The Perennial Killer: A Gardening Mystery

by Ann Ripley

  “Ruthie,” she called softly, not wanting to startle her. The white-curled head shook a little, as if the old woman were waking from sleep. She put on her glasses and peered at the door. “Louise, come in. No, better still, I’ll come out and we’ll sit in the afternoon cool.”

  She slipped on her tennis shoes and carefully tied them before joining Louise on the porch. The woman looked tired, and still faced a hectic evening shift of tourists and locals who depended on her for the evening’s sustenance. Louise wondered how much longer she could keep up this very full-time job as restaurant owner, manager, and chief cook.

  “Ooh,” Ruthie said suddenly, in a tone that indicated a moral failure on her part, “I didn’t get us anything to drink.”

  “I don’t need it,” Louise assured her, “unless you need something.” She urged Ruthie to sit in the metal lawn chair. “I’ve come to bother you only for a minute—and, incidentally, thank you for putting in a good word for me with Sergeant Rafferty.”

  “Oh? Did you need the sergeant?”

  “You never know when you might need the law to help you,” Louise said, and let it go at that. “Ruthie, do you recall saying that you couldn’t remember much about the past?”

  “Yeah, and that’s God’s truth. I put bad things out of my mind.”

  “Ruthie, suppose I told you that your brain is like a computer, and that it stores millions of bits of information—sort of files them away. Things Sally Porter might have mentioned to you recently. Things from years ago.”

  Ruthie chuckled. “I’ve heard that, but it doesn’t help me remember things I’ve forgotten.”

  “Let’s assume that you have more stored in your head about Porter Ranch than you think,” said Louise, and smiled engagingly; she was giving Ruthie her strongest sales pitch.

  “Well, I guess I probably do, but how to get it out?”

  “First, of all, are you comfortable?”

  “Sure am,” said Ruthie, rocking a little in the old metal chair.

  “Why don’t you take off your glasses? You don’t have to see, you just have to remember.” She looked at the tennis shoes. “Want me to loosen your shoes?”

  The woman chuckled. “You sure are a determined one, Louise—like a dog with a bone. Naw, my feet are just fine the way they are.” But she took off the plastic-framed glasses and laid them in her lap, then put her hands on the arms of the chair and tipped her head back a little. “Next you’ll be telling me to close my eyes.”

  “Good idea—close your eyes and relax, like a limp dish towel.”

  There was a smile on the old woman’s lips, but she closed her eyes and looked completely at ease. “Now, just exactly what do you want me to retrieve?” she asked in her friendly twang. “What are these things filed under?”

  When she returned home, Louise paused only to put her purse in the house and note that she still had half an hour before Ann arrived before heading down the road toward the creek. Daisy the llama and Herb’s horse stared at her curiously as she passed. “Hi, Daisy, hi, Horse,” she called self-consciously. The horse whinnied.

  No one answered Dr. Gary Rostov’s bell, but Louise would not be thwarted so easily. She went around the lowslung green house to find him. He was sitting on an old bench with his half-glasses perched on his bald forehead, sipping something from a mug and staring into the fast-moving stream. He seemed oblivious to all around him, the cliff above which two eagles soared, looking for prey. The tumult of butterflies gliding back and forth with the skill of aviators. The congregation of clouds that would have sent artists rushing to their easels. In his lap was a pile of periodicals, all opened, as if he had sampled them all at the same time. Nearby was a weathered little table with a celadon teapot.

  Dr. Rostov had not yet detected Louise’s presence, and she was reluctant to break into this moment of unusual peace. Finally, she said, “I hate to interrupt you—it’s so utterly peaceful here.”

  He turned slowly to observe her. He did not seem startled. “Hello,” he called. “I would venture that you’re the woman Herb told me about—the television personality.” She recognized a Boston accent.

  He stood up and stretched to his full height of more than six feet, extending a slim hand. They introduced themselves. “I was just sitting here, enjoying my licorice-root tea. Will you join me?”

  She did, and with very little encouragement, Dr. Rostov gave her a thumbnail sketch of his background. How he had become interested in the field of post-traumatic stress thirty years ago, when the term was not even formulated, and his current research on survivor guilt.

