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A young, pretty strawberry blonde woman sits on one of our barstools. She whips around and smiles. She’s wearing a red pencil skirt and black sheer blouse that plunges down her chest, and if I look hard enough, I’m sure I could see her bra peek-a-booing. Her emerald, green eyes are gorgeous, with smoky gray eyeliner matching the bottom of her eyelids and a light pink highlighting the top. Her lipstick has just a hint of red that makes her lips pop. “Um, hello?” I say, trying to be courteous but then a little firm. She turns around with a huge grin. “Oh, hi, you must be Patrice.” “I must,” I say, coming over to the pantry and grabbing a can of dog food. Hercules isn’t barking at her at all, but then, she’s been here longer than I have, and he might have when she walked through the door. “I’m just waiting for Brock. He forgot to get some papers for court today and ran out of gas on his way home. And since the courtroom wasn’t too far, I came and picked him up so he could get a can of gas and take it back to his car.” He could have texted me, but then I was about 20 minutes away. “I see. And your name?” She touches her forehead briefly with her middle finger and says, “Oh yes, sorry. I’m April.” She kind of looks like one, with her long hair, white skin, and bubbly personality. Every April I know or knew acted this way and looked this gorgeous too. “I’m Brock’s paralegal and have been helping him on this case. He’s worked really hard, and I’m sure wants it over. You can tell.” I find it amusing that she’s telling me how my husband feels. “Yes, he has, he works nearly all night, so I rarely see him. He probably sees you more than he sees me,” I joke, well, sort of. She giggles a little. “Yeah … “ “Hey, you’re home.” I whip around and see Brock with some papers in his hand. He comes over and kisses me on the cheek. He runs his fingers through his hair and gets out a glass, offering one to April, which she politely declines, but not me. “Ran out of gas, so April was kind enough to come get me, so I didn’t have to bother you. I got to get the gas can out of the shed. Be back.” And it’s just April and I again. “So,” I ask, “Are you dating or married?”  She smiles and shakes her head. “No, men are scum.” Well, okay … “I mean, I hang with some of them, but not in a relationship. Done with that.” What is she, 25, and she’s already done with men? What is it with this generation? When I was her age, you found a guy, dated him, and then got married. A few years later, you popped out a kid, and viola, you had a family. Now, no one wants to get married, let alone have kids. We sit silently until Brock comes back in with a gasoline can. “Okay, we gotta get back. See you later tonight; not sure when. See ya,” he says, with April following him out the door. I know what thoughts are invading me, and I must tell my brain to shut up. We’ve been married for 32 years. No, he’s not having an affair. April was nice enough to give him a ride back home to grab his court papers and a can of gas, that’s it. I refuse to get jealous over this. After they leave, I head back out and start planting. It takes me an hour, but all the pots are planted, and I look back and am satisfied. My phone rings. It's Gray, and I pick up. “Hey, Gray,” I say, sitting down to rest. “Hi, Trice, got your voicemail. Thanks for your help.” He stops, and I can tell he’s going to say something I don’t want to hear. “Hate to say this, but we just got a warrant to arrest Deanna and search through her house.” I'm kind of taken aback, but then not really. “Wow, I thought she was cleared.” “Well, the thing is, we found a necklace at the scene. It was lying on top of the body, and we figured it was dropped on purpose, but Deanna’s DNA was on it when we tested it.” Wait, what? “How? Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” I grip the phone tighter. “Not necessarily, but we had to arrest her. It’s evidence we can’t deny.” I’m reeling. Deanna killed her husband? It just can’t be. I then tell him what I suspect when I found more information about Bloodroot. “Is it possible that someone killed him, laid him down in the bloodroot or rolled him around in it to disfigure him, tossed him in their trunk, drove down here, and then dumped his body into Deanna’s yard and somehow planted that necklace there to frame her? I mean, maybe they snuck in and found one of her necklaces and planted it on Troy before covering him up.” I could tell Gray was contemplating that possibility. “Could be, but we have no way of knowing, so we must follow protocol. Since it’s hard to pinpoint a date of when Troy was killed, except that it was in the middle of June, we need to question her on an alibi for that period.” “Yeah, I know. I’m just sure she didn’t do it, Gray.” I look over the fence to Deanna’s backyard that once was filled with kids playing and laughing, and even fighting, and feel so bad for her and the kids. “Well, we have to rule her out then, and this is the only way.” “She needs a good lawyer, Gray, and I know just the person.” “Well, then you’d better call him now.” I get off the phone but forget that Brock is in court right now. Shoot, she needs a lawyer. I text him anyway, hoping he will get it when he’s out. DEANNA ARRESTED, NEEDS A LAWYER, NOW Short but to the point, and I hope he can take her case. I haven’t heard from