The Perennial Killer: A Gardening Mystery (24 page)

“Maybe, under the circumstances, in.”

They found a booth in back. Nervous suddenly to be alone with him, she launched into the story of the lady and her timid cat, and the mysterious potions that were to make everything right. “So whoever owns this Toughy is going to be under a lot of pressure to reform his villainous soul.”

“Wait,” growled Pete. “The cat’s name was Toughy? Shit! That’s
my
cat’s name.” He slapped a hand against his
forehead. His pale blue eyes sparked with outrage. “Of course. It’s that dingbat next door, Jenny Drexler, with that half-dead cat of hers. Well, if she thinks I’m feeding weird medicine to Toughy, she’s just plain wrong.”

Louise was having a hard time keeping a serious look on her face. “Pete, it’s really natural stuff. Just eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog…”

Pete nodded distractedly. “The
nerve
of the woman…”

“Hey, I was just kidding. You must know about eye of newt and toe of frog. From
Macbeth
.”

He winced and leaned forward. “You mean,
‘Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing;—
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.’
”

Together they chanted, “
‘Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn; and cauldron, bubble,’
” then sat back, laughing.

“Ann Evans told me. I should have remembered.”

“Told you what?”

“That you’re an intellectual under that good-old-boy pose.”

He grinned. “I figured Ann told you somethin’. But she might not have told you I earned a master’s in English, and was goin’ for a Ph.D. when I realized land was a better bet.”

“A Ph.D.?”

“I did all but the dissertation,” he said offhandedly.

She sat there, refiguring things again about this raucous man. “So why do you pretend to be someone different?”

He leaned back, tall even while sitting, and looked wise. “You’d be surprised how much mileage there is in just acting down to earth, like an ordinary guy. Remember, a lot of the folks around here are just plain folks, especially the ones with the land to sell.” He couldn’t
resist a grin. “You might say, there are no rocket scientists on ranches. It’s more apt to be a poorly educated sucker who’s worked his ass off for half a century or so herdin’ cows, birthin’ calves, and sloppin’ barns.”

“Like Eddie Porter.”

“Like Eddie Porter. I mean, you’ve been around to Lyons. Can’t you see the collision of cultures? The old-timers and the newcomers, like oil and water. They’ll mix, but it takes a bit of shakin’.”

She looked at him. It was hard to get to know the real Pete Fitzsimmons. She switched the subject. “Now the alchemist—I mean, the proprietor said this substance was made of vervain, whatever that is, and vine and beech root. Just herbs, apparently. And it does sound like Toughy could use a little softening up, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“He is a tough little bugger, I’ll concede that.” Pete’s brow was still creased in a heavy frown.

“I’m sure you’ll handle it with your neighbor. As for me”—she grinned widely—“I caught the essence of Boulder in that herbal shop.”

“Hold on, pardner,” he said, frowning. “Holistic cures are part of it, but it’s harder than you think to capture the essence of Boulder. You just glommed onto one part of the city’s murky mix.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But Pete, you’re taking everything—even Toughy’s future—so seriously. Toughy’s going to be all right, but how about you? It’s as if you’ve become terminally serious since Sally’s death. Where’s the old lighthearted cameraman I used to know?”

“I can’t help it, Louise. Part of it is because I’m worried about you since that bullet ripped through your hat. It could just as easily have torn the back of your head off, just like President Kennedy’s.”

She gazed down at the table, not enjoying that familiar
image of death. “Well, then, I guess you’ve been more worried about me than I have.”

“Aw, nuts,” he said, smiling, “I’ll stop being so heavy. But what are friends for, if not to worry about each other? I admire you for your sense of fun. You get a kick out of life, even when things aren’t going well, don’t you?”

“I guess I do.” She shook her head. “While my producer accuses me of being too serious, our daughter, Janie, accuses me of caring for nothing. She told me, ‘Ma, all you care about now that you have a job is your work, and having fun.’ I said to her, ‘Good. That way, I’ll keep my nose out of your business.’”

