29
I
n view of another body turning up, Dan Trace looked forward to a long afternoon and evening sitting in this small conference room and reinterviewing the principals related to the Peter Hoffman murder. What he had he wasn't sure of, but undoubtedly a murder related to the Peter Hoffman killing. A curl of pain went through his gut.
Was a serial killer of some kind at work in the Sylvan Valley neighborhood?
He hadn't liked Bill Eldridge's attitude at the house this morning. Mrs. Eldridge appeared stunned and out of it. According to the husband, there was no way his wife could have killed Mike Cunningham and buried him unless she did it after he fell asleep. It probably took more than an hour, maybe two, for one person to kill a man, wrap him in plastic and bury him in a garden filled with soft, deep soil. It took three men only fifteen minutes to unearth him.
Trace knew the murder had likely occurred somewhere after eleven. From nine to eleven, it wouldn't have been safe to commit the crime, for kids sometimes tramped through the woods near the Eldridge house. Bill Eldridge was asleep by then, and so were the rest of the neighbors. Everyone except the tipster.
He looked over the table at Mike Geraghty. Now there was a man who thought it incredible that the Eldridge woman could kill. Yet Mike, unfortunately, was blinded by his friendship with the Eldridges. Trace, too, thought Louise Eldridge was an unlikely candidate, but it was amazing how people could fool one.
Now that the Eldridge interviews were concluded, he was meeting with Mike and George Morton, comparing notes. “Let's talk about this Yiddish curse. Anybody believe that's what the murderer had in mind?”
Geraghty shrugged his big shoulders. “It could be significant, or it could be a fluke. The soil was real soft. Maybe the head got lower than the feet by accident, or because of the killer's general sloppiness.”
“First of all, lots of people might know that curse,”said Trace. “There's Phyllis Hoffman, for instance. A small woman, but a small woman with a motive. It looks as if she's been left with only a small portion of her husband's wealth. And the person who engineered that unfortunate dispersal of Hoffman's wealth is now dead.”
“She's also buff,” said Geraghty. “We've found she spends a lot of time in a health club. She's stronger than we think.” He leaned back heavily in his chair, forgetting it was stationary, and it groaned in protest. “On the other hand, Mrs. Hoffman is Jewish, and it's a pretty stupid murderer who broadcasts his or her ethnic background by fulfilling an ethnic curse. It's too darned obvious. Another one of our outlying targets of interest, Mort Swanson, is also Jewish. But I sure don't think a man that smart would do something that implicated himself.”
Morton pulled himself up closer to the table, and Geraghty could see he was about to make a pronouncement. “Why go through all this mickey mouse when we have the murderess tagged already?”
“We do?” replied the lieutenant in a flat voice.
“Darn right, Lieutenant. Did you look at Louise Eldridge this morning? She's a mess. She's lost weight, and she's got the shakes. The woman looks guilty as hell. And she doesn't go to work anymore, I've heard. They may even have fired her. So how did all this develop? First, it's Peter Hoffman bugging her, so she kills him. We have firsthand testimony from at least four people that she set the guy up by inviting him to her home.”
Trace nodded. “That's right, we have to take that into account. You mean she was going to kill him that night, August fourth, I believe, but it didn't come off, so she lured him back a week later to finish the deed?”
“Exactly,” said Morton, his face happy and flushed as his superior helped him make his case. “There's evidence galoreâwe all know that. Now we find Cunningham buried in her yard. Here's a man she obviously hated.”
Trace said, “How do you know she hated him?”
“Well, she deliberately smashed his garden statue, didn't she? And she went to all the trouble to go to downtown Washington to his office to rant and rave at him.”
Geraghty sliced his hand across the air. “Cut it for a minute, George. That was Cunningham's take on those events. He could have had it in for Mrs. Eldridge. Let's not ignore another good candidate, Lee Downing. He was swindled by Hoffman and Cunningham when he bought Hoffman's arms business. We need to trace the movements of both Mrs. Hoffman and Mr. Downing. And maybe Mort Swanson as well.”