the messenger and wonder if something’s wrong. Now that there’s a search warrant, there’s no way I can get over there to look for the ring. But it may be the only thing that clears her name. I wait impatiently for Brock to get home. I check my watch, and it’s nearly 8:00. He can’t be still in court; where is he? I made dinner around 7:00, thinking he would have come home by now. I cover everything up and put it in the fridge, and then I hear the garage door. It’s about time. Brock comes in looking drained. His tie has been loosened, and that means he’s exhausted. “Hi, did you get my –“ “Yes, and that is why I just got home. I got out of court at 6:00 and headed straight to the police station.” I want to kiss him right now. “Oh, Brock, thank you!” I come over and wrap my arms around him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to bother you, it’s just …” “I know, it’s your friend, and she’s in trouble. I have to say it’s not looking too good for her right now.” He opens the fridge and pulls out dinner and a can of Coors. It’s going to be that kind of night. “That necklace is pretty damning,” he says, then sits on the couch. I come over and sit next to him. “But what if it was planted to make it look like she killed him?” I then tell him everything Gray and I talked about, but he looks stony-faced. “I mean, it’s more plausible than her poisoning him with arsenic, dumping his body in her front yard, and then placing a necklace there.” “The necklace could have also fallen off while she was rolling or pushing him in or burying him,” He sighs. “But it was placed on his chest. Why would she do that?  It doesn’t make sense since it would have her DNA on it and implicate her as the killer.” I could tell Brock wanted the conversation over as he picked up the remote. “I don’t know, Trice. Can we just have a calm night without talking about murder, investigation, being a lawyer, or Deanna, just for one night?” I have been obsessed with her case, and he can tell. “Yeah, sorry.” He turns on the TV, and I cozy up next to him while we watch some mind-numbing movie on Hulu. Later, I feel the familiar buzz of my phone and look over, and Brock is sound asleep. I get up and go upstairs. It’s Leah’s text message. DEANNA’S BEEN ARRESTED! I KNOW. I’LL CALL YOU. I text back. It’s almost 10:00 when I call. “Hey, so what is going on?” She almost shrieks in my ear. “They arrested Deanna because they found a necklace on Troy's chest, and when they did a DNA analysis, it matched Deanna. “Oh my gosh. Does that mean –“ “No,” I clap back. “It just means that somehow the killer got her necklace, which could have happened at any time, and put it there to frame her. Brock was with her at the police station for nearly two hours tonight. He said it looks bad, but I can’t believe she killed Troy. It doesn’t add up. First, she’s not that strong to lift him; second, why would she dump him in the front yard? Third, where would she find arsenic and fourth, where would she have gone that had Bloodroot … “ and then I realize she doesn’t know about that. “Bloodroot? You mean the plant?” “Yeah, they found lesions on his body and did a skin test, and it came back conclusive for Bloodroot, which is toxic and can be deadly in large amounts. Someone either dragged his body through it or used it to torture him, which can cause major disfiguration.” “Oh, poor Troy.” Leah sounds as if she’s going to cry. “Anyway, nothing adds up to her killing him,” I say. “The killer could have broken into Deanna’s house, grabbed one of her necklaces, and placed it on his chest before burying him. That makes more sense.” “Yeah, much more. Poor Deanna and those kids!” “I know, it’s awful.” “Wait,” she hesitates and then says, “How did you know they did a skin test?” Shoot, I was supposed to keep it between Gray and I. “I talked to Gray, but you can’t breathe a word of this to anyone, not even Trevor.” “Of course not! I’m not talking to Trevor right now much as it is.” Her voice breaks. “Uh oh, Lee, what’s going on?” “Well, we just don’t have anything in common anymore. When the kids were here, we had a purpose and a partnership, but we rarely see each other lately. He works ten hours a day at the stupid plant, and then on the weekends, he’s golfing with his buddies. I just don’t know if we even have a relationship anymore.” She sounds so dejected, but some of what she said rings true for Brock and I. Is this what happens when the birds leave the nest? I remember when our boys hung out together, and we would take them places, and when the men were done with their workday, Brock at the firm and Trevor at the Power Plant, we would barbeque or go swimming. Now, it’s like we all lead separate lives. “Oh, Lee, I understand. I sometimes feel the same way, but Trev loves you and is maybe just going through a rough time. Have you talked to him?” She hesitates. “Well, no.” “See, that’s the problem. Talk to him. Maybe he’s just waiting for you to come to him.” “Yeah, true. Okay, it can’t hurt.” I need to practice what I preach myself, but I’m afraid if I try and talk to Brock, he’ll bite my head off. I get off the phone and realize it’s past 10:30, so I do my nightly routine and climb into bed, but I can’t shut off my brain. All I keep thinking about is who would take Deanna’s necklace and put it with her dead husband to frame her. Unless … time to find out who Troy’s mistress was.

