Mulch Read online

  In a low voice, Louise said, “Incredible.”

  Geraghty readjusted himself in the chair and looked down at the table. “I am afraid that although this check will include you and even your daughter, it will focus heavily on your husband.” He looked up at her, his face redder than usual.

  She felt queasy again. “Tell me just why that is.”

  “Well, the body is a woman’s, relatively young. Young woman killed; points to a man usually. Only rarely another woman. Dismemberment points to a man, except … for some historic exceptions.”

  Louise’s voice was dull. “This was a young woman. Who was she?”

  Geraghty hesitated, then said, “We don’t know that yet. You know we found only about half of her body: two freckled forearms, two upper arms, part of a leg, and part of a torso. No head. No feet. No hands … hands are gone.”

  Louise began breathing deeply through her mouth. “Oh, God,” she said, rested an elbow on the table, and put a hand over her mouth.

  “Mrs. Eldridge, you’re not feeling well.” The detective leaned forward solicitously.

  She took her hand away from her face. “I don’t. But it’s all right, Detective Geraghty. I want to get on with this and get it over. Exactly what do you want to know about us?”

  “Not us, Mrs. Eldridge. I want to know about you. So why don’t you just finish your breakfast there, and then we’ll take a little ride around the route where you picked up leaf bags. That way we can kill two birds with one stone.”

  Louise winced at his use of “kill,” but then returned to her toast and coffee and finished it with gusto.

  When they walked out the front door, Louise put her nose up and breathed in the cold, fresh air. “Aah, air. Life-giving air.” She felt like a new woman. Geraghty glanced at her and said nothing. When they climbed into the unmarked black car, Louise was assaulted with the rank odor left behind by countless cigarettes. She struggled into her seat, fastened the seat belt, and clawed at the crank with both hands to open the window. It wouldn’t move.

  “Don’t smoke, huh?” said Geraghty. “I don’t either, but a lot of the other boys do. That window doesn’t open, by the way. But I’ll open mine.” With one hand he rolled the window down; with the other he turned up the collar on his worn, brown wool coat. “Now,” he said matter-of-factly, “you’re the navigator. Let’s retrace all your travels. Do we start by going into Washington and Bethesda?” He handed over to her a pen and a small pad of paper. “This might help.”

  As they traveled she jotted a list. She concluded that she and her family had stopped to get leaves at seven different locations, the first in Washington.

  As Geraghty drove into Washington on the George Washington Parkway he asked Louise about her work experiences.

  She chose her words carefully as she listed their tours of duty with the State Department: Turkey, Israel, Washington, London, Paris, New York, then Washington again. “We’ll probably finish this tour about the time Janie starts college and then be assigned overseas again.”

  “So he’s been around. What’s his title, exactly?”

  “Political officer. These days, on the European desk at State.”

  “Now, that still leaves unanswered my question about your work experience and how you met your husband.”

  “I graduated from Northwestern, and then took some graduate summer classes at Georgetown. That’s when I met Bill—he was a Kennedy School of Government student at Harvard, visiting Georgetown’s International Institute. He kind of swept me off my feet, and we were married August twenty-third, right after he completed his course work.”

  She fell silent. Funny how she could remember times and places, whereas Bill often forgot their August anniversary, making amends with a lavish late present when he did remember. What was it about men, and remembering family events? Sometimes she felt a keen dividing line between them: He was CEO and controller, and she was secretary in charge of keeping everything else straight.

  “And then?” Geraghty prodded.

  Louise’s mind returned to her chronology. “Martha was born in Washington a year later, and by that time Bill was with … the Foreign Service.” It was easy for her to slide over Bill’s secret spy role with the CIA, since she had twenty years of practice dissembling. “We immediately picked up and moved overseas. Then Janie was born three years later, when we were posted again in Washington. We went back to the Middle East for a couple of years. Back and forth, back and forth—that’s about it.”

