The Perennial Killer: A Gardening Mystery (34 page)

E
ACH NERVE IN
L
OUISE’S BODY
jangled, from the realization that tonight at this western wake she was bound to find out something conclusive about the Porter murders. Ann, sitting beside her, was a picture of relaxation and beauty in a pale blue print lawn dress. The younger woman was dressed more formally than usual, and she had even curled her hair a little. Louise realized this was all in the name of Ann’s imminent reunion with Luke, who was
due back at DIA on a late plane, rather than a reflection of the solemn occasion.

A lot was at stake in that reunion—probably as much as would be hanging on her own reunion with Bill tomorrow. “The whole megillah?” she muttered.

“Excuse me?” said Ann.

“Oh, nothing,” said Louise, “just thinking out loud.”

She was suddenly glad they had decided not to invite Pete to ride with them.

The sign at the highway turn clued them in that they were coming to a very special house. Upscale rustic, she guessed one would call it, the sign had Frank’s name burnt into the wood, and a string of little mountains carved across the top, painted pale purple with white tops. Frank Porter’s house turned out to be a ranch house with two-story glass windows, rough wood beams, granite rock trim, and landscaped gardens. It was light years away from his father’s simple, ancient ranch house, and from his brother Eddie’s ramshackle log cabin a few miles down the road. This architectural model perched quietly on a rock cliff that overlooked the South St. Vrain River and the Porter Ranch acres of wild Colorado land.

The house was approached by way of a road steeper than most people would have been comfortable with, but which was no longer a challenge to Louise. She had insisted to Ann that they take her car, since she had found she liked mountain driving and would have few more opportunities beyond this weekend.

In deference to others who might be closer to the family than they were, they parked at a distance from the house and walked up. Louise, on her caffeine high, had to slow her pace for the laid-back Ann, strolling gracefully beside her.

The broad front porch had steps on either end. They went up the nearest set and knocked but no one answered
the door, so they walked in, imagining Frank and Eddie to be busy with last-minute preparations. Before them was an imposing living room with tall peaked windows, beige carpeting, and spare, bleached oak furniture, but bereft of plants, pictures, and decorations.

Ann touched Louise’s arm and said in a low voice, “It’s a little bland, isn’t it? Maybe Frank could use a decorator.”

“Not even sister Sally’s been here, with her Hummel figures or folksy touches.”

Ann nodded and called, “Helloo!” There was no answer.

They wandered into the dining room, expecting Frank to walk out of the kitchen at any moment. On a big, glass-topped dining room table sat a now-departed caterer’s work: trays of carefully arranged meat, cheese, vegetables, breads, and sweets.

“Oh, yum,” said Louise. Set around the trays were the jewels of the culinary crown, the very best donated dishes from the kitchens of good cooks, offered in condolence for the Porter brothers’ loss. Among them were a glazed cake with strawberry and kiwi on top, cheese-topped au gratin potatoes with a curl of steam coming out of the edge of the casserole lid, sprightly pasta salad with shrimps poking out, a rich yellow potato salad—the dish Grace Prangley had delivered to the brothers earlier—a small mountain of home-cooked sweet buns, and Eddie’s own enchiladas.

People had already helped themselves. “Frank and Eddie must be around here somewhere,” Louise said, “having an early snack before the crowd comes.” She eyed the pastries. Suddenly, her stomach growled and she realized it had been six hours since her meager lunch. “Ann, let’s eat
something
…” She reached for the plate, grabbing a sugar cookie and a frosted bun. She got frosting on her
fingers and was about to lick it off when they heard an unearthly moan.

Louise dropped the pastry and rushed through a swinging door into die big kitchen, leaving frosting fingerprints behind her in her haste. Beyond it was a large patio with a table and chairs, and lying on the wood deck was a writhing figure with another bent over it. Frank Porter, trying to regurgitate the poison that had entered his system, and Eddie kneeling beside him.

Louise assessed the situation in a glance and said, “Stay with them. I’ll call an ambulance.” She grabbed her cell phone and made the call, but was at a loss to give an address. “It’s that big pointy-roofed house on top of a cliff on Route Seven. There’s a steep gravel access road, and you can’t miss it. It’s marked by a new sign with mountains carved on it that says ‘Porter.’”

She joined Ann, who knelt next to Eddie. Frank looked at them through slitted eyes and hoarsely whispered a single word: “Poison.” He was fast losing consciousness. Eddie was crying inconsolably. “Frank—God, Frank, don’t
leave
me!” he cried. Louise ran down a hall off the kitchen in search of the bedrooms, and finding one snatched several blankets from the big bed. She ran back to the porch to cover the afflicted man. Unfortunately, she had seen a poison victim before, writhing in her death throes, and die very least she had done then was what she was doing now. Keeping the victim warm.

