Free Death of a Political Plant by Ann Ripley Page A

woods. Is he a friend of yours, or friend of Bill’s?”
    “An old college chum of mine.” A chum who had disappointed her, for after that first couple of sentiment-soaked hours in Joe’s Raw Bar, they had exchanged no more private reminiscences, and at this rate, with him hopelessly distracted with writing and daughter Melissa, they never would. “He doesn’t need attention. He very much wants to be left alone. I just didn’t want you to think anyone had broken into Mary’s house.”
    Nora stood up, voluptuous even in her grimy overalls. Her face had become solemn, almost drawn. “I hope you will be surrounded with people. Do be careful, won’t you?”
    There was something unsettling in the woman’s eyes. “Nora, you’re not having one of your premonitions of danger?”
    Nora slowly nodded her head. “I’m afraid I am. What itsfocus is, I’m not sure. I only beg you to tell me that you’ll take care.”
    Louise promised she would, and bid her good-bye. Her neighbor, with her mysterious powers of extrasensory perception, had warned her once before, and she had ignored that warning.
    She wouldn’t do that this time, she told herself.
    She hurried back across the street; she had little time to finish some last-minute work in the garden. Popping in a few mature nicotiana plants was her very last project before the perennial people arrived. Later, she would have the unpleasant task of gently shoving Jay McCormick out of her house into his new quarters across the street. At the moment, however, he and his car were gone, and she had a little reprieve.
    First, she needed to put out the trash containers for the weekly pickup this afternoon. Bill’s job, normally. The holly-shrouded garbage area concealed two big cans residing on a rolling cart. She took the cart by the handle and gave it a good tug, and then screamed at what she uncovered.
    Crouching behind the cans was a man.
    “Oh, God!” she cried, and jumped back.
    He rose slowly from a crouch, but kept his knees bent and held his hands out to either side, like a karate expert moving into position for an attack.
    “What are you doing in my yard?” she snapped. “Are you snooping in our trash?”
    Stocky, with black hair and olive skin, the man wore dark glasses, a dark turtleneck, and a sports jacket. Trendy for New York, maybe, but out of place in Sylvan Valley. And what she noticed next made her mouth fall agape: the large bulge in one side of his jacket. Had it not seemed ridiculous in the bright light of a day in the northern Virginia suburbs, she would havesworn he was carrying a pistol. In fact, she realized he was, and her nerves clanged to attention. Adrenaline rushed through her body, and she tightened her grip on the trash cart.
    “Lady,” he said in an oily tone, “you won’t believe this, but I’m in real estate.”
    There was more than a touch of hysteria in her frightened laugh. “You’re right, it’s hard to believe you,” she said, and eased the trash cart back a little, to familiarize herself with its weight, perhaps to use it as a shield in case he pulled the gun.
    As if her worst fears were being realized, his right hand had moved over toward the bulge in the jacket. Not in her wildest dreams could she imagine anyone wanting to kill her, at least not lately. “Why don’t you just get out of here,” she demanded shakily.
    He was inching toward her, smiling, still with his hand in a ready position. “Let’s put it this way,” he said. “Why don’t we call it a draw?”
    “Why don’t we not!” she shouted, and rammed the cart right at him, and with one motion upended it. The tops flew off the two cans; a stream of papers, plastic peanuts, catalogues, and plump garbage bags cascaded over him. She didn’t wait to see more, but heard him cry out in shock as she raced around the addition and into the house. With clumsy fingers she turned the lock and stood inside the door, trembling. All was quiet in the world outside.
    It