Lieutenant Trace nodded agreement. “Especially since I've just learned something that bolsters the theory that Downing could be our man. Peter Hoffman was the one who phoned the ethics hotline and dished the dirt on Downing's industrial spying.”
Geraghty said, spreading his hands wide. “There you are, George. Just more reason to pin both murders on him. A helluva lot more reason than to pin them on Mrs. Eldridge.”
Dan Trace raised an admonishing finger. “Hold on, Mike. That's motive. But we have physical evidence pointing another way.”
“And when we test the plastic on Cunningham's body, we'll have even more,” said Morton. “We'll find Mrs. Eldridge's fingerprints again.” He smiled triumphantly at Geraghty. “Evidence is evidence, Mike. She's the only one caught in the evidence net.”
Trace stretched back in his chair. “Now why in the hell would someone like Louise Eldridge, who seems like a smart lady, kill two men and bury their bodies in her own yard? Doesn't make sense.”
Geraghty said, “I agree. Especially after she's told us about those strange happenings at her house, the misplaced items in a cabinet, the pickax that nearly fell on her and the muddied tiles in the kitchen.”
“Huh,” scoffed Morton, “you gonna believe that? Those kinds of incidents are so easy to fake that it isn't worth talking about. She is a smart lady, I'll give you that. She figured no one would believe she'd do it again. I tell you, folks, she's our killer. She murdered Hoffman because he threatened her. She hated him. She polished off Cunningham because she thought he was on to her. He as much as told us that he had information that tied her to Hoffman's death. The guy got killed before he had a chance to tell us about it.”
Geraghty shook his head. “Come on, George, the guy could just be blowin' smoke. He probably would have told any lie to get Louise Eldridge in trouble.”
Morton scowled at his partner. “How do you know that? We ought to bring her in.”
Dan Trace gave Morton a thoughtful look. “What you say makes some sense, George, but I still have to get over my disbelief.”
At the phone's insistent ring, he said, “Excuse me. That will be the evidence technicians at the Eldridge house.” Trace talked for a minute, then hung up. He looked at George Morton, then slowly turned his gaze to Mike Geraghty. “Speaking of evidence, they've found more.”
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After the police interrogations at the station, Bill and Louise arrived home to find the TV trucks and reporters circling Dogwood Court again. They reminded Louise of foraging jackals coming in after a kill, scrounging for the leavings from a crime scene now encircled with yellow tape. Ignoring reporter's shouted questions, she and her husband walked up the flagstone path. Louise carefully avoided looking at her onion patch, where police technicians still poked about. More technicians were in the house.
Bill hurried off to his office in the State Department, urging her to call the locksmith and also to contact Martha and Janie in Chicago, plus both sets of parents. He didn't want them to hear about a second body in the Eldridge garden through a news program.
Louise was sitting at the dining table and had just dialed up her mother. Elizabeth Payne said supportive things. “I feel positive, darling, that they'll soon find who did this. Your father and I believe you must just go about your business on the theory that this will all soon go away.”
The remark made Louise's stomach pitch. Easy for her mother to say “go about your business.”
People don't get it
, thought Louise.
I have only days, perhaps hours, before they come and throw me in jail!
In the background, she could hear the sounds of the two police technicians searching the house. They were almost finished and had opened the door to the back bedroom that Martha used when she was home. After the girls left Wednesday morning, Louise had vacuumed and cleaned it to make way for the next guest, neatly closing the door behind her.
While she'd been able to hear the men's constant talking back and forth, now there was only silence. Had they left by the recreation room door?
Suddenly, one policeman appeared in the dining room, and she could see the man's eyes were bright with excitement. He said, “Ma'am, could you please come with us?”
