The Garden Tour Affair: A Gardening Mystery

by Ann Ripley

  “So that’s the big attraction for you—a red iris with a religious moniker? You plant people must be really sick. What else?”

  “Otherwise, the weekend’s free. We can swim, too: there’s a natural pool on the property of Litchfield Falls Inn where we can take a dip any time we want.”

  “Cool,” said Janie. “Though it sounds like your program will be the usual garden pablum—irises, roses, probably.”

  Zapped again by the daughter’s verbal ray gun.

  “I beg your pardon?” Louise’s voice had a chill in it. “Since I took over the show I’ve bent over backward to do a more serious job than my predecessor—”

  “You mean your murdered predecessor.”

  Louise could feel herself reaching the boiling point. “Yes, her. You know what they called Madeleine Doering at Channel Five? ‘Lady Madeleine,’ because she liked lightweight programs where all she had to do was wander up and down the flower borders. Gardening with Nature is serious, in case you’ve never noticed. It focuses on practical, organic gardening. And we’ve covered every environmental issue there is that’s related to gardening.” Sarcastically she added, “After all, there has to be some reason why the President appointed me to the National Environmental Commission, hasn’t there?”

  Coldly, she looked at her daughter, still snuggled in the comfort of the couch. “And you call that garden pablum”

  “All right, all right.” Janie put her hands up in front of her, as if to ward off a blow. “Your show is not all pablum. But this place—Litchfield—sounds totally white bread. Anglo-Saxon all the way. The white hinterlands of America.”

  “Not true,” said Louise, losing hope. “That area is a real mix of people.”

  “But mostly Europeans, Ma.”

  She gave her daughter a good once-over. A stint as a volunteer in Mexico last summer, plus a summer job this year working with underprivileged kids in Alexandria, was making its mark on the teenager. What was more, Janie’s twenty-year-old sister, Martha, also into social reform, was advocating that the family move out of the Virginia suburbs and into Capitol Hill in Washington, so they could experience life in an ethnically diverse neighborhood. Louise tried to smile at her younger daughter and failed. Dryly, she said, “Connecticut is where the British settled in colonial times, so it can’t be a surprise to find a few Anglo-Saxons still hanging around the place. But our next two shows are on urban gardens—one in Newark, and the other in Wilmington. So there’s no reason why we can’t do one program in the white hinterlands.” She got up from her chair stiffly.

  “I’ve hurt your feelings, haven’t I?”

  “Maybe you have.” She didn’t want to look at her daughter right then. She went into the kitchen, wondering what on earth she could conjure up for dinner without running out to the market. Maybe macaroni and cheese? But the cheese, a soft, not-very-good cheddar, had a thick coat of green mold. She caught a glimpse of herself in a tiny Mexican silver mirror hung up with other gimcracks on the kitchen wall next to the stove. Her long brown hair looked straggly; she gave it a remedial smoothing. And there were alarming, drawn-down lines around her mouth, about which she could do nothing.

  The conversation with Janie seemed to have aged her about twenty years.

  The girl, looking like a particularly pretty blond-haired waif, trailed her to the kitchen and leaned on the door frame, one bare foot twined around the other. “Ma, it’s good we’re having arguments. It’s part of my growing up. If we got along too well, it might hamper my development into a grown woman.”

  Louise couldn’t restrain a tired laugh. “I don’t think there’s any danger of that.”

  Chapter 2

  SHOVING A STRAND OF PALE HAIR BACK into her bun, Barbara Seymour hurried through the first-floor rooms of Litch-field Falls Inn, headed for the living room. She was a little harried, for she had a busy day ahead getting ready for the arrival of seventeen weekend guests. It was nine o’clock already, and high time she got organized so she could issue orders to the staff.

  She stopped short midway into the living room, her gaze caught by a reflection. She forgot her work for a moment. The morning sun was firing its rays through the tall windows and hitting the mahogany highboy against the far wall of the room. In the process it cast Barbara’s shadow onto the highboy’s rich wood, reminding her of something. That fuzzy shadow could he the image of a young woman, she thought. Instinctively, she raised her proud chin a little higher and stared at the reflection again. It awakened memories of what she had once been: not a wizened creature of seventy-five, aging like an old turtle, but twenty, and a beauty in men’s eyes. A ripe, passionate, strong-willed girl. After a long look, she turned away, and her bony shoulders sagged.

