Mulch
Authors: Ann Ripley
Praise for
DEATH OF A GARDEN PEST
“Gardening and murder make a fascinating combination in
Death of a Garden Pest.
Gardener sleuth Louise Eldridge offers an enchanting view of gardens while facing down dauntingly evil opponents.”
—Carolyn G. Hart
“A good lighthearted diversion from summer weeding and deadheading.”
—
The Plain Dealer
, Cleveland
“Ripley tells her gripping tale in engaging, down-to-earth prose, interjecting bits of gardening advice.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“Informative and fun.”
—
Kirkus Reviews
“Ripley’s follow-up to
Mulch
will tempt gardening buffs seeking a mystery enhanced by plenty of tantalizing garden details…. Readers drawn in by the ‘green’ story line will not be disappointed as intrigue surrounding the murderer’s identity unravels.”
—
Booklist
“This hybrid of traditional whodunit and up-to-the-minute gardening guide is certain to appeal to mystery readers with a green thumb.”
—
The Denver Post
Other Gardening Mysteries
by Ann Ripley
DEATH OF A GARDEN PEST
and coming soon in hardcover
DEATH OF A POLITICAL PLANT
TO TONY AND THE GIRLS
Chapter 6 - Little Things Mean a Lot
Chapter 10 - Distributing Leaves
Chapter 12 - The Investigators
Chapter 20 - Spying on Husbands
Chapter 21 - The Party’s Ready
Chapter 22 - A Little Off Balance
Chapter 25 - Getting Down to Work
Chapter 27 - Among the Bromeliads
Old Friends
O
UTSIDE, CHERRY BLOSSOMS SCREAMED FOR ATTENTION
. Marble buildings gleamed their slickest. Tourists gawked along Pennsylvania Avenue, hoping for a glimpse of their president through the black iron fence. Inside, golden light flooded through the Georgian windows of this private second-floor White House salon, adding to its pale green brocade elegance.
What irony, thought Peter Hoffman. Here he was, defense contractor, a social leper as far as the White House was concerned,
sitting here alone in splendor with the president of the United States.
The two of them were hunkered down deep in the room, out of the sphere of those terrific windows and into the thrall of the fire in a glowing fireplace. Their chairs were situated on either side of it. A slim tea table stood between. Obviously, this was where the president entertained guests he didn’t want seen.
To his amusement, Peter had just discovered that the chief executive ordered the fire to be lighted both summer and winter. Nixon had done that, too, he remembered. Not a good omen. He took a sip of coffee from a translucent teacup and peered over his glasses at the president. The man was as trim as he had been thirty years before, but his hair was too tan and his eyes too blue to be believed. Peter bullied his big fingers through his own faded blond hair.
He’d
aged too, but at least he wasn’t afraid to admit it.
This man, Jack Fairchild, had been his classmate at MIT and a fellow officer in Vietnam. A guy who was always a little too in love with himself and at the same time a little too anxious to please—by today’s standards,
born
to be president. Fairchild had ignored Peter’s existence for the first two years of his presidency—pretended he didn’t know about the damage control Peter had done long ago, the dirty work that had enabled Fairchild to become president in the first place. Peter could do his lucrative business with the Department of Defense, but he didn’t rate socially for anything more than a large White House reception where the president shook his hand and two hundred others.
But President Fairchild needed him now. Peter tipped his
head back and chuckled. It was a raucous noise but muffled by the thick orientals.
The president gave him a curious look. Then he decided to smile. “I know why you’re laughing.”
“You do? Why? I don’t even know myself.”
“You think it’s incredible that the guy you did time with in Nam is sitting in the White House, running the country….”
Peter grinned. “Neatest trick is that nobody has discovered exactly what you
did
in the service.”
The president waved his hand airily. “That’s all been hashed over endlessly. ‘Army intelligence.’ The voting public accepts that, just like they accept any military record; Kennedy and his story, George Bush and the way he was shot down … no one questions it any more … it’s part of history.” His optically enhanced blue eyes were guileless as he looked straight at Peter.
“Ah, but who do you think tidied up our little part of that history—”
The president put his hands up like a barrier, as if the words were fatal germs he might catch. “Just don’t tell me, Peter. I know we closed off normal human sympathy back then, so that we could do the most appalling things. Kill, so casually, with a piece of piano wire, or a quick thrust of a blade. In the years since, I’ve regretted it, but that was for our
country
, for God’s sake. You and your extracurricular activities—I don’t want to know about them.”