  “It’s Greek to me, I must admit,” said Louise. “All I have is a pop view of the subject, which could be quite inaccurate. But I have some candidates for post-traumatic stress disorder—actually, several of them. I wanted to test them on you—you know, give you a set of life circumstances, and ask you if these people could be suffering from this problem.”

  “And just what do they have to do with you, Louise—if I may call you Louise. Is it something work-related, or something to do with your family?”

  “Neither, I’m afraid. Actually, it could have something to do with the Porter murders.”

  His eyes behind his glasses were confused, and he looked very much the absentminded professor. “I—I’m terribly sorry. I just flew back to Colorado after a six-week teaching stint in Los Angeles. Have there been murders around here? My word! And that name is faintly familiar. Why? Porter. I know I’ve missed something. But do tell me all the particulars, and then maybe I can give you some clue as to whether or not your candidates fit the profile of one who is suffering post-traumatic stress.”

  And so they sat by the river, dark and beautiful as it tumbled over the rock rubble from the nearby mountains, watching butterflies and talking about the somber side of human behavior.

  A Butterfly’s View of Life

  FOSSILS SHOW US BUTTERFLIES have been around a lot longer than humans. We love them, as one of our most cherished insects, and deplore the fact that some species are disappearing from the earth. Fortunately, home gardeners can help preserve these beauties by maintaining “natural” yards, and planting the right flowers in their gardens.

  It is well to know the ways of butterflies, if we are to become garden buddies. Some hibernate as adults, tucked away in loose tree bark, in eaves, and in woodpiles. When temperatures rise, they unfold their wings and take flight. Species such as the sulphurs and the whites appear in early spring. The insect becomes more noticeable when the summer flowers open. This is the time to observe the gyrating dance of the female white butterfly as it tries to discourage unwanted suitors, and the brilliant blue of the spring azure and the tailed blue.

  The monarch arrives from Mexico. The tiger swallowtails come, with their yellow-and-black-striped wings, along with an array of butterflies in many colors. They soon are joined by the monarch, probably the best known of the butterflies. It has closed up its winter home in Mexico, and is back north to enjoy the clovers and milkweed.

  The activity of butterflies begins to wane at the end of July. They have had a full season of gathering nectar and pollinating plants. At season’s end, some monarchs are easy to see, as they cling to flowers, storing energy for the return voyage south. As fall sets in, chrysalises and cocoons, many butterflies’ winter headquarters, are set deftly into place under leaves, attached to branches, in evergreens, and in the crevices of trees.

  The life cycle of the butterfly progresses quite simply. A female mates within a few days of emerging from her chrysalis. She then seeks a tender, succulent host plant on which to house her eggs. In a few days, a caterpillar emerges from each egg, with this state lasting from one to twelve weeks. As gardeners, we have encountered these voracious little creatures, and—think of it!—destroyed many a potential butterfly in the process. The surviving caterpillars build themselves a chrysalis (moths build a cocoon). Some butterflies emerge from the chrysalis in a week, while others take much longer.

  Bu
tterfly houses for the addicted. Today, there are butterfly houses and pavilions throughout the United States, with many people addicted to them as heavily as the Victorians, who housed them in atriums and conservatories. But there is an alternative: a butterfly garden of one’s own.

  We often get our best view of butterflies in the garden while they are basking. They need these sunbaths so they can warm up their muscles to fly. They also have a great need for water. We can fulfill both needs by providing them stony, shallow pools to hang around. A birdbath set with some larger stone or stones will do nicely. A salt block is welcome, since it helps male butterflies develop sperm.

  Meadows are a favorite of butterflies, but few of us have turned our premises into a meadowland. Nevertheless, the more trees, shrubs, and tall grasses, the better. The objective is to have the butterfly spend its entire life in your garden.

  Don’t murder butterflies in the woodpile. If you want to be really kind to butterflies, provide them with a windbreak against the cruel north wind. Also, check to see that you aren’t murdering butterflies before throwing a log on your winter fire: a log is a favorite spot for a chrysalis. It is even possible to relieve the butterfly’s work by purchasing a hibernating box, where the guys can overwinter when they’re in the adult stage. Put it out in the fall: That’s when they need it.

