Summer Garden Murder by Ann Ripley

Summer Garden Murder by Ann Ripley

Author:Ann Ripley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corp.
Published: 2012-05-06T16:00:00+00:00


20

“WTBA-TV, good morning.”

“Hi, Shirley. This is—”

“I know: Louise. I suppose you want to talk to Marty.”

“In fact, I do.”

“Sorry. He isn’t available until one.”

“I see. Would you be kind enough to leave a message that I called?”

“Of course.”

“And how are you, Shirley?”

“Doin’ all right, Louise. Except the switchboard’s busy. Gotta go.”

Was the switchboard really that busy? Or was Shirley, the friendly receptionist at the station, giving her the cold treatment?

Looking at her watch, she realized it was close to lunchtime. She’d told Sarah she’d drive today and hurried out the front door to pick her up. This was a moment in her life when she had no other choice but to turn to friends. Nora and Mary were eager to help and had promised to see her again tomorrow to talk over things. Sandy Stern was on vacation. The only wise mind left to probe was Sarah Swanson’s.

Louise preferred not to dwell on the fact that her older daughter might also be snooping into the crime in spite of her father forbidding her to do such a thing. If Martha was detecting, Louise tried to convince herself, it probably amounted to little more than list-making with Nora and Mary, or talking with Hilde over lunch.

As she made her way down the front walk, she was relieved to see the press was nowhere in evidence. The yellow police tape around the yard was gone, but not the police. The large person just shoving his body out of an unmarked police car at her front curb was Mike Geraghty. After the scare in the toolshed, she was glad to see him. The detective was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his limp jacket slung over his shoulder. He ambled to the front gate; every movement expressed weariness.

“Hi, Mike,” she said, and opened the gate for him.

“Louise, how ya doin’? You look like you’re on your way somewhere.” He nodded at a nearby bench in the front woods, which Bill had constructed for her out of two old tree stumps and a long piece of flagstone. “Can we hunker down there for a minute? Darned hot this morning, and it looks cooler in the woods.”

They strolled to the bench. “It’s about five degrees cooler in here,” said Louise, “which makes it only ninety-two. You look tired, Mike.”

“I am.” He grinned at her. “I’ve been real busy investigatin’ a murder.”

“Do you know anything new? Am I out from under this yet?”

It was a four-foot-long bench, tight quarters for a large man and a tall woman. She could smell the detective’s stale body odor. He turned his bright marble-blue eyes toward her. “We found the blood on the sweatshirt was Peter Hoffman’s.”

“I’m not surprised. Bill and I already thought that would be the case.” Her mouth turned down in a grimace. “If you’re going to frame someone, blood evidence sure helps.”

Geraghty was silent. She glanced over at his big, slouched figure and found he was the picture of remorse. “I’m truly sorry, Louise, but we’re still investigatin’ lots of other angles.



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