Summer Garden Murder (4 page)

Read Summer Garden Murder Online

Authors: Ann Ripley

“Not open, unlocked. But that didn't give him the right to come in.”
“He said you let him in. That's the story he's going to give the police.”
She looked at Sam's new friend. “Greg, you hardly know me at all. If you had any idea of the background here, you'd know I would never let Peter Hoffman in my house, not in my garage, not in my yard, not if I had the means to stop him.”
Greg smiled. “That sounds really tough, Louise. What you're saying is, you're not going to take shit from that guy, are you?”
4
August 8
The Following Wednesday
 
Y
oga mat before her on the old wooden decked front porch of the rented beach house, Louise completed the sun salutation. Janie, in a high-cut tank suit, sat on the front steps, tucking her long blond hair into a bathing cap. The seventeen-year-old was going with her father into the Atlantic surf for a swim. They invited Louise to join them, but she had pleaded for “quiet time” by herself.
“How much more quiet time do you need on this vacation?” asked Janie. “Are you sure you're all right?” Louise was now doing the upward facing bow, which made her back feel particularly good.
“I'm all right. I really am,” said Louise. They'd been at the house in Rehoboth Beach for two days, and her family still fussed over her too much. Martha was arriving soon, which would mean more unwelcome attention.
“Ma, tell me why they didn't arrest Peter Hoffman for breaking into our house.”
“It's complicated, Janie,” said Louise, now busy executing the cobra. “We tried to press charges, but the police didn't believe me. There were too many witnesses backing up Hoffman's story. But I don't want to talk about it any more.”
“Oh, whatever,” said her daughter, rebuffed. She flounced to her feet. Arms akimbo, she stood over Louise and gave her a blue-eyed scowl. “Close me out and just keep doing your yoga stuff. Act as if I can't understand anything. Treat me as if I'm still twelve instead of nearly eighteen and will soon be off to college and out of your hair. I'm just trying to be nice. With one day's notice, I get dragged out of town. I have to give up my summer job and time with my boyfriend. Now you won't even discuss with me the fact that some creep is making your life miserable.”
Twisting herself into the half-moon position, Louise looked with some difficulty over at her daughter. The girl was annoyed with her, for sure, but part of that was just talk, for Janie was basically happy. Happy in love, Louise feared, smitten with Chris Radebaugh, Nora and Ron's nineteen-year-old son. He'd finished his sophomore year at Princeton, where Janie would enter as a freshman next year. Louise knew Janie cherished every weekend moment she could spend with Chris, who had a summer job in Baltimore. And it was true, Janie's summertime employers at a software firm were not happy to have her suddenly leave for a couple of weeks.
“I'm so sorry, Janie, forgive me. But we had to get away. I'm having a tough time dealing with all this.”
“The trouble with you, Ma,” said her daughter, crouching down beside her mother, “is that you think you're in this universe alone. You're not a planet out there all by yourself. You're in a constellation.” She smiled. “Like that metaphor?”
“Yeah,” admitted Louise. “And this constellation?”
“It includes a lot of people. Me, Dad, Martha, and all those nutty friends of yours in the neighborhood and all around the Beltway. Even that funny little Emily Holley in Bethesda is willing to come out and stay with you whenever Dad's away. Did you get that message?”
“No,” said Louise, thinking of the handful of pink messages from friends that she'd been too distracted to answer. “I see what you mean, honey. I'll try not to be such a bore.”
“Recluse is what you're becoming,” amended her daughter.
“Recluse, then. Maybe I'm suffering from post-traumatic stress.”
“Maybe you need some couch time.” They both laughed, knowing that Louise preferred the counsel of friends and family. She had avoided psychiatrists despite facing traumatic situations more than once in recent years.