  When we plant a garden to attract butterflies, we must realize they see color through complex eyes. According to the experts, they prefer purple, pink, yellow, white, blue, and red, in that order. Try to have a steady supply of bloomers, which means constant nectar for them. Tuck insect-deterring plants among the others as pest controls.

  Flowers that butterflies like: Butterfly bush is the best attracter of these insects. An expert’s list also includes: butterfly weed, coreopsis, hollyhock, lantana, New England aster, phlox, purple coneflower, verbena, violet, yarrow, cosmos, heliotrope, impatiens, marigold, Mexican sunflower, nasturtium, and zinnia.

  Trees and grasses are important to butterflies for many reasons: the nectar of their flowers; their rotting fruit, a delicacy in the eyes of the comma, mourning cloak, and viceroy; their sap, favored by satyrs, admirals, and question marks; and their leaves, useful both for laying eggs, and later, for caterpillar lunches.

  Find room in your garden for butterfly “hotels,” or host plants. Among these are sweet fennel, caraway, and dill. The black swallowtail, a knockout of a butterfly, can’t resist dill or caraway. Actually, you can’t go wrong by popping herbs of all lands into your garden, even less well-known ones such as burdock, nettle, hyssop, and vervain, for there’s a butterfly that’s a pushover for each one of them.

  Find out what’s endangered: Prominent on the butterfly endangered list is the regal fritillary, with its extraordinary panels of gold and purple. Sightings have become fewer and fewer of this beauty in the wild, but it is being reintroduced to certain areas to reverse this trend. The Palos Verde blue was a beautiful bright-blue-colored variety, but now extinct. Still another special butterfly is the Schaus’s swallowtail, once found in Florida, now only raised in captivity.

  Gardeners should do what they can to help butterflies. The endangered Karner blue, for instance, uses only one host plant for its’ larvae: the blue wild lupine, Lupinus perennis. If we can establish this dry-soil prairie plant on our properties, we can help save this insect. The more natural and diverse our yards are, the more butterfly species will be attracted, to live and propagate, and create a new generation.

  Chapter 23

  EACH NERVE IN LOUISE’S BODY jangled, from the realization that tonight at this western wake she was bound to find out something conclusive about the Porter murders. Ann, sitting beside her, was a picture of relaxation and beauty in a pale blue print lawn dress. The younger woman was dressed more formally than usual, and she had even curled her hair a little. Louise realized this was all in the name of Ann’s imminent reunion with Luke, who was due back at DIA on a late plane, rather than a reflection of the solemn occasion.

  A lot was at stake in that reunion—probably as much as would be hanging on her own reunion with Bill tomorrow. “The whole megillah?” she muttered.

  “Excuse me?” said Ann.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Louise, “just thinking out loud.”

  She was suddenly glad they had decided not to invite Pete to ride with them.

  The sign at the highway turn clued them in that they were coming to a very special house. Upscale rustic, she guessed one would call it, the sign had Frank’s name burnt into the wood, and a string of little mountains carved across the top, painted pale purple with white tops. Frank Porter’s house turned out to be a ranch house with two-story glass windows, rough wood beams, granite rock trim, and landscaped gardens. It was light years away from his father’s simple, ancient ranch house, and from his brother Eddie’s ramshackle log cabin a few miles down the road. This architectural model perched quietly on a rock cliff that overlooked the South St. Vrain River and the Porter Ranch acres of wild Colorado land.

  The house was approached by way of a road steeper than most people would have been comfortable with, but which was no longer a challenge to Louise. She had insisted to Ann that they take her car, since she had found she liked mountain driving and would have few more opportunities beyond this weekend.

  In deference to others who might be closer to the family than they were, they parked at a distance from the house and walked up. Louise, on her caffeine high, had to slow her pace for the laid-back Ann, strolling gracefully beside her.

  The broad front porch had steps on either end. They went up the nearest set and knocked but no one answered the door, so they walked in, imagining Frank and Eddie to be busy with last-minute preparations. Before them was an imposing living room with tall peaked windows, beige carpeting, and spare, bleached oak furniture, but bereft of plants, pictures, and decorations.