She told her mother, “Mom, I'd better phone you back. I'm needed here right now.” She followed the technician into the bedroom and immediately noticed the dirt on the carpeting at the base of an étagère, a three-shelved unit that held her most prized houseplants. He pointed to the hoya plant on the middle shelf, with its handsome fronds of shiny dark green leaves. It was filled with waxy pink blossoms, which occurred only seldom and were a cause of great pleasure. Any police technician looking for clues would have been led right to the plant, not because of those dramatic flowers, but because the plant's soil surface had been roughed up and the dirt spilled.
“Look what we've found in this plant,” said the technician. Not far below the surface, she saw a small gleaming object. The technician took his pen and prodded the object until it was loosened further from the soil. It was a gold ring set with a big diamond.
Louise took in a deep breath and realized she'd been shafted again. She looked straight into the eyes of the policeman and said, “I've no doubt that this ring belonged to Mike Cunningham. Why else would someone have put it here?”
30
L
ouise's body felt heavy, too heavy for her bones to support in an upright position. For the moment, she had no further strength to know or care about what would happen to her next. She took the phone and went to the bedroom, collapsed on the bed and promptly fell asleep.
She didn't wake up until someone insistently rang the front doorbell. When she went to the door, she found only the locksmith. Why weren't the police here to lead her off in shackles? Surely the gold ring belonged to Mike Cunningham. With the help of a bloody sweatshirt and a “stolen” ring, Louise was neatly tied to the two murders. Why didn't they just come and get her?
She yawned heavily and decided to resume her normal activities until her time was up. First, she put a spare set of new keys the locksmith had given her into her favorite outside hiding place in case the family was stuck outside without them. Then there were Bill's parents to be concerned about. She went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea before she rang up Jean Eldridge. Her mother-in-law would need some warning that Louise might be headed for jail. While her father-in-law, Dick Eldridge, was solidly in Louise's corner, Jean had not always felt the same way. When she told Jean of the second body, it appeared to renew her old doubts about Louise. Louise parroted her own mother's optimistic sentiments that the cops eventually would quit buzzing around the Eldridge house and the press would quit talking about it on the evening news.
“Oh dear,” said Jean in a condescending tone, “I can just imagine the headlines that are coming!” Louise could imagine them, too, something such as
ANOTHER LETHAL “PLANT” IN TV TALK SHOW HOST'S GARDEN
.
Things would get even worse if the press learned about the way the body was buried and the possibility that it fulfilled a Yiddish curse.
“Oh, well,” said Jean, “I've unfortunately come to expect things like this from you. Dick says it won't hurt Bill's career, but you know how I worry about that.”
“Jean, you know I didn't murder anyone.”
“I expect you didn't, dear. But you're involved somehow.”
Changing the subject, Louise said, “I'm sure Martha's phoned you about the date for her and Jim's wedding.”
“Yes,” said Jean, “and we're looking forward to it.” Louise waited for the “however” to follow. “However, it's too bad she didn't plan it further ahead. It took us by surprise. As it is, we're racking our brains trying to decide on a gift.”
“They're registered, you know,” said Louise.
“I know. Martha told me. However, they're not registered in the traditional places. I've never heard of âREI. ' ”
A new wave of fatigue engulfed Louise. She was in no condition to talk to Jean. “I'll phone you later when I know more. Martha will give me some ideas of what they'd like best.”
Next, she rang Martha's Chicago apartment, first getting her daughter's bubbly, optimistic message in the voice of a bride-to-be who was supremely happy. Just as Louise was about to pour out her story into the answering machine, Martha picked up.
“Swell,” she said sarcastically, when she was told of the corpse in the vegetable patch and the discovery of Cunningham's pinkie ring. “Now someone's hiding things in houseplants. Ma, I think we'd better return home. You don't sound good. I can tell by the tone of your voice you're bummed out.”
“I admit I'm bummed out, Martha,” she said, “but there's nothing you or Janie could do if you rushed back here.”
Even over the long-distance line, Louise could hear her older daughter's impatient sigh. “How are you spending your time? Staying home, I hope, with your doors locked with those new locks. Did it ever occur to you or Dad that you're in grave danger? Someone's been in your house, doing mischief and planting evidence.”
