Mulch Read online

  She swallowed and looked at Bill. “I’m going to be sick.” She broke away from him and ran back through the leaves up the steps onto the patio. She vomited near a large Pieris japonica bush, then lost her balance and nearly fell into its thorny arms.

  Her daughter came out and guided her into the house. “Ma, come on with me. It’s going to be all right.” Louise stumbled in and slumped onto the couch. Janie got her some tissues to wipe her mouth.

  Louise leapt up again. “Coffee,” she muttered, as if this were the solution to all problems. She hurried to the kitchen. “I have to put on a pot of coffee,” she called back to Janie. “Your father will need coffee. It’s getting cold out there.” She filled the kettle and put it on.

  “Uh-oh,” reported Janie from the door. “More men are coming now, Ma, a big fat man in a brown suit … no overcoat. I wonder if he’s a detective. And another man in an overcoat; maybe he’s the boss … but cute … maybe too young to be the boss. Maybe the guy in brown is the boss.”

  Louise got the coffee beans from the freezer and poured them with trembling hand into the coffee grinder, then pressed the start button and held it so long that they were pulverized to powder.

  “Now they’re putting tags on the bags of leaves,” reported Janie, “and they’re taking them away. And those packages … they’re putting them in black bags of some kind. I guess they’re taking them away. The cute guy and the big man in the brown suit are coming this way with Dad. I think they’re going to come in. And one of the cops is walking all around the edge of the yard rolling out some yellow tape.” She gasped and caught her breath and looked over at her mother in the adjoining room. “That’s to mark off the scene of a crime! Criminy! Our backyard is the scene of a crime?” Louise leaned against the kitchen cupboard and stared into space.

  Janie returned to her surveillance. “I can see Sam next door; he’s coming to see what’s going on. And here come the Vande Vens too—boy, they’re here in a hurry.”

  Louise sighed and opened the refrigerator. “The whole neighborhood’s probably dying to know what’s happened.” She poked around the refrigerator shelves aimlessly, as if looking for something lost.

  Bill opened the patio door. “Louise, Janie,” he called in a tight voice. Louise turned around and walked slowly into the living room to meet them.

  “These are Detectives Morton and, uh”—Bill turned to the heavier man in the brown suit—“Geraghty, right?”

  “Mike Geraghty, that’s right,” said the man. He went right up to Janie and put out his large ham hand and enveloped Janie’s thin one in it. Then he shook hands with Louise. “We know you’ve had a shock,” he said to Louise. He had large, blue, staring eyes that she somehow found reassuring and a thatch of white hair. “But still we need to ask you some questions. I understand Jane knows something about all this, too.”

  “What is it all about, Detective Geraghty?” asked Louise. “We don’t know either.”

  “Well, first let’s sit down,” ordered Geraghty in his easy way.

  They sat around the dining room table, with Geraghty taking the seat at the head of the table, which Bill usually occupied, and Morton at the other end of the table. Morton was handsome, Louise noted, but with a face like a mask. Wordlessly he took off his overcoat and put it on an empty chair. Then he sat down, put his notebook and pen to his left on the table, and folded his hands. Bill and Louise, on opposite sides of the table, looked at each other forlornly. Then Bill’s face broke into his beautiful grin and he reached both hands across the table and briefly squeezed Louise’s hands in his.

  Geraghty looked at them with unabashed curiosity. He leaned back, relaxing, and his suit coat fell aside, revealing a rotund belly. Louise had read that as people aged, women, being nippier, tended to become pear-shaped, while men, with their slimmer hips and bigger stomachs, ended up shaped like apples. She could see that this man had achieved his goal early.

  He waggled a finger first at one and then at the other. “So you two get along pretty well, hey?”

  “We get along very well,” said Bill, without smiling. “Now, Detective Geraghty, let’s get down to it. Tell us what you need to know—beyond what I’ve already told you.”

  The voice that interrupted was low and harsh. Morton. He was looking squarely at Louise. “We want to know how you come to have those packages in your bags of leaves.”

