and get your leg stronger. Then we can spend a week in Tuscany. You might even gain a few pounds eating good pasta.”
“Not a bad thing,” she said, drily, thinking of Marty Corbin’s criticism of her scrawny frame. She was happy to leave her job for a while. “Before we leave, though, we’re going to have a little supper for our friends, just like I promised.”
“Isn’t that taking on too much? How can you whip up a fancy dinner in two days?”
She tossed her hand in a careless gesture. “Martha’s given me lots of tips. I’ll chop some truffles into scrambled eggs for course number one. It’s supposed to be very gourmet. Then we’ll have roasted guinea hen for the main dish. Martha says it’s easy. She’ll stay in phone contact while I’m cooking in case I have a problem.”
Her husband looked down at her with furrowed brow. “If you say so, Louise. And of course we’re due home the first week in October, because of the wedding. By the way, how are the wedding plans? The girls must have it all together by now.”
The smile vanished from Louise’s face. “Not completely.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I know it will work out in the end. Janie’s been shopping on a daily basis. But she can’t find a wedding dress that Martha will sit still for.”
“What’s the problem?”
“They cost too much.”
Bill smiled broadly. “Too much materialism for our nonmaterial girl. Why don’t they try a secondhand clothes shop?”
Louise peered at him over her reading glasses. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
36
Lee Downing tapped his forehead, trying to remember who that general was in the Vietnam War known for proclaiming that he was beginning to “see the light at the end of the tunnel.” Ah, yes, his excellent memory prevailed. It was Westmoreland. However, the general had been wrong about that war, because America didn’t win it. But Lee was going to win his little war. Indeed, he could see light at the end of the tunnel, a flood of light.
Granted, he’d been through a bad patch recently. Outside of a little fun he’d had with Mike Cunningham and those party girls, the month he’d spent in Washington, D.C., had been a nightmare. To be cheated so royally by two other businessmen had made him lose some of the faith he had in himself; it had shaken him to his roots.
But things were looking up. His two adversaries were dead. Now it seemed as though he’d get out of this SEC mess with a fine—a huge fine, but a fine was better than going to court any day.
Getting the SEC off his back left him free to deal with Peter Hoffman’s widow. The woman was sitting on millions, but several of those millions were his. If she had a reasonable attorney, they ought to be able to settle, especially if a mediator was brought in. The outcome of this messy Hoffman Arms deal was extraordinary. To think that both Hoffman and Cunningham were removed from the scene by a mere girl! So much better than if he’d been stuck with getting rid of the two. Of course, he would have had no hesitation in doing so. Peter Hoffman was already dead by the time he’d figured out the extent of the scam. Lee was about a day away from calling in his muscle men to get rid of the other cheating bastard, Cunningham. But Hilde Brunner—or whatever her real name was—did it for him.
Hoffman’s little blond wife shouldn’t be that much trouble. After all, she was only a woman. Then, with a twinge in his chest, he remembered Hilde, who was also only a woman.
How had she fooled them all? She’d murdered swiftly and smoothly, and almost gotten away with it. Had it not been for Louise Eldridge’s constant little pickings at the scab, no one would have known who’d killed the two men, and Lee would have remained under suspicion. So he could thank the Eldridge woman for that much.
The twinge faded, and he began to feel more confident. He had nothing to fear from Phyllis Hoffman except a prolonged lawsuit.
Phyllis Hoffman sat straight-backed on the living room couch, a couch that would soon be given to the Goodwill. A pad and pen were on her lap, for when one moved one’s household, one needed a list. She wrote down “Buy new house,” “Set date for moving,” “Get movers,” “Buy new furniture.” Fortunately for her, after Mike Cunningham’s demise, Peter’s and her mansion was available again. The realtor was holding it for her.
But first things first. She’d close on the house soon, but she didn’t intend to get into the mundane job of sorting and moving her household effects until she found out what Lee Downing was up to. Mort Swanson had warned her that Downing might act fairly quickly, suing Peter’s estate to get compensated for overpaying for Hoffman Arms.
Phyllis stared out into the street and thought about the possibilities. She could settle with Downing. That might be the best way, since it seemed Peter had generous offshore accounts to be dipped into. Mort would prefer this, of course, instead of having to fight it out in court.
If the man became a major pest and wanted too much, Phyllis had another recourse. She could call up her Russian friend Sophie. Seeming to know that Phyllis had lots of challenges since Peter’s death, Sophie had approached her again with some enticing details. She’d said that her brother was a sophisticated man. He didn’t only work on the East Coast. He traveled in his job and was perfectly willing to follow someone home to West Texas to get the task done.
A GARDENING ESSAY
WILLING VOLUNTEERS IN THE GARDEN
Volunteers among the human population are special people who step up and help others who need them, easing their suffering and making their lives more enjoyable. Volunteers among the plant population are much the same. They spread themselves around our gardens and yards, making our labor less arduous and at the same time brightening our lives. They are particularly helpful to the busy gardener, the lazy gardener and the gardener with emerging back problems. They’re less suited to the neatnik gardener, for a garden where volunteers have their way can get out of hand unless carefully controlled.
We’re talking here not only about plants that seed themselves or otherwise manage to move themselves to other places in the garden, but also those that enlarge themselves through root, tuber or bulb development, multiplying themselves from one plant into a drift of plants.
Some varieties need little encouragement in these natural processes of nature, but the best environment in which to generate volunteer plants is a soil with good tilth that has been nurtured with compost and fertilizer.
Plants that seed themselves can provide constant surprises. Imagine how you might feel to see your garden turn scarlet in t
he spring. This can happen if you allow the beautiful deep red seedlings of the herb red orach to spring up unchecked. It is just one of scores of self-seeding plants that will make your garden a constantly changing delight. Scores of colorful volunteers will emerge if you allow even one plant go to seed in the fall. Seedlings can be thinned, with extra plants going to friends and relatives. Or you could leave a patch of them to grow up through various dramatic stages into a five-foot-high red jungle!
Similarly, chartreuse will predominate should you let dill spread in your garden and artistically fill in the spaces between such perennials as lilies, clematis and roses. In maturity, they have a lacy splendor that can’t be rivaled. Shake a packet of seeds onto a patch of garden, and you’ll create enough potential dill plants to last for years. Plants will not only reseed, but spread far and wide.
Another willing garden volunteer is the beautiful bronze variety of the fennel plant. It will reappear vigorously from seed in your garden. With its fine filigree foliage, the plant grows five feet tall and, best of all, will attract the parsley worm. Gardeners in the know will plant both fennel and dill for the express purpose of attracting this creature. The parsley worm is fetching, with white, yellow and black stripes. When disturbed, it has a cunning defense weapon. It pulls up a Y-shaped horn from behind its head that emanates a rancid-butter smell and discourages its enemies’ approach. But the magical thing about it is that it turns into the swallowtail butterfly. And there is nothing like having beauteous butterflies fluttering through the garden in late summer.
The beauty of letting herbs such as dill and fennel prosper in the garden is that they’re handy to be harvested for culinary purposes. There’s nothing nicer than going out to snip off plant tops to put in a green sauce or a salad.
Those who wish to be spared the job of thinning seedlings should remember this simple rule: deadhead the seedpods that form on your plants, and you’ll have few seedlings. The prudent gardener allows a few seedpods to mature and disperse, removing the rest.