Death of a Political Plant

by Ann Ripley

It only took her a moment to realize she had blown it. She should have left him alone. But instead she had to use force. Now, she was too embarrassed to call 911. What if he was what he said he was: a realtor, who was snooping around where he didn’t belong?

  She had to find out. Quickly she reopened the door and went outside. Hearing an engine being started, she ran down the front path in time to see a low black car turning out of the cul-de-sac. He was gone as mysteriously as he had arrived.

  Then she recalled the big gray foreign car wheeling around Dogwood Court on the day before. It had not seemed remarkable at the time, since it came and left so quickly. What the cars had in common, she now remembered, was that both had tinted windows so the driver could barely be seen. Jay McCormick had to be the reason: Someone was bent on tracking him down, and at least had found the house where he lived.

  Perhaps it was just as well he was moving across the street.

  Out of curiosity, she followed the path next to the addition that the stranger must have used to flee her yard. She stood there, arms akimbo, staring at the ruin. He had plowed through her finest woods garden, bruising prized hostas and knocking over tall golden spires of ligularia, thalictrum, and white anemone. Worse yet, his path took him straight through her front garden, where he had trampled her toad lilies, which were just coming into magnificent spotted bloom!

  Her cousin’s child, Sally, had been equally bumbling, but not nearly as big.

  Then she turned and went into the house, swallowed her pride, and called 911. She would feel foolish if the police discovered the man was a realtor. But as far as she knew, realtors didn’t carry weapons. After all, that was no way to sell a house.

  Nine

  TESSIE STRAHAN WOULDN’T TAKE no for an answer. When she phoned, Louise did not come right out and say, “I’m afraid you can’t stay at my house” an action Nora would have applauded. Instead, she merely pointed out to this past president of the Perennial Plant Society that it would be more convenient for her and her two colleagues to stay at the Hilton in Washington, where their convention was being held.

  “But Louise, we’re writing that big article about you,” said Tessie, in a voice that sounded like a nail gun. “That’s going to take sitting down together. Besides, it will be restful to get away from those two hundred growers and designers at the convention for a couple of nights. We won’t be any trouble. You don’t know us. We’re the kind who pitch in and help a body. And we all want to see your garden. We bet it’s wonderful.”

  Garden: Louise quaked inwardly. These rising expectations scared her. The gardens had been dandied up, true, but were still like patched-up patients who had been in very bad car accidents. Oh, little Sally, she thought, how you have marked the world. And now the clumsy stranger had diminished yet another one of her prize beds; it was yet to be seen whether the flower stalks were broken or merely bent.

  “Then if you’re sure,” said Louise resignedly, “I’ll expect you later this afternoon—and in time for dinner, of course.”

  “With setting our exhibits up in the convention hall, we may not get there until right around six,” said Tessie. “Don’t worry about dinner.”

  “Oh, but I already have it planned.”

  “Barbara McNeil and Donna Moore are the others, you remember, and Barbara is a gourmet cook: She’s bringing some special fixings for the meal. You’ll no doubt have a few basics. She has morel mushrooms, special herbs, pasta from Pennsylvania, things like that.”

  Louise thought of her carefully prepared fast-fix meal. “Oh, well, that will be fun,” she said, wandering if it would be at all. “See you later. It will be wonderful to get better acquainted.”

  She had the vegetables prepped by the time she heard the puttering of the motor of Jay’s old car, as it gave a last little flutter of rebellion after the motor was turned off. When he walked in the kitchen, she could see the man was in worse shape than when he had arrived a week ago: his color poor, his clothes scruffier, and lines of worry carving his face. He smiled nonetheless, that familiar, crooked smile that used to get right inside her.

  “So you’re really kicking me out.”

  “Those women are definitely coming. I’ll help you move your things across the street.”

  “No way, Louise. I don’t want to cause you more trouble. I don’t have that much to move.”

  She busied herself putting the extra vegetables back into their plastic bags. “I’m sorry we haven’t had more chance to talk since you’ve been here, Jay.”