And she had been traumatized by Peter Hoffman. His break-in and attack on her Saturday night was insult enough, but the situation grew worse. Bill, angrier than she'd ever seen him, had called the police, and the parties ended up at the Fairfax County sheriff's Mount Vernon substation on Route One, only a mile from the Eldridge home. Detective George Morton had been in charge. He was a policeman who had never appreciated the fact that Louise had solved some perplexing murders that had puzzled the Fairfax sheriff's office. A man who disliked citizen involvement in crimes, he apparently considered her to be no more than a snoopy housewife. Her friend, Detective Mike Geraghty, had also shown up for the long interrogation.
Although Geraghty's blue eyes had been sympathetic and his questions right to the point, Morton had challenged her. “Are you sure you're not paranoid over this guy? All evidence, and these witnesses that Mr. Hoffman has bothered to invite here, indicates you invited the man in.”
Louise looked at the big, white-haired Geraghty for help. “You don't believe that, do you, Mike?”
Geraghty had stood solidly and said, “I didn't think you'd invite Peter Hoffman into your house. But just about everybody, includin' Mrs. Phyllis Hoffman, is corroborating it.”
“Yeah,” said Morton, a man who would have appeared handsome had he not sneered so much. “And why would a guy like that phone us so quickly unless he thought you were gonna try to get him in trouble? Here's a guy with an exemplary record during his four years of incarceration, trying to start his life over again. Then the first thing that happens is he tangles with you.”
Hoffman had apparently met the authorities in the same casual clothes he'd worn at the Radebaugh's party, and Louise wondered what had happened to that balaclava. He told his manufactured story: While at the party, Louise had invited him to come to her house. She told him she wanted to talk things over with him, “sort of clear the air. Ask anybody at the party and they'll tell you I'm right.” And they had, and partygoers had backed up his version of the events. By early Sunday morning, he was freed to go home.
When she heard this outcome, she realized she was in a war, like the country's war with terrorists. Her enemy, just like a terrorist, was unpredictable, ruthless and willing to sneak about and lie.
Disgusted, Bill informed the police that their lawyer would appeal for a restraining order after they returned from their trip.
As for Louise's career, it was slack time in the production schedule for her TV show. She'd had only a few appointments to cancel. The watering of her houseplants was turned over to her reliable housecleaner, Elsebeth Baumgartner. Sam Rosen promised he'd care for the gardens.
These thoughts raced through Louise's head as she finished her leg extensions. She lay down and assumed the corpse position to relax completely and wipe her mind free of all tension.
The corpse position is so right for me,
she thought to herself.
I'll quit being tense once I'm dead.
She knew her husband was worried about her. He'd been optimistic at first:
I know how you love the water. As soon as you hit the beaches of the Atlantic, you'll come right back to your usual happy self
. But she wasn't recovering the way he thought she should be. It was Wednesday, and she still had nightmares, trembling hands and a fear of going outside. The image she couldn't shake was of a huge man in dark sweats and hood, his fetid breath assaulting her face, his intrusive body pressed against hers ...
Bill, blond and handsome, came out on the porch, towel slung over his shoulders, dark glasses protecting his eyes from the sun. “Good-bye, darling,” he said, bending down to kiss her. “Have a good time by yourself.” He and Janie waved and started off.
“You, too,” she said absently. She was glad they were going. Bill couldn't help right now, nor could Janie. She needed to be alone to sort out the murky tangles in her own mind.
Her thoughts returned to the Radebaughs' strange dinner party. All their close friends seemed to be having some sort of trouble. The Radebaughs had their perennial marriage problems created by Nora's special needs. Mort Swanson faced grave health issues. Sam Rosen and Greg Archer seemed to be experiencing adjustment problems, though that wasn't surprising, since their relationship was only three months old. And Richard Mougey suffered separation anxiety since he'd left his beloved job of thirty years in the State Department. Now Louise was having emotional problems. As a consequence, her family had troubles as well, big troubles.
