The Perennial Killer: A Gardening Mystery Read Online Free PDF Page B

valley, skirted by a rapidly running branch of the South St. Vrain River. Amid clusters of pines, lush meadows, and granite outcroppings stood a ranch house in time-stained brown wood. Around it was a scattering of outbuildings, and a few horses grazing in one of many corrals. Beyond the ranch house Louise saw a rock ledge that apparently marked the dropoff to a lower tier of land, and a vast woods that partially obscured a second ranch house.
    One might have thought the fierce chaos that accompanied the prehistoric upthrust of the Rocky Mountains had left this wild array of cracked and fissured cliffs, flattened plains, and swift-running stream. But Louise knew millions of years of erosión from wind and water, heat and cold, had played their part in creating this complicated beauty.
    Jimmy Porter’s great-grandfather had found this place the perfect refuge for his ranch, his cattle, and his family. What she was looking at was a picture of self-sufficiency: she knew all this from the piles of careful research for theprogram, piles that she had spent the last few days poring over. And now it was here before her. A ranch house with its own barn, toolshed, chicken coop, hayfield, and hay storage shed. An irrigation system of pipes and flumes as intricate as, but more workable than, a Rube Goldberg invention, to bring water to fields, vegetable garden, and house. A nearby abandoned sawmill and blacksmith shop that had enabled the construction of buildings and maintenance of animals. A pioneer family had lived and thrived here with little help from the outside world.
    “Told ya,” said Pete jubilantly, as the pickup slowly glided down into the valley. “We got here in one piece.”
    Three weathered wooden poles, two verticals connected by a crossbar, formed the classic ranch entrance. From it hung an old sign that emitted a high squeak as the wind gently pushed it. It read PORTER RANCH , and looked as if it could have been put up a century ago.
    Where the fence joined the ranch entrance, the rancher’s wife had decided to improve on nature, and succeeded. She’d established a perennial wildflower garden that created a stunning picture. The flowers grew lavishly around an ancient farm wagon, now rusted with age, that was the garden’s folksy centerpiece. In the peak of bloom, the brilliant perennials spanned the color spectrum: yarrow for gold, Mexican hat for orange; poppies for red; coneflower, bee balm, and liatris for purple; columbine for blue; wild phlox for lavender.
    “Oh,” said Pete softly, as the truck passed through the entrance. But it was not the marvelous flowers he was looking at. They all saw the horrible sight at once. The fencing that extended from either side of the gate ran through the open meadow into a cluster of pine trees at each end. Something was sprawled over the fence and hanging above the perennial bed. Something that, at firstglance, looked like a bag of bones, or a diminutive scarecrow wearing faded shirt, jeans, and well-worn boots.
    As they drove closer, Louise could see blood splattered everywhere—besmirching the perfect perennial garden.
    “My God, it’s Jimmy!” Ann grabbed for the door and started to open it.
    “
Hold
it,” growled Pete, twisting around to face her. With a long, muscular arm, he pulled the door shut. “That man’s head is blown apart. Who knows where the killer is? Ladies, hit the floor,
now
. We’re getting out of here!”
    Louise slid down on the floor and braced herself against the door as Pete ducked his head and wheeled the vehicle in a tight circle. As they sped away from the ranch house, she wondered what kind of cruel joke this was—to encounter a murder in the most beautiful landscape she had ever seen. It was almost like a dream. That bag of bones on the fence was a man, granted, but a complete stranger to her. Then she stared up at Pete Fitzsimmons, crouched at the wheel beside her and driving like a madman again, away from danger; The horrid