Mulch (21 page)

“Yes, please.” Mary smiled, looked at Louise, and said, “Trust me?”

Louise nodded, and Mary said, “Make it two.”

When the waitress left, her neighbor folded her arms in front of her on the wood table, and said, “I have important
matters to talk to you about. I’ve been home for two weeks, recovering from the effects of my face-lift.” Her hand went out and gently touched her check near the hairline. “It’s given me time to organize things around my house, which heaven knows gets very little attention, except when the cleaning woman comes, bless her heart.
Two
things, Louise, involve you.” She smiled, with her face and her eyes. “One is just fun: I’m thinking of getting fish and a pond to put them in, come spring, and I need your input. But I wonder if Richard and I are really fish people.” She cocked her well-coiffed head. “Do you know anything about fish—and will it be as much trouble as having a dog, for instance, or a kitty? For, you know, we travel quite a bit, and it isn’t as if one can drop them off at a vet—or can one?”

“You know, Mary, I don’t know very much about them. Do you mean koi, those Japanese kind?”

“Exactly,” said Mary enthusiastically, and then put out a hand in a stop gesture. “But that’s all right—I’ll research the fish. Richard and I talked about it, because we saw some at a friend’s this summer, and they were so
tranquil
and
beautiful;
they quite captivated us. But it was a big party, and we never had a chance to talk
pescatore
with our hosts.”

Louise chuckled. “If you like them, I’d go for it. I could baby-sit them when you go away. I can’t believe they would be any bother.”

Mary’s face changed, the smile gone, the focused look restored. Her voice was quieter, no longer laced with the delight that it was when she was talking about fish. “The other matter is the mulch murder. Louise, the police just have not solved it, have they?”

“No.”

“I saw you, Louise—” She broke off her sentence as the waitress brought in their drinks; both had ordered tea. When she left, Mary resumed. “Staying home gives one time to observe one’s neighbors. When you got out of Bill’s car the other day, you were all dressed up in boots and things, but you looked so unhappy. If you’d had a dog, you would have kicked it. Then, a couple of nights later, I saw Bill come home, all flustered, and storm up the walk. From then on, I have done nothing but worry about the two of you. This is the first day I have been out since my operation—otherwise my swollen face would have scared people—and I was just on my way over to visit when I saw you in your yard.”

Louise well remembered the day she failed hypnotism and then fruitlessly retraced the trail to houses where she’d picked up leaf bags. “All I can say is, I’m glad I have a writing job to distract me.” She told Mary about her assignment from the garden editor. “It helps balance out those bad days.”

Her neighbor frowned. “Do you have lots of bad days like that? Why is this all falling on you two? It is outrageous that the police can’t do any better. Surely,
someone
is missing!”

Louise looked at Mary, and a small epiphany sounded in her head. She leaned forward eagerly. “Yes,
yes
, that’s the whole point. Someone is missing, and why can’t they find out who it is? I told you the last time we talked that I was being hypnotized. I think they thought I was going to solve the crime. Well, I failed to go under, and the police were very disappointed in me, according to what they told Bill: He’s the only one who has talked to them recently. Detective Geraghty told him, quote, ‘Otherwise, the trail is cold.’”

Mary looked at her intently. “I’m fascinated. Why weren’t you hypnotized?”

Louise hadn’t known for sure until this moment why. “Because the man was a fraud, and I didn’t trust him.”

Mary looked up, to see the waitress arriving with two large platters, each holding two barbecue sandwiches bulging with meat, a paper cup filled with coleslaw, a rash of french fries, and half of a dill pickle.

“Wonderful,” exclaimed Mary, and the woman left them alone. She gracefully gathered up one of the sloppy sandwiches, and said, “Pork: You’ll love it,” took a bite, and chewed happily. Then she said, “Now, Louise, tell me some details. Exactly what did those, uh, pieces of the body look like?”

Louise looked down at the barbecue extravaganzas on her plate and could barely restrain herself from gagging. “Uh …”

Mary smiled apologetically. “I’m so sorry. Let’s eat first.”

