Mulch (25 page)

She looked at him obliquely. “Chris, it’s not exactly polite to tell girls how bad they look. As a matter of fact, I don’t feel very well.”

“Oh. What is it, that time of month?”

She felt herself blushing. “Oh, boy, I can’t keep any secrets from
you
, can I?” She shook her head. “As a matter of fact, it is. I only admit this because you’re my friend.” She walked with her head down; her face was hot. Since last night Janie knew Chris was more than a friend. They thought alike. They had fun together. He had even offered to study math with her to bring her along faster. It made her whole body feel feverish. Or maybe it was her period. Whatever. Her life had changed,
and she was becoming very committed to this boy, who was almost a man.

“So. Guess what I did this morning?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her thoughts softening her tone toward him.

“I called up Tracey.”

Janie’s heart lurched. Her voice was lower. “Tracey, what’s her name?” She knew her last name as well as her own. “Burton, is it?”

“Yeah, you know. Tracey Burton.” The ball in his flying fingers was now going up as high as he could pitch it without moving his arms upward. Up and down to his waiting palms.

“Why did you call her?”

“I invited her to the winter dance.” His voice had a slight mocking quality, as if she should already know why he called this fellow classmate of his.

“Oh.” A hollow “oh.”

“It was really cool.” He threw the ball far, far up to show how cool it was. “I’m ‘Hi, Tracey, this is your chemistry partner. Whaddaya know?’

“She’s, ‘Oh, it’s you, Chris’—real girlish, like girls are when they know someone’s called them up probably to invite them somewhere—’how are yuh anyway?’

“I’m, ‘You know the dance is coming up. I bet you’re going, right?’

“She’s totally silenced. She’s, ‘I was
going
to go with someone, but then …’

“So I don’t want her to suffer from embarrassment or anything so I’m, ‘How about going with me? We’ve proved we can do scientific experiments together; maybe we can show
them how on the dance floor.’ Actually,” and he turned to Janie with an uncertain look, “I’m a terrible faker on the dance floor.”

She looked at him briefly and then turned frostily away.

He held the ball still for a moment and looked over at her. “Well, anyway, she’s, ‘I’d love to go with you, Chris.’”

He was silent for an instant. “You didn’t think I was going to ask
you
, did you?”

She held her chin high and tried to keep a tremble out of her voice. “Of course not. Why would you ask me?” She felt like she was falling down a hole.

The ball ended its time out and was now busily traveling up in the air again. “Well, because we’re pals. Of course, you’re only fifteen. So I couldn’t exactly ask
you
, since I’m almost eighteen.” He looked enthusiastically at her, as if they might both enjoy a change of subject. “I’ll be eighteen in July; want to help me celebrate?”

Janie reached back into what she thought of as her private reservoir of strength. She had needed it a lot this year, leaving old friends behind when they moved, enduring a certain aloofness from her fellow sophomores at the new high school. She knew she could either be brave or burst into tears and drive him away. She knew her mother sometimes cried, and her father didn’t mind it; in fact, sometimes it made him very tender.

Somehow she didn’t think Chris could handle a girl crying. More important, she didn’t want to cry—not over this. She remembered how much fun she and Chris had had last night, and she knew she would win him in the end.

Provided, that is, that she wanted him.

She smiled at him. The bad moment was gone. “I would love to celebrate your eighteenth with you.”

“Okay, kid.” He slung an arm around her shoulders and they walked in step, slower because of Janie’s dress shoes. “Now let’s talk about that Peter guy I met last night. Remember him? What did
you
think?” Chris’s brow was knotted in a seldom-used frown.

“How could I forget him! He was scary. I think Mom thought he was trying to pick me up or something.”

He squeezed her shoulder. “She was right. I think he likes nymphets.”

Her eyes blazed. “I am
not
a nymphet!”

“You were last night,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re not today. But sometimes you are, more often than not these days.”