I’m ten minutes from McDonald’s when a police siren blares it’s lights behind me. I stare at my speedometer and notice I’m not speeding. Oh great, what then? I pull over to the side, get my license and registration, and wait. A tall, thin policewoman instructs me to roll down my window, so I comply. “Hello, officer, I wasn’t speeding,” I immediately spill the words. “Yes, I know, but did you know both of your taillights are broken?" She starts writing in her notepad. "Did you get into an accident?” "What? No!" I am stunned. I've never been in a car accident before. Did Brock do this? I don't even remember the last time he drove my truck. "Ordinarily, I wouldn't ticket you for just one light out, but two can cause an accident, especially at night. You need to get that fixed asap." She rips off the paper and hands it to me. I gasp when I see the ticket is for $200. "Okay, sorry, ma'am, I didn't know," I say, covering my eyes and shaking my head. My body feels on high alert, and my body now starts to shake. What is happening? "Ma'am, are you OK?" I want to shout that I'm not and spill the whole story, but I know I can't. Who could have done this to my truck, and when or where? "Yes, I'm just shocked. I've never been in an accident and can't understand how I have two busted taillights." She looks me over, purses her lips, then says, “If you promise to go get that fixed right now, I'll let you go with a warning.” Oh, thank God! I didn't know how I was going to explain this to Brock. “Yes, I promise. Thank you, officer,” and I squint to see her badge. “Thompson.” I didn’t even need to give her my license and registration. I guess she figured, what trouble can a senior citizen get into? “Okay. Have a good day now.” I nod and roll up my window. Great, I now need to go and get these stupid taillights replaced. And I got to ask Brock if he took my truck in the last week. I ask Siri for directions to a car repair shop near me and find one in West Valley, just a few minutes from McDonald’s. I’m still starving, so I drive through, grab a big breakfast, sit in the car, and eat it while looking up more info on Bloodroot and its effects on the skin. Along with causing lesions on the skin, it can also cause burning in the mouth and throat, but Gray didn’t mention that. I see an image of a Bloodroot, and the white flowers are delicate with a mustard yellow center. It’s a pretty plant; if anyone didn’t know better, they would think it was completely harmless. But why did they choose this particular plant, or maybe they didn’t; it chose them. Wherever Troy was killed, Bloodroot was growing. But that could have been anywhere from Maine to Florida- good grief, that’s several states. I keep reading. Troy was killed in Spring, so it answers the question of why the plant was able to affect him. I also read that it’s found in woodlands. But, if it’s that short, how did it come in contact with his skin? Was he poisoned with the arsenic, dropped in a field of them, put in a car trunk, driven way down here, and then buried in Deanna’s yard? If so, it doesn’t make sense to try and find Bloodroot here if he wasn’t killed here. And whoever did this wanted to send a message. But what and why frame Deanna? I doubt she had any enemies. Still, I’ve got to find that ring. It’s our only lead right now. I’ve been sitting long enough. Time to get these stupid taillights fixed. ___________________________________________ Two hours later, I’m still sitting at the repair shop. They were able to get me in, but I had to wait for two other cars ahead of me. Maybe this is a good time to tell Gray what I discovered and to call off trying to find Bloodroot in Utah. No one else is in the waiting room, so I have some privacy. The last thing I need is prying eyes or ears to hear about murder investigation talk. I call and wait for him to pick up. “Chief Gray here, leave a message.” That was it, plain and simple. I leave a brief message and then sit and wait for my car to be finished. When I think I can’t stand to sit here one more minute, the mechanic comes in with a paper and pen for me to sign. “Okay, all done.” He looks to be no older than my youngest but with stark blonde hair and dark brown ends, which I find odd on a guy. He’s about 6 feet tall and wearing overalls, and has some beads of sweat pooling on his forehead. I take the invoice, sign it, then hand him my card for him to charge. I look at the bottom where it has the total and about die. It was $500 to fix? I shake my head and figure it wouldn’t do any good to