Death of a Political Plant

by Ann Ripley

  “For what, Chris?”

  “For asking you something—in the name of science, of course…” If anyone was interested in science, it was the eighteen-year-old Chris, who was going to major in biology at Princeton. “I wondered if the body was floating. I mean, how long…”

  Louise gulped. “He’d been in the water about twelve hours. Actually, he’d sunk to the bottom.”

  Chris nodded soberly, as if that tallied with everything he knew about corpses in water. “And then, of course, those fish…”

  She shuddered. “Some other time, Chris, not tonight.”

  “Sorry. Just curious about those things—don’t mean to be disrespectful. Jay seemed like a real good guy that time I met him. So what about that character who just blew out of here in his sports car?”

  “That’s Jay McCormick’s researcher, Charlie Hurd, poking around here trying to find out where Jay’s story has gone.” She turned to the teenager. “You realize, don’t you, Chris, that it was no accident. Jay was murdered, right next door to your house. He probably was killed for his story.”

  Chris whistled. “Heck, the story that’s going around the neighborhood is that he tripped over that stupid bird statue. Look, Mrs. Eldridge, I know Janie and Mr. Eldridge get home tomorrow, because I’m picking ’em up, but is there anything I can do—I mean, do you have anything going on?”

  The tall teenager had an eager expression on his face. He and Janie had been helpful in the past in finding out things about murders. Maybe he could help.

  But, no, this young man was off to college soon and the last thing he needed was to be involved in some murky mystery about an investigative reporter who had obviously probed too deeply for someone’s comfort.

  “The police will have to find out what happened to Jay. It’s not our job, and I won’t have time, because after a couple of days’ reunion with my family this weekend, I have to go back to work full-time.”

  Hands in jeans pockets, he shook his blond head. “That’s like me, Mrs. Eldridge. I’m getting loaded up with things to do for going away. Especially since my folks are gone for twelve days and my mother left me a list of stuff I have to pack.”

  “Then don’t worry about Jay’s death, Chris, I’m sure the police will find the answer.” She wasn’t so sure of that, but it was something that had to be said.

  She went in the house and found several messages on the machine, including a commiserating one from Laurie Kendricks next door, who knew Jay was her friend and had been her houseguest. Another was Channel Five business. The third one puzzled her; it was from Gil Whitson. A stuttering, disjointed message: “Louise, I’m just taking a minute between convention sessions here. I’m so sorry for making a fool of myself at your house. I hope I didn’t ruin the party. I’m sorry I lost my temper with your friend, sorrier than you will ever know. Can you forgive me? Please forgive me. I hope you don’t think I’m crazy, making that fuss about the fish. But fish are part of my life, maybe too big a part. Well, anyway, I hope someday we can meet on a happier note.”

  She leaned against the kitchen counter, folded her arms, and frowned. Gil Whitson was a wild card. Could he have come in before or after another person and figured in Jay’s death and the disappearance of his writing tools?

  She was so tired and hungry that her body was near collapse, and yet she needed to find out something right now from Tessie Strahan. To fortify herself, she grabbed a peach out of the fruit bowl and poured herself a glass of milk, which she spiked with chocolate. Then she placed the call to Jessie’s room at the Washington Hilton.

  Tessie was a know-it-all, and that meant knowing it all about Gil Whitson.

  “Sorry to take so long answering, Louise,” she said, “but I was in the tub. You only caught me here because I’ve found two nights of partying in a row is all I can handle. I must be failing; I used to go three nights in a row with no trouble. I’m going to bed right after we talk, so I can live to fight another day. Now I’ll answer your question.”

  A veiled hostility had entered the woman’s voice. “I don’t understand how you can think Gil had anything to do with your friend’s death. Listen, don’t think I’m not sorry your friend died, though I hadn’t heard anything about it or I would have called you and offered my condolences. But believing Gil has anything to do with it is pretty far out.”

  “Tessie, it’s not that I believe anything. It’s just that everything has to be checked out. I didn’t want to, but I told the police about Gil being over in the Mougeys’ backyard and having an argument with Jay.”