She blushed again and sighed. “Oh, Chris, I don’t even know what a nymphet
is.
It makes me sound like a … a slut, or something.”

“Nymphet’ implies neither positive nor negative values; it only means a pretty, young girl. Haven’t you read
Lolita?
Never mind, I’ll explain it later. Anyway, back to that guy. There’s something about that guy I didn’t like. It made me feel like I had to protect you against him.”

She looked over at him and smiled. “Thanks, Chris.”

He gave her a short peck on the cheek. They had reached the turn into the cul-de-sac; he dropped his arm from her shoulder.

He began bouncing his basketball vigorously on the sidewalk. “Why don’t you go get those fancy clothes off and we’ll do a little investigating, okay?”

“Okay.” She hurried up the sidewalk toward her house. She felt better; after taking a golden pill, she’d be ready for anything.

Geraghty tilted far back in his old chair, and then snapped up straight. He fastened his bright blue eyes on the pair of them. “So, to sum it up so far, you say you were at a party given b
y your”
—he pointed his pencil at Janie—“parents, and you, Chris”—now the pencil was pointed at Chris’s heart—
“eavesdropped
at a bedroom door—”

Janie interrupted in a quiet voice. “We were both there, but we weren’t eavesdropping, Detective Geraghty.” She knew Chris beside her was awestruck by this big policeman, but he had been to her house so many times to question her family that she was used to him. “We were trying to find my mother, and we were just being polite and waiting for the conversation to finish.”

Geraghty waved the hand with the pencil in dismissal and leaned comfortably back. “Whatever you want to call it. You heard a conversation not meant for your ears, right?”

“Right, sir,” said Chris. “Was that wrong or something?”

Geraghty sat forward again, his chair screeching in complaint. “Not at all, son.” He gave the two a smile. It was the first friendly sign since they walked in to tell their story. Janie thought he looked like a big honey bear at home in his messy nest.

“Good thing you caught me here when you phoned,” said Geraghty. He sighed. “It’s not my habit to work on Sunday. The wife doesn’t like it. But this mulch case was naggin’ at
me.” He frowned and looked down at an open rile on the littered desk. Then he looked up at Chris and Janie and nodded. “So I’m willing to listen to this conversation you unintentionally heard.” He waggled his hand at them. “Just sit back, the two of you, and relax. Then you tell me everything you heard. Either one of you chime in when you want to.”

“What I first noticed,” said Janie, “was he was, oh, coaxing, as if he wanted information or something.”

“Wait a minute,” said Geraghty. “Whoa. What were they doing in the bedroom, Janie? Was he getting his coat?”

Chris answered for her. “It’s one of those really big parties some people throw—you know, when there’s not enough room for everyone, and they’re eating their dinner in their laps, and catering ladies are running around—you know, buffet style.”

Janie slid a glance at him. “I suppose your mother only gives intimate little dinners.”

“Yah,” said Chris, grinning and tossing his blond hair back. “That’s her style, I guess: little dinners where they sit around the table really late and drink out of little glasses.”

“Liqueur,” she said dismissively, in an accent that reflected her skill in conversational French. Then she looked over at Geraghty. “This was a different kind of a party than the usual in our house. It was business. My dad invited his business friends, and then they invited some of the neighborhood people, including this Peter Hoffman and his”—she rolled her eyes upward—“wife.”

Geraghty said, “What’s your impression of his wife?”

“Very flashy,” said Janie, leaning forward. She put out both thin hands and splayed her fingers. “Big diamonds on both of
her hands.” She swooped her hands over her breasts and down her body. “A tight fuzzy sweater with big gold dangles on it, and a long, tight skirt.”

Chris looked at her. “Janie, he doesn’t want to hear about that.” He looked at Gcraghty. “Do you?”

Geraghty almost smiled. “You can’t tell what little details might help. But you were talking about their conversation in the bedroom. Janie, you thought he was prying information from your mother?”

