Mulch

by Ann Ripley

  She picked at the eggs and situated her feet at the ready, in case she needed to rush to the bathroom.

  Surprisingly the eggs slid right down and tasted delicious. She sipped a glass of milk he had brought her, then sampled the coffee. “You’ve saved me again.”

  He smiled a little. “I knew you weren’t going to be a total loss.” He looked at his watch. “Although I didn’t figure you’d sleep this long—eleven-thirty.”

  She looked at him quickly and then looked back at her plate. “I didn’t really get that drunk, did I? I mean, I don’t remember drinking that much.”

  “You didn’t,” Bill assured her. “But somehow you didn’t eat anything, so everything you drank went to your head.” He sat back and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’d say, on a scale of one to ten, ten being stinkin’ drunk, you were seven and a half—maybe eight.” He grinned. “You were actually kind of funny, and not too gross.”

  “Oh, indeed,” she said, looking at him closely as if for the first time. Sometimes Bill thought he was so funny. “Tell me more.”

  “You know. You kind of minced around, trying not to collide with large objects, and from what I heard, trying to make sense even though your head was probably spinning all to hell-and-gone.” He chuckled.

  “Bill Eldridge, you’re just mean.” She drank her coffee and wouldn’t look at him.

  He reached a hand over and put it on hers. “Okay, honey, I won’t tease you any more. The only one who even mentioned your condition was Eric. Said you were asking him nosy questions that implied he might be the mulch murderer—but I can’t believe you did that—or did you?”

  She looked up at him silently, like a kid who’d been caught. “Can’t remember; I guess I must have.”

  “Aw, Louise—”

  “I know, he’s in your poker club. But last night, Mary and I were trying to check the men out. I won’t believe in anyone’s innocence until someone is proven guilty.”

  “Hmm. I guess you have a point. Hope we have some men friends left afterward. Now, let me get you some more coffee, and then I want you to tell me what you and Peter Hoffman talked about.”

  “Oh, him.” Through the mists of alcohol and dreamless sleep came the memory of Peter. The man she was supposed to analyze. “Since I was a little bombed, I was laboring under somewhat of a disadvantage.” She turned her mouth down sardonically. “I guess I wasn’t in my top form as an observer.”

  “You guys spent a lot of time eating dessert together in Janie’s bedroom, didn’t you? You must have talked about something.”

  She looked at him. “I’ll tell you what I remember, if you’ll tell me what you and Nora were talking about during dinner.”

  Bill looked pleased. “Oh, Nora and me? We had a great talk. She is some woman.”

  Louise brushed a stray clump of hair out of her eyes. “I know she’s some woman. That’s what all you men think. I just want to know what you were talking about.” She cast an angled glance at her husband. “You looked like you were thick as thieves, and planning something … like a love tryst or something.”

  “Oh, did we?” His slightly hooded eyes with their devilish glint belied his innocent mien. He grabbed Louise and pulled her up. “Let’s go sit on the couch and relax. First, you tell me what Peter had to say. Then I’ll reveal all about Nora.”

  They settled on the couch. Louise began. “Let’s see, first, he seemed really interested in Janie, and wanted to know who Chris was. Then, let’s see, what did we talk about? Oh, I asked him about his appointment. And he told me he was very sharp about weaponry—invented them, et cetera.”

  “Was he interesting? Did you like him? Would you trust him?”

  Louise shook her head a little, as if remembering. “Oh, he was very kind, and actually kind of charming.” She looked at him without smiling. “There was one thing that bothered me … oh, and he asked a couple of questions about finding the body in the yard.”

  “Oh?” he said. “What did he ask?”

  “Nothing much. Had it bothered us to be pestered by the police and the press; was there anything new that the detectives had found lately that I knew about …”

  “Hmmm,” said Bill.

  Louise grabbed Bill’s arm. “But there’s something I really didn’t like about him.” Her eyes widened. “There’s something about that man with Janie. He looked at her as if he wanted to devour her. And she was—what would you say, captivated by him, too. It really scared me.”

