Summer Garden Murder by Ann Ripley

friends say otherwise. Let me continue. Then, after filing charges and petitioning for a restraining order, you and your family set off on a vacation. But you, Mrs. Eldridge, returned to your home and backyard around midnight on Sunday, August twelfth.”
    â€œYes. I told Lieutenant Trace and you and Mike that about six times last night.”
    â€œAll right.” The detective leaned forward and took a deep breath, casting a quick glance at the notes. “Here’s what we have. Shortly after midnight on Monday, August thirteenth, someone sighted you, wearing your gardening hat and an old sweatshirt, moving your garden cart from Sam Rosen’s side yard into your yard.”
    â€œNo, no,” remonstrated Louise, “I did no such thing.”
    Morton said, “Hold on and let me finish, Mrs. Eldridge. This same source claims that after that, he heard little noises, maybe like digging noises, way back in the woods where he couldn’t see you.” He glowered at her. “In other words, in that azalea garden where we found the body.”
    â€œI did not dig; I just bent down and felt the soil in that garden. If that person heard me digging, why didn’t he come out and see why I was digging in the middle of the night?”
    The detective cocked his head, looking amused. “Wonder if our source had decided you were a kind of ... obsessive gardener who might just do a thing like that.”
    She released a heavy sigh. “And what’s all this about my hat and sweatshirt?”
    â€œThe hat was found on a hook in your garden shed. The sweatshirt reads ‘Bullfrog Marina.’ Sound familiar?”
    â€œIt’s my old sweatshirt from Lake Powell. I leave it hanging in the toolshed.”
    â€œHuh,” grunted Morton. “Funny that we found it neatly folded, directly under Mr. Hoffman’s body, in the grave you dug for him.”
    Louise’s breath caught, and she thought she’d faint. Bill stood up and came over to where she sat on the couch. He looked down at Mike Geraghty and said, “Let’s trade seats.” Geraghty moved to her husband’s chair, and Bill sat down and took Louise’s hand firmly in his.
    Morton watched silently. Then he said, “Back to that sweatshirt, Mrs. Eldridge. We’ve picked up a detail about you—that you’re compulsively neat. So this handling of the sweatshirt would be something you’d do, wouldn’t it? Sort of your ‘signature.’ ”
    â€œThat’s bullshit,” snapped Bill. “It doesn’t prove a damned thing.”
    â€œThen maybe the stains will.”
    Louise’s mouth fell open. “It’s stained? Stained with what?”
    In a gentle tone, Mike Geraghty explained. “The sweatshirt has some dark smears on it. Would you know how they came to be there?”
    â€œI have no idea. You know, this is all wrong. I didn’t dig in that garden. I haven’t worn that sweatshirt since spring.”
    â€œOkay,” said Morton, “let’s go back a step. Here’s what I think happened—here’s the big picture. You lured Peter Hoffman into the woods. You hit him on the head a number of times, then wrapped him up in that big plastic tarp. Then you went and got this little garden cart of yours, transported him and buried him under the azaleas.”
    â€œI did not do any of that. How did you ever get that idea?”
    Morton’s brown eyes narrowed as he gave her a long look. “Wait, there’s more. In our search of the toolshed early this morning, we found what we think is the weapon. It’s a nasty-looking device, and it has your fingerprints on it. It appears to have residual traces of blood in the crevices. We’ve sent it out for testing, along with the sweatshirt.”
    â€œWhere was this tool?” demanded Bill.
    â€œHanging in this selfsame garden shed, Mr. Eldridge, on a big hook on the pegboard on the