Mulch (30 page)

The detective gave them a sheepish look. “I was on my way to your house when he phoned and the station patched the call through. Y’know, when Chris and Jane came over on Sunday to tell me about Hoffman, I brushed it off—figured it was
totally off the wall. The government would do a full background check on a guy like him, so I just thought, ‘the kids are overexcited.’ And his workshop was clean—we checked out all the workshops in Sylvan Valley and even beyond. But it bugged me last night, so I woke up this morning and called a friend in the FBI, to try and find out what the Bureau was doing with Mr. Hoffman. He was able to tell me a few procedural things, which were just the things I needed to know—about how they actually tailed the guy, for some reason he didn’t divulge, from May through August. But then they quit.”

He was getting into his story, raising his big hand to emphasize his point: “Now, that really got me going. At least the guy would have had the opportunity to do this murder, without anyone hovering around, checking his movements. We went to his home: nobody there. Then, we went to his plant in Alexandria, and got stonewalled—in a real high-class way, of course. Actually, Hoffman had to have been holed up back in his house and they may or may not have known it. Then I was certain you could be in danger.” Geraghty looked at her with remorseful eyes, and she knew he would regret forever not getting here sooner to save her from Hoffman’s attack. “But this damned snow came along—slowed us up just those crucial minutes….”

Louise tried but could not help yawning. She was fighting sleep now. But she had to know. “Bill, why did you call Detective Geraghty?”

“It was only four weeks ago that I learned about some of Hoffman’s background, including the Rhine River incident. But, like Mike here, I didn’t even think of the guy in relation
to the woman’s body we found. Until his unusual interest in our family. Even then it was just a sense of unease. Then I remembered something we’d not related to this: Remember, Louise, when Sam Rosen heard someone out in the woods? It was the same night you and Janie went around
our
neighborhood gathering leaves. I thought, it could have been Hoffman, frantic that someone came along and picked up the bags that he had just put out to be hauled away. Then the other details: Hoffman has a house in the area. Not only a house, but also his
office and plant
—they’re only a few miles away. Here’s an entrepreneur with freedom of movement. The government’s off his tail—I just discovered that today. I thought, so what if I’m wrong? If I’m right, he could hurt you, and by God, I was right. The son of a bitch nearly…” He shook his head in disbelief. “But you did him one better, Louise, damn it: You not only drew the whole story out of him, you
took him out.”
He reached down and gave her a hug.

Geraghty looked at her, and she thought his eyes looked misty. “We might never have known the real story. Hoffman had, practically speaking, ‘disposed’ of Kristina Weeren through his phony letters from Hong Kong.”

“Has he confessed to you?” asked Louise.

Geraghty shook his head. “He’s not in too good shape to talk right now.”

“Oh.” She was silent a moment, trying not to feel guilty. “Then I’m the only one he’s told.”

“Your word against his, I’m afraid,” said Geraghty. “We may or may not get him for those crimes, but we’ll sure nail him for attempted murder.” He struggled up out of the low chair. “Physical evidence: that’s what we need on the mulch
murder. And speaking of physical evidence, I have to check in. Thanks, Mrs. Eldridge. I may have a few more questions for you tomorrow. Just remember, you did great.”

Before she drifted off to sleep, she needed to take inventory. What had she accomplished? She had finished her assignments on deadline. She had taken charge in a crisis—in fact, caught a murderer—and emerged with her life intact. Although bruised and burned, she felt stronger than she had in years.

One idle last thought—she wondered where Janie and Chris had disappeared, they who had done so much to save her. Probably out telling the neighbors the whole story. They would be bosom friends after this experience. And maybe more.

A phone rang. Later, she heard Geraghty, his voice filled with regret. “They haven’t found anything yet, but they’re still looking.”

She closed her eyes. Sleep was just a moment away. The head and the hands. Peter had mentioned them … said they would unmistakably tie you to a crime. They were somewhere, quietly rotting, the smell confined inside double or triple plastic wrappings.

The smell. It made her think of the rank odor in the closet when they moved in, that dead air coming up from under their slab house.

She sat straight up, wide awake. “I know!”

P
RESIDENT
F
AIRCHILD OPENED THE DOOR OF
the private living quarters and admitted Tom Paschen, his chief of staff. The commander in chief was in pajamas and robe, and barefoot. His hair was uncombed and he needed a shave. In his left hand he grasped the front section of
The Washington Post.
In the background was the chatter of a TV news show.

He looked disbelievingly at Paschen. “Can’t anybody do anything right? Why do I have to hear this on TV and read it in
the paper?” He flailed the paper back and forth in front of Paschen’s face. “Do you know what this
means?”

Paschen, dapper in his navy Italian suit, strutted past the president and sat in a flowered chintz chair. His voice was quiet and steady. “Chief, this was inevitable. I warned you about that bastard from the first.”