  “What did he do?” He frowned with concern.

  Louise shook her head. “Nothing you could put your finger on. It was just the way he looked at her, and touched her hair. Then he took his hand and tilted her chin up. It was very intrusive. You can bet I dragged her away in a hurry.”

  Bill stared into space. “Interesting. But the guy charmed most everybody else. A number of our friends thought he was brilliant.”

  She shivered. “I just wouldn’t want our daughters anywhere around him.”

  “And I thought it was you he was coming on to.”

  She looked at him and frowned. “You don’t think I can tell that? I know he was flirting with me, too. I know how to take care of myself, don’t think I don’t.”

  He smiled and reached over and rubbed her back. “This is a new Louise Eldridge I seem to be living with. I like her. And now I suppose you want to hear about Nora and me.”

  “It’s your turn.”

  24

  No One Listens

  JANIE HAD FIRST FELT THE CRAMPS IN CHURCH. She hoped the minister wouldn’t talk too long, and miraculously he didn’t. Now, walking home, the pains were getting sharper. She told herself she was not nauseated. Still three blocks to go. She made her steps into a glide so her lower stomach would not be jarred.

  Last winter, just before she turned fifteen, was the first time it had happened. She thought she had appendicitis. But then the blood came, her first “period.” A moment of mixed feelings, including pride in becoming a woman at last. Her mother told her that the first periods sometimes brought cramps but that later her body would adjust. Now, two blocks from home and feeling the pain increase, she slowed her step and thought wanly about a whole lifetime of months of bloody periods and sickening cramps.

  When she got home her mother would give her a golden pill that worked like magic.

  “Hey, you sure got up early!” Chris bounded across a woodsy yard, wearing jeans and jacket and clasping his basketball with expert long fingers, tossing it up in little spinning twists, then beating it rapid-fire a few times on the sidewalk. As if to say, here I am with my signature basketball. I know you like me.

  She smiled but did not otherwise respond. He fell in step with her and looked at her curiously. “You look pale. What’s the matter? You don’t look nearly as good as you did last night. Maybe you should have slept in like I did.”

  She looked at him obliquely. “Chris, it’s not exactly polite to tell girls how bad they look. As a matter of fact, I don’t feel very well.”

  “Oh. What is it, that time of month?”

  She felt herself blushing. “Oh, boy, I can’t keep any secrets from you, can I?” She shook her head. “As a matter of fact, it is. I only admit this because you’re my friend.” She walked with her head down; her face was hot. Since last night Janie knew Chris was more than a friend. They thought alike. They had fun together. He had even offered to study math with her to bring her along faster. It made her whole body feel feverish. Or maybe it was her period. Whatever. Her life had changed, and she was becoming very committed to this boy, who was almost a man.

  “So. Guess what I did this morning?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her thoughts softening her tone toward him.

  “I called up Tracey.”

  Janie’s heart lurched. Her voice was lower. “Tracey, what’s her name?” She knew her last name as well as her own. “Burton, is it?”

  “Yeah, you know. Tracey Burton.” The ball in his flying fingers was now
going up as high as he could pitch it without moving his arms upward. Up and down to his waiting palms.

  “Why did you call her?”

  “I invited her to the winter dance.” His voice had a slight mocking quality, as if she should already know why he called this fellow classmate of his.

  “Oh.” A hollow “oh.”

  “It was really cool.” He threw the ball far, far up to show how cool it was. “I’m ‘Hi, Tracey, this is your chemistry partner. Whaddaya know?’

  “She’s, ‘Oh, it’s you, Chris’—real girlish, like girls are when they know someone’s called them up probably to invite them somewhere—’how are yuh anyway?’

  “I’m, ‘You know the dance is coming up. I bet you’re going, right?’

  “She’s totally silenced. She’s, ‘I was going to go with someone, but then …’

  “So I don’t want her to suffer from embarrassment or anything so I’m, ‘How about going with me? We’ve proved we can do scientific experiments together; maybe we can show them how on the dance floor.’ Actually,” and he turned to Janie with an uncertain look, “I’m a terrible faker on the dance floor.”

