Summer Garden Murder Read Online Free Page B

wondered if she would sleep tonight, for bad memories were tumbling through her head. She’d determined not to let Peter Hoffman ruin her life, but now she needed to renew that promise to herself. She knew the answer: a hot bath and a good book. She sprang up, turned off all but the reading light next to the couch and went into the hallway to her bedroom. Then she heard the front door click open. Bill, with Janie.
    Her steps slowed. No, it was too soon. Bill and Janie wouldn’t be home this quickly.
    A wave of cold passed through her body, and she shivered. Maybe it was just her neighbor, Sam Rosen, bringing her something she’d forgotten at the party. “Hello. Who is it?” she called. “Sam?”
    There was no answer. For a moment, she allowed herself the luxury of leaning against the wall of the hallway, then chided herself for being so foolish as to think this northern Virginia neighborhood was safe enough that she didn’t have to lock the door.
    Turning quietly around, Louise tiptoed back into the kitchen. It was lit only with a stove light set on “dim.” Every decision she made, she knew, would be important. Stifling a sob, she looked around and considered her options. A knife was too dangerous, for an intruder might be strong enough to pry it away from her and plunge it into her chest. Kitchen scissors held the same danger. Then she found just the thing, something with weight and not too much bulk. She grabbed her new milk pitcher off the counter and held it behind her back. Now the question was, where was the best place to meet the intruder? Certainly not in the hall or the kitchen.
    She heard an amused, “What the fuck’s this?” and pulled in a quick gasp of air. Was it Peter Hoffman’s voice? Whoever it was, he had just bumped into something in the living room. She heard a crash and realized it was her blooming cape primrose, which sat in a corner on a high plant stand. A stab of anger filled her as she realized the intruder had deliberately destroyed the plant. It had to be Peter Hoffman.
    A new feeling enveloped her and she gripped the pitcher as she would a billy club. How dare the man come here? A visceral sense of survival grew inside of her. She would not let him harm her; she was going to fight. The crash told her Hoffman was no more than fifteen feet away. She quickly darted from the kitchen into the adjoining dining room, scurrying around the antique pine dining room table as if it were a battlement. Since the living room light was on and the dining room was dark, he didn’t see her, at least for an instant. But she saw him and gasped.
    Hoffman had changed out of the casual sports attire he wore when he barged into the Radebaugh party. He was dressed now in dark sweat clothes with a balaclava over his face. Images of terrorists flooded her mind, and she wondered if it could be someone else—an Arab extremist, or even a cat burglar.
    Then he said, “Louise, my little spitfire,” and she was sure.
    â€œYou’d better get the hell out of here.” She spat it out at him.
    â€œTut, tut,” he sneered, “what language.” He pulled off his head covering, stuck it in his pocket and unzipped his sweatshirt top to reveal a white undershirt. His face broke into a big smile, he opened his arms, but he didn’t make a move toward her. “That’s what I like about you, Louise, that spirit. It’s like the spirit of a male pony that hasn’t been de-balled.”
    â€œSave me your trite rhetoric and go home. Go home to Phyllis, who might appreciate you. Just get out of here, or they’ll throw you right back into the mental hospital.”
    He came into the dining room area and took a few steps around the table. She took the same number of steps away from him. “Oh, no. I came to get you, Louise. I dropped Phyllis off at home and came back. I saw your husband drive off. Wondered where he went. To buy you ice