by Ann Ripley
Reingold was getting out of town—and in a hurry. Louise knew just how bold her next move was. Without dunking about it further, she crouched down, unclasped her Swiss Army knife from her belt, looked at the little menu of weapons, and plunged the sharp awl in the side of the nearest tire, then repeated the process on the other three. Each time she was rewarded with a steady hiss of released air. The expensive vehicle now sat there, looking cumbersome and useless in the slanting rays of the setting She opened the car door again and lifted out the loaded shotgun. She had slashed, after all; she might as well steal. For a moment she pointed the gun straight at Frank Porter’s front door, just in case Reingold returned. He wouldn’t like her stealing his armaments. Then she ran back down the hill to her car, knowing that at any moment the man could plug her in the back.
Placing the purloined gun on the seat, she drove down the steep driveway, then west on the highway until she reached the back road to Porter Ranch.
Louise made the trip to Harriet’s in record time. She parked the car a little beyond the entrance to the gray house, turned off the ignition, and sat quietly in the driver’s seat, taking a few deep breaths to compose herself. It was time to confront the demons of this mountain, and make sure everyone who lived here was safe.
Grabbing the borrowed shotgun on the outside chance she would need it, Louise climbed out of the car. She held the weapon flush against her leg, the way she had seen Herb do it. Coming to the break in the ponderosa pines, her gaze was attracted by the open horse stalls and the old shed that lined the edge of the yard. She wandered toward the stalls, which now held only a few horses, plus the rusting machinery that had replaced animals. It was reminiscent of Eddie’s place, only much neater. She noticed the rusty tractor, a pickup from the 1920’s, a more recent truck, a dark 1980’s-vintage sedan, and finally, in the last stall, a car covered with a tarpaulin. Louise pulled up a corner of the cloth. It was an old Chevy covered pickup, four-wheel drive, white, with a floodlight attached to the front, and fresh scratches on the right front fender.
Just then, Harriet strode out of her house. The woman looked powerful, her black hat tipped at a distinctive angle. There was no pioneer skirt today to impede her progress, but rather trim jeans tucked into boots that made it easy for her to move rapidly toward Louise at the same time she slowly raised her shotgun.
Chapter 24
LOUISE WAS SO DISCONCERTED by the approach of the armed woman that she had failed to pay attention to the faint rattling sound near her in the high grass. Harriet came within a dozen feet of Louise and turned the barrel down at a huge rattler, poised to strike. The gun fired with an explosive sound, and the snake was beheaded before their eyes.
Louise could not stop shuddering. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” she cried, looking at Harriet with wide eyes.
In a flat voice, Harriet said, “Put the gun down, Louise, and put your hands up.”
Louise had forgotten she was even carrying a gun, although it was aimed unconsciously in Harriet’s direction. For a few seconds, the two women confronted each other, guns pointed. Then Louise recalled the speed with which Harriet got her shot off. She bent her knees and carefully placed the gun on the ground. As she gazed up at the woman in front of her, she realized how foolhardy she had been to blunder up here alone. Harriet was not the frail thing she purported to be. She was as dangerous a killer as Louise had ever faced.
And the woman seemed to sense exactly why Louise had come. She had no choice now but to come right out with it.
Slowly, she straightened up. “Harriet, I know you shot Jimmy Porter. I know you forced Sally off the back road with your white Chevy. And Frank is dying right now from your poisoned sweet buns.”
The western voice was calm as ever. “You’ll have to prove that an old woman like me did things like that.”
Louise could picture a jury not believing her for one minute. All Harriet had to do was bring on the shakes, that vacant stare, and those flat, convincing words. Even Louise was halfway convinced she was wrong about the old lady.
“But when they bring an honest investigator into this case, they’re going to be able to check the paint on your Chevy; it’s old, so it will be easy to identify on Sally’s fender.”
“I don’t think you’ll be around to tell anyone that.”