  She looked at him briefly and then turned frostily away.

  He held the ball still for a moment and looked over at her. “Well, anyway, she’s, ‘I’d love to go with you, Chris.’”

  He was silent for an instant. “You didn’t think I was going to ask you, did you?”

  She held her chin high and tried to keep a tremble out of her voice. “Of course not. Why would you ask me?” She felt like she was falling down a hole.

  The ball ended its time out and was now busily traveling up in the air again. “Well, because we’re pals. Of course, you’re only fifteen. So I couldn’t exactly ask you, since I’m almost eighteen.” He looked enthusiastically at her, as if they might both enjoy a change of subject. “I’ll be eighteen in July; want to help me celebrate?”

  Janie reached back into what she thought of as her private reservoir of strength. She had needed it a lot this year, leaving old friends behind when they moved, enduring a certain aloofness from her fellow sophomores at the new high school. She knew she could either be brave or burst into tears and drive him away. She knew her mother sometimes cried, and her father didn’t mind it; in fact, sometimes it made him very tender.

  Somehow she didn’t think Chris could handle a girl crying. More important, she didn’t want to cry—not over this. She remembered how much fun she and Chris had had last night, and she knew she would win him in the end.

  Provided, that is, that she wanted him.

  She smiled at him. The bad moment was gone. “I would love to celebrate your eighteenth with you.”

  “Okay, kid.” He slung an arm around her shoulders and they walked in step, slower because of Janie’s dress shoes. “Now let’s talk about that Peter guy I met last night. Remember him? What did you think?” Chris’s brow was knotted in a seldom-used frown.

  “How could I forget him! He was scary. I think Mom thought he was trying to pick me up or something.”

  He squeezed her shoulder. “She was right. I think he likes nymphets.”

  Her eyes blazed. “I am not a nymphet!”

  “You were last night,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re not today. But sometimes you are, more often than not these days.”

  She blushed again and sighed. “Oh, Chris, I don’t even know what a nymphet is. It makes me sound like a … a slut, or something.”

  “Nymphet’ implies neither positive nor negative values; it only means a pretty, young girl. Haven’t you read Lolita? Never mind, I’ll explain it later. Anyway, back to that guy. There’s something about that guy I didn’t like. It made me feel like I had to protect you against him.”

  She looked over at him and smiled. “Thanks, Chris.”

  He gave her a short peck on the cheek. They had reached the turn into the cul-de-sac; he dropped his arm from her shoulder.

  He began bouncing his basketball vigorously on the sidewalk. “Why don’t you go get those fancy clothes off and we’ll do a little investigating, okay?”

  “Okay.” She hurried up the sidewalk toward her house. She felt better; after taking a golden pill, she’d be ready for anything.

  Geraghty tilted far back in his old chair, and then snapped up straight. He fastened his bright blue eyes on the pair of them. “So, to sum it up so far, you say you were at a party given by your”—he pointed his pencil at Janie—“parents, and you, Chris”—now the pencil was pointed at Chris’s heart—“eavesdropped at a bedroom door—”

  Janie interrupted in a quiet voice. “We were both there, but we weren’t eavesdropping, Detective Geraghty.” She knew Chris beside her was awestruck by this big policeman, but he had been to her house so many times to question her family that she was used to him. “We were trying to find my mother, and we were just being polite and waiting for the conversation to finish.”

  Geraghty waved the hand with the pencil in dismissal and leaned comfortably back. “Whatever you want to call it. You heard a conversation not meant for your ears, right?”

  “Right, sir,” said Chris. “Was that wrong or something?”

  Geraghty sat forward again, his chair screeching in complaint. “Not at all, son.” He gave the two a smile. It was the first friendly sign since they walked in to tell their story. Janie thought he looked like a big honey bear at home in his messy nest.

