Read Online The Perennial Killer: A Gardening Mystery by Ann Ripley - Free Book Online
Authors: Ann Ripley
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clusters; eight-inch-tall white marsh marigold; brook saxifrage, whose loose, white flowers and red sepals were as delicate as dancing ladies; and mauve-colored elephant flower, whose curving upper petals resembled tiny, waving elephant’s trunks and gave the tall plant a decidedly frivolous air. The fluffy white flower umbels of the hairy-stemmed cow parsnip swayed in the gentle mountain breeze, along with other tall plants, yellow Gray’s angelica; and mertensia, with its nodding blue and pink flowers. Louise mentioned that she grew a similar species of mertensia in a totally different environment in her garden in northern Virginia, and Derrell nodded happily. Farther away from the stream they found clumps of paintbrush in rose, yellow, and scarlet; tall, dusky, purple-flowered beardtongue; and drifts of pink pussytoes and avalanche lilies.
When they were done for the day, they said good-bye to Derrell. Marty gave the ranger an effusive slap on the back and the promise of a tape of the program. Then they dispersed, Pete and other crew members to their homes, she supposed, and Marty to the Hotel Boulderado where his wife Steffi awaited him. Steffi Corbin was the other spouse invited on this trip, and unlike Bill, she had shown up. Louise pressed her lips together and tried not to think about it.
She also declined her boss’s invitation to join them for dinner, for she knew this was a second honeymoon for Steffi and the workaholic Marty. They had had their share of marital trouble in recent years, none of it helped by an affair he had had with Louise’s predecessor at WTBA-TV. They needed time alone, which apparently they didn’t find much of while at home in Washington, D.C.
Louise had been left alone in the house in the foothills all weekend, and after finding a dead body, too. Oh, well,it was probably a growing-up experience. She threw her cowboy hat and her backpack into her rental car and headed toward Lyons.
Lyons, population 1,250, had a peculiar charm, with a river running through it, and a welcome sign made of a huge slab of the town’s trademark red sandstone. Louise looked up into the foothills lining the approach. She had read that stonecutters had worked in those mountains for one hundred years, bringing out the red rock that was used for New York City’s and Chicago’s popular brownstone houses, in addition to some of Colorado’s most famous buildings. And that included the trendy decor in Coors Field, which was one of the newer jewels in Denver’s crown. She smiled. How many cities revered rocks in this way?
Locals liked to call this unassuming town the gateway to the Rockies, for a person almost had to go through it to get to Rocky Mountain National Park, just as she and her TV crew had done today. As they were passing through, Pete had given her the name of a good restaurant. She had to search to find it, but not very hard. It was on High Street, but this High Street barely resembled the Old World atmosphere of High Streets she had become acquainted with when she and Bill lived in England. Lyons’s High Street had its own Old West charm. A nineteenth-century red-stone museum, and two turn-of-the-century churches stood in lonesome splendor, with a few desultory trees surrounding them, waving their scraggly tops victoriously in the wind as if to say, “See, we’ve made it.” Trees had a hard time existing in this harsh climate. A string of unassuming red-stone and frame buildings were given over to gift shops and antique stores. Then came a rambling oldblue house with redstone trim and a faded ANTIQUES sign out front. Finally, there was the Gold Strike Café.
It was only a small log cabin—probably once a miner’s home—now painted dark red, with a peeling white-lettered sign proclaiming THE NEW HOME OF THE PIE PLACE. Louise smiled. New, but when?
She went in and found the six or so tables and most of the counter seats occupied by customers talking a mile a minute, creating a pleasant
When they were done for the day, they said good-bye to Derrell. Marty gave the ranger an effusive slap on the back and the promise of a tape of the program. Then they dispersed, Pete and other crew members to their homes, she supposed, and Marty to the Hotel Boulderado where his wife Steffi awaited him. Steffi Corbin was the other spouse invited on this trip, and unlike Bill, she had shown up. Louise pressed her lips together and tried not to think about it.
She also declined her boss’s invitation to join them for dinner, for she knew this was a second honeymoon for Steffi and the workaholic Marty. They had had their share of marital trouble in recent years, none of it helped by an affair he had had with Louise’s predecessor at WTBA-TV. They needed time alone, which apparently they didn’t find much of while at home in Washington, D.C.
Louise had been left alone in the house in the foothills all weekend, and after finding a dead body, too. Oh, well,it was probably a growing-up experience. She threw her cowboy hat and her backpack into her rental car and headed toward Lyons.
Lyons, population 1,250, had a peculiar charm, with a river running through it, and a welcome sign made of a huge slab of the town’s trademark red sandstone. Louise looked up into the foothills lining the approach. She had read that stonecutters had worked in those mountains for one hundred years, bringing out the red rock that was used for New York City’s and Chicago’s popular brownstone houses, in addition to some of Colorado’s most famous buildings. And that included the trendy decor in Coors Field, which was one of the newer jewels in Denver’s crown. She smiled. How many cities revered rocks in this way?
Locals liked to call this unassuming town the gateway to the Rockies, for a person almost had to go through it to get to Rocky Mountain National Park, just as she and her TV crew had done today. As they were passing through, Pete had given her the name of a good restaurant. She had to search to find it, but not very hard. It was on High Street, but this High Street barely resembled the Old World atmosphere of High Streets she had become acquainted with when she and Bill lived in England. Lyons’s High Street had its own Old West charm. A nineteenth-century red-stone museum, and two turn-of-the-century churches stood in lonesome splendor, with a few desultory trees surrounding them, waving their scraggly tops victoriously in the wind as if to say, “See, we’ve made it.” Trees had a hard time existing in this harsh climate. A string of unassuming red-stone and frame buildings were given over to gift shops and antique stores. Then came a rambling oldblue house with redstone trim and a faded ANTIQUES sign out front. Finally, there was the Gold Strike Café.
It was only a small log cabin—probably once a miner’s home—now painted dark red, with a peeling white-lettered sign proclaiming THE NEW HOME OF THE PIE PLACE. Louise smiled. New, but when?
She went in and found the six or so tables and most of the counter seats occupied by customers talking a mile a minute, creating a pleasant
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