Louise knew it was foolish, but she couldn’t back down until she knew the truth. “That isn’t all I know, Harriet.” She lowered her arms a little, since they were getting tired, but Harriet signaled with her gunbarrel that they should go up higher. Then she told the woman what she’d learned from Ruthie Dunn earlier that day. “Ruthie recalled the story that county folks gossiped about for years, it was about how you got pregnant, and shortly before the baby was born, Jimmy’s wife died in that barn fire. Ruthie remembers Jimmy Porter coming down to the restaurant. You won’t like this much, Harriet…”
She could see the old woman was engrossed in the story, as if she had waited decades for someone to recite it to her.
“…but Jimmy wasn’t true to you, or any woman, ever. He tried to take up with Ruthie then, but she wouldn’t have him.”
Louise took a half step forward. Harriet tightened her hand on the shotgun.
“You killed Bonnie Porter so you could be Jimmy’s wife, didn’t you?”
Harriet seemed to wake up from the trance into which Louise’s narrative had taken her. “First I hit her on the head,” she muttered. “Then I set the barn on fire. That took care of her. That meant I could be with Jimmy, and my little baby would have a father.” She drew the gun to her face and pointed it right at Louise’s head.
As sweat emanated from Louise’s every pore, she could hear the click of the shell going into the chamber. An outright confession, and now she’ll shoot me, Louise thought. Dear God, she hadn’t had a chance to make her peace with Bill, and now she was going to die. She suddenly felt very weary. She thought about that snake, with its head blown off. This would be the fate of her head any moment now.
Desperately, she hurried on. “And then your baby was born, and he died quickly, isn’t that right?”
The gun dropped slightly, and Louise’s hopes rose. “How do you know that?” asked Harriet.
“‘Lack of oxygen’” Louise continued. “That baby didn’t die naturally, did it?”
Harriet’s calm finally shattered, and a gentle rain of tears fell down the weathered cheeks. Louise watched with relief as she lowered the shotgun to her side. She wiped away the tears with a shaking hand.
Louise stepped forward, hands out, hoping the woman would give her the gun. Harriet instinctively stepped back. She could take the gun by force now, while Harriet was crying—or could she? The bony old hand on the stock was still firm, and despite her tears, the woman’s eyes scared Louise.
They were within three feet of each other. “Why didn’t your baby cry, Harriet? The gravestone reads ‘Baby Henry, Who Could Not Cry’ Was he deformed?”
Harriet nodded, the tears still falling. In a dull voice she said, “He just lay there and stared at me. His throat and breathing were so bad. I smothered him with a pillow when I found out he wasn’t right. And since then”—her eyes raised up as if she were an ancient prophet—“‘The voice of the innocent’s blood cries to me from the ground’ just like the Bible tells me.”
Louise remembered the dusty Bible on the library table, turned to what appeared to be Harriet’s favorite passage. But it had not been her favorite passage at all. It was an eternal indictment for killing her own baby. Louise repressed a shudder.
Then Harriet began to spill out in a trembling voice, a story that sounded like a recurring nightmare: “The baby is coming. It’s insisting on being born, shoving apart the mother’s bones. But something isn’t right. The mother’s body is in shock. The mother is dying. Can’t breathe, losing too much blood. Then it’s born—held up in the air, healthy, crying…”
Harriet stared into the distance, and Louise realized that she was the baby, telling the story
. “Baby’s eyes are staring at the mother in the bed. They’re the eyes of a killer. And the father wailing at the bedside, cursing the crying infant … cursing her forever afterd…”
“Oh, my God,” said Louise.
“My father knew what I’d done,” Harriet continued, her eyes focusing again. “He detested me for killing my mother, then he detested me for killing my babe. He detested me because Jimmy still wasn’t about t’ marry me.”
This seemed to ignite Harriet’s anger again. Before Louise could make a move to stop her, Harriet had stepped back and pointed the weapon straight at her forehead.
She put up her hands. “Wait, now, Harriet. Put the gun down—”
“Move back, Louise. Neither you nor anyone else can prove anything.”
She had been a fool. Momentary compassion for an elderly woman who seemed on the verge of collapse! Louise carefully maneuvered herself backward, conscious that the rattler Harriet shot might not be the only one making its home in her yard.