complain about it. I get back on the road and see that it’s already 2:00. Maybe on my way home, I’ll pick up some fall plants to replace the haggard ones in my pots. I had my eye on some mums and ornamental cabbage and kale, and maybe even get some pansies; on second thought, it’s still too hot for them. I will have to wait until fall for those. There’s a local nursery that I probably spend just as much time and money at as I do at Walmart for groceries. I like that they know about plants instead of the Lowe’s and Home Depot that when you ask them a question, they shrug and say, “Don’t know.” I think knowing something about plants should be required if you work in a nursery. I pull up in front of Mountain Lands Nursery. I always get a little giddy when I go buy plants. I love arranging them in pots and seeing them grow in the following weeks. Since it’s still late summer, there aren't many people here. Fall planting hasn’t really begun yet when it will pick back up again. Temps will start dropping in the next month, so they usually do well if I keep my pots in a protected area, away from the sun. I pick up some ornamental cabbage and kale that look bluish gray with a dark pink center to go in front of the pots, with purple mums in the center and yellow snapdragons in the back. I may tuck some white sweet alyssum into the sides for a cascading effect.  Since I have five pots, it will take me some time to fill them. Pulling into the driveway, I notice a car I’ve never seen before parked on the street. It’s a white Lexus crossover with tinted windows and looks to be one of the newer versions that is probably seventy grand or more. It’s parked along our curb, but is the person visiting next door, or are they at my home? I open the garage and drive in. I get out and start grabbing plants. My black Ford F-150 needs cleaning badly, as I notice a film on the windows and dust caked on the exterior and especially by the rims. I'm a truck gal since I can put down the guardrail, load plants, mulch, hell, anything, and also load three kids in the back seat. I took them to the fair in Salt Lake City, and the only parking places available were in the dirt, so afterward, it looked like we’d gone digging (what we use to call it) or off-roading as it’s called today. I take the plants around to the backyard, and Hercules bounds through the doggy door. He barks at me as if he is scolding me because I left – without him. “Hey, Herc, hold on, let me put these plants down.” I set them down and then crouch down and scratch his ears. “You been a good boy?” He knows what that means. I punch in the keycode to get inside the back door to the kitchen and stop and stare. Who’s in my house?

Ten minutes later, I pull up in front of the Grantsville Police Department. My hands are sweaty, and my pulse quickens. I don’t know why I’m so nervous; it’s not like I’m being questioned. I walk in and announce my name and wait. The place is dead, but that’s a good thing. Not too much happens in Grantsville. A few police officers are at their desks on computers as I tap my foot on the hardwood floor. To the right is a portrait of a smiling Gray in his uniform and his badge that reads “Chief of Police.” I know he’s proud of that photo, as his dream was always to be Chief. But it almost didn’t happen after his car accident the year before he entered the police academy. It was a hit-and-run and if he hadn’t been wearing his seatbelt, the impact would have thrown him through the windshield. The car was going 50 mph when it ran a red light and slammed into Gray. He broke his collarbone, had whiplash and a concussion, and broke his wrist. But he survived. A few minutes later, Gray comes to the front and ushers me to his office. I sit down across from him and watch as he furrows his brow and appears to be looking at some papers. “I asked you down here because Troy’s autopsy revealed something only a gardener would know, and well, since you’re the only experienced one, I thought you could help.” “Okay … “ I say, waiting in anticipation. “We know the cause of death was arsenic poisoning; however, the medical examiner noticed he had lesions all over his body, including his face and mouth, and decided to conduct further testing. That’s when the results came up as Bloodroot.” “Bloodroot? That’s kind of odd. I know that it can cause skin scarring if you encounter it. But it isn’t native here, only Canada and the Eastern U.S.” I’m trying to understand where he’s going with this. “But Troy could have gone where it is native and got scarred before he died.” “Yes, but if it’s not native here and yet, his body was dumped here, he has to have died in the Eastern US or Canada and then brought here, which is pretty much impossible with border security, unless ...” he looks in deep thought. “The killer kidnapped him from the Eastern US, had the Bloodroot already in his possession, and then poisoned him here and dumped the body.” I understand now. “So, wherever Troy was, he came in contact with Bloodroot,” I say. “Yeah. It just seems strange that he was poisoned with arsenic, but then he’s also scarred with Bloodroot.”   