The Perennial Killer: A Gardening Mystery

by Ann Ripley

  It is taken for granted that you are also using some nonhardy plants such as dahlias and cannas. Those orderly-petaled dahlia blooms, thrust into a tropical setting, will take on a quite different aspect than they would if placed in a cottage garden. The slightly twisted petals of a pink variety such as “Emory Paul” give that plant a distinctly exotic air.

  Because of their large leaves, cannas are almost a necessity. (Perhaps, then, you will not need that banana tree.) Use them in clusters of five or more to create the greatest impact.

  Adding a few pots: Endless variations can be achieved by adding specialty plants grown in pots—ginger, cyperus—even water plants. Tuck a trough or barrel of water in the border, and grow in it the beautiful, tall, hardy, white-flowering lotus Nelumbo nucifera. The lotus will remain attractive through the season, producing distinctive flat seedheads of exquisite beauty that can be dried for bouquets.

  Hardy favorites such as verbena, the big, bulbous allium, monkshood (Aconitum), and a clump of spiny Eryngium, may have filled all your needs for the color blue. (Delphinium, somehow, won’t do; though beautiful, it’s too prissy for jungles.) But bold gardens can hardly do without one nonhardy plant, the agapanthus. Pot up some, insert them in the garden, and let their tall, swaying, deep blue flower heads cool off your tropical Eden.

  * Sir David Attenborough wintered his Mexican tree fern on his London stoop, with some browned foliage the only result. If you’re zone five or above, maybe you can keep yours alive in a cubbyhole on your own front porch. Dicksonia antarctica is hardy to—18 degrees Celsius. If you succumb to a sumptuous banana plant, it’s best to winter it over in that prize spot in your south window.

  Chapter 28

  BILL THREW HIS CLOTHES INTO the suitcase helter-skelter, then went into the bathroom and desperately scooped up his toilet articles. Never had he packed in such a sloppy fashion, but he couldn’t care less. This morning, he had come down quickly off the high he had experienced—in fact, that they’d all experienced—when they knew their strike force was going to succeed. An end to the good-natured badinage with his able and witty Texas colleagues, an end to the mutual self-congratulations.

  It would be small consolation to foil the plan of high-tech nuclear burglars if in the process he had put his own wife in danger.

  He had phoned Louise again, to tell her he was coming, and was worried when she didn’t answer. The person she spoke of meeting couldn’t be Josef Reingold. Surely, in the space of a few days, Louise couldn’t have gotten mixed up with that man, told him where she lived, and put herself in jeopardy.

  And yet, for some reason, he was uncomfortable about her being alone in that house. She might be outside with Herb and his wife, petting the llama, or taking a tour of Herb’s farm—but that didn’t make sense, because she’d told him she was tired and needed sleep.

  It would be overkill to request a sheriff’s deputy to go visit her—he’d do it himself. He left a quick phone message with his associates, grabbed his suitcase, and ran for his car.

  Pete Fitzsimmons had planned to go fishing this morning, but decided it would be better, as a strictly business thing, to pay a visit to Louise Eldridge. So he had taken a little jog around the neighborhood and then hung out on the patio reading a book until he thought she would be up and about.

  He had tried to contact Marty Corbin at the Boulderado this morning, but the producer and his wife were not back from their trip yet. Marty should be told that Louise had been injured, and the chances that she could go on camera Monday morning were slim. Of course, he needed to see for himself how Louise felt—and looked.

  Besides that, he missed her. He’d tried to get over his attraction to Louise, but he realized he hadn’t, not yet. He’d known from the moment he first saw her in those silly new western clothes that she was a sweetheart. He’d tried to keep her away by acting like an asshole, but it hadn’t helped much—which in a way was a comfort, because she could see right through him to the fact that he wasn’t an asshole.

  It might help if he met Bill. That would give some reality to the fact that the lady was already taken.

  He put on his hat and climbed in his truck. She couldn’t have gone far, because she’d had that buckshot taken out of her arm last night and he knew darned well that this morning it would feel like a hot poker. Most likely she was out walking, or maybe just sitting in the garden. Or in bed, drugged to kill the pain.