  No, that passionate girl was gone. Her vitality and youth had been drained away, as she spent her years helping her widower father run his inn and his other businesses. In the end, she discovered, there was nothing more sterile than a lifetime of business with no husband or children. What she did have was a flourishing mansion inn, and two relatives whose ardent regard for her she sometimes questioned. Was the affection for her, or for her money?

  With a shake of her head, she dismissed these thoughts, for before her on the eighteenth-century table was the work of the day: the job assignment list and the guest list, neatly typed by her assistant Elizabeth on mansion stationery.

  She heard Teddy coming, and her heartbeat quickened. He was humming a peppy tune under his breath and snapping his fingers in time. Full of life, full of energy, Teddy Horton was the person who made her life worth living. In the past three years, he had become almost like a grandson, forgoing college to work for her at the inn. At twenty-one, he had finally quelled his adolescent acne and the awkwardness following a growth spurt that shot him up to well over six feet. Anyone might have thought him an ignorant country bumpkin, for he had all the attributes: a longish face, washed-out blue eyes, uneven teeth, turned-up nose, and an unruly cowlick atop his brown hair. But Barbara knew differently: The smart Teddy was her trusted right hand.

  She hoped he hadn’t noticed her admiring her reflection in the highboy.

  “It’s a full house, Teddy. Look at this list so you’ll know who’s coming. That way—”

  He crossed over to her in three strides. “That way,” he said, finishing her sentence for her, “I can take care of the sticky problems.” To dramatize his words, he bent down and executed a drumbeat flourish on the tabletop with his long fingers. Then he straightened up and gave her a big grin. You have nothing to worry about with me around here, the grin said. And it was true: Teddy would go to any lengths to meet the most outrageous guest demands. Paying special attention to the lonely and unhappy ones. Deftly separating quarreling children. Tossing in a quiet, remedial joke when he saw a couple suffering from the strain of vacationing together.

  She looked fondly up at him. He was standing there in homely splendor, seeming to flex every muscle in his body. His whole being exulted in being alive and young and strong. Barbara suspected that, besides being the result of his natural enthusiasm, this was due to the weight lifting he did in the inn’s basement when he was between household duties.

  Again, she was reminded of her own sorry physical state: still shapely, to be sure—actually, too thin—but with honeycombed bones, and now this new blow: a nerve infirmity in her legs. She didn’t mind aging; she simply wasn’t used to being decrepit. She unconsciously pushed at her bundled mass of whitened blond hair to be sure it had not gone askew again. At least her hair remained healthy, although her legs would give out as the day wore on. By dinnertime, they would be trembling with fatigue.

  “Well, Teddy, a number of the guests this weekend are relatives. Stephanie, of course—”

  “Uh-hmm,” he said appreciatively, leaning in to look at the list, shoulder to shoulder with Barbara. “I like your niece.”

  “Such a lovely young woman. I only wish she could come more often.” Her tone grew more reserved. “And, of course, her h
usband will be along again.”

  “Neil, the developer.” He turned his head away, as if to avoid a bad smell. “Well, the man’s handsome, all right, and he’s got a happenin’ head of blow-dried hair.”

  Barbara giggled. For a moment, the years seemed to melt off her. “By a happenin’ head of hair, I assume you mean good. Neil Landry does have good hair, if nothing else.” Her eye returned to the list. “Now, here’s someone you like: my nephew, Jim Cooley. He’ll be accompanied by Grace, of course—”

  “Oh, yes, Grace—I mean, Mrs. Cooley.”

  “He’s also bringing his business partner and his partner’s wife, Frank and Fiona Storm. So they’re a foursome” She slanted a look at her young companion. “My guess is that they’ve come to ask me for a new infusion of money to run their schools.”