  He watched her work with a stare like a sleepwalker, and she could tell that even now his mind wasn’t here—it was far away. “You have to forgive me for being rude. It’s just that I’ve been so nervous about Melissa and whether she’ll still be there when it’s time for me to pick her up.”

  “This is the eve of departure for the two of you, then.”

  “Friday’s the big day.” He leaned back, crossed his arms on his chest, and looked as if he might actually relax and share some of his thoughts with her. “Three days is all I’ll need to finish my work. I have it all scheduled with Lannie, who of course doesn’t know I’m already here; she thinks I’m flying in from California. I pick up a new car Friday morning, then swing over and get Melissa and her things, and we start our road trip across the country back to Sacramento.” He swayed a little, as if overwhelmed with fatigue.

  In two strides she had reached him and steadied him from falling. “Good heavens, Jay, you’re dead tired, I can tell. Why don’t you sit down; I’ll fix you some dinner.”

  “No, no” He pulled away from her and walked slowly into the dining room and took hold of the back of a Hitchcock chair for support. “All right, that’s a good idea: I’ll eat something, but not dinner. Just coffee and a roll, if you have one.” He lowered himself shakily into the chair. “You’re right, Louise, I’m worn out. I feel like I’m about a hundred years old, but I’ll go to your friend’s house and hit the sack tonight and feel great tomorrow.”

  She made a fresh pot of coffee, defrosted some sticky buns in the microwave, and chopped a couple of peaches into big hunks, then brought the food and sat down at the dining room table with him. He rapidly consumed two of the pastries and devoured the peach chunks. Seeming to feel better, he gave her one of his slow smiles. “How can I ever say to you the things I want to say? One of these days—soon—you’ll understand what this is all about.”

  “Look, your life is private; we don’t need to know everything. I’m only sorry Bill is gone and won’t be home in time to say good-bye to you, and that you won’t get a chance to meet Janie.”

  “But I want our families to meet, and soon. My life is going to settle down, there’s no doubt about it: just Melissa and me in our little house.” He reached out a hand and put it on top of hers and gave it a squeeze, and they sat there companionably, as old friends should.

  She hated to spoil the mood by bringing up the subject of the strange man who had intruded upon her yard that morning, and the fact that she had called the police to check him out. When she described him, Jay chuckled. “Mafia, maybe? But seriously, Louise, it probably was what you suspected: a real estate broker. They’re always poking around, and the way you treated him, I doubt he’ll ever make a cold call in this cul-de-sac again. It certainly hasn’t anything to do with me, I can tell you that. The people who would be looking for me are ‘suits,’ suits who would look mad as hell.”

  She drew in her breath in surprise. If that menacing man hadn’t sought jay, who was he after? She would have mentioned the gray car, but now it seemingly had nothing to do with Jay. No, more likely to do with her husband. Bill’s trip to Vienna had plunged them right back into the nervous world of spying.

  Later, Jay packed his clothes and computer and she helped load things in his car. She promised that Charlie Hurd would be the only one to know his whereabouts. She watched him drive far into Mary Mougey’s driveway, out of sight of anyone entering Dogwood Court. He left nothing behind in the room, not
the smallest scrap of paper.

  Then she was left alone for an hour, sans children, sans husband, sans houseguest, free to worry about strangers in the neighborhood and the state of her garden and to clean up the guest bedroom. She was glad her house would be filled with company tonight. It was one thing to confront a pistol-packing stranger by daylight, and quite another to encounter him at night.

  Ten

  WHEN SHE HEARD THE CAR DOOR slam out in the driveway, Louise went out to greet her guests. Looking straight through the woods, she was dismayed to see jay McCormick’s jalopy backing out of the driveway across the street. As she walked forward, she caught a glimpse of him. He wore a turtleneck, his hair was slicked straight back, and he had an anonymous expression on his hollow-eyed face. Altogether, this made him resemble no person she had ever seen before. It reminded her of how her own husband had altered his appearance when necessary. She felt a pang of guilt at having displaced Jay from her guest room. Maybe she should have made the P.P.S. guests double up. Now, instead of staying safely at the Mougeys, Jay was going to Great Falls again, to see that nothing went wrong with his plans.