“Harriet, those old deaths up on this ranch didn’t cause you to kill Jimmy and Sally. It was that fresh insult, wasn’t it?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I saw evidence with my own eyes that Jimmy loved you—that half heart that’s lying on your library table, and the other half I saw today on the Porter’s kitchen shelf. Jimmy just told you—what, a week ago?—about Grace Prangley, right? Did he tell you on the day you killed him? He decided he would marry a younger woman, sell his ranch, and leave here forever.”
The old eyes blazed briefly. “That man was my lover off ’n on for forty years. It was Bonnie’s fault. He came to my bed when Bonnie wouldn’t be a wife to him, she was so busy sorrowin’ over the boy that died of lockjaw. He fathered my child. And he kept coming back to my bed. And now he was running off with another woman.”
“You mean, you and Jimmy still…”
Harriet sniffed contemptuously; the shotgun wavered but did not falter. “Huh, a lot you know ’bout things. Yes, Jimmy and I still were lovers. And that’s enough talk. You’re standing out here like a sore thumb—get goin’ to the backyard.”
Louise slowly walked down the row of sheds toward the backyard, still talking as she went. “It seems to me,” she said in a casual voice, “that killing Jimmy was a crime of passion. But why kill Sally?” She took a chance and turned to look at the woman, who had slowed and was staring at the shrouded white truck under the rusted tin roof.
“That Sally, she would be that stubborn. Just like her dad, in wantin’ to sell the ranch. And she was a scairdy-cat driver. It only took a little push to get her over the edge of that cliff.”
The woman took one hand off the gun and wiped her brow with the back of her hand—or was she crying? It was tears, Louise thought, and Harriet’s head trembled a little as she cried. “I was sorry about Sally, real sorry. I weep over her every night, along with Baby Henry. But the bad people just keep comin’ and comin’ … why, today that woman drove up here, and I know, she was only tryin’ to boss those boys around.” Louise had sensed how Harriet resented Grace Prangley invading her mountain neighborhood. “But there’ll be no more Frank or Eddie to boss around.”
Harriet sighed and nodded her head, as if poisoning the boys had been the only reasonable thing to do. The old woman came right up to Louise and prodded her forward. “You’re too clever by half. You remind me of Jimmy’s wife, Bonnie. Get goin’ and stop trying’ to distract me.”
Louise didn’t need to be told twice. She stumbled along the rocky outcropping, the image of Eddie bending over his brother’s body fresh in her mind. Suddenly another memory of Eddie crowded in—Eddie picking up dinner at the Gold Strike Café, Ruthie Dunn offering him a piece of her marvelous pie—and she realized Harriet didn’t know the truth. Maybe there was still a chance to get through to this woman. “So you poisoned Frank. Such a nice guy, Frank. But Eddie doesn’t eat sweets. He’s just fine, and he’s still going to sell the ranch.”
Harriet let out a wild howl of—rage? Frustration? Then she seemed to calm herself. “It don’t matter. With those others gone, Eddie will listen to me. He’s a good boy, Eddie is. He’s just like his father used to be…”
Louise looked at the woman curiously. Like his father used to be before he threatened to run off with a new wife? No, there was no getting through to Harriet. Back to stalling for time. “You’re the one who shot me out at that farm, weren’t you?”
“Well, I missed. I drove right out onto that bluff and watched you while you stumbled around in that field like someone who’d never set foot on a farm before in her life. Knew you from your hat, even at a distance. Knew you were a nosy one that would figure things out. Just like that nephew of mine, Mark, only he’s scared of me, so he minded his tongue. The worst one of all was that Josef Reingold.”
Louise tossed the words over her shoulder. “You know, Harriet, I thought Mark Payne or Josef Reingold killed the Porters for their land.”
“I right did them a favor, didn’t I?” the old woman said. “Them and Earl Tatum, who’s thick as thieves with Mark. Reingold kept pokin’ around up here.” Her voice rose querulously. “But I’ll show him. I’m going to kill him next time he sets foot up here.”
As they reached the end of the enormous back yard, Louise realized what was in store for her. The land dropped off at the steep sandstone cliff which rimmed both Harriet’s and the Porter ranches.
