Read Online The Perennial Killer: A Gardening Mystery by Ann Ripley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ann Ripley
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babble that made it sound like a crowd twice as large. It was a mix of tourists in bright sporty pants and shirts, and locals in faded ones. Every windowsill and nook burgeoned with geraniums, begonias, and spider plants—both mature blooming ones, and glass jars full of new slips with plump white roots. Someone around here was mad about growing things.
She slid into an empty stool at the counter, and as soon as she did, a short woman with curly white hair turned around and gave Louise a big smile.
She must he eighty if she’s a day
, Louise thought. “I guess you must be new here,” the woman said, in a low voice with a golden twang. “Welcome. I’m Ruthie Dunn.”
“I’m Louise Eldridge. Just a visitor to these parts.”
“Well, you’re plumb welcome no matter how long you decide to stay,” said Ruthie.
As if she were talking to an old friend, Ruthie batted the conversational ball back and forth with Louise, at the same time directing the waitresses and flipping meat on the grill. Louise, while downing the pork special, told her briefly why she had come to Colorado. Upon hearing this, the white-haired proprietor said politely, “My gosh, you’re some kind of celebrity, with a TV show of your own.”
Louise smiled. “Not too much of a celebrity. And how about the name of this restaurant? I didn’t know they’d found gold in Lyons.”
“Naw,” she said, “not here. Jamestown had gold. GoldHill. Cripple Greek. But Lyons’s gold is
red
”—the “red” could have had three
e
’s in it, the way Ruthie said it. “That red sandstone. That’s our main strike.”
Ruthie admitted she had never watched Louise’s weekly garden show; Louise realized it was because she was too busy doing real-life things like running a café and propagating plants. She got up at four in the morning to start making pies. “Not bad, huh, for an eighty-three-year-old?” she asked with an infectious grin.
The crowd thinned, but Louise lingered, well fed, elbows on the counter now, booted feet slung behind the supports at the bottom of the stool, sipping good coffee and feeling like she used to at her grandmother’s house—except Ruthie Dunn was considerably heftier than her skinny little grandmother. As she finally broke down and ordered a slice of butterscotch pie for under two dollars, she smiled and thought of all the pretentious, second-rate desserts she had ordered at Washington restaurants for three times the price.
Ruthie eventually asked the question Louise thought she might. “Doin’ any of your programs up at Porter Ranch?” The ranch was a next-door neighbor to the little town of Lyons.
“Not yet—but we hope to, if things settle down after that murder.” Louise shuddered.
The woman propped her elbows on the counter and looked across at Louise. She had lively blue eyes that didn’t show her age. She didn’t even wear glasses. “That’s baloney, y’know, that story of the sheriff’s. That wasn’t any poacher.” A small shake of the curly head.
“Oh, no?”
“First off, there aren’t any poachers up there. Why, Jimmy Porter would have blown their heads off, and poachers know it.” She shook a sturdy finger at Louise. “Porter’s ranch, after all, is private property—and there’smore than one mountain biker who strayed back there who has the buckshot in his pants to prove it. No, the poachers are up around about Rocky Mountain National Park.” Her white eyebrows elevated. “Know what other reason I’ve got for thinking that?”
Louise shook her head.
“There have been other deaths back on Porter’s ranch that’ve never been explained.” She wagged her head just a little, girlishly, and grinned. “So this is just one more, isn’t it?”
Ruthie straightened up. Louise could see her rounded back was tired. “Well, I gotta close up now, Louise, but you’re welcome to come back tomorrow.” Her voice was quiet, but louder than before, as if it would be all right now if someone
She slid into an empty stool at the counter, and as soon as she did, a short woman with curly white hair turned around and gave Louise a big smile.
She must he eighty if she’s a day
, Louise thought. “I guess you must be new here,” the woman said, in a low voice with a golden twang. “Welcome. I’m Ruthie Dunn.”
“I’m Louise Eldridge. Just a visitor to these parts.”
“Well, you’re plumb welcome no matter how long you decide to stay,” said Ruthie.
As if she were talking to an old friend, Ruthie batted the conversational ball back and forth with Louise, at the same time directing the waitresses and flipping meat on the grill. Louise, while downing the pork special, told her briefly why she had come to Colorado. Upon hearing this, the white-haired proprietor said politely, “My gosh, you’re some kind of celebrity, with a TV show of your own.”
Louise smiled. “Not too much of a celebrity. And how about the name of this restaurant? I didn’t know they’d found gold in Lyons.”
“Naw,” she said, “not here. Jamestown had gold. GoldHill. Cripple Greek. But Lyons’s gold is
red
”—the “red” could have had three
e
’s in it, the way Ruthie said it. “That red sandstone. That’s our main strike.”
Ruthie admitted she had never watched Louise’s weekly garden show; Louise realized it was because she was too busy doing real-life things like running a café and propagating plants. She got up at four in the morning to start making pies. “Not bad, huh, for an eighty-three-year-old?” she asked with an infectious grin.
The crowd thinned, but Louise lingered, well fed, elbows on the counter now, booted feet slung behind the supports at the bottom of the stool, sipping good coffee and feeling like she used to at her grandmother’s house—except Ruthie Dunn was considerably heftier than her skinny little grandmother. As she finally broke down and ordered a slice of butterscotch pie for under two dollars, she smiled and thought of all the pretentious, second-rate desserts she had ordered at Washington restaurants for three times the price.
Ruthie eventually asked the question Louise thought she might. “Doin’ any of your programs up at Porter Ranch?” The ranch was a next-door neighbor to the little town of Lyons.
“Not yet—but we hope to, if things settle down after that murder.” Louise shuddered.
The woman propped her elbows on the counter and looked across at Louise. She had lively blue eyes that didn’t show her age. She didn’t even wear glasses. “That’s baloney, y’know, that story of the sheriff’s. That wasn’t any poacher.” A small shake of the curly head.
“Oh, no?”
“First off, there aren’t any poachers up there. Why, Jimmy Porter would have blown their heads off, and poachers know it.” She shook a sturdy finger at Louise. “Porter’s ranch, after all, is private property—and there’smore than one mountain biker who strayed back there who has the buckshot in his pants to prove it. No, the poachers are up around about Rocky Mountain National Park.” Her white eyebrows elevated. “Know what other reason I’ve got for thinking that?”
Louise shook her head.
“There have been other deaths back on Porter’s ranch that’ve never been explained.” She wagged her head just a little, girlishly, and grinned. “So this is just one more, isn’t it?”
Ruthie straightened up. Louise could see her rounded back was tired. “Well, I gotta close up now, Louise, but you’re welcome to come back tomorrow.” Her voice was quiet, but louder than before, as if it would be all right now if someone
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