It seemed totally wrong to have this murderer put Louise on the defensive and drive her and her family out of town. Just the same, maybe she could be a little more sociable with her fellow castaways. She ran to the porch railing. Her family was halfway down the block. “Hey, you guys,” she yelled, “will you wait for me?”
They nodded, and she hurried into the rental house to put on her bathing suit and join her family in the surf.
5
P
hyllis Hoffman disliked this unfamiliar role, the role of the little wife serving hot shrimp balls and drinks. For God's sake, she was an independent woman. She had turned herself into one during the past four years. Finding herself with a big problem, namely, a husband who was a murderer, she'd gritted her teeth, gotten a job and learned to live on her own. Most importantly, she'd found a way to anesthetize herself on the matter of Peter's behavior. She simply told herself that if she'd been in his shoes, she'd have done the same thing.
It had been hard, sometimes, to withstand the stares of gawking strangers and keep her head up despite being the wife of the man who committed the most obscene crime in Fairfax County history. A coworker asked her why she didn't divorce Peter. In answer, Phyllis could have replied, “It's the money, stupid.” But she wasn't going to describe how divorcing Peter would mean losing her share of that pot of gold all tied up in his multimillion-dollar arms business.
Now, Peter is out of the nuthouse, and like a hausfrau out of the forties, I'm ordered to leave the room so the men can talk in private
.
As if her husband read her thoughts, he grabbed her hand as she walked by the couch on which he sat. He smiled fondly at her and said, “Phyllis, you are great. Don't think you aren't.” A broad gesture at the shrimp balls, $5.95, frozen, at the nearby Belleview Market. “And these look fantastic. But you know that Mike and I have a lot of business to discuss, and damned quickly.”
She wiggled her hand out of her husband's grasp. “There was a time when I used to sit in on your little tête-à-têtes with Mike or with Mort Swanson. I even gave you a little hardheaded business advice from time to time. What the hell are you up to? And why did Mort drop in and then leave before I could even say hello? I know something's up. You've sold the business to Lee Downing. But now what? What's happening to us?”
Mike Cunningham sat there, deceptive as a snake. “Sweetie,” he cooed. She thought she'd kill the man if he called her that again. “The deal isn't quite concluded. Seriously, Phyllis, the details are so boring and technical that you'd walk out on us in a minute, anyway. Peter can give you a recap later.”
The fact was that she'd appreciate a recap, an explanation by these two allegedly smart men as to the apparent decline in Peter's business while he'd been hospitalized and why the hell that had happened when he used to brag about his brilliant staff. There had to be some reason she was living so low in this creepy little house, when she used to live so high in their architect-designed place of six thousand square feet. Insult of all insults, she'd heard that her beloved former house was on the market again and being considered for purchase by Peter's high-priced lawyer, now sitting there and smiling that Cheshire cat smile at her. Mike's home on Dogwood Court was suddenly too “public” for his tastes.
Despite these thoughts, she didn't want to express too much interest. She may already have gone too far. There was some reason why their old lawyer, Mort, had ditched this confab. The fact was that she no longer felt she knew her husband. She certainly couldn't figure out Mike Cunningham's influence on him, much less what role Lee Downing, a big shot from Houston, played in the business deal now going on. She also could barely understand why a man who'd just been released from a mental hospital would go and do a number on Louise Eldridge, the woman partly responsible for putting him there. But he'd gotten away with that little ploy without being arrested... .
She made a graceful wave with her hand and laughed. “I can't stay, anyway. My favorite reality program is on, and it's a damned sight more interesting than anything you two have to talk about.” Leaving them to their private conversation, she sauntered down the hall to the master bedroom, where she turned on the television set loudly enough for them to hear. Then, first peeking out to be sure they hadn't moved from their seats, she dashed back to the study adjacent to the living room and left the door ajar. It had been her study until Peter had been released from the hospital, and now was being transformed into his office. Several file cabinets lined one wall. All had locking drawers, and to her extreme annoyance, Peter was transferring a select few files from Hoffman Arms and then locking the drawers.