  Then she turned to greet her guests and help them unload their bags. It was a large van, driven by a man that Tessie Strahan introduced as Gilbert Whitson. All three women were somewhere in their fifties. Tessie was about five feet tall, and solid, with dark hair pulled back in a bun, intense brown eyes, and a voice like a machine gun. The throaty-sounding Barbara McNeil was as tall as Louise but fifty pounds heavier, with curly salt-and-pepper hair that reached her shoulders. She looked as if she might have come out of the days of Conan the Barbarian, wielding sword and shield and fighting alongside her man. Donna Moore was a muscular, athletic-looking woman with finely chiseled features under her blunt-cut blond hair. All of them were strong and competent, Louise realized, able to heave around fifty-pound flats of plants and run large nurseries.

  All three felt at home with Louise before they ever set a step on her mossy path.

  Gil, a garden designer, was different. He watched her warily as they stood in the path together. He was tall and graceful, his graying blond hair balding a little, and his unusual green eyes yellow near the pupils, like a cat’s, His sunburned facial skin seemed excessively wrinkled, and she guessed it was from too much time in the sun. The four had ridden down from the New York/Philadelphia area and apparently were old friends; Gil teased the women constantly as he helped them gather food packages, luggage, and what would be unneeded coats in Washington’s late July.

  “Nice to be here, Mrs. Eldridge.”

  “Please call me Louise.”

  “These gals intend to camp at your place indefinitely. Don’t believe them when they say they’re checking out in two days.” He hefted a large suitcase that obviously weighed a lot. “Look at Tessie’s suitcase: Just guess how long it will take you to get rid of her.”

  “Now, Gil,” said Tessie in clipped tones, her brown eyes flashing merrily, “it’s just the two nights. And who knows? Maybe some other folks will come out to see you tomorrow, Louise.”

  “That will be nice,” she said automatically. She thought of Nora’s warnings: She wasn’t at all sure it would be nice to be deluged with strangers after she had spent all day in downtown Washington on a shoot that was already a “wild card,” as Marty called it. This meant she, Marty, John, and crew would be winging it because it was impossible to script in advance. Nevertheless, she continued with her mild prevarications, the automatic impulse of twenty years of training as a foreign service wife: “Everybody’s welcome.”

  It was gratifying when the guests exclaimed in delight over the front garden with its blue-berried mahonia and toad lilies, propped up after the stranger’s destructive journey through it. They continued exclaiming as they walked the path through the woods. They were particularly impressed with the pergola.

  “Except it’s bare, my dear,” said Tessie. “Why isn’t it planted with vines?”

  “I’d wanted grapes—”

  “Too shady.”

  “Or clematis—”

  “Also too shady.”

  Louise paused. “And then I was at a loss as to just what else I would like to grow there.”

  “Well, honey,” said the tall Barbara, “I can give you several suggestions.”

  “But then my husband and I”—Louise threw in husband for further moral support as she noticed a certain ganging up—“decided we very much liked it bare.”

  As if the earth had just moved, Tessie stood stock-still under the midsection of the long pergola, and looked up. To Louise, those exposed cross-beams looming against the hugely tall woods were pure poetry. “Like it that way, does he? We’ll have to talk to him about that.”

  “Unfortunately, he isn’t going to be here.”

  “Oh, what a shame. Where is he?”

  “Off on a business trip.” She turned to Gil, who was helping to carry in the baggage before going to Washington to check into the convention. “Gil, what is your specialty?”

  “I’m a koi doctor.”

  “Coy?” She grinned.

  “No, koi, as in fish.”

  “Oh. You treat koi, the big carp?”

  “Yes,” he said, with a broad smile.

  “Gil is not only a koi doctor, but a marvelous designer, and his gardens show it,” effused Tessie.

  “But playing doctor to fish is more fun, and it brings in a nice extra income.”

  Louise laughed. “I know what you mean about that.”

