Mulch (22 page)

T
HE GUEST ROOM, BEING ON THE CORNER OF
the house, had a ninety-degree viewing angle. Louise had been sitting here in her pink charmeuse nightie and satin mules for almost an hour, and had become quite expert with Bill’s high-intensity binoculars at spying on the neighbors. Eric Vande Ven was her primary subject, but she had caught some other action, too.

Ron Radebaugh, for instance, had arrived home half an hour ago, parked his car in the carport, and staggered into the
house. Dead drunk, she was fairly sure. Celebrating some new Pacific Rim merger or acquisition? Since Nora had not pulled the curtains on their huge front windows, it was easy to see what happened next. Nora was wearing what looked like a bunchy robe. Her husband approached her, seeming to want an embrace, but Nora did not appear interested. Instead, she moved swiftly across the room; the lights soon went out in the living room and in the rest of the house.

The next surprise was Sam Rosen. Louise hadn’t intended to include him in her surveillance. A car, probably Sam’s, went up the driveway out of her line of sight, and then another car pulled up in front of his place. Out of it stepped a petite woman in high heels, who swished her way up the driveway toward Sam’s house. Female visitors at midnight? Louise was amazed; their jovial neighbor had not seemed the type at all. In fact, she’d thought of him as a somewhat arrested-schoolboy type who might be pining after a lost love.

Eric had finally arrived home a few minutes ago, so now she had done her job and was ready to go to bed. Eric’s behavior was the strangest. He put the car in the garage, and then came out and stood on the front lawn. Was the metro planner brooding under the stars about the fate of cities? Or had something changed him lately, as Mary Mougey had suggested, into a more introspective human being? Was that something murder?

She had just slipped Bill’s binoculars back in their case, when she felt a light touch on her shoulder. She jumped and cried out.

“Honey, whatcha doing?”

It was Bill.

“You could have called my name first,” she said lightly. “As it is, you’ve scared me. I might even have turned gray.”

“Sorry. So, what are you doing? What’s that in your hands?” He took the glasses from her, and knew immediately. “Spying. What’s the matter—I thought you’d had enough of that, for both you and me.”

“I … just couldn’t sleep. There’s nothing wrong with just looking out your own window.”

He sat on the edge of the guest bed, binoculars in his lap, and ran his fingers through his hair. “This is just the kind of thing that leads you into trouble, Louise, the kind of thing I asked you not to do. Who the hell are you interested in, anyway?” Being wakened at one in the morning had not produced a happy husband.

Her chin jutted out. “As a matter of fact, Eric, maybe Ron, Mort Swanson, maybe Sam Rosen.”

“Sam?
Come on, not Sam.” Suddenly, he was wide awake. “And those other guys—you know who they are? They’re in my poker club. What do you think, that one of them murdered that woman?”

“Bill,” she said with growing impatience, “how did you happen to come in here, anyway?”

“Had to go to the bathroom. Drank too much liquid before I went to bed. And the heat’s too high. Didn’t
expect
to find my wife spying on my new poker buddies. But go ahead.
I’m
going to bed. There are easier ways to solve this murder than what you’re doing there—for instance, cooperating with the police. But, no, you couldn’t do that, because the guy trying to hypnotize you didn’t speak proper English—admit it—and you’re a snob about proper English.”

Taking the binoculars with him, he went back to their bedroom and their warm, comfy bed.

A tear rolled down her cheek. She wondered if she could forgive him for that.

Then, lights shone in the cul-de-sac, and here she sat without the binoculars. Parking lights only, on an automobile that drove slowly around the perimeter of Dogwood Court and then disappeared.

Suddenly, Louise’s body felt ice-cold. She was overcome with a sense of danger. As fast as she could without tripping in the mules, she made her way back to their bedroom and climbed in bed with Bill.

He was lying on his side facing away from her. She faced the same way, and put a trembling hand lightly on his waist, for comfort. She pressed a little, hoping he would wake and she could tell him about the car. Then she pressed harder.

This caused him to emit a gobbly little snore, and she knew he was fast asleep.

T
HE PARTY WAS READY
. L
OUISE WAS ALMOST
ashamed that she felt so self-satisfied. Her long brown hair swung clean on her shoulders and the legs of her yellow nylon running outfit whispered as she walked from room to room through the house. She checked the surfaces, touched a bouquet here or there to ensure that it fell gracefully. There were freesias, alstroemeria, and other pale flowers, the fragrant stock that she loved so well, as well as bowls full of holly and eucalyptus.
She admired the glisten of her enormous living room windows, heard but didn’t absorb the caterers’ low chatter as they set up the buffet table. She had no worry that the food at this party would be less than perfect. From the moment the gold-decorated purple Ridgebrook’s truck pulled up an hour ago, she felt a sense of security she wished every hostess could feel. The back hall was filled with refrigerated and heated steel cases containing goodies of all kinds for thirty guests. Now it was 4:30. Countdown in one hour. And everything was perfect.

The physical stage for this party was perfect. But this morning over breakfast she had discovered she and her husband had different agendas about what the party would accomplish. She had been surprised when Bill suggested catering the affair, since she had done parties of this size on her own. She thought it was because of the short lead time. Then he came out with the real reason for a caterer. “I want you to do some role-playing tonight. I want you free to observe.”