It did seem odd.  The wheels start spinning in my head. “So, why did the killer go through all the trouble of taking him over the border or from somewhere in the Eastern US, poisoning him, scarring him, and then dropping his body at his ex-wife’s house?” “There’s only one plausible explanation I can think of,” Gray says, and then I think the same thing, as I thought about it for days now. “The killer wanted to frame Deanna,” I say, and he nods. He puts his hand to his mouth and sighs. “Why would someone want to frame her?” “That, Gray, is the million-dollar question.” And then, another disturbing thought entered my mind. “Maybe they used Bloodroot not just to scar him but to disfigure him, making it difficult to ID him.” “I mean, that makes sense. He was already quite bloated and starting to decompose. The Bloodroot just helped it along,” Gray said, and I had to agree with him. “But, we can always identify bodies with dental records, too.” Gray opens his bottom drawer and pulls out a pad of sticky notes. “Can you help me with something?” “Sure.” He rips one off and grabs a pen. “Can you check around and see if any nurseries or big box stores, like Lowe’s or Home Depot, got a shipment in for Bloodroot and then let me know? I can get video footage or receipt records if we can trace it to a local place. Also, check online to see if you can purchase Bloodroot. I think they had to have purchased it here and then had it shipped, which could be from anywhere. I don’t think they would have risked killing him in Canada and then driving over the border. Border Patrol would have possibly checked the car, found the plant, and even Troy.” He scribbles his cell number on one of the papers and thrusts it to me. “Yeah, of course.” I would have to go outside of Grantsville and probably hit all of Tooele County, which Grantsville is part of, and maybe even Salt Lake City. “Thanks, and Trice, let’s keep this between us. I don’t want it to get out and have the press swarming around.” “Yeah, I understand.” It’s an ongoing investigation; no one will know anything until investigators have concrete evidence. I get up and tell him I’ll keep him posted, and he nods and waves me off, returning to his paperwork. As I head out to my car, I notice a black, older Silverado slowly go past the police station. I can’t see because of the tinted windows, but suddenly I feel a prickly sensation on the back of my neck as if someone was lightly blowing on it, and I shiver. ______________________________________________ I drive home, keeping my eyes peeled for anyone following me. When I enter my street, no one is behind, and I can finally take a deep breath. I push the remote to open the garage door, drive in, then close it behind me. I turn off the car and sit, trying to reduce the anxiety pumping through my body. I don’t know what to text back, but I’m getting tired of these games. I DON’T WHERE YOU LIVE OR WHY YOU’RE FOLLOWING ME, BUT UNLESS YOU REVEAL YOURSELF, I WILL GO TO THE POLICE AND TELL THEM EVERYTHING I wait, seeing the dots on the screen, and I know they’re responding. WHAT? I'M NOT FOLLOWING YOU - I HAVE NO CAR. I’M SORRY, I CAN’T REVEAL MY IDENTITY, OR IT COULD GET ME AND MY FAMILY KILLED. BUT YOU DON’T NEED TO FEAR ME. I’M ONLY HERE TO HELP. Somehow, I believe them, and I calm down, now very curious as to who this is and what they know, and more importantly, if it wasn't them in the car watching me at the police station, then who was it? My heart nearly stops when I think about the figure I saw in my backyard. Does this person know that I know something and is following me? And, If the messenger is that scared for their family, they must know more than they're letting on. I have to be very careful not to reveal anything about them, which means not even telling my best friend. They have reasons for staying anonymous, and I will continue to listen as long as I’m not in danger. OK, I WON’T. WHOEVER YOU ARE, IF YOU HAVE ANY MORE