Mulch Read online

  Praise for

  DEATH OF A GARDEN PEST

  “Gardening and murder make a fascinating combination in Death of a Garden Pest. Gardener sleuth Louise Eldridge offers an enchanting view of gardens while facing down dauntingly evil opponents.”

  —Carolyn G. Hart

  “A good lighthearted diversion from summer weeding and deadheading.”

  —The Plain Dealer, Cleveland

  “Ripley tells her gripping tale in engaging, down-to-earth prose, interjecting bits of gardening advice.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Informative and fun.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Ripley’s follow-up to Mulch will tempt gardening buffs seeking a mystery enhanced by plenty of tantalizing garden details…. Readers drawn in by the ‘green’ story line will not be disappointed as intrigue surrounding the murderer’s identity unravels.”

  —Booklist

  “This hybrid of traditional whodunit and up-to-the-minute gardening guide is certain to appeal to mystery readers with a green thumb.”

  —The Denver Post

  Other Gardening Mysteries

  by Ann Ripley

  DEATH OF A GARDEN PEST

  and coming soon in hardcover

  DEATH OF A POLITICAL PLANT

  TO TONY AND THE GIRLS

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by this Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - Old Friends

  Chapter 2 - Moving In

  Chapter 3 - New Friends

  Chapter 4 - Lunch at Pomodoro

  Chapter 5 - The Swim Club

  Chapter 6 - Little Things Mean a Lot

  Chapter 7 - Invisible Janie

  Chapter 8 - Kristina

  Chapter 9 - Gathering Leaves

  Chapter 10 - Distributing Leaves

  Chapter 11 - The Day After

  Chapter 12 - The Investigators

  Chapter 13 - Nora

  Chapter 14 - Getting Warmer

  Chapter 15 - Going Under

  Chapter 16 - Inside State

  Chapter 17 - Bill

  Chapter 18 - Peter

  Chapter 19 - Mary

  Chapter 20 - Spying on Husbands

  Chapter 21 - The Party’s Ready

  Chapter 22 - A Little Off Balance

  Chapter 23 - The Hangover

  Chapter 24 - No One Listens

  Chapter 25 - Getting Down to Work

  Chapter 26 - Calling for Help

  Chapter 27 - Among the Bromeliads

  Chapter 28 - I Know!

  Chapter 29 - Defenseless

  About the Author

  Copyright

  1

  Old Friends

  OUTSIDE, CHERRY BLOSSOMS SCREAMED FOR ATTENTION. Marble buildings gleamed their slickest. Tourists gawked along Pennsylvania Avenue, hoping for a glimpse of their president through the black iron fence. Inside, golden light flooded through the Georgian windows of this private second-floor White House salon, adding to its pale green brocade elegance.

  What irony, thought Peter Hoffman. Here he was, defense contractor, a social leper as far as the White House was concerned, sitting here alone in splendor with the president of the United States.

  The two of them were hunkered down deep in the room, out of the sphere of those terrific windows and into the thrall of the fire in a glowing fireplace. Their chairs were situated on either side of it. A slim tea table stood between. Obviously, this was where the president entertained guests he didn’t want seen.

  To his amusement, Peter had just discovered that the chief executive ordered the fire to be lighted both summer and winter. Nixon had done that, too, he remembered. Not a good omen. He took a sip of coffee from a translucent teacup and peered over his glasses at the president. The man was as trim as he had been thirty years before, but his hair was too tan and his eyes too blue to be believed. Peter bullied his big fingers through his own faded blond hair. He’d aged too, but at least he wasn’t afraid to admit it.

  This man, Jack Fairchild, had been his classmate at MIT and a fellow officer in Vietnam. A guy who was always a little too in love with himself and at the same time a little too anxious to please—by today’s standards, born to be president. Fairchild had ignored Peter’s existence for the first two years of his presidency—pretended he didn’t know about the damage control Peter had done long ago, the dirty work that had enabled Fairchild to become president in the first place. Peter could do his lucrative business with the Department of Defense, but he didn’t rate socially for anything more than a large White House reception where the president shook his hand and two hundred others.

  But President Fairchild needed him now. Peter tipped his head back and chuckled. It was a raucous noise but muffled by the thick orientals.

  The president gave him a curious look. Then he decided to smile. “I know why you’re laughing.”

  “You do? Why? I don’t even know myself.”

  “You think it’s incredible that the guy you did time with in Nam is sitting in the White House, running the country….”

  Peter grinned. “Neatest trick is that nobody has discovered exactly what you did in the service.”

  The president waved his hand airily. “That’s all been hashed over endlessly. ‘Army intelligence.’ The voting public accepts that, just like they accept any military record; Kennedy and his story, George Bush and the way he was shot down … no one questions it any more … it’s part of history.” His optically enhanced blue eyes were guileless as he looked straight at Peter.

