Mulch (26 page)

“Oh, maybe in September. A long time ago.”

“Before—”

“Oh, way before that.”

Gcraghty said, “Hold on a minute.” Then he was silent for a long while before he pulled himself up straight again. He looked at them sternly. “I appreciate you two coming in. But I want you to keep our conversation confidential, okay?”

“Okay,” they said, in unison.

“And harder than that, I want you to keep your imaginations in check. The police already knew about this guy’s workshop. We’re talking here about a man who is being checked out at the highest levels of government. You’re aware, I’m sure, that he’s up for an important government post; you both know that, right?”

“Right,” they said, in unison.

“Then”—and Geraghty turned his palms out as if in submission—“I don’t think we can make much of this conversation you heard. And your mother undoubtedly will call me if she’s concerned. Did you find out specifically what she remembered about the car’s headlights?”

Janie felt helpless. They were both looking at her. “I asked her this afternoon before we came. She couldn’t remember
what she’d remembered—and anyway, she was writing like fury, because she has a job now.”

Chris nodded. “Alcohol can do that to you.”

Geraghty said, “We’ll give her a little time. It’ll come back to her again.”

Janie and Chris were silenced.

Geraghty struggled loose of his complaining chair, which sounded as if it didn’t want to give him up. He stood and reached over a large hand and shook each of their hands across the worn desk. “And you two, you be careful. Keep your eyes open but don’t go tearing off on something you hear. You bring it to me.”

“Yessir,” they said in unison.

They left the little office and went out the door of the police station and started the walk home in silence. The sky was gray and dismal, and the wind was picking up.

“You know, Janie,” said Chris.

“Yes, Chris.”

“We both know there’s something fishy about that Peter. But who’ll believe it? Nobody. So it’s all on us.”

L
OUISE WAS GETTING READY TO SAY GOOD-BYE
to Bill. The whole process took about a minute.

They had risen at 6:30. She had donned her old sweats and tennis shoes, hoping a short jog around the neighborhood later would increase her pep. Bill did a few stretching exercises while she made breakfast. They both ate rather silently, exchanging occasional comments on the news. Still other news hummed in the background, courtesy of National Public Radio. The
radio dial was near enough to be turned up with a movement of Bill’s hand if the story sounded interesting. Bill showered while she cleaned up the kitchen. She trailed him when he went into the bedroom with a bonus cup of coffee, and while he dressed she read him portions of interesting stories from the paper.

Louise had had only one cup of coffee, Bill three. Maybe that’s why at 8:30 she still didn’t feel wide awake. A hangover couldn’t last
two
days.

The good-bye ceremony started when she took his coat from the front hall closet and held it for him to put on. This would have seemed silly
before
the incident in London three years ago, but not now. She helped him straighten his various collars and his tie. Finally, she came up to him and put her arms around him the wide way, around his upper arms, and embraced the whole of him, looking at his face, so as to remember it always. Finally they kissed each other soundly on the lips.

These were things she had not done that morning in London. Instead, she had just called good-bye from the kitchen in an offhand way. Then, no more than a few seconds later, she had heard an enormous explosion outside. Another IRA car bomb, right outside their building.

She had run out of the apartment, down three flights of stairs, and into the street that was Bill’s daily route to the American Embassy. It was like a war scene. She found him dazed, deafened, looking like a lost boy, with his hair disheveled and debris on his dress overcoat. The blast had sent metal and glass flying in all directions, bloodying and maiming people only a few yards away from Bill. It left a crater in the asphalt and tossed the burning carcass of the car’s undercarriage onto the sidewalk like a scene from
Mad Max.

She had hugged him then, and could hardly be persuaded to let him loose. And since then she had always bid him a careful good-bye, a good-luck ritual.

This morning she gave him a kiss that lingered and promised more that night. As soon as she let him go, though, her thoughts turned to her own life without Bill in her arms.

He went out the door, and she followed him onto the front porch. “Better go in, darling. It’s cold out here—storm coming in. Take care now, and I’ll call you later, so don’t forget the portable phone in the hut.”

She made a mental list of the things she had to do today. Writing came first. Her editor had called Sunday noon and speeded up the deadline on her bromeliad article, which meant she had dressed and gone straight to the hut to work despite her hangover. It made her feel rather macho, like a recovering drunk out of
The Front Page.
But she still had a couple of hours of writing left to do.

She also had to call Geraghty and tell him she remembered something from her leaf-collecting trips: There had been a set of distinctive parking lights on a car that was following her. She needed to tell Bill that, too. “Bill …” Then they saw the frantic deliveryman coming up the walk, pushing an overloaded dolly filled with florists’ packages.

“Oh, my gosh—they’re here already!” she cried.

“You asked for an early delivery,” snapped the man, “and you got one. Lend a hand, why don’t you?”

Bill leaned down and grabbed hold of a couple of unbalanced packages.

“Careful, now,” cautioned the deliveryman, “these things are worth a bundle.”

“I bet they are,” said her husband, wryly.

“And handle ’cm by their bottoms,” the man directed sternly.

“Yessir.”

Louise went quickly across the walk and unlocked the door to the chilly addition. “We’re going to put them in here.”

The man sniffed the cold air. “Then you better heat it up quick; these are tropical plants, you know.”