  “I don’t know why you had to do that.”

  There was a chill in Tessie’s voice, and Louise realized how little she really knew the woman. “I couldn’t not tell them. That would be illegal.”

  Louise figured this would ring a bell with Tessie, the soul of probity. Her staccato voice softened, from machine gun to typewriter volume. “When you put it that way, Louise, I guess I can understand. And then, this man was your old friend.”

  “And Gil is my valued new friend. The very worst thing that could have happened, Tessie, is that Jay and Gil had a shoving match and Jay accidentally fell on this weird statue that stands right next to the koi pond. Then, maybe Gil became too scared to tell anyone about it.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Well,” said Tessie with a reluctance that sounded like it came from her very toes, “I hate like the dickens to drag this up. But of course, we’ve known Gil for years. Years and years. And Louise, let me assure you, we all have warts—I bet even you.”

  “Yes, indeed I do.” Louise was excited. This woman knew something that might unravel the mystery of Jay’s death.

  “Gil Whitson is a kindly man, we all know that. But he’s very high-pitched. He takes a drug to help him stay balanced.”

  “Lithium?”

  “Yes, but that’s very confidential. It enables him to bring out his artistry in his work, and not get into those extreme highs and lows he used to experience.”

  “I’ve heard it’s a wonderful drug.”

  “Now, back some years ago, about seven years, I think, a terrible thing happened to Gil. There was an incident with another designer, who was found mysteriously dead. Gil underwent a great deal of questioning, but there were no charges brought. He said it was just a, you know, quarrel between friends, and then the man died of a heart attack. But let me tell you, Louise, there’re lots of hot tempers among artists, you know that. And Gil is an artist, no doubt about it. Although he is quick to anger, and we see that occasionally just like the other night, I don’t think he would hurt a flea. Especially not your friend. Actually, the very reason he became a koi doctor was because he discovered working with fish soothed his soul.”

  “I could feel that sensitive side in him. A sensitivity and a gentleness. Even my cohost, John Batchelder, spoke of it after he interviewed Gil at the hotel’s koi pond.”

  “Yet there was that incident…” mused Tessie, and Louise could hear the worry in her voice. “I suppose that would come up if they look into Gil’s past very closely.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, Tessie, for being so frank about this. I know how hard it must be for you.”

  “I just hope the police find another answer.”

  “I think they will, Tessie. I can’t go into it, but there are others who are likely suspects in Jay’s death.”

  “Thank heavens for that,” said Tessie.

  After she hung up the phone, Louise realized that she was concealing the very evidence that might give police a lead on these other suspects. But she didn’t feel too guilty about it. She had already clued in the police to the possibility that Jay was writing about the presidential campaign. And she would relinquish those papers in the plastic folder after she had checked out a few more leads.

  Meantime, she was puzzled by Gil. There was Tessie’s story, and more importantly, there was Gil’s remorseful voice pleading with her in the telephone message to forgive
him. Forgive him for what?

  Covering Up: All About Ground Covers

  GROUND COVERS WERE ONCE thought of as neat soldiers—tough, disciplined, and eager for service. Myrtle, ivy, pachysandra, and ajuga were in their front ranks. But the list has expanded to include many other plants, from specimens with tiny leaves that grow no higher than a few inches to shrubs such as rhododendrons and azaleas, and perennials such as day lilies, sedums, Coreopsis “Moonbeam,” as well as native geraniums, roses, and potentilla that literally have been bred to spread.

  Any low-growing plant, when used in profusion, can become a ground cover, and last the whole season if its mass of seedpods is left in place for winter effect. There is no excuse for open ground in the garden, for the selection is enormous—of both flowering and nonflowering varieties and new forms of old favorites.