Her husband, though clever, did not know everything about her. She'd learned a lot since Peter had gone to the loony bin. She'd had to. She learned how to find a job—not easy in a bad job market—and how to sell. She'd tried like mad to get something in the city of Alexandria, only four miles north of Sylvan Valley and with acres of cutesy shops in its ancient environs, but it was almost as if a cabal was set against her because of what her husband had done. She'd finally gotten a position at Saks in Friendship Heights. It was on the border between the District of Columbia and Maryland, where the name Phyllis Hoffman rang fewer bells. It was a long drive from northern Virginia, but a job was a job. Helping relieve the stress of the long commute was a nearby gym where she could work out once her shift was over.
At Saks, possibly because of her natural aristocratic bearing, she'd been assigned to sell St. James fashions—understated, tailored and expensive as hell. This meant she got them for herself at a forty-percent discount.
Just months into Peter's hospital stay, she'd learned the designer home she had lived in for six years was to be sold and she was to move to something more modest. With the budget she'd been given, all she could afford was this place. It was practically a hovel when she'd bought it, but she'd had it painted and conjured up some cut-rate designer furniture from a furniture outlet. Her inimitable taste had given the humble abode a makeover that was a hell of a lot better than any on the Home and Garden channel.
Peter assured her that her semi-poverty had an explanation. They'd had to pay millions for his insanity defense. This meant his arms factory in Alexandria eventually had to go. Peter ducked specific questions on the business, but had told her enough for her to infer that the man in the living room with Peter, the obnoxious Mike, was the main recipient of Peter's millions, or at least Wilson and Sterritt was. So why her spouse liked Mike so much she couldn't understand. She would find it impossible to be friends with someone who'd ripped her off. In fact, she'd find every opportunity to break their balls.
This house, though, was not like that quiet mansion where she used to preside as a domestic goddess with a cook and housekeeper, a place where one could discuss anything in absolute privacy. This little house had a drawback that Peter didn't know about. From this room adjacent to the living room, she could hear any conversation, especially with the big furniture placed near the adjoining wall and the heat vent, as she had arranged it.
She sat down quietly on the Herman Miller desk chair she'd purchased for a song because of a stain, rolling it close to the wall.
Mike: “It was not a good move coming to that party. And then following the Eldridge woman home. What the hell were you trying to do, be thrown back in the lockup?”
Her husband's voice now: “You don't understand, pal. I'm doin' a number on that babe. Louise Eldridge is the only thing that stands between me and a lifetime of ease and security. She's so nosy that it wouldn't have taken her any time at all to start snooping into my affairs and maybe even get Phyllis up in arms. After the other night, she's gonna be scared as shit to even think about me, much less pry into my affairs.”
Mike again: “I just hope the cops continue to believe your story.”
Peter, laughing: “You know how good that story was? The cops, or at least Detective Morton, bought it. Can you believe that? He's got no use for the Eldridge babe. He thinks she's the world's nosiest busybody. He actually believed that Louise told me at the party that she wanted to clear the air. And I gave him the names of witnesses who would prove it.”
Mike: “That isn't the way I heard it. I've heard she hates you so much that she won't talk about you, much less to you. The Mougeys told me she acts as if you never existed. And you got the cops to swallow the whole thing.”
Peter: “See how good I am at revising reality?” Another one of her husband's annoying laughs.
But why were these men meeting? Certainly not to talk about that asinine Louise Eldridge.
A shuffling, as if papers were brought out. Mike: “Okay, Peter, let's get down to business, get some details ironed out. The monies are in their various places. And we're clear on my cut, right?”
Peter, coughing, or was he laughing: “Forty percent is a huge take for you, Mike. I know what you've done and you've done it well. But for Chrissake, forty? How about thirty-five? I have to live away on this for the rest of my life.”
Away? Where away?
Phyllis grabbed the arms of the chair. A slow anger began to build inside her. She could feel her body temperature rise.