  “Good thing you caught me here when you phoned,” said Geraghty. He sighed. “It’s not my habit to work on Sunday. The wife doesn’t like it. But this mulch case was naggin’ at me.” He frowned and looked down at an open rile on the littered desk. Then he looked up at Chris and Janie and nodded. “So I’m willing to listen to this conversation you unintentionally heard.” He waggled his hand at them. “Just sit back, the two of you, and relax. Then you tell me everything you heard. Either one of you chime in when you want to.”

  “What I first noticed,” said Janie, “was he was, oh, coaxing, as if he wanted information or something.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Geraghty. “Whoa. What were they doing in the bedroom, Janie? Was he getting his coat?”

  Chris answered for her. “It’s one of those really big parties some people throw—you know, when there’s not enough room for everyone, and they’re eating their dinner in their laps, and catering ladies are running around—you know, buffet style.”

  Janie slid a glance at him. “I suppose your mother only gives intimate little dinners.”

  “Yah,” said Chris, grinning and tossing his blond hair back. “That’s her style, I guess: little dinners where they sit around the table really late and drink out of little glasses.”

  “Liqueur,” she said dismissively, in an accent that reflected her skill in conversational French. Then she looked over at Geraghty. “This was a different kind of a party than the usual in our house. It was business. My dad invited his business friends, and then they invited some of the neighborhood people, including this Peter Hoffman and his”—she rolled her eyes upward—“wife.”

  Geraghty said, “What’s your impression of his wife?”

  “Very flashy,” said Janie, leaning forward. She put out both thin hands and splayed her fingers. “Big diamonds on both of her hands.” She swooped her hands over her breasts and down her body. “A tight fuzzy sweater with big gold dangles on it, and a long, tight skirt.”

  Chris looked at her. “Janie, he doesn’t want to hear about that.” He looked at Gcraghty. “Do you?”

  Geraghty almost smiled. “You can’t tell what little details might help. But you were talking about their conversation in the bedroom. Janie, you thought he was prying information from your mother?”

  Janie thought for a moment. “Yes, that’s what it was like. And she, well, she wasn’t herself that night.” She looked down at her hands in her lap. “She isn’t a drinker at all, but she must have had a couple of drinks.”

  Chris chimed in. “She was a little drunk�
�quite a little drunk.” He paused. “But maybe not that bad; staggering a little when she walked, but she could still walk.” Janie felt her face burn. Then Chris added enthusiastically, “And it might have loosened her tongue; alcohol loosens your tongue.”

  Geraghty looked at Chris. “You’re almost eighteen, and you’re not a drinker, eh?”

  “No, sir,” said Chris, smiling, “not yet. I may be. Some of my best friends are.”

  Geraghty stared in the distance, as if remembering a lost youth. “Drinking isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You’re smart if you can …” He shook his head. “Never mind. Tell me, Janie, what did this man ask your mom?”

  “Obviously they were talking about the mulch murder. And she was just finishing up telling him something—”

  Chris leaned forward in his chair and interrupted. “And he said, ‘How can you be sure of that since almost two months have passed?’ and Janie’s mom—Louise, that is—she says, They thought I might remember some important detail, but I didn’t get hypnotized.’” Chris looked at Janie. “I didn’t know they tried to hypnotize your mother.”

  Geraghty said, “The police don’t publicize those things in a murder investigation. Mrs. Eldridge—Louise—is right.” He smiled. Janie had seen men smile before when they talked about her mother. It was very annoying. “She wasn’t a good subject for hypnotism,” Geraghty recollected, “in spite of having one of the best hypnotists in the nation.” He had regained his serious look. “Now, this is important. Try to tell me exactly what came next.”

  Janie and Chris looked at each other. Janie continued. “Mom said, ‘So tonight I’ve finally remembered something—about a car—that could be important in solving the crime.’ He sat back and looked at her and said, really casual, ‘If you think that might be important, aren’t you going to tell the police?’ And she said, what did she say then, Chris?”

  “She’s, ‘Yes, I’ll probably give them a call on Monday. Even though those headlights may not be as important as I think.’”