  “Well … they aren’t, ah … our leaves,” she stuttered. She looked closely at the young man for the first time. Morton’s upper body was the better part of him, so his head was well above the rest of theirs, giving him a giant quality that Louise found unsettling. Were these men playing good cop—bad cop with them? If so, what on earth for?

  His dark eyes bored into her face. “Well, the leaves are in your yard. What do you mean they aren’t your leaves? Where’dja come by ’cm if they aren’t yours?”

  “I, we picked them up here and there.”

  “In the woods, right?” the detective persisted. “Getting ‘em ready to set out for the trash men, right?”

  Faintness enclosed her like a light blanket, and her heart thumped hard for a moment. Then it stopped thumping, leaving a little curlicue of pain in the middle of her chest. She was glad it had stopped, as if she had a new chance. “Let me explain, Officer Morton.” Her voice was dangerously sweet. “We are organic gardeners, Bill and I. We collected these leaves from other people. We were using them to mulch our plants and to enrich the forest floor.” She looked steadily at Morton as if daring him to quibble with their organic gardening techniques.

  “You needed thirty bags—that many bags, to enrich the forest floor?”

  “Twenty-six. There were only twenty-six.”

  “Thirty, ma’am, I counted. And by the way, why don’t you just call it the ground, Mrs. Eldridge, instead of a floor?” He looked at her as one might look at a sassy child.

  Louise slumped back in her chair. “You’re right, Mr. Morton. Why did we get all those leaves? It was so much work, and look what we got for it.”

  “You must have had some reason.”

  She looked at the unpleasant man. “You just take whatever you get when you pick up other people’s throwaways.”

  Morton and the others looked at her, alarmed.

  Bill said, “Louise, are you all right?” Then he turned to Morton and said, “We collected them mostly to fill in a low spot in the corner of the property. Right where you found … the packages. That’s where we were emptying them. It was really a good idea on Louise’s part; it saved buying a bunch of fill dirt.”

  Morton looked at Bill and then at Louise without expression. Then he said to Geraghty, “I guess I’ve heard everything now.” He dove into his notebook and busily wrote.

  Geraghty heaved a big sigh. Louise looked at him and knew what he was about to do. Smooth the rough waters or, as Bill would put it when feeling crude, follow the circus horse to pick up his mess.

  “Mrs. Eldridge,” said Geraghty in a friendly voice, “your husband says you picked up these leaves all over the place. Can you please try to remember just where those places were?”

  She turned to Geraghty. “Oh, let’s see … Foxhall Road, in Washington, just beyond Canal Street, by those big embassy houses …”

  Morton’s head jerked up and he and Geraghty exchanged weary glances. Louise could read the situation: It was bad enough being pulled out on Sunday evening to investigate some stray body parts found in leaf bags, without dragging in another jurisdiction as well.

  “Bethesda,” she continued, “where we have friends, though not from the friends’ houses, but along the route.” This time the detectives masked their dismay: three jurisdictions! She continued: “And of course, here in the neighborhood, including quite a few from the next-door neighbors.”

  “Next-door neighbors?” echoed Morton ominously, and Louise suddenly visualized relations with her new neighbors deteriorating under the strain of a criminal investigation.

  She said dryly,
“I’m sure that a Washington Post reporter who’s a specialist on international affairs has just the mind-set to murder someone, chop them up, and then toss the parts in bags he thereupon gives to me for mulch. Or his wife, Lauric—very suspicious there in her Belleview Boutique. Why, she could be plotting murders while rearranging the earring display.”

  “Now, now, Louise,” said Bill smoothly, patting her hand, “we mustn’t get sarcastic. But, I’m sorry to say, guys, I just remembered another collection spot—the Westmoreland subdivision.” He looked blandly at Morton, while addressing his wife. “Don’t you remember, Louise, we picked up that batch after church last Sunday?”

  Morton put his pen down. “Well, it’s a good cover, I’ll say that.”

  “Good cover,” said Louise dully. “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s a good way to get rid of a body; just chop it up and tuck a couple parts in one bag, a couple of parts in another bag….”

  Janie, sitting beside Louise, was listening intently to every word. Suddenly she turned to her mother. “I … I don’t think I feel very well.” Her voice was hollow.

