Free Death of a Political Plant by Ann Ripley Page B

only took her a moment to realize she had blown it. She should have left him alone. But instead she had to use force. Now, she was too embarrassed to call 911. What if he was what he said he was: a realtor, who was snooping around where he didn’t belong?
    She had to find out. Quickly she reopened the door and went outside. Hearing an engine being started, she ran downthe front path in time to see a low black car turning out of the cul-de-sac. He was gone as mysteriously as he had arrived.
    Then she recalled the big gray foreign car wheeling around Dogwood Court on the day before. It had not seemed remarkable at the time, since it came and left so quickly. What the cars had in common, she now remembered, was that both had tinted windows so the driver could barely be seen. Jay McCormick had to be the reason: Someone was bent on tracking him down, and at least had found the house where he lived.
    Perhaps it was just as well he was moving across the street.
    Out of curiosity, she followed the path next to the addition that the stranger must have used to flee her yard. She stood there, arms akimbo, staring at the ruin. He had plowed through her finest woods garden, bruising prized hostas and knocking over tall golden spires of ligularia, thalictrum, and white anemone. Worse yet, his path took him straight through her front garden, where he had trampled her toad lilies, which were just coming into magnificent spotted bloom!
    Her cousin’s child, Sally, had been equally bumbling, but not nearly as big.
    Then she turned and went into the house, swallowed her pride, and called 911. She would feel foolish if the police discovered the man was a realtor. But as far as she knew, realtors didn’t carry weapons. After all, that was no way to sell a house.

Nine

    T ESSIE S TRAHAN W OULDN’T TAKE no for an answer. When she phoned, Louise did not come right out and say, “I’m afraid you can’t stay at my house” an action Nora would have applauded. Instead, she merely pointed out to this past president of the Perennial Plant Society that it would be more convenient for her and her two colleagues to stay at the Hilton in Washington, where their convention was being held.
    “But Louise, we’re writing that big article about you,” said Tessie, in a voice that sounded like a nail gun. “That’s going to take sitting down together. Besides, it will be restful to get away from those two hundred growers and designers at the convention for a couple of nights. We won’t be any trouble. You don’t know us. We’re the kind who pitch in and help a body. And we all want to see your garden. We bet it’s wonderful.”
    Garden: Louise quaked inwardly. These rising expectations scared her. The gardens had been dandied up, true, but were still like patched-up patients who had been in very bad car accidents. Oh, little Sally, she thought, how you have marked the world. And now the clumsy stranger had diminished yet another one of her prize beds; it was yet to be seen whether the flower stalks were broken or merely bent.
    “Then if you’re sure,” said Louise resignedly, “I’ll expect you later this afternoon—and in time for dinner, of course.”
    “With setting our exhibits up in the convention hall, we may not get there until right around six,” said Tessie. “Don’t worry about dinner.”
    “Oh, but I already have it planned.”
    “Barbara McNeil and Donna Moore are the others, you remember, and Barbara is a gourmet cook: She’s bringing some special fixings for the meal. You’ll no doubt have a few basics. She has morel mushrooms, special herbs, pasta from Pennsylvania, things like that.”
    Louise thought of her carefully prepared fast-fix meal. “Oh, well, that will be fun,” she said, wandering if it would be at all. “See you later. It will be wonderful to get better acquainted.”
    She had the vegetables prepped by the time she heard the puttering of the motor of Jay’s old car, as it gave a last littleflutter of