“The records all cleansed—” continued Peter in his penetrating voice.
“No, I can’t listen. Don’t make me regret bringing you
here.” Fairchild stared at him, his lips pursed into a stubborn line.
Peter leaned back and put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, let’s forget all that. It’s only sensible for a man in your place—‘Hear no evil’ and ‘see no evil,’ at the very least.” He cast a glance around the elegant room. “You have a lot to lose. It’s very, very nice here, Jack. Just take this parlor by itself—I’ve heard it’s the best fuckin’ room in the whole fuckin’ White House.”
The president, unsettled by the references to the old days, brightened immediately when Peter broke the code of politeness and inserted crude language into the conversation. He had seen it before with Army vets, Pentagon types, and tight-ass politicians. They could hardly get the doors closed fast enough before they made every other word a profanity.
“It’s partly the light-it transforms the place.” He leaned toward Peter. “But I don’t give a goddamn about the trappings, Pete. We just live here. It’s interesting for my wife and children. But unreal—people always listenin’ and lookin’ in at your lives—not a fuckin’ thing you can do that someone isn’t lookin’ at, writin’ about, and then blattin’ about on the evening news.”
Peter leaned his large frame farther back in the Louis Quinze chair and crossed his long legs at the ankle, his heels anchored comfortably in the silk oriental. He was beginning to feel at home. The president was happy he was here; he was sliding right back into the vernacular of the boys.
Peter took his middle finger and shoved his gradient density bifocals up to their proper place on his hawk nose. “Okay
now,” he said, “let’s have it; you want something from me. What do you want?”
The president sighed deeply. “Well, we’re already your chief customer for your latest weapons. And what weapons they are … that new artillery piece. Cheap. Easy to manufacture. Deadly. And now the laser stuff; it’s exactly the kind of thing we’ve needed, in this world filled with little wars.”
“I can say without bragging that it takes a special mind to invent weapons like that.”
The president straightened, his cup perched on his knee, and his voice grew serious. “Pete, I need more than weapons from you, I’m in a delicate political situation.” He waved as if batting away a large insect with the back of his hand. “It’s not bad enough that the world is unstable; forces in this country are clashing like armies in the night. It’s scary. We don’t know who’ll go down. What do I want from you? I want you on my team. Specifically, I want you in Defense. You’re on the cutting edge in weapons. And you’re convincing as hell. I
need
you in there to stanch the bloodletting by the secretary of defense.”
Peter said in a level tone, “You want me to keep the fucker straight.”
The president nodded. “That’s it, exactly. As you know, he’s too dovish. He’s causing me a shitload of trouble: constant public undermining of what
I
and every other reasonable man think our defense posture should be. For Chrissake, pretty soon we won’t be able to take
Grenada
if it gives us trouble. Problem is, the focus groups split on this—actually, sometimes even tip
his
way.” His voice rose querulously. “Tell me, from what you know, am I right or aren’t I?”
Peter nodded. “Not what the country needs right now. Why don’t you can his ass?”
“Can’t.” The president frowned and scratched his thick, carefully dyed hair. “Too many negatives right now … those scandals in the EPA. A president can’t have too much turmoil at one time.” His voice lowered several notes. “Hell, it could even affect my getting nominated next year.” He shook his head slowly. “There’s dogs in the manger, Pete. Y’never know how many until you enter public office.”
Peter’s gaze unfastened from the president and he stared into space. He had a sudden flashback to thirty years before and remembered that this man—as a young officer—was apt to swing from good humor to bad within minutes. He hadn’t changed. Except now he was in charge of the whole damned country.
Now the president’s voice was rising with optimism. “But you give me new hope, Pete. I’m turning to you because you can do just about anything. You can be the key to maintaining our defense in the right posture.
These
days it should be full-court press.” He put up a cautionary hand. “But there’s a couple of things. One is a given: You turn over your arms business to others to run and put your assets in a blind trust.” He waved the matter off: “Standard procedure for everybody. The only other thing is …” Peter was beginning to fidget in his French chair. His back was stiff from slouching. Yet he deliberately maintained his sprawling pose. He knew what was coming, and he wasn’t going to sit there like a remorseful schoolboy and take it.