  He zigzagged through town and then charged north on Broadway, but took care to go only seven miles over the speed limit. There was a lady judge in Boulder these days who threw the book at people who sped. And if they went to court to protest the ticket, they got slapped with an additional twenty-five dollars in court costs, just for the pleasure of listening to the smart-mouthed babe’s little jokes.

  Reingold dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “I commend you. Everything was quite good.”

  “Yes, you said that already.” Moving like an old lady now with the primers in her waistband, Louise took his plate over to the sink and rinsed it.

  He shoved the chair back and stood up. “Now it’s time to go. But I need to find something in this house, and I want you with me while I look for it. Tape of some kind, preferably what you call duct tape.”

  “Duct tape?” A twinge of fear ran through her, but she tried to pass it off with a joke. Lightly, she said, “I could tell you stories about the effectiveness of duct tape that you wouldn’t believe…”

  “Never mind being facetious, Louise.”

  He pulled her to his side, and she gasped as she got a good jab from the shears. He began walking with her toward the utility room.

  “Are you going to put it over my mouth?”

  He didn’t answer. “Will we find it in here?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “That’s all right,” he said, tightening his hold on her arm. “We’ll substitute rope—or even rags, my dear.” At least she could be thankful that the man lacked personal animosity toward her. And yet who knew what he would do if he did find tape? Her left arm ached in anticipation; if he bound her up, the pain would be excruciating.

  She only hoped her little ploy would get her out of this mess.

  Then, they heard the crunching of tires on the driveway, a door slam, and someone whistling. It was a light, birdlike whistle. Pete. Her heart gave a happy thump. But then she realized the danger Pete was in. To Reingold, a man like Pete was a challenge—unlike her, an already-wounded woman. She had to warn him, whether or not she was punished by Reingold.

  “Pete, heads up! He has a gun!”

  “Bad move, Louise,” said Reingold. He slid behind her and with strong fingers squeezed the wounded arm so that her whole body shuddered with the pain.

  “Ohhh,” she moaned.

  He pulled out the gun again, and whispered, “Shut up. Come with me, and no more tricks.” He prodded her forward through the house, and she cooperated dumbly, the pain in her body overwhelming.

  He stumbled once, over a couple of pillows Janie had thrown on the floor a week ago and Louise had never removed. A good sign, she thought.

  Outside, she heard scuttling across the ground. Chipmunks—or Pete?

  Reingold was thinking out loud. “The car is in the carport. Your friend is on the other side of the house, from the sound of it.” His eyes glazed over for a moment, and he swayed. Then he heaved a big sigh and said, “We have to get out of here and head south. You’re my companion, Louise. Get the car keys and let’s be off.”

  She retrieved the keys from the hall table, and he ordered her to open the door that led to the carport. She tried to delay by fumbling with it for a moment, but, catching a glimpse of his dark face, quickly turned the bolt and pushed the door open. He shoved her out in front of him, and told her, “You’ll drive after all. Get in.” He waited until she was settled with her seat belt on, looking down at her with remote eyes. She knew he would kill her or Pete if either of them got in the way of his departure.

  Reingo
ld moved quickly around the car, gun clutched in his right hand. She turned her head to watch him, hoping for an opening to get away.

  Suddenly, he disappeared from view, and she heard a curse in German. He had stumbled over the trash bag she had dropped earlier to answer Ann’s call. With nervous hands, she loosened her seat belt, pulled the pruners out of her waistband, and opened the car door. Crawling carefully along the driveway, she spotted Reingold, drawing his gun and ready to get up. At the same time as she raised the heavy shears over her head, two voices shouted out simultaneously: “Drop it or I’ll shoot!”

  Bill had come up the driveway and had his handgun trained on Reingold. Pete Fitzsimmons had cut through the patio and come in from the other side, his shotgun at his shoulder.