  The English were fond of under-planting big rhododendrons with may-apples, and this simple plant, which starts with tightly furled umbrellas that open into little fringed parasols, will proliferate and add a charming effect to an empty garden corner, or underpin larger plants. But we are talking here about fertile, moist shade. In sharp contrast, a dry-land dweller could try the recently developed dwarf rabbitbrush, which will grow in the exact opposite conditions of mayapple. This plant has lacy foliage and big yellow flower clusters for over a month in late summer and autumn. Its big tan seedheads and casual form give it an interesting winter silhouette.

  Scores of other possibilities exist, including the tried-and-true ones mentioned. Although some dislike the look of pachysandra after a hard northern winter, it soon recovers and gives forth little white flowers. Ajuga, in contrast, seems to look good in all seasons. It comes in several varieties and colors and makes a delightful show of upright flowers. Others prefer epimedium, with its heart-shaped deep green leaves and delicate pastel flowers. It does not spread as prolifically as some, such as lamium, which seems to grow as you watch it. Lamium “White Nancy” is one of those useful plants with white veining in the leaves that brightens dark places. Irregular drifts of white tulips can be planted under its gentle cover to make a glorious combination. Lamium is easy to handle and pull up if it spreads too far, but stoloniferous varieties such as ivy are a tussle to deal with.

  Nothing is quite as perfect as the European wild ginger (Asarum europaeum) with its rounded, shiny, kidney-shaped leaves. It has little hidden flowers, which are the more fun for that; it is always good for dividing and giving pieces to friends. Now there are new varieties, including the small-leaved Asarum “Callaway,” and the large-leaved Asarum splendens. The latter has long, narrow, heart-shaped leaves marked with showy bands of silver that light up the shade. Truly delightful is the nonhardy wild ginger snapdragon, Asarina procumbens, which forms thick mats of foliage hardy in zone seven up, and has sprightly pink snapdragon-type flowers. If you live north of there, you can use it as a charming, ever-blooming houseplant and patio plant. Also tender but beautiful are the rosy Chinese fountain grass, Penissetum orientate, and the spiky, glaucous blue senecio, Senecio adraliscae.

  You have to keep your eye on it, for after all, it is bamboo, but the silver-edged dwarf variety, Sasa veitchii, spreads like a grove of very small palm trees, and is a perfect foil for lilies, or fritillarias that pop up amidst its foliage. The English use many plants—iberis, corydalis, tiarella, anemone sylvestris, lungwort, notably the white variety, Pulmonaria saccharata “Sissinghurst White”—for undercover work.

  For a flowery expanse all season long, nothing is any better than the true geranium. These geraniums fan out in colorful masses to cover a lot of ground in a stunning display of little flower faces. Some of the best have darker centers, giving surprising depth to the picture.

  Daylilies have long been valued as cover plants in garden areas. They may look like a lot of work, but with an electric trimmer it is easy to clear off the spent blossoms, and then repeat die process when the leaves need cutting back in September. Sprightly light green fountains of new growth soon make the ground cover interesting again.

  Anyone who has raised Sedum “Autumn Joy” knows that its virtues cannot be exaggerated. It has a compelling lime color earlier in the season, and then its flowers begin their interesting progression through shades of pink, red, brown, and finally tan. These seedpods last the winter. The plants grow and spread and fill in space nicely. Other sedum varieties also do well as ground covers. Roses have always been well bred, and now some have been bred as ground covers, but other tough varieties also can serve this purpose—rugosas, for instance—and will even hold a hillside nicely.

  Twenty

  THE STREETS OF DOWNTOWN Washington on this late Friday morning were filled with hurrying people dreaming of the approaching freedom of Friday night. Most were yuppies, with a few unhurried, sun-saturated homeless folks mingling in the crowd and inexorably slowing it down. Louise had taken the subway downtown, staring out the blank train windows into the gray half-light and brooding about Jay McCormick. Now, as she walked the few blocks to the Capitol, she trudged the streets with the memory of her friend’s murder dragging on her like an anchor dragging on a boat.