She felt a twinge, talking about Janie, and realized how much she missed the girl, how much more comfortable she would feel with her around. She turned her attention back to her companion. “Tell me more, Pete, about Boulder.”

He smiled. “Like I was startin’ to tell you, it’s a strange town. You think you know it and its people, and then you get thrown a curve. You think it’s liberal, and then you run into a pack of hidebound conservatives. You think it’s forward-looking, and it does some damn fool thing that shows its head is still back in the nineteenth century. Take those murders. They have something to do with Boulder—something that even Ann Evans can’t figure out, and she’s right in the middle of all that land use stuff.”

Louise ordered a small designer pizza, and Pete, a midsize one. She went along when he suggested not only salads, but also a bottle of red wine. When he heard she wasn’t much of a drinker, he promised to consume the lion’s share himself.

As they settled in with their first glass, Louise said, “I found out something really exciting this afternoon. About Baby Henry, and who his mother was.” She told him, but Pete was not that surprised about the news that the sedate-appearing
Harriet Bingham had given birth to an illegitimate child. Even the details of Bonnie Porter’s death in the burning barn didn’t faze him.

“That’s mountain life, Louise. No doctors. No fire trucks. It was all volunteer firefighters, and it still is in the mountains. Even though those ranches are only six miles from the highway, the people living there feel like they’re in a separate world.”

“I wonder who the father of Harriet’s baby was…”

“How about Harriet’s dad? Father and daughter alone in the same house for years and years—think about it.”

“Oh, dear,” said Louise, even though she
had
thought about it. “It’s depressing.”

Pete shook his curly head and refilled her glass. “Now, Louise, don’t get all delicate on me. Incest’s been goin’ on since the beginning of time. Anyway, I only said the father
could
have done the deed. All that family stuff you’ve investigated today probably doesn’t mean a thing.”

“Well, there has to be some reason that two members of the Porter family are dead. Now, only Eddie and Frank are left…” Then Louise remembered what Pete had said earlier today, and she nearly choked on a mouthful of her Pizza Quattro Stagioni.

“Hey,” he said, reaching over to pat her between the shoulderblades, “take it easy there.”

She took a deep breath. “Do you remember saying that Reingold owns a piece of Eddie?”

“Sure do. A big piece.”

“And where does this leave Frank? Look at it from Eddie’s point of view. His whole future may rest on whether he can arrange a deal for Reingold to buy the ranch.”

Pete stared off into space, then set his glass down with a sharp click. “I think you’ve got something there, Louise. And it leaves Frank in a good deal of danger.”

Louise leaned forward. “That’s what I was thinking, too.”

“I hate to think Eddie’s involved in these deaths, or Josef Reingold either. But obviously, Eddie’s in a bind, and maybe this was his primitive way of gettin’ out of it.” He put a hand on hers and said, “What do you think we should do—call the sheriff?”

She gently slid her hand free. “I don’t trust that sheriff much, and besides, I doubt he’ll put a bodyguard on Frank.”

“Frank’s pretty smart,” said Pete, seeming to take the removal of her hand in stride. “I hope he can take care of himself.” He paid the bill, but Louise insisted on leaving the tip. Then he suggested they discuss things further at his house, of which he obviously was very proud. She agreed without thinking twice.

Louise fairly floated along as they made their way through the packed crowd. The wine had gone to her head—and not for the first time in her life. Oh, well, since nothing special was planned for Saturday morning, she could afford a small hangover. They left the crowd behind at Tenth Street, turned north, then walked two blocks down Spruce.

“Second house,” he said proudly. It was a low-slung sandstone-and-frame home with a prime view of the Flatirons. Inside, Louise could see evidence of the craftsman style: quarter-sawn oak beams in the ceiling, and intricate built-in cupboards in each room. “It was built in 1900 by a Boulder doctor,” said Pete. “I picked it up for a song in the mid-eighties. That was the depth of the market here. The walls are solid stone, three foot thick, so it’s cool in summer and warm in winter.”