  Ann touched Louise’s arm and said in a low voice, “It’s a little bland, isn’t it? Maybe Frank could use a decorator.”

  “Not even sister Sally’s been here, with her Hummel figures or folksy touches.”

  Ann nodded and called, “Helloo!” There was no answer.

  They wandered into the dining room, expecting Frank to walk out of the kitchen at any moment. On a big, glass-topped dining room table sat a now-departed caterer’s work: trays of carefully arranged meat, cheese, vegetables, breads, and sweets.

  “Oh, yum,” said Louise. Set around the trays were the jewels of the culinary crown, the very best donated dishes from the kitchens of good cooks, offered in condolence for the Porter brothers’ loss. Among them were a glazed cake with strawberry and kiwi on top, cheese-topped au gratin potatoes with a curl of steam coming out of the edge of the casserole lid, sprightly pasta salad with shrimps poking out, a rich yellow potato salad—the dish Grace Prangley had delivered to the brothers earlier—a small mountain of home-cooked sweet buns, and Eddie’s own enchiladas.

  People had already helped themselves. “Frank and Eddie must be around here somewhere,” Louise said, “having an early snack before the crowd comes.” She eyed the pastries. Suddenly, her stomach growled and she realized it had been six hours since her meager lunch. “Ann, let’s eat something…” She reached for the plate, grabbing a sugar cookie and a frosted bun. She got frosting on her fingers and was about to lick it off when they heard an unearthly moan.

  Louise dropped the pastry and rushed through a swinging door into die big kitchen, leaving frosting fingerprints behind her in her haste. Beyond it was a large patio with a table and chairs, and lying on the wood deck was a writhing figure with another bent over it. Frank Porter, trying to regurgitate the poison that had entered his system, and Eddie kneeling beside him.

  Louise assessed the situation in a glance and said, “Stay with them. I’ll call an ambulance.” She grabbed her cell phone and made the call, but was at a loss to give an address. “It’s that big pointy-roofed house on top of a cliff on Route Seven. There’s a steep gravel access road, and you can�
��t miss it. It’s marked by a new sign with mountains carved on it that says ‘Porter.’”

  She joined Ann, who knelt next to Eddie. Frank looked at them through slitted eyes and hoarsely whispered a single word: “Poison.” He was fast losing consciousness. Eddie was crying inconsolably. “Frank—God, Frank, don’t leave me!” he cried. Louise ran down a hall off the kitchen in search of the bedrooms, and finding one snatched several blankets from the big bed. She ran back to the porch to cover the afflicted man. Unfortunately, she had seen a poison victim before, writhing in her death throes, and die very least she had done then was what she was doing now. Keeping the victim warm.

  Ann stood up, and the women looked at each other. “God, we have to do something,” said the land officer. “He ate one of those foods…”

  Louise knew what she had to do. “Will you be sure that no one eats anything more? And keep an eye on Eddie to see that he’s all right. I have to go check on Harriet.”

  Before Ann could ask any more questions, Louise turned on her booted heel and ran back through the house. On the front porch, she came to another quick stop. Pulling up into the turnabout was Josef Reingold’s gray Jaguar. A shudder ran through her. She instinctively shrank down behind the porch railing, where he could not see her. Reingold was here to get his contract signed.

  Louise heard sirens coming up the canyon. Help was coming for Ann. Crouching down, she moved rapidly toward the stairs on the far end of the porch. Like a child playing capture the flag, she scuttled down just as Reingold came up the near side. She hovered behind a ponderosa pine and watched him go through the knock-on-the-door routine. There was a grim expression on his face, and the usual bulge of his handgun under his suit jacket.

  Confident that he wasn’t paying attention to her, Louise hurried down the driveway to her car, but paused with her hand on the door. She sensed she had left something undone. Reingold had disappeared inside now. She walked back up the hill to his gray car, expecting him to re-appear on the porch above her at any moment. He had left the car door unlocked, so she cautiously pulled it open. That’s when she saw the shotgun on the car floor, clad loosely in a piece of new chamois. Next to it was a small suitcase.