INFORMATION TO SHARE, PLEASE LET ME KNOW. I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO FIND THE RING BUT I WAS GOING TO GO BACK OUT TONIGHT TO CHECK. I wait for another message as I go inside the house. Hercules is wagging his tail and I bend down and scratch his head. “Hey, Herc.” My phone buzzes again. BE CAREFUL THE HOUSE IS BEING WATCHED I remember Detective Sanchez and that she’s been watching to see if the killer returns to the scene, so I don’t know how I will get over there without her seeing me. It’s just me and Hercules since I still haven’t heard from Brock and figure he’s in court. I grab my laptop, toss it on the couch, and then head to the kitchen, realizing I’m starving. There’s leftover chicken from our barbecue last Friday, so I take it out, along with some cut-up fruit and lemonade. After heating the chicken, I take everything into the living room. Herc stays in the kitchen, whining, and I remember he hasn’t had any food today, so I go back into the kitchen and open up a can of dog food, plop it in his bowl, and fill his water bowl. There - time to do some research. I open my laptop and smile for facial recognition.  However, before I search, I want to check out my YouTube channel to see if this person possibly left me any clues. I open up my latest video on preparing for fall planting and scroll down. I did it a few days before the discovery of Troy and see there are 650,000 views and over 2,000 comments. I sometimes respond to comments, but only the top 20 or so, or I would be on my laptop all day. I post weekly videos, sometimes more or less, depending on time constraints. Scrolling down, I see comments about my backyard garden, where I show my fall plants starting to come up. Mums will usually bloom in early September, sometimes sooner, especially if they're in the nursery. Master gardeners usually get them to bloom earlier, in late July or early August, so they can be sold as they're blooming. It's an excellent marketing tactic, but when they return the following year in your landscape or pot, they typically won't bloom until the end of August or early September. As I scroll down, looking for any clues or odd comments, I turn on the TV. I'm the ultimate multi-tasker. I can watch TV, surf the web on my phone, eat lunch or dinner, and think about my next video. Brock thinks I'm nuts, but then he's not a mother. When the boys were younger, I had to remember their school events, gardening classes, and grocery items. (wrote them down since there was no internet back then) While cooking, I would talk to a teacher on the phone and watch the monsters to ensure they didn't destroy the house or kill each other. Borck said he has to compartmentalize, putting things in each box so he can think straight. I just laugh at him. I don't find anything that looks odd, so I open another tab and find a credible source that informs me that Bloodroot is only native to Canada and the Northeastern US, and apparently, in ancient times, it was used for ulcers, as a blood purifier, and for skin conditions, which I find interesting since that is what caused Troy’s scarring, but I digress. Bloodroot juice is used for sore throats and coughs. It’s an early spring wildflower, so it makes sense that Troy would have been exposed to it since he died in late spring. The next part is what stands out to me. So, if the killer had used Bloodroot as a salve or paste on his skin, it would have caused scarring. Were they torturing Troy? That thought makes my skin crawl. And why? I mean, the arsenic did the trick fast, so why choose Bloodroot? It doesn't make sense. I then pull up a map of all the local nurseries to see if they sell it. There are a few places in Tooele, but I don’t see them listed for sale. I check Salt Lake City, which takes me quite some time. There are dozens of nurseries in the valley and Salt Lake County. I see one place, a small nursery located in West Valley. It would take me about 20 minutes to drive there since it’s in Western Salt Lake County, not quite as far as Salt Lake City. I grab my notepad and pen and write down the address and number. It’s open until 6:00, so I have plenty of time to grab some breakfast since it’s only 9:00 and then head over. Gray never said to go there just to tell him if I found something, but I have some time to kill since my client meeting was canceled. It won’t hurt if I just do some window shopping, right? If I can take a few pics and get one of the workers’ names, Gray will have that much more to work with. What could go wrong?

