Chapter Four: Could it Really Be Him?

The scene changes to earlier that morning, with Deanna speaking to a reporter from Channel 2 News. It looks like every state news channel is there and then some. She looks haggard and disturbed. I would be too if I just found a dead body in my garden.

“Trice, who could she have found?” Leah whips her head to me.

“I don't know. How long has a dead body been lying under her asters? That’s what I really want to know.”

We continue listening.

The scene changes back to the reporter at her now empty home. I’m sure she and the kids went to stay with her mom since their home was now cordoned off with yellow police crime tape.

Leah and I both whip around to face each other.

“No!” Leah says, her eyes widen.

“Troy?” I whisper, even though I had my suspicions. Still, who could have done this and why?

“I mean, I haven’t seen Troy since their divorce. I just figured she had full custody. He was cheating on her and had a temper,” Leah says.

I knew he was cheating, as she would come over with tears in her eyes several times telling me he was, and then the confession one night when she could hear yelling and then him stomping away, peeling out of their driveway, with Deanna yelling after him never to come back. Thankfully, her kids weren’t home that night, so they couldn’t hear or see what was happening.

That’s the last time I saw Troy.

“Yeah, it just seems so odd that he would be discovered by Deanna two years later, in her  of all places,” Leah says.

“Well, he had to have been killed recently, or she would have pulled up a skeleton, especially since bodies decompose faster when exposed to the elements. But, the body couldn’t have been buried that far down if just her digging under the asters uncovered it, well, I mean the hand. She did have several asters, though, enough to hide a dead body.” I scrunch my eyebrows, trying to piece together this mystery.

“Yeah. I just find it unusual that with all the rain, nothing was unearthed until now. You know the storms we’ve had lately. Just last week, the rain made puddles in my driveway, and the wind was howling. I mean, asters are strong, but we had some hail, too,” Leah says, then her eyebrows shoot up. “Maybe that’s why she dug them up and was going to replant. I know the hail damaged some of my cosmos.”

“Same with my petunias and large dahlias,” I offer. “I guess we jumping to conclusions. We don’t have a positive ID on the body yet, so we shouldn’t say anything until we know for sure.” I was referring to my family and her husband. My kids or grandkids don’t need to know their friend’s father could have been murdered and buried in the front yard.

“Yeah, true, but who else would it be?” Leah goes into the kitchen and grabs two glasses from her cupboard. She knows it’s iced tea time.

I follow her into the sunniest kitchen I’ve ever seen, not because the sun shines through it, but because she painted her kitchen a bright yellow, which Trevor just shook his head and walked back out after she was finished. Still, she offset the color with light blue and green accents that tame down the brightness.

Two windows sport light blue drapes swagged to the sides with white rope-like ties. Her granite countertops were white with speckled gray, and a rectangular white glass tabletop displays cut flowers in large vases that she changes weekly. She repainted her cupboards from a dull walnut to an off-white with glass doors that softened the look. And paintings of seashores during sunset on two walls complete the look. She mops her pure white tile every week, even though her grandkids rarely come over.

She wanted a clean, sleek look that was also modern, bright, and fresh; she told me after the room was complete. I have to hand it to her - she knows design.

After we ruminate for the next hour, I realize it’s getting close to dinner, and I bid Leah goodbye and scurry back across the street. My stomach starts to growl as I smell the smoky aroma of barbecue.

When I hit the sidewalk, I glance next door and see yellow tape spread across the length of the house. I hate what it represents—that a crime was committed. It also just lowered our property value.

I am stuffed after a delicious dinner of smoked ribs, potato salad, watermelon, grapes, and ice cream bars for dessert. The kids went home an hour ago, and I’m sitting in a hot bath, listening to my favorite True Crime Podcast, The host covers murders that happen at night, and her voice is so soothing and empathetic that it draws you in, and most times, my imagination runs away with me as I think about the victim and their family and then the suspects, piecing together the behaviors and what led them to commit a crime.

It's nearly eleven when I lay my phone down. Brock is downstairs working on his latest case. Lately, he’s been up past midnight. I’m an early bird, so it’s lights out for me.

The last thing on my mind is the one question I can’t seem to understand: why did Troy just disappear two years ago?

_________________________________

The next morning, a loud crack of thunder wakes me from a dead sleep. And then the rain pounds the roof. I turn and see Troy snoring softly. He could sleep through an earthquake. I’m tempted to throw the covers back over my head, but I have a client meeting at 8:30 sharp, and it’s 7:15, so I drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom, careful not to wake Brock. He doesn’t typically leave for work until 9:00, so it won’t be another hour before he wakes. I swear, men could get up and be ready for work in 10 minutes. It's not fair.

I look at all the creams I slather on every night and morning and envy my husband. I wish I could get up, throw on slacks, a shirt and tie, rake a comb through my hair, brush my teeth, grab coffee, and be out the door 15 minutes after I wake up.  

After my meeting, I grab the leash; and before I know it, Hercules is at my side, wagging his tail. He knows it’s time for our daily walk. As I step outside, my phone buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket. My heart skips a beat.

I immediately know the answer: ARSENIC

Was that what killed this person?

I dart my head from side to side, suddenly feeling like a target. The street is empty, and it’s just Hercules and me. I feel uneasy but can’t let him down after wrestling with him, trying to put on the harness he hates.

I decide to make it a shorter walk, and as I stroll by Deanna’s home, I nonchalantly peer over the fence to where the hole is, where the body was found. How could a grown male have been tossed in here, and no one knew about it? And asters aren’t that tall, well, at least the ones in our area, but you still have to dig at least a foot down with gallon-size plants, which I know they were since I bought them for Deanna after she had her little girl four years ago.

Who dug them up to bury a body there, and when? They will die unless you dig up the whole root ball and then replant them, and it had to have been in the spring.  

Someone had to know at least a little about gardening or could Google it.

And that could be anyone.