  Josef Reingold slumped back onto the floor of the carport. His gun fell to one side, his legs splayed out in front of him, and he raised his hands listlessly above his head. Bill came over and kicked the gun out of the suspect’s reach.

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked. Bill. She couldn’t help grinning. Her husband looked like an unshaven derelict in a low-crowned felt cowboy hat and disreputable clothes that hadn’t been washed in a week. “Is he snakebit?”

  “I drugged his breakfast,” she said. “And now, honey, meet my cameraman. This is Pete. Pete, this is Bill.”

  Pete took one hand off his weapon and tipped his sweatstained fisherman’s hat.

  Bill nodded in return and said to him, “Hold your gun on him while I get some rope?” To which Pete nodded again.

  She grinned. “I can’t believe you two are finally meeting.”

  Bill shook his head. “And I can’t believe that you caught my man.”

  Louise felt sorry for Pete Fitzsimmons. Little was explained to him, as Josef Reingold was taken away under maximum security by members of the strike team. Louise, Bill, and Pete sat and talked awhile, but it was awkward, for the cameraman was obviously filled with questions that Bill couldn’t answer. He must realize the arrest had something to do with the commotion at Stony Flats. All he said to Bill was, “I guess I have a little clearer idea of what you do for a living.” Bill smiled and said nothing.

  “I know you don’t want to talk about that,” said the cameraman. “But something we ought to talk about is what your wife did last night. It was pretty impressive.” He turned to Louise and grinned. “And by the way, I guess I owe ya ten grand. I never thought you’d solve this thing.”

  When Bill heard about the drama up at the ranch, he exchanged a long look with Louise. “Catching a two-time killer—what a gal. I was afraid those ranch murders would end up right on your doorstep.”

  “Pete took a picture of the murderer on the day that the old rancher was shot.” She smiled at her friend. “The mysterious figure standing in the ponderosas. But no one could recognize who it was.”

  “Yeah,” said Pete. “It was a little hard to figure that an old lady killed jimmy Porter.” He got up and said, “I’ll be shovin’ off. But I’ll see you tomorrow up at that ranch, Louise. I see your bruises don’t show—that’s good. Are you gonna make it?”

  “I think so. Would you call Marty and make it an hour later?”

  “Deal,” he said, and stuck out his hand as if he and Louise were the kind of buddies that did a lot of handshaking. Then he reached out to shake Bill’s hand. “Will I see you—or maybe not—”

  “You’ll see me,” said Bill. “I’m going on location with you tomorrow, and the next day, too.”

  “Good,” said Pete. “We could always use another grip.” There was faint sarcasm in his voice. Both he and Louise knew a grip was the low man on the totem pole, and nobody would want the job if he didn’t need it badly.

  “Sure,” said Bill, escorting him to the door. “I do grip real good, don’t I, honey?”

  She smiled. “He sure does.” It sounded so chummy for the three of them to be on location together up at the ranch. She hoped Bill and Pete would learn to like each other.

  Once the cameraman had left, Bill came over and gently took her in his arms. Tipping her chin up to kiss her, he paused in surprise, and smoothed his hand over her cheek. “Louise—your face—it’s soft again.”

  She smiled. “I know. I’ve worked on it.” Despite his rough whiskers, she gave him a lingering kiss, then nestled her head on his shoulder while he continued to hold her. “Honey, do you know what I need right now?”

  “Anything, baby.”

  “Food.” She looked up at him.

  “This may not be romantic, but I’m starved. I haven’t even had breakfast, and it must be noon. I only made breakfast for your pal Reingold, and then watched him eat.”

  “And you slipped him those codeines.”

  “You thought he was snakebit? I must say, Bill, I’m impressed with your western idioms. Never seen anybody pick them up so fast.”

  He grinned at her. “It’s Texas. The idioms stick to you like flies on flypaper. A very funny place. Did you know why Texas cowboys wear pointed boots?”

  “No, why?” she said, realizing he was feeling very good about himself.