  A flash of recognition passed over his face. “Yes, I’m sure you do. You’re the one who’s the spokesman on those Atlas Mower ads, right?” He gave her a genuine smile that lit up his face, and it was as if she had passed some ambiguous test of trust.

  “How do you care for koi?”

  Gil waggled his head a little, a man used to expressing things with his hands, but whose hands at the moment were full. “Very carefully, Louise.” He gave her a conspiratorial smile. “Mostly with over-the-counter drugs. Sometimes I shoot them up with antibiotics that I get from a vet. I don’t want you to think I have a medical degree: I’m one of those entrepreneurs who have come into the field.”

  “Hmmm,” said Louise, “are there many koi to doctor?”

  “Loads of them. They’re the rage of boomers who don’t know what to do with their money.”

  “You sound like the producer of Gardening with Nature. Marty Corbin always says baby boomers are responsible for the upsurge in gardening.”

  He laughed. “Aren’t they responsible for the upsurge in everything! They’re the ones who are going out and buying koi, and now there are koi clubs all over the country, did you know that?”

  “I’ll have to tell my neighbors. They worry so much about their fish that they could use a fish support group. They have a pond in the yard across the street and I’m currently the caretaker.” An idea was forming: A segment on koi would be perfect for her cohost, John, to handle. “I wish we could do something on this for the program we’re taping tomorrow, but it’s probably too late. We’d need a fishpond handy.”

  He looked at her intently. “That’s absolutely doable: There’s a koi pond in the courtyard at the Hilton; I’m sure we could persuade the hotel to cooperate. I could give you a nice interview on how to take care of the fish, what to do if they get sick, and when to consult a vet specialist, who can perform operations to fix lacerations and torn fins. We would need to arrange with the hotel to let me feed the fish. They’re absolutely spectacular when they all concentrate in a little feeding frenzy.”

  Louise thought quickly. After she pumped Whitson as much as she could on the subject of koi, she had to get through to Marty Corbin so he in turn could alert John Batchelder. Somehow, she knew John would love the topic. “How many koi doctors are there, Gil?”

  “That’s the trouble,” he said, his eyes shining with sincerity. “There are not enough koi experts for the number of koi around. Sort of like the shortage of physicians in America.” H
e grinned good-naturedly, and she couldn’t help smiling back at him.

  They arranged a meeting time for the next day, and then Gil left. She was kind of sorry to see him go, because she had an inkling that this evening might prove difficult.

  The Fishy Thing About a Water Garden

  THE COUNTRY APPEARS TO BE awash in water gardens. One reason is the serene attraction of flowers floating on water. Another is the good-natured, colorful fish, the koi, that have swum into the hearts of fish fanciers and weekend gardeners alike.

  The intriguing nature of these aristocrats of the carp family, the most popular of which are patterned in red, white, and black, has led to a burgeoning of water gardens, to say nothing of koi clubs, koi competitions, and even a national koi convention. One koi fancier carts her fish about in a specially made “koimobile.” These fish are long-lived: the grandpa of them is said to have died at the age of 215 years in Japan in the 1970s.

  For the laid-back gardener, even a simple water garden may seem like more work, and it is: a big step up from the bog garden, for instance, in cleaning and maintenance. But there are many who are willing to make the trade-off. They will dig, line the hole with PVC or a formed pool liner, install filters, and spend large amounts of money buying magnificent water lilies, lotus, iris, and other support flowers to sprawl about on the watery surface.

  Adding fish, and especially koi, expands the responsibilities many-fold, for suddenly we must take care of those exquisite swimming creatures, who engage us much like children. They clamor toward us in a stunning display of bright color at the sound of our whistle or the clap of our hands. They will look at us with beguiling eye movements. Then they will gently suck our fingers as we feed them at pool-side, and who else will do that, except certain political consultants?

  Since koi have no stomachs, they must be fed frequently, at least twice a day (except in winter), with pellets and live food, such as earthworms. And the pool itself requires daily maintenance and testing, for all is balance in the fishpond.