  Now Teddy stood quite still, all seriousness. “Those schools, huh? Not to be the least bit disrespectful, ma’am, but I—I bet you’ve given Jim Cooley a ton of support already—”

  Barbara pressed the knuckles of one hand against her chin. “I shouldn’t begrudge them the money—they do so much good. Why, they’ve even been written up in the papers; The New York Times did an enormous story. Neil and Frank run three schools now in the New York area, you know.”

  “’Higher Directions.’”

  “Yes. And they do such a wonderful job with those young people, who otherwise might land in jail. I understand Fiona Storm is in on the business, too. It has been a very positive thing for the schools, to have the Storms in on them—to have minority leadership alongside my nephew’s.” A little frown creased her face. “I admit Jim’s philosophy is a bit hard for me to take. It’s that tough-love business …”

  His eyes began to twinkle. “Isn’t that where you just”— he made a slashing gesture across his throat—“get rid of your kid if he misbehaves?”

  “Higher Directions demands a lot.” She inclined her head. “Maybe that’s why the schools work.”

  “Miss Seymour, you are a very generous person.” He gave her a look that warmed her heart. The young man truly cared about her, and that’s why she intended to care for him, too, in her will.

  “Thank you, Teddy.” She looked back at her list. “Grace, as you know, might need special attention. Though I will say she was a bit happier when they visited in April. She’ll have her usual supply of pills, vitamins and herbs and such, but stand by with the smelling salts: Jim says that she’s been suffering from faintness. The garden tour in town and the summer tea at Wild Flower Farm should certainly please her—that young woman is crazy about gardening.”

  “I remember.”

  She looked at Teddy, wondering if he knew Jim’s delicate wife better than she thought.

  But he explained before her thoughts could wander too far. “I helped her do some planting in the kitchen garden last time she was here. She and I put in all those baby herb plants for you.”

  “Bless her—and you—I’d forgotten. Now maybe we can fatten her up a bit—she’s frightfully thin.” Her finger traced a downward path on the paper. “Now the others, whom I am disinclined, of course, to call ‘outsiders,’ just because the others are ‘insiders.’ There’s a rather odd couple driving up from Pennsylvania—the Gasparras.”

  Teddy looked over her shoulder. “I suppose they’re coming for the garden tour.”

  “I’m not at all sure about that. I had the sense they had some other agenda. They’re growers—big producers of perennials.” She laughed. “Maybe they’re going over to Wild Flower Farm to steal plants.”

  She made two more checks on the list. “Then we’ll have some newlyweds, the Posts. Apparently she’s quite a sportswoman. And they already have a house in Darien.” Not sure if he understood the implication, she added, “Darien property is extremely pricey. Oh, and they had to have a garage for their car. Guess what kind of car they drive?”

  Teddy scratched his cowlick. “A Porsche, maybe?”

  Barbara smiled. “Better than that, a car fancier might think: a Bentley. My father once had a Bentley, but he got rid of it because no mechanic in Litchfield at that time was able to fix it when things went wrong—which they did frequently.”

  “Did you tell them they’ll have to leave it out in the weather?”

  “Elizabeth informed them they could drive it into the old horse barn down in the hollow, but that there were certain drawbacks …”

  He grinned. “Barn swallow doo-doo …”

  “And a brisk walk back up the hill to the inn.”

  “Miss Seymour, none of the guests sound like much trouble.”

  One of her eyebrows arched upward. “Oh? I’m not finished. There’s more. A couple of singles. Teddy, don’t forget this little piece of advice: One never knows as much as one should about singles; they can be very troublesome. Whereas there’s something comforting about couples, even the ones who don’t get along very well.”

  “So who are the singles?”

  “There’s a woman named Bebe Hollowell. Just widowed, from a little farm town in northwest Massachusetts. Doesn’t sound ominous, does it? But she wouldn’t even deal with Elizabeth when she called—had to talk to me. Went on and on and on about her husband’s death. She’s pretty down, Teddy. I’m hoping we can jolly her out of it.”

  “Who’s the other troublemaker?”