The president walked to the chair and stood over it for a moment, then retreated to the nearby matching sofa, where more newspaper sections were strewn about. “I know you did,” he said, “but I also told you to run checks.
Checks.
You didn’t do enough checkin’!” His voice had escalated, his blue eyes widened in anger.

Paschen took the liberty of pouring himself a cup of coffee from the tray sitting on a table in front of the couch. He sipped it calmly.

President Jack Fairchild slumped over, his elbows on his knees. “You know what this means? This means I’m fucked.”

“You mean just because your deputy secretary of defense nominee killed his lover, sawed her body into parts, buried them in leaf bags, and tucked her head and hands in a secret compartment under his house?”

“Don’t be funny, Tom. You know why he did it, don’t you?”

“Not exactly. Do you?”

The president glared at his chief of staff, who was really a very small man. “Because you gave him that big lecture about cleaning up his act, and he took you literally.”

Paschen jauntily crossed his legs. “Just proves what an asshole he is.”

The president trembled, as if about to explode. “That asshole,
as you call it, was going to be
my
asshole—
my
expert on arms,
my
defense against the secretary of defense! Without him I am totally—”

“Fucked?”

“Yes!”

Paschen took a final sip of his coffee and got up from his chair. “Mr. President, I agree it’s going to be a blot on you. I mean, presidents have selected folks with many problems, drug problems, even fraud problems. This is the first time I’ve heard of choosing a guy who’s a cold-blooded murderer.”

The president held his head in his hands. “You’re no comfort at all, Paschen.” Then he raised his head, squinted up at the other man. “You know, you professionals bug the hell out of me. You think just because you’ve been around through four or five administrations, pulling wires behind the scenes, that you’re so smart, so …
indestructible.
While we pols sweat and bust our asses to win the approval of the fickle American public every four years. Not only that, but we take responsibility for every fuckin’ thing that goes wrong, while you
professionals”
—he sneered out the word—“stand around in your elevator shoes and second-guess us. But I’m fuckin’ good. I can make a good case with the public.” He sat back against the chintz flowers and smiled maliciously up at Paschen.
“You and you alone
dealt with this guy from the start. I had only that one meeting with him—upstairs, in private. I hadn’t seen him before that in twenty-five, thirty years. Who knows what happens if I can play it right? I may get renominated after all. But for that to happen, I know whose head has to roll, my friend.”

Hands in pockets, Paschen raised and lowered his heels
several times as he stared down at the disheveled commander in chief. In a cool voice he said, “I’ll clean out my desk today, if that’s what you want, Jack. But it remains to be seen who can achieve the greatest deniability. As you say, I’m the professional with the smarts: I’m betting I can.”

With that he gave his chief a little mock salute, executed an about-face, and left the quarters.

A former newspaperwoman, ANN RIPLEY now spends her time organic gardening and writing novels.
Mulch
was the winner of the Top Hand Award, given by the Colorado Author’s League, and she is the author of two other Louise Eldridge gardening mysteries. She lives with her husband, Tony, in Lyons, Colorado.

If you enjoyed MULCH, the first book in Ann Ripley’s marvelous gardening mystery series, you’ll love DEATH OF A GARDEN PEST, now available in paperback from Bantam Books—and you won’t want to miss Ann’s hair raising new Bantam hardcover, DEATH OF A POLITICAL PLANT, coming in March 1998.
Look for all of Ann Ripley’s gardening mysteries at your favorite bookstore—and please turn the page for an exciting preview of DEATH OF A POLITICAL PLANT.

DEATH OF A POLITICAL PLANT
A Gardening Mystery
Ann Ripley

I
T WAS AT THE END OF A LONG DAY
. T
HEY HAD BEEN ON LOCATION IN
Manassas, Virginia, doing a show on the restoration of an Early American garden near the Occoquan River. Their attire was an echo of colonial life: Louise in a flowing mauve skirt and lace-edged blouse; and John Batchelder, her co-host, in a loose-fitting poetic shirt that emphasized his dashing looks. When they were finished there, Marty Corbin had insisted they return to the station to discuss program ideas for
Gardening with Nature.

The producer was large, with dark, curly hair, shaggy eyebrows, and big brown eyes that most of the time were filled with life, fire, and kindliness. They sat in Marty’s office for one of his typical “pow-wows,” and he outlined an ambitious travel schedule that threw Louise into a profound, thoughtful silence.

Marty described his ideas with dramatic gestures of his big hands: “We’re not gonna be one of these garden programs that think the East Coast, with its rich, acidic soil, is all there is. We’re gonna travel, Louise, and we’re not going to leave out one growing zone. We’re even going to Hawaii and
Alaska, how’dja like that? We want all fifty states to watch your program, not just the thirteen original.”

