Summer Garden Murder by Ann Ripley Page B

had listened in attentive silence up until now, said, “This is silly, Detective Morton. My mother has gone out of her way more than once to help you people catch criminals.” She flashed a resentful glance at Mike Geraghty. “At least Detective Geraghty has to appreciate that.” She stepped close to Morton. Louise noted the red-faced detective was caught in a pincers movement between her husband, her daughter and herself. “Since you’re through, why don’t you leave?” She put out a hand, as if to take his elbow and escort him out.
    For a second, Morton stared at her lithe, tanned figure in tennis costume, then quickly moved across the room. On reaching the front hall, he stopped and turned, studiously avoiding looking at Martha or any of the family. Instead, his gaze was fastened somewhere in middle space. “Mrs. Eldridge,” he said, “don’t think about leaving home. Remember, right now you’re between a rock and a hard place.” As an afterthought, he added, “And please don’t get any ideas that you’re gonna investigate this crime. You’re too involved, believe me. If I were you, I wouldn’t even talk about it with my friends. Now, c’mon, Mike, we have work to do.”
    Geraghty silently reached over toward Louise, as if to give her a little comforting pat on her shoulder. But he withdrew his hand before he touched her and followed the lead detective out of the house.

12
    M artha was on the patio by herself, slumped in a chair with the cell phone at her ear, her feet propped up on another chair. The woods were loud with birds chirping and insects making a huge racket. She hoped Jim could hear her. When he did, he wouldn’t like what she said.
    â€œI’m glad you’re coming back this afternoon,” he said. “I’ve missed you so much, Martha.”
    â€œI’m not coming, Jim. I’ve had to cancel the flight. We have trouble here.”
    â€œWhat trouble?”
    â€œYou know that big creep, Peter Hoffman, that I told you all about? Well, he was missing for almost a week, and last night my mother found his body in our garden.”
    â€œBummer. I’m sorry, Martha. I’m really sorry. Who put him there?”
    â€œThat’s the bad part. The cops have been busy snooping around Ma’s garden shed, taking fingerprints, et cetera, and they just came over and told her that she’s a suspect. I think she’s their only suspect.”
    â€œI thought she was the police department’s best little helper.”
    â€œShe was. She is.”
    â€œTell me more.”
    Martha went down the evidence list, piece by piece.
    â€œThat sweatshirt’s not good, Martha,” concluded Jim. “It probably has Hoffman’s blood on it. Someone’s got it in for her.”
    â€œMike Geraghty probably agrees with you. He’s the detective who used to run things at the Mount Vernon station. It’s mainly this George Morton who acts like she belongs in jail. They say they’ll arrest her by the end of next week if they can’t come up with some evidence that someone else did it.”
    â€œShould I come out there?”
    â€œHow are you going to run for public office if you’re in northern Virginia?”
    â€œIt’s not a good time, I’ll admit. And someone’s just attacked me for something my great-uncle did thirty-seven years ago. But I’ll come if you need me.”
    â€œI’d like to help out here as much as I can. Usually it’s Janie who has to help Ma get out of her scrapes. I’ll tell you what. Give me a few days. If things don’t get straightened out by then, maybe you’d better fly out here and lend your keen Cook County crime nose to saving her.”
    â€œI can’t believe the police are serious. I sure don’t want my future mother-in-law in jail. You’ll need to call me every night and tell me how things are