  After what seemed an hour but was only minutes, she reached the hulking, graceless Rayburn Building where she was to meet Tom Paschen. Jay’s death had thrown a pall on what otherwise would have been an exciting and memorable day: luncheon with the chief of staff for the President of the United States. And she was late, because when the police had come that morning to search her house and yard, she had found it awkward to leave. Finally she told Morton where the key was in the fake rock if he needed to reenter the house. Disapproving of the rock, naturally, he bade her a gruff goodbye and she hurried off to the subway station.

  She was approaching her meeting with Tom Paschen not with a sense of anticipation but with grim determination. It would be a fair swap: Paschen would press her for a progress report on the environmental show, and she would pump him for leads to Jay’s killer, without revealing that this was her intention, of course. She meant to find out everything she could about the Goodrich campaign and about Lannie Gordon.

  Tom was an authority on political campaigns and what happened behind the scenes; “behind the scenes” was where her friend Jay had met the people who probably killed him. And he undoubtedly knew something about Lannie, since she was a Washington player with a high-stakes hand.

  She went to the second-floor hearing room to which he had directed her, and saw that she was late: The proceedings were just breaking up in the high-ceilinged chamber. Paschen looked like a small figure, standing behind a table facing the elegant curved wooden dais at the front of the room. Two uniformed police hovered near, apparently to protect the chief of staff from harm or the intrusions of the public. Half a dozen members of the House Budget Committee were gathering papers and getting ready to leave. The banter between the chief of staff and the congressmen was familiar and without rancor. No one was fighting or delaying action, Louise realized, in this week before Congress adjourned. Members were anxious to hit the campaign trail, seeking money and votes.

  Tom turned. His eyes searched the big room and he spotted her. Smiling, he strode over, checking his watch as he approached. “A little late, aren’t you? But it’s okay; well go right over to the cafeteria.” He gave her a once-over. Like a lot of other women in Washington today, she was wearing a linen suit with flats, her suit a pale green that she always thought brought out the color of her eyes and hair.

  “You look very nice.”

  “Thanks.”

  They took the elevator to the basement and followed the sign to the subway. “I’ve always wanted to ride this subway,” said Louise.

  “I usually walk alongside. Better exercise. But if you want to ride, let’s ride.”

  They came to the open blue-and-gray cars with their high Plexiglas sides, and sat in the front one on a seat facing backward. Louise noticed there were only four cars, so some people indeed had to walk the distance. Sitting across from them was an
elderly congressman with a lithe young woman, obviously his aide. They sat close together, bodies touching, while she talked straight into his ear about something: a bill he had to vote on, perhaps; or what they were going to do later tonight. Even from four feet away, Louise could smell the young aide’s intriguing cologne and wondered at its effect on her companion: It must be breathtaking.

  The woman was giving a verbal massage. Louise could tell from the expression in the congressman’s eyes. He looked happy and victorious, like a puppy having its stomach scratched.

  She looked at the other cars behind them, and saw that they, too, were occupied by congressmen with their staff members in somewhat more pedestrian attitudes. Yet the women were attractive if not beautiful, the male aides dapper in suits and expressions of deep self-satisfaction. It was all told in the expressions: the interchange of glances back and forth between congressmen and aides. Louise could practically smell the sex, arrogance, and power that permeated the place.

  The congressman in the opposing seat came out of his agreeable reverie for a moment and recognized Paschen. Louise was amused to see that the chief of staffs presence brought him to immediate attention. In an instant, the congressman had adopted a sycophantic air and opened a conversation about a piece of pending legislation. Paschen mostly just smiled and listened. Some of the walkers alongside the train wanted Tom’s attention, too; they had to be content with a waved greeting.

  They got off the train, and Louise was amazed when person after person continued to seek out the President’s man, this man with the uncontrollable sixth-grade-boy’s cowlick, and pipeline to the most powerful leader in the world. It continued even as they went up a ramp, its low head space causing tall men to hunch but no problem for the diminutive Paschen. As they traveled through a warren of low-ceilinged passages, she felt a sense of awe: They were in part of the original Capitol building, most of which was destroyed by fire during the War of 1812.