Ann stood up, and the women looked at each other. “God, we have to do something,” said the land officer. “He ate one of those foods…”

Louise knew what she had to do. “Will you be sure that no one eats anything more? And keep an eye on Eddie to see that he’s all right. I have to go check on Harriet.”

Before Ann could ask any more questions, Louise turned on her booted heel and ran back through the house. On the front porch, she came to another quick stop. Pulling up into the turnabout was Josef Reingold’s gray Jaguar. A shudder ran through her. She instinctively shrank down behind the porch railing, where he could not see her. Reingold was here to get his contract signed.

Louise heard sirens coming up the canyon. Help was coming for Ann. Crouching down, she moved rapidly toward the stairs on the far end of the porch. Like a child playing capture the flag, she scuttled down just as Reingold came up the near side. She hovered behind a ponderosa pine and watched him go through the knock-on-the-door routine. There was a grim expression on his face, and the usual bulge of his handgun under his suit jacket.

Confident that he wasn’t paying attention to her, Louise hurried down the driveway to her car, but paused with her hand on the door. She sensed she had left something undone. Reingold had disappeared inside now. She walked back up the hill to his gray car, expecting him to re-appear on the porch above her at any moment. He had left the car door unlocked, so she cautiously pulled it open. That’s when she saw the shotgun on the car floor, clad loosely in a piece of new chamois. Next to it was a small suitcase.

Reingold was getting out of town—and in a hurry. Louise knew just how bold her next move was. Without dunking about it further, she crouched down, unclasped her Swiss Army knife from her belt, looked at the little menu of weapons, and plunged the sharp awl in the side of the nearest tire, then repeated the process on the other three. Each time she was rewarded with a steady hiss of released air. The expensive vehicle now sat there, looking cumbersome and useless in the slanting rays of the setting
She opened the car door again and lifted out the loaded shotgun. She had slashed, after all; she might as well steal. For a moment she pointed the gun straight at Frank Porter’s front door, just in case Reingold returned. He wouldn’t like her stealing his armaments. Then she ran back down the hill to her car, knowing that at any moment the man could plug her in the back.

Placing the purloined gun on the seat, she drove down the steep driveway, then west on the highway until she reached the back road to Porter Ranch.

Louise made the trip to Harriet’s in record time. She parked the car a little beyond the entrance to the gray house, turned off the ignition, and sat quietly in the driver’s seat, taking a few deep breaths to compose herself. It was time to confront the demons of this mountain, and make sure everyone who lived here was safe.

Grabbing the borrowed shotgun on the outside chance she would need it, Louise climbed out of the car. She held the weapon flush against her leg, the way she had seen Herb do it. Coming to the break in the ponderosa pines, her gaze was attracted by the open horse stalls and the old shed that lined the edge of the yard. She wandered toward the stalls, which now held only a few horses, plus the rusting machinery that had replaced animals. It was reminiscent of Eddie’s place, only much neater. She noticed the rusty tractor, a pickup from the 1920’s, a more recent truck, a dark 1980’s-vintage sedan, and finally, in the last stall, a car covered with a tarpaulin. Louise pulled up a corner of the cloth. It was an old Chevy covered pickup, four-wheel drive, white, with a floodlight attached to the front, and fresh scratches on the right front fender.

Just then, Harriet strode out of her house. The woman
looked powerful, her black hat tipped at a distinctive angle. There was no pioneer skirt today to impede her progress, but rather trim jeans tucked into boots that made it easy for her to move rapidly toward Louise at the same time she slowly raised her shotgun.

L
OUISE WAS SO DISCONCERTED
by the approach of the armed woman that she had failed to pay attention to the faint rattling sound near her in the high grass. Harriet came within a dozen feet of Louise and turned the barrel down at a huge rattler, poised to strike. The gun fired with an explosive sound, and the snake was beheaded before their eyes.

Louise could not stop shuddering. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” she cried, looking at Harriet with wide eyes.

In a flat voice, Harriet said, “Put the gun down, Louise, and put your hands up.”

Louise had forgotten she was even carrying a gun, although it was aimed unconsciously in Harriet’s direction. For a few seconds, the two women confronted each other, guns pointed. Then Louise recalled the speed with which Harriet got her shot off. She bent her knees and carefully placed the gun on the ground. As she gazed up at the woman in front of her, she realized how foolhardy she had been to blunder up here alone. Harriet was not the frail thing she purported to be. She was as dangerous a killer as Louise had ever faced.