“He hasn't heard about the ring yet. Hearing about it will just make it worse. He doesn't want me to be alone, but what am I supposed to do, hire a companion?”
“No,” said Martha, “just call in some favors from your friends Nora and Mary. Maybe Sarah Swanson, too. They could take turns coming over and keeping you company while Dad labors late at the State Department. Well, maybe not Sarah, on account of her hubby.”
“I think it's silly to suspect Mort Swanson.”
“Ma, don't rule anyone out. Gee, I wish I were there.” Her voice held a wondrous quality.
“I know what you're thinking, Martha. You're just curious, especially since Sam brought up the Yiddish curse hypothesis. Do you really think the killer was playing that out when he buried Cunningham? I wonder if it wasn't just chance.”
“Depends,” said Martha. “How low was the head in comparison to the feet?”
Louise flinched. The image was fresh in her mind: the stiff body, its human features barely disguised by the see-through plastic tarpaulin. She'd recognized her neighbor's face jammed against the smooth material and could even see that his mouth and eyes were open as if in shock. She took in some quick breaths as a new thought came to her. “I just realized, Martha, the murderer's used up two of my three large tarps. Do you suppose his work is at an end or will he try to come back and use the third on another body?”
“Ma, that's crazy talk. Please don't lose it. I'm counting on you to be the serene mother of the bride in just six weeks. Calm down and stop letting your mind wander like that. Answer my question seriously. How low was the head? How high were the feet?”
“The, uh, plastic package was arranged so that the head was down a couple of feet, and located at the base of the trench that Sam and I dug. The feet, on the other hand, were just barely covered. The feet were definitely what you would call âup.' ”
“Cool,” said Martha. “Well, I don't mean to say I enjoy it, but someone did that on purpose. The person didn't have to be Jewish, though. Lots of people know about those curses. I always liked the one, âMay you catch cholera.' But why would a Jewish killer plant Jewish clues?”
“That's the question,” said Louise.
“I want you to promise you'll phone us every day. Or would you rather that Janie or I phone you?”
“One way or the other, Martha, we'll stay in touch. Where did you say Janie's gone off to?”
“She's out shopping for wedding clothes. We still haven't found anything. She says she's better off shopping without me. I'm helping Jim with the campaign, and I'm due at a rally in just a few minutes. You take care. I'm really sorry you have to go through all this. And especially sorry, of course, that you lost your onion crop.”
“Don't be smart, Martha.”
“Just trying to get a laugh out of you.”
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Louise stared at the beige walls of the Mount Vernon police station and tried to put her mind somewhere else. Outside on Route One, she could hear a constant surge of traffic moving in and out of the capital and wondered what normal people were doing tonight. Eating out? Shopping for mattresses? Going to the theater? Visiting relatives? Bill was busy at work at the State Department, laboring hard under his green-shaded lamp or, more likely, sitting in last-minute meetings to plan the Vienna trip. She didn't want to summon him here for the second police interrogation of the day and had arranged that he come in Saturday morning for questioning. He probably was still enraged over the one that occurred this morning.
No, she'd only call Bill if they arrested her for murder.
“So, Mrs. Eldridge,” said George Morton, “how do you think that gold ring got inside your house?”
“I'm sure someone planted it there, Detective Morton, the same person who rearranged my antique collection, relocated my pickax and messed up my kitchen tiles.” There was little emotion in her voice, for she had little emotion left inside her.
“Have you ever seen that gold ring before?” asked Lieutenant Trace. “I hear you immediately identified it.”
“Mike Cunningham wore it every time I saw him. Which, I should add, wasn't that many times. You have to understand that I barely knew the man.”
George Morton sat forward in his chair. “Just enough to dislike him a lot, right?”
She looked at the eager detective and pondered whether to tell him the absolute truth. She decided she would. After all, this was the age of opinionated women speaking their mind. “Right, I disliked him intensely. He wasn't my idea of a great human being.”