“I know,” she said, smiling, fished in her pants pocket for a stray couple of dollars for a tip, and found a five-dollar bill.

With the plants safely positioned on the floor of the hut, the deliveryman snarled, “Sign here, lady,” and she did and slipped him the fiver. More sweetly, he said, “Thanks, folks—have a wonderful day.”

Bill leaned on the door and looked at the scene, deadpan. “Did you buy one of every plant you’re writing about?” He shook his head slowly. “I can see what’s going to happen: another addition on the house. The bromeliad bower.”

Louise was on her knees ripping open a package. “There’s not that many.” As if showing off a baby or a puppy, she held out for Bill to see the large, cumbersome plant with soaring pink and blue flowers: “Look, Bill, at this darling billbergia—in
full bloom.”
She tore into the other packages. “I only ordered five—and these are five that you don’t
see
every day but are coming into greater cultivation, they assure me.” She freed the rest of the plants from their packaging. “Although there are literally dozens of species, you know.”

“Good-bye, Louise,” said Bill, exaggerated patience in his voice.

“’Bye,” she said distractedly.

After he closed the door of the hut, she hugged herself and grinned. Then she shivered. The maintenance electric heat unit was on, but low. She would build a fire in the stove to supplement it and get started writing.

Using the careful piling of wood that her husband had taught her, she built a fire inside the black Swedish stove that pleased her soul by roaring up at the touch of a match. Everything was going so well for her today.

She arranged the five bromeliads on the table so they were close enough to send her good vibrations. Writing about them was going to be so much easier.

She sat down in front of her computer and took a deep intake of breath. The air was filled with the robust smell of healthy plants, laced with the subtle scent of flowers she had never smelled before.

“Aah.” She half smiled, leaned her head back, and slowly breathed in the air. These plants were perfect specimens, their exotic colors evoking the jungles of Brazil and Africa. Her eyes rested on “Snowflake,” big pale green leaves speckled like a snake. Bold yellow flowers. She touched a leaf; it was cool and waxy. “Heart’s Blood,” with its leaves that looked as if they were drenched with dried blood, and its flowers brilliant bloodred.
Aechmea recurvata
x
Aechmea pimenti-vilosoi
, probably the rarest one of all, with its unreal cylindrical blooms in yellow, black, and orange. And then the delicate
Tillandsia cyanea
from Ecuador, not quite as fierce as the others. And, of course, the billbergia.

She rubbed her upper arms. It was warming up already.

Computer, ready. Notes, ready. Reference books, ready. Specimens on hand for close scrutiny.

What she didn’t have, and what would be nice, was a pot of coffee. She went out of the hut and across to the front door of the house to the kitchen. She brewed the coffee in her old aluminum pot, and hoped once again it wasn’t giving her Alzheimer’s disease. On a tray she put the pot, a mug Janie had bought her that read, “Go, Girl!”, an apple, and four Fig Newtons. This should last her indefinitely.

She picked up the tray and suddenly remembered she hadn’t called Detective Geraghty. Setting the tray back down, she quickly dialed his number. He was out of the office, but would get back to her as soon as possible.

Why, when she might actually have a clue to the case, did the bloody man have to be unavailable? It stirred a little element of discomfort in her. She now possessed some information of value, that had only shaken out of her consciousness this morning. And now there was no one at the police station, not even that obnoxious Morton, to tell it to. Yet the matter had waited this long; it surely could wait a little longer.

She went to the hut and positioned the pot on top of the stove, now too hot to touch. The room was comfortable—no, more than that: as cozy as her European down comforter.

She looked out once through the long glass doors at the end of the room to the woods beyond—the skeletal trees with hardly any leaves left, the ground brown, the sky dark gray.

Then she turned on the computer and began her work. And the outside world fell away.

Between reading the references and writing and examining the blossoms through a magnifying glass, Louise forgot everything, including her coffee.

O
NLY THE PALE LIME-COLORED RAYS FROM THE
Art Deco light bathed the work area of Bill’s desk. But he rejected its comfort and swiveled around in his chair to stare out the window. A barrage of wet snow fell from the sky. This morning, as he drove into the city along with the other gray ghost cars, the radio had excitedly talked about the storm that was coming. He had been so distracted he had paid little attention to details. Now it had arrived; it caught his attention for an instant
because of one dreary realization. Going home would be a time-consuming drag. In Washington, where only a dusting of snow made folks nervous, a real storm sent them into orbit and slowed them to a virtual stop. Then he rested his elbow on the leather arm of his chair and propped his chin in his hand, and his thoughts retreated inside again.

The question was, was he happy, and was Louise happy? For years he had made a daily examination of conscience, a habit left over from his Catholic childhood. An examination that required him to put into perspective the reasons for living a secret life and telling a mountain of lies over the years.

Lately he found himself sliding over this daily moment of introspection. Was he growing numb and uncaring about the purpose of his job? As for Louise, he had never wondered before whether she was happy. He always took for granted the answer was
yes.
But she was so feisty lately. Were those brief freelance writing jobs going to be enough for her? She needed more, and deserved it. Pretty soon Janie would be leaving for college, and then she would be even more dissatisfied, prowling around that house in the woods, improving the gardens—or the woods, in this case—until they were perfection. Not nearly enough.