Janie thought for a moment. “Yes, that’s what it was like. And she, well, she wasn’t herself that night.” She looked down at her hands in her lap. “She isn’t a drinker at all, but she must have had a couple of drinks.”

Chris chimed in. “She was a little drunk—quite a little drunk.” He paused. “But maybe not that bad; staggering a little when she walked, but she could still walk.” Janie felt her face burn. Then Chris added enthusiastically, “And it might have loosened her tongue; alcohol loosens your tongue.”

Geraghty looked at Chris. “You’re almost eighteen, and you’re not a drinker, eh?”

“No, sir,” said Chris, smiling, “not yet. I may be. Some of my best friends are.”

Geraghty stared in the distance, as if remembering a lost youth. “Drinking isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You’re smart if you can …” He shook his head. “Never mind. Tell me, Janie, what did this man ask your mom?”

“Obviously they were talking about the mulch murder. And she was just finishing up telling him something—”

Chris leaned forward in his chair and interrupted. “And he said, ‘How can you be sure of that since almost two months
have passed?’ and Janie’s mom—Louise, that is—she says, They
thought
I might remember some important detail, but I didn’t get hypnotized.’” Chris looked at Janie. “I didn’t know they tried to hypnotize your mother.”

Geraghty said, “The police don’t publicize those things in a murder investigation. Mrs. Eldridge—Louise—is right.” He smiled. Janie had seen men smile before when they talked about her mother. It was very annoying. “She wasn’t a good subject for hypnotism,” Geraghty recollected, “in spite of having one of the best hypnotists in the nation.” He had regained his serious look. “Now, this is important. Try to tell me exactly what came next.”

Janie and Chris looked at each other. Janie continued. “Mom said, ‘So tonight I’ve finally remembered something—about a car—that could be important in solving the crime.’ He sat back and looked at her and said, really casual, ‘If you think that might be important, aren’t you going to tell the police?’ And she said, what did she say then, Chris?”

“She’s, ‘Yes, I’ll probably give them a call on Monday. Even though those headlights may not be as important as I think.’”

Janie said, “And then he said, like a real know-it-all, ‘Headlights are fairly …’ uh, what was it he said, Chris?”

“‘Generic,’” supplied Chris. “Although anyone who knows cars knows headlights are a way to tell one car from another. But then this guy looks up as if he wants to be sure there was no one else around, and there we are in the doorway, about eight feet away. And then he stands up and he’s all over Janie, like an old lecher.” Chris made his voice low and
hollow: “‘How do you do, Little Goldilocks?’ Boy, what a wolf.”

Geraghty said, “Did he touch you, Janie?”

“Only with his eyes,” said Chris, blue eyes blazing. “No, I take that back. He touched her hair, and her chin, and her hands.”

Janie blushed and looked down. Geraghty leaned back again and wearily lifted one large leg on top of his extended lower drawer. He tapped his pencil a few times on the open file and thought.

Then he looked at Chris and Jane. “Okay, what else have you got in y
our
file?”

“Our file?” Chris’s face turned red. “We don’t have a file.”

“But you’ve been around, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Chris, sitting very straight on the edge of his chair. “We did do a little investigating.”

“What’d you find, if anything?”

Chris told him about prowling around what looked like an abandoned house on Martha’s Lane.

Geraghty waved a hand. “No problem there. The woman is abroad and has been heard from. That place’s not involved … though it’s close to where this Peter Hoffman lives, isn’t it?”

“It’s just over one hill,” said Janie.

“Janie,” said Geraghty, “have you ever met this Peter before last night?”

“Only one night when I was walking, and I happened to walk in his backyard and see him working in his workshop.”

“Workshop?”

“He has a workshop on the back of his property.”

“A lot of people in your neighborhood have garage workshops—complete with saws.”

Janie’s eyes widened. “Oh. He has a saw. That’s what he was doing when I came by. He was sawing some wood. And he was angry at me for coming in his yard.”

“When was this?”