  “Ah, but who do you think tidied up our little part of that history—”

  The president put his hands up like a barrier, as if the words were fatal germs he might catch. “Just don’t tell me, Peter. I know we closed off normal human sympathy back then, so that we could do the most appalling things. Kill, so casually, with a piece of piano wire, or a quick thrust of a blade. In the years since, I’ve regretted it, but that was for our country, for God’s sake. You and your extracurricular activities—I don’t want to know about them.”

  “The records all cleansed—” continued Peter in his penetrating voice.

  “No, I can’t listen. Don’t make me regret bringing you here.” Fairchild stared at him, his lips pursed into a stubborn line.

  Peter leaned back and put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, let’s forget all that. It’s only sensible for a man in your place—‘Hear no evil’ and ‘see no evil,’ at the very least.” He cast a glance around the elegant room. “You have a lot to lose. It’s very, very nice here, Jack. Just take this parlor by itself—I’ve heard it’s the best fuckin’ room in the whole fuckin’ White House.”

  The president, unsettled by the references to the old days, brightened immediately when Peter broke the code of politeness and inserted crude language into the conversation. He had seen it before with Army vets, Pentagon types, and tight-ass politicians. They could hardly get the doors closed fast enough before they made every other word a profanity.

  “It’s partly the light-it transforms the place.” He leaned toward Peter. “But I don’t give a goddamn about the trappings, Pete. We just live here. It’s interesting for my wife and children. But unreal—people always listenin’ and lookin’ in at your lives—not a fuckin’ thing you can do that someone isn’t lookin’ at, writin’ about, and then blattin’ about on the evening news.”

  Peter leaned his large frame farther back in the Louis Quinze chair and crossed his long legs at the ankle, his heels anchored comfortably in the silk oriental. He was beginning to feel at home. The president was happy he was here; he was sliding right back into the vernacular of the boys.

  Peter took his middle finger and shoved his gradient density bifo
cals up to their proper place on his hawk nose. “Okay now,” he said, “let’s have it; you want something from me. What do you want?”

  The president sighed deeply. “Well, we’re already your chief customer for your latest weapons. And what weapons they are … that new artillery piece. Cheap. Easy to manufacture. Deadly. And now the laser stuff; it’s exactly the kind of thing we’ve needed, in this world filled with little wars.”

  “I can say without bragging that it takes a special mind to invent weapons like that.”

  The president straightened, his cup perched on his knee, and his voice grew serious. “Pete, I need more than weapons from you, I’m in a delicate political situation.” He waved as if batting away a large insect with the back of his hand. “It’s not bad enough that the world is unstable; forces in this country are clashing like armies in the night. It’s scary. We don’t know who’ll go down. What do I want from you? I want you on my team. Specifically, I want you in Defense. You’re on the cutting edge in weapons. And you’re convincing as hell. I need you in there to stanch the bloodletting by the secretary of defense.” Peter said in a level tone, “You want me to keep the fucker straight.”

  The president nodded. “That’s it, exactly. As you know, he’s too dovish. He’s causing me a shitload of trouble: constant public undermining of what I and every other reasonable man think our defense posture should be. For Chrissake, pretty soon we won’t be able to take Grenada if it gives us trouble. Problem is, the focus groups split on this—actually, sometimes even tip his way.” His voice rose querulously. “Tell me, from what you know, am I right or aren’t I?”

  Peter nodded. “Not what the country needs right now. Why don’t you can his ass?”

  “Can’t.” The president frowned and scratched his thick, carefully dyed hair. “Too many negatives right now … those scandals in the EPA. A president can’t have too much turmoil at one time.” His voice lowered several notes. “Hell, it could even affect my getting nominated next year.” He shook his head slowly. “There’s dogs in the manger, Pete. Y’never know how many until you enter public office.”

  Peter’s gaze unfastened from the president and he stared into space. He had a sudden flashback to thirty years before and remembered that this man—as a young officer—was apt to swing from good humor to bad within minutes. He hadn’t changed. Except now he was in charge of the whole damned country.

  Now the president’s voice was rising with optimism. “But you give me new hope, Pete. I’m turning to you because you can do just about anything. You can be the key to maintaining our defense in the right posture. These days it should be full-court press.” He put up a cautionary hand. “But there’s a couple of things. One is a given: You turn over your arms business to others to run and put your assets in a blind trust.” He waved the matter off: “Standard procedure for everybody. The only other thing is …” Peter was beginning to fidget in his French chair. His back was stiff from slouching. Yet he deliberately maintained his sprawling pose. He knew what was coming, and he wasn’t going to sit there like a remorseful schoolboy and take it.

  “You have reservations about me.”

  “Pete, we went through a lot together in ’Nam.”

  He narrowed his eyes and looked at his old friend. “I remember every minute of it, Jack.”

  “Well, that was then, and this is now. But …” Again he looked as if he’d rather walk on hot coals than to say what he was going to say. “We have to be careful. That girl, a few years ago …”

  “Girl. What girl?”

  “The girl who drowned on that Rhine River trip. There was talk. I hope someone doesn’t come across it before the confirmation hearings.” He adjusted himself in the French chair. “But even if they do, the matter could be explained. What really bothers me is the here and now. We keep hearing things about … women. I can’t emphasize it too much, Pete: We have to assure there’s nothing current that might cast a shadow on your nomination. The religious right, you know.”