  “You haven’t mentioned a career for yourself.” The detective’s florid face was in silhouette; it seemed as if he were avoiding eye contact. He rolled his window back up, as if to give himself something further to distract him.

  “I haven’t worked outside the home,” she said, looking at him in case he looked at her. She did not want to appear to be apologizing.

  How could she have worked, seesawing back and forth on the oceans with two small children? She added hastily, “But I’ve done a little freelance writing. I’m trying to get some writing assignments around here.”

  “Oh,” said Geraghty, with a condescending tone, the kind that nonwriters give to writers to convey interest in something that actually bores them silly.

  Geraghty. There he sat, bright, shining, healthy-looking, and, above all, law-abiding. Looking over at her, unwashed, hair unkempt, jacket worn, sneakers dirty, and somehow guilty until proven innocent.

  “So. Where do you do your writing?”

  Between his “oh” and “so” was a world of time. Louise felt her face flush.

  “In the hut,” she said in a curt voice.

  “The hut being that extension of your house across from your front door? It looks like part of the house, until you get close. By the way, why don’t you attach it to the house? Would it be that hard?”

  She gazed over at him, wondering if she could ever like such a simpleminded man. “We like it separate.” She bit out the words. “Anyway, it’s connected with a big pergola. Did you notice the pergola?” How could you miss it, she thought snappishly. It was huge, and the architectural focal point of the entire house.

  “Pergola, that’s what you call that archway? I thought it was just a grape arbor without grapes. Okay, okay.” He moved uncomfortably in his seat and the car swerved a little, a first time for the detective; he was a skillful driver. “Mrs. Eldridge, don’t get too annoyed with me.” He shot a boyish glance at her; she saw that his good nature was not in the least disturbed. “I’m just asking questions. You can tell me if you object to something I say.”

  “I don’t mean to be difficult. It’s just this headache, but it’s going away. Ask me anything.”

  After a little pause, Geraghty said, “Then let’s talk about your gardening a little more.”

  “What about it?”

  He cleared his throat. “You have a nice, interesting-looking yard, that’s for sure, and you obviously are, uh, caught up in gardening. Since I don’t do that stuff myself, can you make one thing clear?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Do all gardeners, um, go around collecting other people’s leaves—or is that just you?”

  She slumped a little in the seat. She would never lose the tag “gardening nut” with these detectives. “I suppose that not a lot of people do that. It was just expediency, Detective Geraghty. It’s very simple: Leaves are mulch. I needed mulch. And free mulch can’t be sneezed at.” Instantly, the power of suggestion took over and she gave out a huge sneeze, her olfactory system barraged again with the car’s used air and evil fumes. She smiled. “But this police car can be sneezed at. Do you mind opening the window again?” She rubbed the dirty glass with her fingertips. “And better slow down: We’re coming to the first place we picked up bags … beyond this long hill.”

  They were on Foxhall Road, passing estates set back behind iron fences and coming to smaller houses standing closer to the road. “Just a few more houses … this brown one. I think we must have picked up four bags her
e. That’s what Janie and Bill and I all remember.”

  Then they traced their way through the crowded streets to Bradley Boulevard in Bethesda, where Louise remembered another pickup. Wistfully, she thought of her friends living here, and wished she could visit them and tell them what had happened. They would take her in their arms and comfort her. But Geraghty wouldn’t stop: He was like a bird dog searching out quail. Their friends would know soon enough, anyway. The story probably was already on TV.

  After Bethesda they turned south again, snaking through the middle of the diamond that represented the District of Columbia, on Rock Creek Parkway; they emerged near the highflying Watergate and the Kennedy Center, sped past an indifferent Lincoln and Jefferson in their respective memorials, then south on Route 1 through Alexandria and to Geraghty’s headquarters, the Fairfax County police substation.