At some point, Pete had flipped a switch on a remote
control, causing quiet Chopin preludes to play. The music immediately made her feel good, maybe too good. It spread an ambience she should have recognized as dangerous. On the other hand, was there anything wrong with the fact that she felt relaxed and happy, for the first time in days?

She was surprised by his taste. Again. Sparse, modern furniture rested on Oriental throw rugs. Built-in bookshelves from the original house were augmented by freestanding ones, and seemed to be everywhere. The walls held a collection of art that was mostly western in theme, with the exception of a couple of modern pieces. One instantly attracted her: a bright painting with an abstract feel, of a swimming pool and a figure sitting beside it. The figure radiated silence and solitude. Louise went over to examine it, doubting it could be a David Hockney—but it was. She smiled. “Hockney. I
am
impressed.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, refusing to give up his corny western facade. “I was fortunate to pick that up in my California period, back in the late seventies. Couldn’t touch it now, that’s for sure.”

She couldn’t help but be drawn to the books, the central feature of the room. There were rows of classics and a big collection of poetry. “Shelley,” she said, slipping out a volume from a shelf, and flipping through until she found
Epipsychidion
. She wanted to see if she had remembered it right when she quoted it to her husband a week ago.

“Interesting poet,” said Pete. “Do you think he drowned himself, or were the waves of the Mediterranean just too much for his little craft?”

“He had a lot to live for, didn’t he? Mary Shelley, good friends, work he loved. I’d hate to think he killed himself.”

“Who knows?” said Pete. “Poets live on the edge.”
He came over to see what she was reading, and looked at her inquisitively.

She said simply, “Bill and I always liked this one,” and closed the book.

“It’s nice to have someone who appreciates literature.” He grinned. Their eyes met for an instant, and then he said, “C’mon, I’ll show you the rest of the place.”

She trailed behind him as he showed off the modernized kitchen, softened with Mexican tiles he had ordered specially made in a French blue. He and Louise drifted through the rest of the house, finally reaching the master bedroom. It was so understated that at first Louise didn’t realize how beautiful it was—until an evening breeze caused the long taupe curtains to swell at the wide window. The rest of the room was done in off-white, with a puffy off-white comforter tucked primly around the mattress of the bed, and voluminous deep red pillows strewn near the antique headboard.

The room definitely had a nice atmosphere. And the bed looked lovely; they were standing right next to it.

But this couldn’t go on. She knew this with every fiber of her slightly inebriated body, because every fiber of her body had somehow been activated. Was it the paintings, the books, his familiarity with poetry, his pristine and innocent-looking comforter? Whatever it was, she had the sense she had already lost control. Maybe the problems with Bill were deeper than she realized. Maybe he had been away too long for her to remain faithful.…

It had started on the mall, when Pete bent his head solicitously toward her so he could hear her better as they forged through the noisy crowd. Even then she could discern a softening look in his pale eyes. It was the first time she had admitted to herself that she was attracted to him.

And now here they were in this bedroom with its supreme
good taste and its promise of earthly delights, to be shared in that bed with its deceptively innocent look.

The whole house had defined and illuminated Pete Fitzsimmons, the man. A man with a soul and spirit. In no sense a good old boy—except when he wanted to play the part—but, instead, a deeply sensitive and artistic human being. One who loved art, literature, and—cats.

Pete had put his hand on her shoulder, the part not covered by her little sleeveless dress. A ripple of feeling went through her that threatened to obliterate twenty-one years of a happy marriage.

“Louise,” he said, and turned her around to him so they were facing each other and she could not avoid what was happening. Tall, warm, and comforting, he put his arms around her in an embrace that made her feel safe from all earthly harm. With a gentle but not intrusive touch, almost as if he were posing her for another picture, he raised her chin. She felt dizzy, helpless, mesmerized by those searching eyes, the soft, parted lips, the pressing body—