27
Wednesday August 22
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nder the ever-watchful eye of a still-lingering TV crew, Louise helped Martha and Janie load their suitcases into her car and drove them to the rental car lot in Alexandria. Her last words were to urge them to find Martha a wedding gown.
“You mean a proper wedding gown,” teased Martha. “I bet you want me to change my mind and wear white.”
“No, I don't,” Louise said. “Any gown will do, darling.” And she embraced each of them. Once she'd picked up a few groceries in town, Louise had little interest in doing anything but return home. She'd thought of a gardening project to keep her busy for the day. She headed south again on the GW Parkway.
The irises in the front sorely needed dividing and resetting, as did the
Cimicifuga purpurea
in the patio garden. Snakeroot, with its pure white snaky tasseled flowers on purple stems, was one of her favorite plants. But she didn't want to work where newspeople could see her and decide to intrude on her privacy. Instead, she was going to tackle a tough project in the deep woods. She donned her hard-core gardening clothes, long-sleeved shirt, her oldest gardening pants and steel-toed work boots, then took her tools from the shed, secateurs, loppers and two saws, and headed for the bamboo mini-jungle in the far corner of the yard. It was the neighbors' bamboo, but had spread onto their property. Bill worried about its invasive ways and would be delighted if she got rid of some of it.
As for the bamboo in her Asian-style garden, she'd assured her husband that the few graceful plants there couldn't spread because of the foot-deep plastic barrier with which each plant was surrounded. She didn't tell Bill that some roots had sneaked their way down beyond the plastic; she just saw to it that each tender new shoot popping up outside the barrier was lopped off.
Her arms weighed down with her tools, she marched through the woods to confront the bamboo. Within minutes, she was immersed in her work and had set aside all thoughts of the body in the garden.
Two hours later, she returned to the patio. Her next project would be to repot her cape primroses. These houseplants spent the summer on the patio, growing by leaps and bounds in the muggy summer air. Once she'd shaken the old dirt off the roots and supplied them with new dirt, she carried them into the kitchen and carefully watered them in the sink. She took out a big cookie sheet and set it on the corner of the counter, then put the plants on it so that they could drain properly.
With care, Louise cleaned the kitchen counters and sink with a soapy sponge and straightened her Grand Hotel dish towel behind the faucet. Only then did she realize it was two o'clock and she hadn't eaten lunch. She opened the refrigerator and got out the makings of a big sandwich. She thought she deserved one.
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Bill sat in the green glow of his Art Deco desk lamp in his office in downtown Washington and tried to pull his thoughts together. Events were churning in the Middle East, and he knew he had to leave the country soon. But his wife was sitting at home at this very moment, a police suspect in a murder. He had to do something to influence those overeager Fairfax County police and get Louise off the hook. Searching a phone number out of his wallet, he dialed Dan Trace.
“Glad you called,” the lieutenant said, in his baritone voice. “Of course I can give you an update, provided you're circumspect about whom you share this with. It's okay to relieve your wife's tensions by telling her.”
“You mean you've found the murderer?”
“No, but we have uncovered a lot of detail about Mr. Hoffman's business affairs.”
“So have I. Louise heard something that could be important. Peter Hoffman was the informer who alerted the SEC ethics hotline to Downing's business tricks. Also, he was intending to flee the country.”
“Uh-huh,” said Lieutenant Trace. “We've heard that, too, probably from the same source, Mrs. Hoffman. We've finally been able to interview Lee Downing, and he's shed a lot of light on the purchase of Hoffman Arms. You probably know the broad parameters of the sale: The buyer and seller must agree on a value, which in fact is established by the IRS. It considers equipment, the goodwill or âname' value of the company and its viability. In other words, is it up and running and healthy.”
“So what happened here?” said Bill. “Rumor has it that Downing was unhappy with the deal after it was consummated. Did someone in fact falsify the books?”
Trace laughed. “They sure did, according to Downing. He charges that Hoffman, with Cunningham of course very much a part of the deal, inflated the business by almost one hundred percent. Hoffman probably wanted to get out of the country before Downing could unravel the details of the crooked deal.”
Bill whistled. “How'd Hoffman manage all this?”
“Since a lot of his business was with the Defense Department, Hoffman saw that the books looked good. Orders were placed a year or more before the product was due, for weapons to be provided for, say, three years, with options to supply them for maybe ten more years. These factors were all woven into the value. But some orders were cancelled, it turns out, and others were only preliminary and had never been finalized. The irony is that this detail was all off-limits to Downing until after the fact, just because they were government contracts. Do you get the picture?”
“Yes,” said Bill. “But it matters when Downing heard about this.”
“Uh-huh,” said Lieutenant Trace. “You put your finger on it. He says he didn't find out until after Hoffman was killed. This has to be established because it could be a motive.”
“And the reason Downing couldn't just declare that the deal was invalid? The SEC investigation must enter in.”
“It probably does,” said the lieutenant. “I think Hoffman took a big roll of the dice. Decided Downing wouldn't risk a public flap over the sale of Hoffman Arms when he could face serious charges of industrial spying. It explains Downing's big profits of late. He's been the low bidder in at least two competitive bidding situations, because he's had a spy in his competitors' plants. âFirst to market' is the name of the game in the competitive arms business, and Downing apparently made sure he was first to market.”
“So what's your conclusion?” asked Bill. “Does this information help my wife?”