Mike: “Come on now, you'll be back in business somewhere before I've filed my income tax returns next year. Vienna. Maybe Berlin.”
Peter, in a voice so quiet that Phyllis had to strain to hear it: “All right, good buddy. Let's double-check the figures in those offshore accounts. And remember all our cautionary moves. We've got Downing over a barrel and we don't want to let him off it.” Then he couldn't resist a good laugh. “The final touch, of course, was phoning the SEC ethics hotline about that industrial spy. The sonofabitch doesn't dare complain about our business deal now. It attracts too much attention to him and his company.”
Mike: “When do you think you'll make your move?”
Peter, speaking even more quietly than before: “I'm shootin' for two weeks, maybe sooner. Gotta leave her something, of course, or she'll raise holy hell.”
Phyllis wondered if the “her” he referred to was her.
“I've paved a lot of false trails that will make it hard to follow the real me. You and I can work that and the divorce out together. Give her this house plus a stipend.”
Phyllis' face grew red. Jesus, they were talking about her and her future as a divorcée. Peter and his lawyer had sold off his businesses, stashed the money and now he intended to run out on her permanently. And after all those promises he'd made as she stood by him. All those tiresome trips down to Staunton, Virginia, to visit him, staying at the Shoney's Inn and eating their putrid food. Keeping him informed with lots of clippings from the Washington papers so that he stayed current on business news and politics.
Phyllis had heard enough.
She could picture the future, for she saw these women every day behind the slick counters at Saks: Phyllis Hoffman, with facelifts and lots of makeup to cover the years, still peddling St. James clothes to rich bitches for decades.
Not for her! Good thing this house had thin walls. Now she had all the information she needed to fuck over the two sons-of-bitches in the next room, who were trying to fuck her over. All she needed were account numbers. Peter was clever at hiding things, but she was even more clever at finding them. Hadn't she found the clue to Peter's hideous crime in his office cubbyhole well before the Eldridge woman had guessed and tipped police? Phyllis'd known her husband was the mulch murderer well before anyone else. The faintest of smells, a horrible smell, had come from his office, and she'd figured out immediately what it was. Though disgusted with the task, she'd secured his dark secret so that it could have remained a secret forever, had not that little lightbulb gone off in Louise Eldridge's head.
She'd always known what Peter was up to in his dealings. He'd told her that was part of her charm—that she was so smart, so canny. That's why she could hardly believe he thought he could run out on her now. She'd outwit the bastard before he or anyone else was the wiser.
As if to confirm all this, and before she got softhearted again and began to invent excuses for the man, Peter's cell phone rang. When he answered, she could tell by the low and insinuating tone of his voice that it was a girl. What girl, she didn't know. Just another of many he'd had during their marriage. He'd lowered his voice to almost a whisper, but apparently turned away from Mike Cunningham and faced the wall, because his voice came clearly through the vent.
“Well, hello there, my dear. Good to hear from you.”
How had he found a girl so soon? He only left the hospital five days ago! It must have been someone he contacted while in the damned place!
“And when can we get together? Saturday? No? How about Sunday? Great. See you then.”
Phyllis grabbed her head with both hands. It hurt from what must be her blood pressure rising. She felt like getting up and running into the living room and screaming at Peter. He would not get away with this. She took some deep breaths and tried to calm down so she could consider the options. She'd try it one way, by getting hold of the account numbers, or maybe even appealing to Mort Swanson. If she didn't succeed, she'd try it another way.
It was interesting and educational, working as a clerk in a fancy store. Such clerks were a special breed, some of them privileged women like herself who were down on their luck, often because of divorce. Others were up from the bottom. They'd learned from someone how to walk and talk well and had a flair that made them good with upscale customers. Even low-class, foreign-born women, the nervy kind who were determined to reach some level of financial success without necessarily following the rules. Usually, they had good looks that helped them succeed in fashionable boutiques.

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