When they had finished most of their food, Louise reluctantly continued. “I saw—the arm, and a piece of the leg.” This was what she had avoided: putting a whole body together from the parts she had seen. First, Nora, and now Mary, was forcing her to bring the dead woman to some sort of reality as a person.

“It must have been ghastly,” said Mary. “What did they look like, these sections of the body—lots of tannin in the skin, or light, like me?”

Louise stared off into the gloom of the tiny bar and tried to remember. “Actually, there were freckles on the arm—sort of pink-looking freckles against pale skin. It was a small,
shapely forearm, minus the hand.” Pictures of that bloody body part flashed through her mind. “And the leg—it was very—finely turned, you might say.”

Mary leaned forward, cradling the heavy teacup in her hands. Her eyes were broody. “Too bad you didn’t see the torso. Did they find any of the torso?”

“Part of it.” She sucked her breath in, remembering that gruesome talk. “Geraghty told Bill it was a, quote, ‘well-formed’ female.”

“That means good breasts, knowing men. Ah, just 50.” Mary sat back in satisfaction. “I am beginning to develop a theory.” She leaned forward again toward Louise. “Finely turned leg. Petite arm. Pink freckles, but not obtrusive freckles. Well-formed breasts, most likely. What does that say to us?”

“Good-looking woman,” Louise offered. “Maybe a redhead.”

Mary pointed a graceful finger at her. “More than that: It says
mistress.
After all, no wives are missing, are they, or the police would have found out by now. But ‘mistress’—the woman the man keeps in the background, in a secret apartment in SoHo …”

“All right. Hidden mistress. But where does that get us? When I drove around the other day to all the houses where I got the leaves, it was lunchtime, and I saw a surprising number of people home, or coming home. And believe me, Mary, they all looked as innocent as lambs.”

She told her of the elderly couple, of the children entering another house, and then they laughed about the suburban mom who might actually have been a murderess.

“There’s nothing much we can do about those outlying mulch bag addresses,” said Mary. “That’s up to the police. But closer to home, why, I can think of at least six men who live in Sylvan Valley who could have had a mistress.”

“No, really?”

Mary nodded. “I’ve lived there for almost twenty years, and it is surprising: You would have picked up these same vibes if you knew them as long as I had.”

“Gosh. Who, for instance?”

“This is strictly between the two of us, and I’m not accusing anyone of murder, mind you. But Eric Vande Ven, for one. Mort Swanson, that wonderful Sarah’s husband, for another. Frank Stern, maybe—simply because he is such an unknowable quantity and has been ever since I first met him. Do you know him?”

“I just met him once—he’s away a lot overseas with his electronics business. But I’ve known Sandy since we moved here. We started playing tennis together at the club. I like Sandy.”

Mary stretched out a hand and squeezed Louise’s. “My dear, let’s try to separate the personal from the practical. I’m just talking husbands.” Then she went on to mention three more Sylvan Valley men.

Louise came to a realization that made her skin tingle. “Do you realize Eric and Mort are in the poker club with Bill?”

“How interesting, and how handy.”

“You’ve not mentioned Roger Kendricks. Or Sam Rosen.”

“Clean, I’d say,” declared Mary with a hard look in her eye that seemed out of character; but she had obviously stepped into the detecting business with relish. “Of course we can’t be
certain about anybody. I’d even mistrust that Peter Hoffman over on the edge of the neighborhood, but he’s freshly married and so new around here that I doubt he’s had time or inclination to get a mistress.” She looked at Louise, and almost broke into a giggle. “Aren’t we the snoops?”

Louise couldn’t help smiling. “So what do you think we should do?”

“Unfortunately, I’m packing up for another trip, this time to the West Coast, but I’ll be home for your dinner party.” She gestured toward Louise. “That party, for instance, will be a splendid opportunity to do background work. And while I’m gone, you can do a little casual surveillance—I believe that’s what they call it….”