“My God!” Louise cried, and rage overcame her. “Do you think you’re going to run me off that cliff, like a buffalo?” Caution cast aside, she dived toward Harriet. But amazingly the woman eluded the attack, leaving Louise to stumble to the ground, her palms stopping a complete fall onto the rugged terrain. This gave Harriet time to reposition her shotgun. “Stop,” she ordered.
But Louise was not about to stop. She scrabbled to her feet and ran as fast as she could over the stony yard, dodging and crouching to make herself a smaller target. A charge of buckshot missed her, but by that time she had reached the back corner of the house. She raced along its clapboard perimeter and collided with an ancient pitchfork, which crashed painfully against her shins. Gasping, she rounded the house and flew toward the waiting shelter of the thick band of ponderosas at the front of the property. But even they were no defense. Another burst of shot tore a hole through the bark of one of the pines, and she could feel a tingling sensation in her upper arm. Whimpering quietly now, Louise crouched lower, still moving. If she could make it to her car, she might live! There it was, shiny red and welcoming. She slipped the ignition key out of her jeans pocket, and sprinted toward it.
Just Like Plants, Detectives Must Show Their Mettle: Perennials That Know How to Survive
MANY A GARDEN HAS BEEN NEGLECTED, and is waiting for a good gardener to return and bring it back to life. If you resurrected a garden after years of neglect, what would you find still surviving? Certainly not the delphiniums, and probably not the hybrid teas, or the verbascum.
A recent garden restoration near Washington, D. C., involved removing masses of seven-foot pokeweed and yards of ropy poison ivy. Underneath this mass of intrusive weeds were the ultimate survivors: peonies, generic orange daylilies, phlox, rudbeckia, hollyhocks, and old shrub roses. Today, regenerated with the digging-in of rich compost, all these plants are again flourishing without competition from bully weeds.
Design a garden for survivability. If you’re working too hard at your job, or have a family and little time to be in the yard, designing your garden for its survivability makes sense. You have to measure the amount of neglect you will give your plants—or, conversely, the time you can afford to give them. Even a modicum of care will enable you to lengthen that “ultimate survivor” list by many plants.
First, check out plants with gardeners in your area. Others that are good and dependable are asters—seas of blue, pink, or fuchsia blooms; hybrid lilies in brilliant and pale hues, sometimes spotted, sometimes striped; Polygonum bistorta hybrids, with their bright, poky blos
soms; plume poppies, tall, with many-lobed leaves and frilly peach flower bunches; heleniums; joe-pye weed; veronicas, with their worthwhile icicle-shaped flowers; frilly-flowered thalictrums; sedums, with their geometric excellence; Anemone japonica, with tall pink or white blossoms waving in the wind, but don’t expose it to too much sun; clematis, in many hues and flower sizes; shasta daisies; coneflowers, with their rose daisy look; ligularias, bringing height and bright yellow into the late summer garden; nepetas, providing a mass of bright blue, hardy flower spikes; and Oriental poppies. Iris are beautiful, but short-bloomed and rampant spreaders.
A xeriscape combination. The gardener with low-water requirements will be captivated by this combination of long-blooming, late-summer perennials: clumps of pale yellow hollyhocks as a centerpiece, combined with a series of mostly yellow flowering plants, and gray foliage accents. Artemisia frigida is in the foreground, with lacy gray foliage and tiny, yellow flowers. Baptisia tinctoria is a three- or four-foot-high clump standing alongside the hollyhocks, with ovate leaves and yellow pealike flowers. Penstemon perfoliatus, a forty-inch-high serrated-leaf species with soft lilac flowers, adds another color to the planting picture. The cup plant, Silphium perfoliatum, with its three-inch yellow flower heads, and coarse, whorled leaves that catch water, soars above the other plants. The last part of the picture is a repeat of the gray tones, in the three-foot-tall prairie sage, Artemisia ludoviciana.
Tuck a few evergreens into the mix. To make the garden even easier and more permanent, intersperse these “tough” perennials with slow-growing evergreens and specimen bushes—variegated leaves are good here—that will look attractive even when the perennials have passed their prime. And don’t forget yuccas, for they, plus a few clumps of the slower-spreading Siberian or Japanese iris, will provide the garden with needed vertical lines.
