Summer Garden Murder by Ann Ripley

was something she rarely did. But crabs were one of her favorite foods. Messy, but she hardly cared what happened to the old sweatshirt and shorts she wore. She rounded the Beltway and, feeling like a horse anxious to return to the barn, hurried the twelve miles straight south on the George Washington Parkway to her home.
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    Her trepidation increased as she pulled into Sylvan Valley. The houses were all dark except for the gleam of a dim light through an occasional window and a few backyard floodlights. Still, the night was quiet, and things seemed safe. She focused on the routine of taking the keys out of the ignition and opening and closing the car door, details to fill her mind so she wouldn’t think of Peter Hoffman.
    Louise went into the house and walked straight to the Winthrop desk. She found the script as she’d left it, on top of a pile of perfectly stacked papers. She was nothing if not neat. Her gaze wandered out through the tall dining room window that she had shattered with her misfired pitcher. In the family’s absence, the big pane had been replaced by a glass company. She saw it needed touch-up cleaning to remove the fingerprints of the workmen. Not wanting it in that condition when they returned from vacation, she found her bottle of window cleaner and a rag and rubbed the inside pane until it was spotless.
    Her gaze reluctantly turned outward toward the garden, and she could feel her heartbeat quicken. She didn’t want to admit that she was scared to walk into her own yard.
    â€œCome on, scaredy-cat,” she told herself, and walked over and turned on the patio light. Nothing out there but a lot of innocent-looking garden furniture and her beguiling patio garden filled with peonies, astilbe, cimicifuga and daylilies. Breathing hard, she unlocked the door, went out just a few steps and, keeping her eyes forward, cleaned the other side of the glass. So far, so good. She set down her cleaning supplies, stepped a few paces further onto the patio and stared into the dark woods. One thing concerned her. Since there had been drought this summer and no rain since they left town, she wondered if Sam Rosen had remembered to water her native azaleas. They were in an outlying garden in the deepest part of the woods in an easy-to-forget spot. With her mind now on gardening, her body began to relax.
    She made her way down the two timber steps into the darkness of the backyard, treading carefully over the woods floor so that she didn’t trip on twigs or downed branches. Through the dark shadows, she could see that the azaleas looked perky and fresh. But who could tell for sure without touching? Crouching down, she burrowed her fingers beneath the piney mulch and made pleasant contact with the soil. It was damp but not sodden. Her good gardening buddy had not forgotten.
    She made her way back across the yard and into the house, wandering through the living room, the dining room and then the kitchen, where she stopped and looked around. She straightened the towel with the Grand Hotel logo and looked at the empty spot on the counter where the “Paris” pitcher had stood. When they got back from vacation, she intended to go out and buy another one.
    Suddenly Louise felt better, as if she had regained possession of her own property.
    She locked the doors, grabbed the script and her purse and left, anxious now to return to the cottage on the beach and her long-suffering family. She’d been a party-pooper on this vacation, but now she intended to go back and enjoy herself.

7
    Thursday, August 16
Four Days Later
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    M artha Eldridge sat in the backseat with her mother on the trip home from the beach. “Pretty humdrum scenery, don’t you think?” she said, just to make conversation. Her mind was on other, more important things.
    â€œDo you think so?” said her mother, in a surprised voice. “I like the open countryside and these small towns. It’s a welcome