“Not totally. But it opens this mare's nest of possibilities. I can't talk about suspects with you, Mr. Eldridge, but you can figure out just as well as I can who the obvious ones would be with this set of circumstances in play.” Then the lieutenant came forth with another bit of good news. “You might like to know that we've concluded further tests on Hoffman's body, and there's no evidence on the corpse itself to tie the crime to your wife. Of course, there's still the tarp with her fingerprints on it, the hat, and especially Hoffman's blood on Mrs. Eldridge's sweatshirt and on her gardening tool. I agree with Mike Geraghty that some of that could have been there just because Mrs. Eldridge uses that stuff when she gardens. But for the last two items, there's no explanation at all.”
Bill tried to control his desperation. “There's a simple explanation, Lieutenant. The killer planted that evidence. Listen, I want you to understand in human terms what this is doing to my wife. Needless to say, it's depressing as hell. Fortunately, she has a good book and her gardening to occupy her time, because she's practically been ordered by your man Morton to refrain from talking to anyone. Her employers have benched her for a few programs just because she's been innocently caught in a terrible scandal. Not to mention the pickax, which scared the hell out of her. You still haven't got back to us on that.”
“The technician who handled your toolshed is off on vacation. We haven't been able to get hold of him, I'm sorry to say.”
“It seems too dumb a thing for a technician to do,” said Bill. “Which leads to the possibility of criminal mischief on the part of someone else. Now let me continue. Our daughters are trying to plan an October wedding for Martha, and they're very upset about this. I, on my part, have to leave soon for Vienna. But I surely don't intend to go until I know Louise is freed from suspicion. We have lots of reasons for wanting you to find the real killer. Today is Wednesday. I think this Friday deadline of Morton's for arresting my wife is just plain nonsense.”
“Mr. Eldridge,” said Lieutenant Trace, “consider the deadline shoved forward a bit. And lest I forgot to tell you, we're also looking into the consequences of Hoffman's will.”
“I'd hoped you would.”
“The will's interesting. I can't share the details with you, but it might bear on the case.”
Bill said, “That's what they always say, don't they, when there's a murderâfind out who profits.”
“Who profits, and who loses out,” amended Trace.
“Thanks, Lieutenant.”
“One further thing, and I hope this doesn't upset your wife unduly. Apparently Mike Cunningham has filed a complaint because she entered his yard and did some damage. A statue was broken, I believe. He's very upset and is charging malicious destruction of property. Umm, I hesitate to mention this last item.”
“What's that, Lieutenant?”
“He's also brought up some new details surrounding Mr. Hoffman's murder that involve your wife. I'd rather sit down and discuss this with you after I hear from Cunningham.”
“Just what does that mean?” said Bill.
“Mr. Cunningham is implying he knows of some other connection between your wife and Hoffman.”
Bill's voice was shaking. “Lieutenant Trace, my wife had no connections with Hoffman.”
He could hear the lieutenant expel a breath on the other end of the phone line. “I know this is well after the fact and that right now Mr. Cunningham is very angry at your wife. That's why we have to go after this carefully. I'm to have a face-to-face with Mr. Cunningham tomorrow. As soon as I do, I'll get back to you and Mrs. Eldridge.”
After Bill hung up, he tapped his pen on the desk. He'd hoped to make a cash settlement with Cunningham over the Aphrodite matter. If not, it was better being in court for malicious destruction of property than for murder. But what the hell kind of “connection” between Louise and Hoffman was Mike Cunningham trying to feed to the police? He sat back in his chair, trying to calm down and think. One thing he knew for sure: he was through cooperating with the police, for it hadn't gotten them anywhere. He wasn't about to tell his already troubled wife about this latest insinuation that she had something to do with Hoffman before his death.
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Bill arrived home by eight o'clock, and he and Louise hurried off to Old Town Alexandria for a late dinner. Afterward, they bought ice cream cones on King Street and wandered down the brick sidewalks, window shopping as they ate. Home by ten, they found that the house seemed empty with the girls gone. On the plus side, it was more privacy than they'd had for some time.
Louise was going straight to bed, for she'd had a long day of gardening. But she decided her stomach would appreciate a small glass of milk and a few soda crackers before she took two aspirin to help her sleep.
She went to the kitchen, flipped on the overhead light and went to the refrigerator for the milk. She paused in thought, then turned around again. Even a quick glance told her something was wrong. Her gaze moved over the counters, the stove and, finally, to the sink. A rush of cold coursed through her body. “Bill,” she called, “come here quickly.”
By the time her husband arrived in the kitchen, she was standing and staring at the rough-hewn squares of tumbled marble behind the stainless steel sink. The protective Grand Hotel towel was nowhere in sight.
Her pristine marble tiles were splattered with a brown substance.
“My God,” cried Bill, “what is it?”
She reached out and touched some of the discoloration. “It's garden soil. Someone threw a handful of it at the tiles.”
“Who the hell was in here?” he demanded.
She stood very still. “I don't know. But this isn't a joke.”
“And where'd they get the dirt?” Even as Bill said this, he walked over to the counter where the repotted houseplants stood, draining in the tray. “Huh,” he said, pointing to the cape primrose, which was sagging sideways. “They scooped it out of here.”
“Where's the Grand Hotel dish towel?” she asked in a hollow voice.
Bill searched around and pulled it out of a corner. “It was neatly folded and tucked in back of the toaster.”
“It's as if someone's out to get me. It's all connectedâinnocent things at first, the re-arranged curio cabinetâ”
“âthe pickax, which could have killed you. And now this. Someone's been breaking into our house!” Bill pounded on the counter, and she jumped at the noise. “That does it, Louise. Somebody wants to harm you. Tomorrow, we get all the locks changed. Right now, we call Geraghty.”