“Observe what, pray tell?” she had demanded. “What do you want me to keep my eye on—possible trysts? Shall we wire the bedrooms?”

Bill, who seemed nervous today, had not been amused. “Nothing heavy,” he replied grimly. “I’d just like you to tell me what you think about Peter Hoffman. And his wife—let me know what you think of his wife.”

She was silent a moment. Then, in a quiet voice she said, “This party has become more complicated, hasn’t it? You’re doing it again … but this time it’s not legal, is it?”

“I’m doing … what do you think I’m doing?” He looked at her innocently, his blue eyes feigning surprise.

“Bill, don’t give me that crap,” she’d snapped and she’d walked angrily from the room. He followed her, so she let him have it. Her voice was dangerously low. “You’re spying, and you’re on domestic ground. That’s about the craziest thing I ever heard. What do you want, to get hauled before Congress? Sent to jail in disgrace?” Her eyes brimmed with angry tears.

It was one thing for her and Mary Mougey to spy on the husbands in order to try and ferret out the mulch murderer. It was quite another for her undercover husband to be vetting a deputy secretary of defense. She looked straight in his eyes. “Who put you up to this?”

Bill had come over and taken her in his arms. She dropped her head and refused to look at him, but he pulled her chin up with an insistent hand. “Honey,” he said, “I didn’t think you’d mind. Truthfully”—his blue eyes shone with truth—“I am not doing any more than inviting a neighbor to dinner. After all, you said you’d met these people at some meeting or other. Tonight is just … checking out a man up for confirmation to an important job. Tom Paschen—you remember him. He asked me—so what could I say?”

Then he had led her to the couch and they sat down together. He continued his reassurances. “What I am doing is not illegal; it is not surveillance. The FBI is doing surveillance on Hoffman, probably right as we speak. Please stop fretting.”

She searched his face. It was thin and pale, with deep forehead lines clearly showing. “You’re worried too, I can tell. No wonder: Paschen’s entrapped you. No way to say no to a man in his position.”

Then Bill had hugged her tight and rocked her gently back and forth in his arms. “Ah, but I won’t go a step further. This
party’s the end of it, period.” He held her away from him so he could see her tearstained face. “And just you see. This will be a great party. It’ll be like a new start in this neighborhood. We’ll forget all this bad stuff that’s been happening to us, and our old friends can meet our new friends.”

She gave him a wan look. “Okay, honey.”

As the day wore on, she got into the party mood, and now it was all in place. Despite their ulterior motives—Bill’s now revealed, hers still secret—this could be fun, for people from every part of their lives would be there: friends from Washington, friends from the Bethesda neighborhood, a few “famous” people they had become acquainted with along the way—people who made parties interesting—key State Department associates, and people from their new neighborhood. Flowers, ready. CDs, ready. A little Mozart chamber music during cocktails. Beethoven’s fifth piano concerto during dinner. Later, Mahler and Strauss and Purcell. She had some pop favorites in the wings in case it became one of those memorable Eldridge parties where everyone grew shiny with alcohol and ended up singing together.

The nicest thing about parties was that you could never tell for sure how they were going to turn out.

Louise, ready except for slipping into her hostess dress. Bill, bathed and dressed, picking up a few esoteric items at the liquor store.

Janie, not ready. Put off by the presence of caterers, she had loped off with Chris an hour ago. Louise hoped that boy didn’t have a sexual interest in Janie. Although Janie certainly knew the facts of life, Louise wasn’t sure she would
act
on the facts of life. The girl was totally unequipped, and she wasn’t
about to get her equipped, the way some of her friends had done with their daughters. Or maybe she should….

“Quit fussing,” she advised herself out loud.

“Ma’am?” A squat Scandinavian woman with flour on her florid cheeks stuck her head out of the kitchen to inquire.

“Oh, nothing,” said Louise, tossing her head and laughing. “I guess I was talking to myself again.”

“Yes, always a reliable listener,” said the woman, smiling. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

Louise wandered to the front door, wiped a small smudge off an expanse of glass next to the door, and looked across at the hut. The flow of her writing had been interrupted by arrangements for the party. She would have to make up time next week, since she had fallen far behind on the second assignment her editor had sent her. It was on bromeliads.

Her eyes glazed over, and her mind wandered down a tropical garden path filled with the plants, thinking of the myriad species she would have a chance to describe—from the big, strappy-leaved kinds right down to the tiny ones, and each capable of producing a complicated, long-lived bloom. A Washington florist had somehow obtained five hard-to-find varieties for her and would deliver them Monday. Having them nearby when she wrote about them was going to give her real inspiration.

The door opened alongside her. Janie and Chris bounced into the front hail. “Mom!” cried Janie. “Are you all right? Why are you just standing here, staring?”

“Oh, hi, Chris. Hi, Janie.” Louise pulled herself back into the present. “I was just standing here, thinking about writing.”

Her daughter’s face turned bright red.

Chris ducked his head, not quite looking at Louise. “Aw, it’s okay, Janie, don’t be embarrassed. My mom does the same thing. She gets her head in the clouds when she writes. It’s best not to talk to them then.” With that they ran down the hall toward the kitchen, attracted by the good food smells.

Louise stood perfectly still in her yellow running outfit. Suddenly she felt tired. She’d have a little sip of wine. Then maybe she would lie down and rest for a minute. She was sure the competent floury lady in the kitchen could handle those two teenagers better than she could.