Free The Perennial Killer: A Gardening Mystery by Ann Ripley Page A

cluster of white yarrow another relief from the predominant gray-green colors. Then, against a backdrop of sages and other native plants, was a stand of red-hot poker plant, rough-leaved, but with glowing yellow and orange popsicle-shaped blossoms. Quite enough bloom, she thought, for a native garden. She approved. It was a shame the owners had let the weeds get ahead of them. She got down on her hands and knees, the better to confront them.
    If only Ann would call, she thought, as she gouged out a bindweed plant, they could discuss the compelling question of Jimmy Porter’s death. It was obvious Pete Fitzsimmons and Ann Evans both suspected someone other than a poacher. Even Ruthie, the café owner, was incredulous of Sheriff Tatum’s theory. If Louise were to learn anything, she should visit the ranch again. Besides which, she really needed to examine those roadside mountain weeds she andAnn had talked about, to see if it was worth doing a segment on them for her program.
    Like an answer to her prayers, the phone rang, and she rushed indoors. Ann Evans said, “Want to check out weeds?”
    Louise rubbed a muscle in her aching back. “I’ve become quite close to weeds in the past couple of hours—but if you’re talking about weeds up at the ranch, I’d love to.” It was as if she and Ann were talking in code; both understood they intended to do more than scope out fields of thistle. “But would we bother the Porters? Can we steer clear of the ranch?” She remembered that mysterious figure in the woods that Pete had caught in his photograph, and she knew they had to exercise care.
    “We’ll go by the back road. It runs right above that house you’re renting. It’s a little steeper”—Louise’s stomach lurched to hear this—“but it’s simply wonderful. They have a real weed problem along there.”
    “Great,” said Louise.
    “Oh, but wait, my car’s in the shop today, and Luke parked the other at the airport when he left town on business. Can you pick me up? I’m not that far away from you.” When Louise indicated agreement, she added, “Come any time. I’ll just be doing a little practice climbing in my backyard. I live under a cliff, you see.”
    Louise didn’t exactly like the idea of driving that road, but she could hardly say no. Ann Evans, and the world in general, would think she was a wimp. It turned out that the senior land officer lived only a few miles away, up Left Hand Canyon Road. The house was new, large, and stylish; it probably took two professional salaries to pay the mortgage—Ann’s, plus her lawyer husband Luke’s. As she drove up the long driveway, Louise thought back to that tortured conversation the day Jimmy Porter died and wondered just what was wrong with Ann and Luke’s marriage.At the top of the rise, she could see the gray wall of rock that rose up from the earth on the edge of Ann’s property.
    When she got out of the car, she could see Ann near the top of the cliff, suspended from ropes. She was rappeling down the precipice as if it were child’s play, her long, tanned legs expertly playing against the rock. “Hi,” she called. “I’ll be right with you.”
    Louise met her at the base. “How handy to have a cliff in your own backyard.”
    “It’s fantastic,” said Ann, flushed and happy, and a little breathless. “This is granite, a lot better than the sandstone around here, which is really trash rock with a lot of vertical and horizontal jointing. Sandstone tends to snap off on you. The cliff is why we bought the house.”
    “It looks terrifying,” said Louise, as they walked back across the big yard to the house. “Of course, I’m not so good with heights.”
    “Climbing’s not hard. It’s all in how you put your weight, and friction.”
    “You mean suction?”
    “No. First, you have to have a good boot.” She nodded at Louise’s footwear. “You could do it in those boots you have. Then you use friction. Dig the tiny nodules of rock into