  He parked in front of the building, which featured abbreviated large white columns of the sort found in public buildings throughout Virginia. Louise had been inside to obtain car stickers and had been amused to see that the faux colonial style stopped at the door. Inside was an array of grimy ivory walls and Formica counters. “Have to dash in here a minute, Mrs. Eldridge. Want to come, or will you wait in the car?”

  “I’ll wait here.” She snuggled into her coat and closed her eyes, then opened them almost immediately, sensing people near. They were walking by to enter the police station. They stared at her, trying to figure out why she was in an unmarked police car. Louise felt like putting her wrists on the dashboard as if to illustrate, “Look, no handcuffs! I’ve merely been detained for questioning.” Instead she put one hand up and casually rubbed her face, as if she were totally used to hanging around police stations.

  Geraghty lumbered out and down the stairs; like a large bear on the move. “I wasn’t too long, was I?” he said with a big grin. Louise bet he said things like that to his wife: a man who wanted the favor of women.

  “No. Not too long. Now, the next place is east of here, near the parkway.” They drove there, Geraghty again noting the address of the house, a large colonial.

  “Now we come to Sylvan Valley,” said Louise. She directed him to two homes on Ransom Road where she and Janie had picked up as many as twelve bags of leaves.

  “And then the last bunch: They came from Martha’s Lane.” They drove up there, to the highest point in the neighborhood, where the houses had a wide view of the valley to the west.

  “It’s the house on the bend … right here,” said Louise. It was one-story, at least in front, and shrouded with bushes and low trees. “We took six bags from here; they were the only ones that were out so early before trash day on this particular street.”

  “Oh? How so?” said Geraghty.

  “I don’t know why. Some people here are very, well, fastidious. They only put their trash out at the last minute, so as not to make the neighborhood unsightly.” She smiled and looked at him. “Sylvan Valley is full of liberals, but they’re fussy about appearances.”

  Geraghty left the car running and went up to the house to find out the address. He came back carrying a couple of advertising flyers he apparently had found near the front door.

  They slowly made their way back down the lane.

  “There’s something else….”

  Geraghty turned toward her, blue eyes alert. “Ah. What is it?”

  The memory slipped away as quickly as it came, like a wisp of smoke.

  “I … I just can’t remember. Maybe nothing.”

  “Maybe not,” said Geraghty slowly. “Can you do something for me?” He stopped the car and turned full toward her. “I want you to sit down with your family tonight and talk about all these places you’ve been”—he nodded at the list she had in her hand—“and get Janie and Mr. Eldridge to think of anything at all that happened when you were out at these places.”

  Then he drove on Route 1 toward Louise’s house. “I think we’ve done it for today,” said Geraghty. “We’ll do a thorough check on these addresses, for one thing. Although anybody could have done just the opposite of what you did.”

  She looked at him. “What do you mean?” She put her hand to her head. “Oh, of course.”

  “Yeh. Anybody could have brought their bags of leaves and put them in front of someone else’s house.”

  Louise smiled wanly. “That would leave you nowhere, right?”

  “Right. That’s why the forensics report will be important … and another report, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Missing persons, Mrs. Eldridge. You see, this woman had a life. What kind of a life we don’t know. But someone’s bound to miss her.”

  “Oh,” sighed Louise. “I don’t envy you your job at all.”

  “It’s not so bad,” said Geraghty. “I meet lots of nice people. Like you, for instance. So, Mrs. Eldridge, I’m hungry. Can I by any chance interest you in a burger? We’re not far away….”

  “A burger.” Her stomach flinched. She had recently read that most burgers contained about fifteen teaspoons of fat. On the other hand, the release of the iron grip of headache had left her with mushy feelings of gratitude toward the whole world. So she said, “A burger sounds very nice.”

  Geraghty turned into the fast-food place and parked expertly in a crowded lot. As they entered, Louise realized this was truly another world. Red and tan Formica everywhere, repeated in the uniforms of the youngsters behind the counter. The colors assaulted her eye, waking her up for good on this slow-to-get-started morning. The number of people surprised her. She and the detective stood at the end of a long line.

