The Garden Tour Affair: A Gardening Mystery by Ann Ripley

was perfect: a model village out of someone’s imagination. In the center was a flawless village green, emerald-colored and weedless, with a small white information kiosk tucked under huge trees. On one side was a church that Louise had heard was one of the most photographed churches in the United States: The First Congregational Church of Litchfield. It glistened white even on this gloomy day, its spire looming above sugar maples and pines far into the sky as a symbol of earlier Connecticut residents’ enormous piety. Flanking the green on the other side was a prim line of shops, with two other historicchurches and a county courthouse sandwiched between them.
    Three elderly, fancy-hatted Litchfield women parceled out tickets for the garden tour. They sat at the foot of the courthouse steps, as if they were putting the full power of the county behind their worthy project—and it
was
worthy, with proceeds of the tour going to Connecticut Junior Republic, a home for boys. They carefully checked Bill’s and Nora’s names off the list, and nodded acknowledgment to Louise with more familiarity than she would have expected. “Oh, we recognize Louise Eldridge—you’re part of that television crowd,” said one, sniffing a bit. She was a tall, gaunt woman, with parchment skin drawn tightly over her face. “Of course, here in Litchfield we are quite used to you photographers.”
    “Oh, are you?” said Louise cheerfully. “Good.” She turned to her companions and quietly murmured, “Doug has to get some footage of these three ladies before the day is over. It’ll make a great B roll for the lead-in to the segment.”
    Bill and Nora looked perplexed, so she explained. “The primary interview with the talent—that’s me—is called the A roll. B roll is the pictures we use with the voice-overs.”
    Bill nodded at Nora. “That perfectly clear?”
    Nora looked uncertain. “Not perfectly.”
    “I’ll explain more later,” Louise told them.
    Erected above the women and their card table was a tiny tent. For the hats, Louise realized: The hats were the things to be protected from the prevailing weather, for they were high-crowned and intricate, their droopy silk flowers showing their age. She wondered if they could be part of the village’s historical preservation efforts. Hats from the past? She was beginning to know Litchfield, and she bet that they preserved
everything
, just like Louise’s tightfisted grandmother had back on her farm in Illinois. Old lumber, dented pails a half-century old, used nails, falling-down buildings, broken furniture: all things made for man’s usethat must be carefully repaired and
continued
to be used— lest God think man was wasting His goods. As she discreetly glanced at these pleasant, firm-jawed women, she could picture them living two hundred years ago.
These gals would have been the social and moral conscience of the village
, thought Louise,
and a pretty tough one, at that
.
    As if reading her mind, the woman who had spoken to her before said, “I bet we look like ancient relics to you.” Her faded blue eyes held a dangerous twinkle.
    “Oh, my,
no
” said Louise, caught off balance.
    The woman gave a big, hearty chuckle, and the droopy flowers of her hat shook like a garden in the wind. “Well, we are, and so are our hats. We’re actually blood relatives of old Litchfield families. And we’ll be glad to pose for you when you come back to take our pictures.” Still chuckling, she reached out a skeletal hand and gave Louise’s hand a hard little squeeze.
    As they continued down the street, Louise said, “Now how the dickens did they know we’d come back to take
their
pictures? Did she hear me?”
    Bill said, “They know all about what’s picturesque — because
they’re
picturesque. Probably’ve been photographed as much as the Navajos out in Arizona. Native people, Connecticut-style.”
    Louise cast a long look at the two blocks of upscale shops radiating from the