  The girl lurched up from the table, tipping her chair over, and ran from the room. Bill went after her. Louise got up from the table and turned angrily to Morton and Geraghty. “Can’t you people get finished and get out of here? The whole family is sickened. Haven’t we told enough? We didn’t commit the crime. We … we just happen to live here.” She started crying, her whole body shuddering as if from intense cold. Flanked by detectives and nowhere to turn her face, she covered it with her hands.

  Geraghty stood up and came over to her. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Eldridge. You’re right. We’ve done enough for today. This has been a long afternoon for you. We’ll push on and come back tomorrow—how about ten o’clock?” He leaned over her and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. With an effort, she stifled her sobs.

  “Mrs. Eldridge, you okay now?”

  Louise nodded and wiped her nose with a tissue. Geraghty continued. “Your husband can go to work if he likes, since you seem to remember everywhere that you picked up the bags of leaves. We can talk to him later at his convenience.” He looked down at her reassuringly and patted her on the shoulder. “Now, don’t you cry any more. And I hope your daughter feels better.”

  She went with them to the door. Morton turned to her and said, “You have to realize, ma’am, even if you are upset, that this kind of discovery raises a lot of questions. The whole thing revolves around your property, your family. We don’t want anything disturbed in the backyard. Stay out of it. We have someone posted back there just to keep people out who might want to nose around. We’ll be back tomorrow when it’s light to cover the whole area with a fine-tooth comb. And we’d just as soon have your daughter stay home from school so we can get a complete statement from her, too. Right, Mike?” Morton looked at Geraghty.

  Louise’s mouth was agape. “Are you telling me we’re under suspicion … even Janie?” She laughed, then pulled in her breath in a little gasp and shook her head. “What is the matter with you people? How could you possibly think—”

  Geraghty quietly interrupted. “Mrs. Eldridge, let me explain. It isn’t that we think that you’re directly involved. It’s just that so far everything is centered here. But I’m sure we’ll find out more tomorrow and then our investigation will branch out. Meanwhile, you try to get a good night’s rest.”

  Down the hall Louise could hear Janie’s crying and Bill’s soothing voice. She had leftover sobs in her own breast. “Yes,” she said quietly, “we’ll try to have a good night’s rest.” She let the policemen out and closed the door.

  “But if we do,” she yelled at the closed door, “it will be no thanks to you!”

  11

  The Day After

  WHEN LOUISE OPENED HER EYES THE FIRST things she saw were the white knobs on the antique dry sink across the room. Then she became aware of the flat, hard pain in her temples. Awakening with a headache in the morning, she long ago concluded, was the price long-legged women paid in return for being blessed with ectomorphic frames. Still only half awake, she could not feel her body and long legs, which for all she knew could be curled up against her chin. The only reality was her head with its ache. She kept it still. Only her eyes moved a little, noting the white Egyptian cotton spread on top of her body, the white percale sheet next to her cheek. What was wrong? Something was wrong, but for an instant she couldn’t think why. She lifted her head off the pillow, squinted her eyes, and looked around, as if the answer lay in this serene bedroom with its gray carpeting, its white walls, its taupe blinds, its peach-colored boudoir chair.

  Then yesterday came back like the sudden reappearance of a monster. “Oh, nooo …” With one motion she sat up on the edge of the bed, her pink charmeuse nightie twisted uncomfortably beneath her, the headache following her up as if it were attached with springs. She murmured, “It’s true, it happened.” She raked her fingers through her brown hair, then brought them forward and massaged her temples with careful little pushes, since it seemed so easy to rub right through there to the inside. Then she pulled her head up and straightened her back.

  “Geraghty. The detective’s coming. And that moron with him … Morton.” She looked at the bedside clock. “Oh, God.” Kicking blindly under the bed her feet somehow found her satin mules. She slipped them on and staggered to an upright position. Then she headed for the bathroom to find life-giving aspirin.