  She looked at him quickly and could tell he was making gentle fun of her. That was because Teddy didn’t find anyone a burden. His good humor seemed to sweep away other people’s foibles.

  “A science professor from New York University named Freeling. Elizabeth said he’s well known in the field of genetic engineering.”

  He flicked his hand, as if swatting away an insect. “Genetics? Aw, no problem. Probably wears glasses, drinks herbal teas, and spends his time thinkin’ up new ways to clone sheep. But Miss Seymour, that’s only seven rooms. Leaves you with three empties. Who else is makin’ the scene at the inn this weekend?”

  She smiled at the way he tried to glamorize their staid old country inn. “This group is interesting. I liked the woman: Louise Eldridge. She’s perfectly charming on the phone, but I have some misgivings.” Her brow showed deep worry lines. “Trouble seems to follow this Eldridge woman everywhere she goes; she’s been involved in more than one murder.”

  “Murder?” said Teddy, his eyes shining. “Neat! Is she a private eye? Is she on a case?”

  “Of course not. Apparently she just stumbles into violent situations.”

  “What does she do—I mean, when she’s not involved in a murder?”

  “She hosts a Saturday morning garden show on public television.”

  Teddy broke into a big guffaw, revealing a set of snaggly teeth untouched by city orthodontists. “A Saturday morning garden show hostess? What kind of a detective would she make?”

  Barbara looked at him disapprovingly, at which point his laughter subsided. “You’re wrong on that, Teddy. And her show is quite successful, too. Her station is sending her to Litchfield to film both the garden tour and Wild Flower Farm. She’s bringing a whole entourage with her.”

  “A TV crew?”

  “Not exactly. The TV crew is mostly from New York; they won’t be staying here. She’ll be with her husband, her daughter, her neighbor, and the neighbor’s son. He’s about your age, maybe a little younger.”

  Teddy’s face took on an anxious expression, and she knew he was worrying again on her behalf; that’s why she liked him so much: She was sure he cared—about both her and her inn. “Sounds like more than three rooms to me, ma’am. Are you sure this is going to work out?”

  “It will,” Barbara explained, “since the husband will share a room with young Radebaugh. Mrs. Eldridge will sleep with her daughter. Mrs. Radebaugh will sleep in a room alone. That makes our full house.”

  “Wouldn’t it be cool if she stumbled into a crime when she was here?” said the young man.

  “I’m afraid that is something we can’t provide, with the low crime rate in Litchfi
eld. The only thing we have to worry about is that everyone shows up for work. We’ll need absolutely every staff member on hand, especially as all the guests will be eating at the inn on Friday.” She bit her lip thoughtfully and jotted some quick notes at the bottom other list. “Don’t forget now: We need an occasional fire in the library fireplace, to keep down the damp—especially since they predict rain this weekend. We’ll order flowers from the florist’s to supplement the garden supply. And we’ll use the European sterling and the best linens. I daresay the guests will reserve for Saturday night’s dinner as well, especially when we post the menu. I plan to feature rack of lamb.”

  Teddy smiled, the assured smile of a young local man who knew and understood local truths. “They’ve heard we have the best food in Litchfield County.”

  “And the most wonderful grounds.”

  He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Now, now, Miss Seymour, you’re familiar with the sin of pride. The priests always told me to avoid it. I know we’re good, but we can’t be the best at everything, can we?”

  “Nonsense, Teddy, there’s nothing wrong with being the best,” she said jauntily, and swirled out of the room, casting a final glance at the shadow on the highboy as she went.

  Teddy followed her, mimicking a drummer marching the troops to the day’s combat. “B-r-r-r-rump-pump-pump, b-r-r-r-rump-pump-pump …”

  “Teddy,” she chastised gently, “you’re outrageous!”

  The Joys and Sorrows of Garden Tours

  GARDEN VISITING DATES BACK TO VERY ancient times. It probably started when a Cro-Magnon man dropped over to his neighbor’s cave and admired his vegetable garden. All the while, he was snickering behind his hand because he knew his crops were better: They were treated with mammoth droppings.