Morton nodded, as if he'd extracted the information through torture. “And are we to believe all that stuff about a house intruder without any corroboration?”
Louise shrugged. “Believe it or not, Detective Morton, but it's true. But they'll never intrude again, because we've changed the locks.” She turned to Lieutenant Trace. “Are you going to arrest me? If so, I hope you do it quickly, because I'm exhausted and I know the county jail is in Fairfax City. That's a trip of a dozen miles or so. I'll have to warn Bill. Then there will be the fingerprinting, of course, and the paperwork. With all the red tape, I won't get to sleep in a cell until probably midnight.”
Trace looked at her oddly. “Yes, ma'am. But I don't think we'll arrest you tonight. In fact, you're free to go home. The usual caveats apply, Mrs. Eldridge. Don't leave the area, and please don't try to intervene in any way in our investigation.”
She exhaled a deep breath. “Lieutenant Trace, I wouldn't think of doing those things.”
Mike Geraghty and the other policemen stood up. “Come on, Louise,” said Geraghty, “ I'm givin' you a ride home.”
As she went by George Morton, he stared at her, his mouth in a tight line. She felt like giving him a smile, but there was no sense tempting fate. Instead, she nodded formally as she passed.
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The Coffee Pub wasn't Charlie Hurd's idea, but Hilde told him that she had to be up early, and nine o'clock was too late to start out for dinner in a restaurant in Washington.
He looked over the wooden table at her, trying to be more objective than in the past with this girl. It wasn't easy, since she looked so damned good to him. “Admit it, Hilde,” he grumped at her, “you had the hots for this guy Cunningham.”
The accusation didn't appear to bother her. Her gaze didn't flinch, and she had a quick answer. “You think because I had a tennis game with Mike Cunningham, a foursome, and that I went over to his house to see his photography, that I was in love with him? Charlie, you're beingâwhat is the best word?ânaive.”
He blew out a breath. “All right, damnit, maybe you can say I'm jealous and for no good reason. You sure don't look bent out of shape by Cunningham's death.”
Quietly, she said, “All deaths are sad. But Mike was no more than an older friend. A sort of counselor. Charlie, he was giving me advice on what to do next with my careerâwhether to stay in America or go back home and try to obtain a teaching position.”
“What would you teach?”
“Germanic studies. Or perhaps European cultural history.”
Charlie scratched his head. “Okay, I'll accept that. He was a hotshot lawyer. He had a very heavy rep in the District. But what's so interesting about what happened to him is the curse. Have you heard about the curse?”
“I heard about it this afternoon when I walked over to Dogwood Court. Everyone was talking about it. I have heard that curse, or perhaps I read it. There's a bookâ”
Charlie leaned forward. “The book of Yiddish curses. Of course you'd know about that. Do you think that makes our suspect a Jew? That means we'd have Phyllis Hoffman, Sam Rosen and Mort Swanson, of course.” He looked for a reaction from Hilde, but again she was totally cool.
“Mr. Swanson? I couldn't believe that, Charlie. He is so kind, so good.” Her gaze moved to somewhere in the middle distance. “And yet I know he's somewhat ... suspicious. He does spend time with the widow.”
“You mean Phyllis?”
She nodded her head. “But I could hardly think of him and Phyllis doing this terrible thing.”
“Hell, I could.” He mentally filed the fact that Hilde had seen Mort and Phyllis Hoffman together. And yet he was having feelings of remorse throwing Swanson's name into the suspect pile. “I know you're beginning to think of him as a father figure, but we can't totally ignore him. We need to be objective and consider motive. As yet, neither Sam Rosen or Mort Swanson appears to have one, so that leaves old Phyllis. But she doesn't look like the type of woman who cares a rat's ass about Yiddish curses. On the other hand, if this were a team effort between Phyllis Hoffman and the more erudite Mort Swanson, then you could understand. . .” His mind wandered for a minute. “I mustn't forget Downing,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Downing makes sense.”
“Downing?” repeated Hilde.