John Batchelder, slouched in a chair opposite hers, smiled and nodded approval. “It’s high time we did it, Marty.”

She didn’t know what to say. The Eldridge home life had already been seriously impinged upon by her full-time job and her extra voice-over job with Atlas Mowers. She wondered how much more away-time her family could handle?

Marty read her expression. “Think of it this way, Louise: at least it will discourage houseguests.” He grinned at her, anxious to have her happy.

It seemed a propitious time to ask
him
a favor in return. She laid out her proposal for a two-part program on the president’s environmental bill, making it sound as if the idea came from her.

“You’re kiddin’.” His eyebrows skidded down over his skeptical
eyes.

“Why would I be kidding? I am quite serious, Marty. The bill just got through Congress. It’s timely, and the topic merits it.”

He hooted. “Timely, all right: just in time for the November vote. Hey, I know you have a pipeline to the president. Don’t tell me
this
show is going to save his ass: that man’s down the tubes, Louise; hate to tell you.”

She saw he was hungry and impatient, ready to go home to one of his wife Steffi’s fabulous meals. “Okay, but can we talk about it again?”

“Sure we can, when my stomach isn’t protesting.” They left Marty’s office, and the staff drifted off.

When she gathered her things and walked to the lobby exit,
a stranger was waiting, smiling at her. It took her a moment to recognize the man, and when she did, her heart began to pound. For an instant, she was swept back to her college days and a romantic interlude in Washington, D.C.

“It couldn’t be. Not Jay McCormick.”

“Oh, yes, it could be,” said the voice, a familiar, jesting baritone.

Tall and slightly stoop-shouldered, he approached her slowly. He came right up and took both her hands in his and gave her one of his crooked, Irish smiles. He planted the faintest of kisses on her lips, and it made her tingle.

“Louise, you dear thing, you haven’t changed at all.”

Standing before her was her former boyfriend from that brief summer more than two decades ago when they were both graduate students at Georgetown University. His face was unremarkable, with an anonymity that made you wonder what he really looked like once he was out of your presence. No high cheekbones or other defining features; sandy, nondescript hair that tended to fall in his face. Pale blue eyes: again, unremarkable. And yet, a man with an inner light, who could make her heart beat faster simply because he cared more about other human beings than he cared about himself.

That quality had nearly persuaded her to commit herself to Jay McCormick, to go forward into life like a team of missionaries and try to make the world better for suffering people. Then, through a fluke, along came Bill Eldridge from Harvard to the same campus to substitute for another lecturer at Georgetown’s International Institute; she turned onto another path with a man who soon became a spy for his country.

“Outside of the glasses, you haven’t changed, either, Jay.”
But even as she spoke, she saw the worry lines in his face: what kind of disappointments had he suffered during the past two decades? He looked to be on hard times: his dress shirt and pants were scruffy.

“Look a little closer, Louise. I’m having one hell of a hard time right now. I came here today because I sort of need a friend. You may not have heard of what I’ve been doing.”

“Oh, I heard a couple of things, that you were speech writing—or was it reporting—out in California.”

“I’ve done both. I live in Sacramento. But I’ve been in Washington for a little while now, five months, actually. I’ve heard about your show and how well you’re doing. I’ve even seen you on that TV ad promoting some mower.”

“Yeah,” she said sheepishly, “on-air spokesman for the Atlas mulching mower. It helps us make ends meet at the Eldridge house.”

“And I also got wind of your detecting.” There came that smile again. “Pretty cool of you, Louise, solving two crimes.”

“All of a sudden, I have a career of my own, Jay. But what kind of a problem are you having? How can I help you?”

He looked around, as if to be sure no one was listening. No fear of that. Channel Five’s crew had gone home; only a couple of engineers were left, busy at their control panels. “Let’s just say I’m in a bit of, uh, hot water, and I need a safe place to stay until I finish some writing. Do you know anywhere I can hole up? I’m trying to avoid hotels and motels Checked out of one yesterday morning and ended up sleeping in my car.”

As always, she decided quickly. “Come to our place. Bill and I live eight miles from here; it’s just south of Alexandria.
We have empty bedrooms, because both of our girls are away.”

“Where are your girls?”

“Martha goes to Northwestern, but this summer she’s involved in a self-help project in Detroit. Janie, our sixteen-year-old, is in Mexico City for three weeks, helping build houses for people.”

Jay raised his eyebrows. “You and Bill have done something right with those kids. As for your offer of a room, that would be perfect, Louise. I won’t bother you. I’ll eat out; if I could just stay for a week or so, it would be a lifesaver.”

A week! The warmth of this reunion suddenly evaporated, and cold reality set in. There went that window of opportunity, that interlude alone with Bill, without kids, without company, maybe making mad love on the living room floor. It dissolved instantly in the name of an old and once very torrid friendship.