Louise sighed. Surveillance. If Mary only knew that she wasn’t as naive about all this as she thought she was. She had sat with her husband Bill and done surveillance on at least half a dozen occasions, in various parts of the world. It was no fun—getting hungry, uncomfortable, struggling to keep one’s eves open, having to urinate, but not being able to do anything about it.

Mary smiled. “Do you have birding glasses? You could check things out from the comfort of your own home, especially Eric.” Then she looked troubled. “I confess I don’t like this whole thing, Louise, thinking that my good friend Jan has a husband who is cheating on her. But, in fact, I somehow feel that’s the case. Whether we can pin anything down, I don’t know. I do know Eric has been very circumspect since the murder, and I don’t have a clue as to what that means.”

“We didn’t talk about Nora’s husband. What about Ron Radebaugh?”

Mary’s smile was rather like Mona Lisa’s. “I do not think the beautiful Nora has a husband who is unfaithful. Actually, the reverse has sometimes been true in the past.”

Louise’s eyes widened at this disclosure. Here she was just developing a friendship with Nora, and it turned out her first impression—that she was a home wrecker—was the correct one after all!

Mary looked concerned, and reached over and touched Louise’s hand again, as if this would give her colleague strength. “My dear, I am really telling you too much. But it’s just what everyone knows or senses about the neighbors, and I don’t mean to be too modern, but one must deal with realities, especially if one is ferreting out a secret murderer who is threatening the peace and quiet of one’s family.”

“Mary, how do you know about Nora?”

“Unfortunately, it became common knowledge.” Louise thought back to the story of the Sylvan Valley wife-swapping. Could that have involved Nora? No—Nora was much too private for that, though not private enough to keep the affair a secret.

Mary went on: “And she told me herself. Since I see you two are becoming friends, she will tell you eventually, too, since Nora isn’t as … hung up on sex as the rest of us. It was before she became active in writing and teaching—I think that’s helped her feel more fulfilled.”

Louise let her glance go to the sunny windows beyond the dim little room. She was anxious to get back out into the sunlight. “I think I’m learning more than I want about everybody.” She looked over at her lunch companion. “Nora is
very—strange about this murder. Has she ever talked to
YOU
about it?”

“Oh, yes. Dear Nora is terribly sensitive. Poets, of course, are. But don’t minimize Nora: She can be very right about things.” She opened her purse to get out money to pay the bill, since she’d said the lunch would be on her. “Louise, regarding our little spy efforts, try the Gallic approach—keeping the personal feelings carefully separated from our professional efforts. I know you have it in you, from all your experience in the—foreign service.” She looked up slyly. “In fact, I bet you know better than I do all the little investigative tricks we could use….”

Louise knew immediately that Mary knew Bill was undercover. She must have learned it from her husband, Richard. Not too unusual, in the Foreign Service.

Mary went on. “This is serious, Louise: Someone killed that woman, and now all the burden is falling on your house, by horrible mischance. It’s time for you to act. You have every right to do all the snooping you want. I promise to help you investigate as soon as I get home from my trip.” She smiled encouragingly. “Don’t go too far—don’t
follow
anyone, or dangerous things like that. Listen. Listen in on the poker club if you can.”

“Actually, I’ve done that already, inadvertently, when I was reading on the couch in the next room. There’s nothing to learn except a few mild dirty jokes and all the procedural details about how to play things like ‘Follow the Virgin Queen,’ or ‘Anaconda,’ or ‘Shit or Git.’ The game envelops them and reduces them to giggling schoolboys. Believe me, we’ll never learn anything from listening in on a poker game.”

“How interesting,” murmured Mary. “Maybe Richard could play with them sometime. Poor dear, with his nose always in a book, or running off for State business to Vienna, he doesn’t seem to have much fun. So. We’ll scratch poker club from our list. But we’ll take every other opportunity to observe, and listen. I have no doubt that you and I might uncover something the police could use. After all, my dear, women are intuitive, they are excellent listeners, and, to paraphrase that old radio program from my childhood, they can
read the hearts of
men!”