  Then she became conscious of the smell, the smell of grease. Little globules of grease perfumed the air and must be entering all her apertures and fastening themselves onto her clothes and her exposed hair. She tried to restrain a shudder. Then, determined to be a good sport—after all, she had come here of her own free will—she shook the picture from her mind and concentrated on the customers, who almost filled the place up.

  She looked at her watch; it was noon. The noon crowd, she noted, included students from the nearby high school and nondescript older couples, the women without makeup or pretence, the men equally plain, hunkering down with rounded shoulders to gobble their meals. There were a couple groups of young business people, perky, sitting tall, dressed and groomed for success in whatever the game was around here—maybe the big insurance firm located nearby on Route 1. They acted no different than if they were lunching in Georgetown.

  Sprinkled in were the young mothers. They were not the slimmest mothers she had ever seen, but they had pretty, plump faces and bright winter outfits that probably disguised figures heading for trouble. Their children seemed to hang on them and clamor for specialties. “Mom, I want the fresh apple pie!” yelled one little boy, then hustled over to the condiments counter to gather up expertly the ketchup, napkins, cream, and straws that the family needed. For these children, this place was like a second home.

  She and Geraghty had worked their way to the front of the line. He grinned down at her, as if reading her mind over the past minute or two. “What’ll you have … the treat’s on me.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t thought …” said Louise, straining to read the offerings on the wall menu. She had left her reading glasses somewhere. “Maybe a plain hamburger.”

  “You’re willing to wait, then.”

  “Wait?”

  Geraghty gave her a strange look. “You don’t cat fast food at all, do you? Plain hamburgers are like a special order. They take, maybe, five minutes.”

  “Oh, gourmet stuff, huh? Okay.” She squinted her eyes at the menu again and then looked straight at the smiling young black man waiting for their order. He seemed to have a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll have your Super Burger,” she said, pulling herself straighter and maintaining eye contact. “I’m sure it’s very good, and a glass of milk.” The youngster turned to Gcraghty, but Louise interrupted with an afterthought. “Uh, what does it have on it?” She shook he
r head. “Not ketchup.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Ketchup.”

  She put up a restraining hand. “No, I don’t want—”

  The young man hadn’t stopped smiling since she began to speak. “Hold the ketchup: no problema. How about our Russian dressing instead?”

  “Russian?” asked Louise suspiciously.

  “Pink. Very tasty.”

  “Okay, if you say so. And a big cup of coffee please.” That would banish the very last strings of headache left in her brow.

  “Super Burger,” said Geraghty. “Good choice. I’ll have one too, with fries, slaw, and coffee, and a piece of apple pie.”

  Louise asked the young man, “You wouldn’t have a few pickles, would you? Pickles to put alongside, not inside, the hamburger?”

  He smiled again. “Ma’am, pickles are our middle name.” He rang up the total and Geraghty paid. Then, before their eyes, in less than ten seconds, the young man gathered their orders, set out their cups, and prepared and delivered a small cup of pickle slices for Louise.

  “Enjoy,” he said.

  As they walked to an empty table, Louise said, “I know why people like these places.”

  “Why?” asked Geraghty, placing the tray on the table and settling himself down.

  She took off her old jacket and hung it on the hook, then slid in opposite him. “Because it’s instant gratification, as opposed to postponed pleasure.”

  “Never thought of it quite that way before.”

  It was a very large burger, whose insides she did not want to investigate but whose sides were leaking pink sauce. Louise took her first bite and realized it had things in it that she would never have combined in her craziest recipe. Then she gave in. She chewed slowly, savoring the sharp tang of a pickle that—contrary to her likes—was embedded somewhere within; the sauce, also tasty; the enticing taste of beef; and then the crunchy aftertaste of tomato and lettuce. She took a sip of milk to wash it down.

  “How d’ya like it?” asked Geraghty, his mouth half full. He looked as concerned as someone introducing a gastronomical treat.