  He crinkled his blue eyes into a premature smile. “That’s to kill the roaches in the corners.” Then he straightened his face into a mock-grave expression. “A sample of Texas humor—though it isn’t too far from the truth, since roaches grow to the size of rats down there. Now, to get a little more serious, Louise. My part of this task force effort was on the receiving end, where they had a very intricate scheme planned to get the plutonium warheads across the border to Mexico—”

  “Which is where Reingold’s plant is.”

  “Hmm,” he said, surprised at how much she knew. “That’s right. Reingold had this scheme rigged all the way from Colorado to a getaway by sea to the Middle East. He did it right under the nose of the Stony Flats plant manager—”

  “You mean Spangler wasn’t involved?”

  Bill pursed his lips, “I might have known you would have met Spangler. No—his assistant manager was the link with Reingold’s outfit. Spangler must feel damn lucky the thing didn’t come off. They had their plan in place, right down to paying off the man who runs the traffic light in the truck yard at the El Paso-Juarez border. That system is supposed to make a random determination of which trucks will be searched. But Reingold paid plenty to assure that the light was going to go green for his truck full of warheads.” He shook his head. “I have a lot to tell you, but let’s eat while we talk.”

  “I know just the place. You’ll get a great piece of pie, and you’ll meet Ruthie Dunn. She was probably the first one to make me see that the old ranch woman could be a murderer.”

  “How?” he asked.

  “Ruthie helped me visualize the scene up there in that closed-in mountain community. The pregnant spinster. The young rancher next door, who charmed every lady he ever met. The rancher’s morose wife whose child had just died horribly of lockjaw. Then the mysterious deaths that followed. It made a kind of insane sense. Later, this hypothesis—as crazy as it was—was all corroborated by our neighbor down the road. He’s an expert on post-traumatic stress…”

  Her husband looked confused. She caressed his whiskered cheek. “It’s complicated.”

  They heard the sound of tires on the dirt driveway. A car door slammed, and footsteps sounded in the gravel. The voices were familiar—their daughter Janie, and her boyfriend, Chris Radebaugh. The glowing, sunburnt couple walked in, in shorts and hiking boots, carrying a load of baggage—and looking, as far as Louise was concerned, much too comfortable with each other. Louise and Bill stood open-mouthed.

  Janie said, “Aren’t you going to say hello to us?”

  “Of course,” said Louise, and came over and embraced them. She looked up at the young man who was her daughter’s boyfriend; he seemed taller, blonder, and more virile than when she saw him last. “But how did you get here?”

  “Well, Mrs. Eldridge, we might have seemed to deceive you a little, though we didn’t mean to,” said the tal
l young man, shoving a shock of hair away from his eyes. “You see, as soon as Janie left, I called the camp, and they just happened to have a vacancy on the counselor roster.”

  Janie had one hand on his shoulder and was leaning against him, smiling. “Chris took over as a counselor.”

  “You mean you’ve spent the whole time together up there in Estes Park—”

  “Don’t worry, Ma,” said Janie, flipping back her blond hair, “we not only had chaperones, we were the chaperones.”

  “Oh,” said Bill matter-of-factly, “no problem. So, what do you say the four of us go out and eat? Your ma and I have some exciting things to tell you young people. Of course, I can’t reveal too much, but some of it’s going to be public, anyway.” Louise hoped this assignment signaled the end of Bill’s covert work with the CIA—but it was a very small hope.

  Janie came over to her father and put her slender arms around his neck. “Dad, you think you have stories to tell? Wait ’til Chris and I tell you what happened when we climbed Long’s Peak in a snowstorm!”

  Louise smiled, basking in the comfort of having her family with her, even though she knew she wouldn’t get a word in edgewise. Too many exciting stories to tell—a perilous climb on a four teen-thousand-footer, a thwarted hijacking of nuclear warheads. How could she possibly top those? After all, what was so exciting about a double murder? But maybe…

  “Want to hear a story about a lion?”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ANN RIPLEY writes mystery books and short stories in her home in Lyons, Colorado, where she lives with her husband, Tony. A former newspaperwoman, she also is an organic gardener.