  “The religious right? Jesus! Are people still worrying about the religious right? What do they have to do with your choice of a deputy secretary of defense?”

  The president looked incredulously at him. “I forgot. You’re totally apolitical. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Well, not entirely,” said Peter with a smile.

  “You mean you watch the TV news, and read the Times and Post. ‘Fraid that doesn’t cut it, Pete. Let me explain.”

  Casting a wary eye about the chamber as if searching out hidden listeners, the president said in a low voice, “The fuckin’ religious right has half the small towns in America by the balls … don’t you realize that?” With a clatter he set his cup into its saucer. His voice was still low.

  “Pete, goddamn it, they’re drivin’ me from the right and the left, just like they’re driving every other politician. It’s crazy—there’s no middle any more! And there’s no money. But worst of all, there’s no fuckin’ middle!” He looked at Peter, who looked back without expression.

  “Don’t worry about things so much, Jack. To answer your concerns, the woman on that Rhine River trip died accidentally; there was even a formal investigation by the German police.” He reached over to the table and grabbed a cookie and took a large bite. Buttery crumbs spilled on his brown Harris tweed as he munched. “As for the here and now, didn’t you know that I’m a proper married man?” He waved the fragment of undevoured cookie at President Fairchild. “Married for three years, no children, big designer house near Alexandria in a funky little subdivision called Sylvan Valley. It’s real normal for Washington: filled with bureaucrats workin’ late and intellectuals workin’ early.” Using the cookie fragment as a pointer, he indicated a tan folder lying on the tea table. “You know all that: It’s all in there. Above reproach. Not a thing on me.” He gobbled the rest of the cookie.

  “Forgive me, Pete, I didn’t even want to bring it up,” said the president, his voice swollen with apology. “I need you. I want you confirmed. Together, we’ll bust his balls.”

  “The secretary’s.”

  “Yeah,” said the president.

  “Hey,” said Peter, casually, “we’ll do it.”

  The men rose, Peter standing in close and, at six feet four, looking down on the commander in chief. President Fairchild said, “There’s no friend like an old friend. And you and I go way back. We saved each other’s lives.”

  “We saved each other’s asses, too, as I recall.”

  The president chose to ignore the remark. His savoir faire had returned. His voice had resumed its strong, velvety pitch. “We’re going to make a great team. We’re going to show ’em how a country can be strong and solvent at the same time.” He extended an enthusiastic hand toward Peter.

  Peter took the hand in a visclike grip and said, “We’ll cut your defense secretary off at the knees.” Jack Fairchild’s eyes glistened with admiration.

  Then Peter released the pressure on the president’s hand and looked at his watch. A woman was waiting for him in Georgetown. At the thought he felt a pull through his body that only took a millisecond to focus in his groin. There were all those goddamn cherry blossoms out there, too. It was ridiculous for a man like himself, but he almost felt like he was in love.

  2

  Moving In

  “YOU MEAN WE’RE LOST?” JANIE ASKED.

  Louise clutched the steering wheel as if it were a life buoy. “I could have sworn it was this cul-de-sac. But it’s not. Darn! Why did I leave that neighborhood map at the motel?”

  “Map, my foot, why did you leave Dad in the motel? I bet he knows—”

  “Look,” Louise snapped at the fifteen-year-old beside her, “he couldn’t help it; he had a meeting with his new boss in Washington. You heard him say that.”

  “Okay, Ma, sorry. Don’t freak out—we can find it. Too bad your air-conditioning doesn’t work.”

  “Isn’t it,” muttered Louise. As if for verification she fiddled again with the un
responsive controls on the dashboard of her seven-year-old Honda station wagon. She could feel the sweat in the armpits of her dress, a dress she picked up from the young people’s department sales rack meant for Janie or Martha. When they both rejected it, Louise decided to keep it for herself. It was her color: French blue. Now the dress was riding up stiffly in folds like a Roman shade, so that her bare thighs felt as if they were glued to the vinyl seat cover. In contrast, Janie slouched comfortably, her long legs in faded cutoffs waggling steadily like an accordion.

  She was lost. Couldn’t even find her new house. This must be what they called hitting the bottom. How many times had they moved? Overseas twice. Back twice. From one foreign post to another, twice. From one domestic post to another, once. So here she was, forty-two, attractive, jobless, having masterminded another move to another town—the third time to this one—having sent Martha, her firstborn, to Chicago to start college, having said good-bye to friends, to her garden club, to her minister. Having stopped the phone, gas, electricity, papers in the house in New York, and ordered them up in the new home in Fairfax County. Having filled out scores of postcards telling people their change of address. Each process cutting a little at the roots they had established in their old town, until all the roots were severed. But now not having enough brains to find her new house! That was because Bill had done all the driving on their two visits to the house when they bought it back in May.

  That in itself was strange: making one of life’s biggest purchases after one or two quick looks. But at least they owned a house. For years they lived in government housing overseas or rented places in the States.