  Medicated, she proceeded with careful steps down the hall and opened Janie’s door a crack. Her daughter was curled up, head covered, still asleep. Louise hesitated, incapable of decision. Then she walked back to her room and dressed in fresh underwear and socks and yesterday’s trousers and shirt, and went to the kitchen to find that Bill had made a large pot of coffee. “Bless you, Bill,” she muttered.

  A movement in the backyard caught her eye, but she did not look out. She had accepted the fact that the world was no longer normal, and there probably was a whole beehive of police activity out there. If she didn’t move her head too quickly or nose into it too much, it might all go away.

  She focused instead on a microworld: Bill’s comforting beaker-shaped glass coffeemaker filled with aromatic mahogany-colored liquid. And her coffee mug reading “She Who Must Be Obeyed” that he had set out nearby for her use. She concentrated hard on pouring out a small third of a cup as a starter, then struggled to the refrigerator to add a dollop of cream. Then she leaned her elbows on the counter and cradled the cup in her hands like a small, precious prize and drank.

  Two more cups and she might live.

  The doorbell rang.

  Detective Gcraghty was alone. His large body filled the doorway. Louise looked at him and had to blink. He was dazzling. Rosy cheeks, roundish nose, bright white hair, bright blue eyes. Except for fifty extra pounds, the picture of health. “G’morning, Mrs. Eldridge. Sorry Detective Morton couldn’t come.”

  “Well, I’m not.” Her eyes flashed. “Come in. Would you like coffee? I’m just starting mine.”

  Geraghty settled down at the dining room table again. After laborious efforts that seemed to take forever, she brought a tray that included buttered toast. “I’m sorry … I just got out of bed a few minutes ago. I—I’m not in very good shape. And I have to tell you, Janie isn’t awake yet. I don’t feel like waking her for you.” She looked at Geraghty to see how this struck him.

  He nodded his head to show that he had heard but didn’t necessarily agree. Louise went on, encouraged. “Everything was just too much for us. None of us could get to sleep until very late. And the TV trucks! Their lights all over the place. The street full of reporters.” Again her eye caught a movement in the yard and she turned and stared out at her little piece of woods, all outlined with garish yellow police tape. Two policemen were slowly walking in a line, their eyes poring over the ground, in their hands rakes with which they gently moved leaves around. An ancient picture of reapers came to her mind.

  She l
ooked at Geraghty and he nodded. “Our men have been out there for some time, examining the yard for further evidence.” He leaned forward and put his boxing-glove-sized hands on the table in front of him. “Mrs. Eldridge, I’m not surprised you didn’t sleep last night. Let me give you some advice. The reporters may or may not ease off after a few days. Just remember: You have no obligation to say anything to them at all. I advise you to listen to the answering machine before you pick up on phone calls … at least for a few weeks. But the press—especially Channel Nine—they’re going to hang around like ghouls until we solve this crime.” He patted her shoulder. “So just acquire a thick skin for a while. Your family has been thrown into the world of crime … no fault of your own, most likely.”

  He patted her hand for emphasis. “We aren’t trying to persecute you and your family. But we do have to get all the answers to the questions we have.” He carefully withdrew his hand and proceeded to drink his coffee, all the time looking at her with his blue marblelike eyes.

  Louise sighed. “Thanks. That makes me feel better, Detective Geraghty, that you don’t suspect us. It seems so ridiculous. It’s bad enough what happened.” She touched her stomach. She felt primitive: hungry, headachy, unbathed, wearing yesterday’s clothes. Then she took a piece of toast and spread it with a little homemade jam. “Now you go ahead. Ask your questions.” She gave him a fleeting smile and took a big bite of toast.

  Geraghty looked more sober now. His smile was gone. “Well, ma’am, I told you I thought this situation was no fault of your own. That doesn’t mean there won’t be some suspicion attached to someone in this house….”

  Louise gulped the toast down her unwilling esophagus.

  The lawman leaned forward as much as his stomach would allow. “The reason being that in the majority of crimes, the perpetrator is someone nearby—in the same family, in the same house, maybe in the same neighborhood in this case.”

  He extended both large hands outward in a gesture of helplessness. “That means we have to do a thorough check of this family, this yard, all your movements … and all your past associations.”