CHAPTER NINETEEN
Eleanor Whitman knelt beside her raised vegetable bed, gently loosening the soil around the late-season tomatoes that were still producing despite the October chill.
The small backyard garden had been her secret little sanctuary for over twenty years, a carefully planned space that was enclosed by her six-foot privacy fence.
Even now, with autumn settling over Richmond, the garden retained much of its summer beauty…
mainly because of the time and effort she put into tending to it.
The tomato plants still bore fruit, though the nights were getting too cold for them to ripen properly on the vine.
Eleanor made a mental note to harvest the green ones this weekend and wrap them in newspaper to ripen indoors.
Her pepper plants continued to produce small but flavorful jalapenos and bell peppers, and the hardy herbs like rosemary and thyme showed no signs of slowing down despite the cooler weather.
Along the back fence, a row of chrysanthemums provided splashes of gold and burgundy color, while a small patch of late-blooming marigolds added bright orange accents near the garden gate.
Eleanor had always preferred practical beauty to purely ornamental landscaping, so even her flowers served double duty as companion plants that helped protect her vegetables from pests.
The physical work of gardening was exactly what she needed after the emotional upheaval of the past two days.
Digging in the soil, tending to plants that depended on her care, harvesting the fruits of months of patient labor.
There was something deeply grounding about working with her hands, something that helped quiet the anxious thoughts that had been circling through her mind since Kate's visit that morning.
Margaret dead. Jennifer dead. Two women she had known for years were murdered by someone who apparently was targeting book club members specifically.
The idea still seemed impossible, like something out of one of the mystery novels they discussed rather than reality in her quiet suburban neighborhood.
Was this one of those odd instances, she wondered, of life imitating art?
Eleanor used her hand cultivator to work around the base of her pepper plants, loosening soil that had been compacted by recent rains.
The afternoon sun felt warm on her back, and she could hear birds calling from the mature oak trees that shaded her property.
Everything about the moment felt safe and normal, exactly what she needed given the last few days' events.
Agent Wise's warnings echoed in her mind as she worked.
Don't open your door to unexpected visitors.
Vary your routine. Consider staying with family or friends.
Eleanor had called her daughter, Susan, that morning.
She was driving over from Short Pump to spend the afternoon and evening with her.
She would arrive within the hour, which meant Eleanor wouldn't be alone much longer.
Her husband, George, was at work. He should have retired from the law firm last year, but they'd offered him a boatload of money to stay on just six more months.
When he'd asked what she thought, she'd left the choice to him.
He'd taken it gladly, telling her that half of the money would pay for the month-long trip to Spain they'd been planning for years.
He wouldn't be home until after six o'clock, but by then Susan would be there, and Eleanor would have company for the rest of the evening.
She moved from the peppers to the small herb section, snipping fresh basil and oregano that she would dry for winter cooking.
The basil plants were beginning to show signs of cold damage, their leaves darkening around the edges where the first light frost had touched them.
Soon, she would need to harvest everything and bring the more tender plants indoors.
She straightened up from her work, stretching her back and admiring the neat rows of vegetables she had been tending.
She was reaching for her watering can when a shadow fell across the vegetable bed, blocking the afternoon sunlight that had been warming her back.
Eleanor assumed it was a cloud passing over the sun, or perhaps one of the neighborhood cats that occasionally found their way into her yard despite the fence.
But as she turned to look, expecting to see a tabby cat or perhaps Susan arriving earlier than expected, Eleanor realized that someone was standing directly behind her.
Someone who had somehow gotten into her supposedly secure backyard without making any noise—without her hearing the gate open or footsteps approaching across the grass.
Before she could register who it was, before she could even fully process that she was no longer alone in her garden sanctuary, Eleanor felt something soft but strong tighten around her neck from behind.
The silk fabric of what felt like a scarf wrapped around her throat, cutting off her ability to cry out or breathe properly.
She was yanked backward off her knees, her gardening tools scattered across the vegetable bed as she struggled to maintain her balance.
But the grip around her neck was relentless, and Eleanor found herself being wrestled to the ground among the tomato plants she had been so carefully tending just moments before.