I freeze and wonder if I should turn around or quickly open the door and shut and lock it. I turn around and see a woman, her hands on her hips, an angry frown planted on her face. “Excuse me?” I feign my own anger. “I live here. What are  doing here?” She looked as if I slapped her. “You know what I’m talking about. You were at the Carmichael’s snooping around.” Wait, what? How did she know that? No one was on the street, and I didn’t see a car. “Umm … did you see me there?” I didn’t want to come right out and confess after all. “Yeah. I was in the unmarked car next door,” she said, pointing behind her, “keeping an eye on the property, as the Chief asked me to do, and which I have done for the past three days.” Well, shoot. She caught me. Damn, now what? “I’m waiting.” She taps her foot. I have to think fast. “My dog escaped, so I was checking to see if he took off next door. He usually goes over there when I take him out on our walks since Deanna has a dog. I thought he wandered over there, so I asked my good friend, Leah, to come and help me look. I just hate being out at night, especially given what happened.” Damn, I’m a good liar. She stares at me, probably deciding if she believes me. “Did you find your dog?” “No, and then I got a text from my husband telling me he found him in our backdoor neighbor's yard.” She hesitated before saying, “Well, glad you found him. I’m Detective Maria Sanchez, and I would appreciate that if you see anyone suspicious hanging around or driving by you contact me immediately. Usually, the suspect will return to the crime scene if they know it’s been discovered. So, we’re keeping a close watch.” I kind of shine my flashlight where it illuminates her but doesn’t blind her. Maria looked no older than my youngest son and was short, too, shorter than me even, but I could tell she worked out. Her muscles bulged out of the black t-shirt she was wearing, and her jeans fit snug on her thin, but not too thin, waist. Her black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and she wore no makeup. It was 9:30 at night and the last place she wanted to be, I’m sure. She gives me a card with her name and number and then returns to her car. I quietly open the door, shut it behind me, and lock it even though we have the security system   I still feel better locking it immediately instead of waiting minutes for it to lock automatically. I can’t hear Brock, so I figure he’s still in the attic. It’s now after 9:30 and I’m beat. Hercules runs to me and starts wagging his tail. “Hey, Herc, ready to hit the sack?” I stop in the kitchen, grab some tea and crackers, and head to my room. I can’t lie; sneaking around next door was scary, but it was also a little thrilling. I read for a while and then turn off the lights. My phone buzzes. THAT WAS CLOSE, HUH? My heart skips a beat. How did they know what happened, unless … am I being watched? ARE YOU WATCHING ME? I wait. No response. Who is this person and how do they know where I live? I’m starting to feel uneasy and wonder if I should have never responded to their messages, but not knowing is worse. At least, I have a record I can take to the police if needed. I drift off but toss and turn, and when I wake up, I feel like I didn’t get a lick of sleep. Brock wasn’t next to me. He must have crashed on the couch. Although, when I walk downstairs, it’s quiet and Brock isn’t there, and when I search the rest of the house, I discover he’s not there. I turn my arm to check the time and see it’s almost 7:30, which I find odd that Brock isn’t here. He’s a night owl, especially with the case he’s been working on. Maybe he went into the office. I do my morning routine and head downstairs, Hercules on my heels, when I hear a rapid knock which makes me jump a little. I look out the peephole and open the door to Deanna Carmichael. “Trice, do you have some time to talk?” Deanna looks haggard, and something urgent in her voice concerns me. Purple creases under her bloodshot eyes that now look even greener, and her blonde matted hair makes her look ten years older. She’s wearing some gray Yoga pants and a plain black t-shirt. “Of course,” I usher inside. I’m shocked to see her, figuring she wouldn’t want to be anywhere near her home. “How are you and the kids?” She follows me into the kitchen, where I get two glasses from the cupboard and grab juice from the fridge. When she sits down, I fill her glass and then place it in front of her. “The kids are OK. They’re with my mom, and the younger ones think we’re just visiting, but my oldest son keeps asking questions of why they can’t go home.  Trice, when I found his …” she trails off, furrows her brows, and rubs her head, “The kids weren’t home, thank God. They were having a sleepover with my parents, and I figured that while they were gone, I would get out and do some yard work since the weeds were getting out of control. I noticed some of the plants had wilted from our storm.” Well, shoot, I feel guilty now for thinking she didn’t care about her yard. “Anyway, I started digging those purple flowers.” “Asters,” I say. “Yes, asters. I noticed many were wilting and didn’t look very good, so I started digging them, and that’s when I saw the … hand.” Her voice cracks and tears slide down her face. I reach over and grab her hand. “That must have been awful,” I say, squeezing her hand. “It was. I immediately called the police and well, you know everything now. I’m just … I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t know what to tell the kids about their father.” I take a chance and say, “How come you and the kids haven’t seen him in two years?” She doesn’t say anything for a minute and then sighs. “Troy told me he and the woman he had an affair with were moving to the Northeast, I think he said New Hampshire, but he would let me know when they got settled. He never did. I tried his cell phone numerous times, and it always just rang. I would leave so many messages. I figured he just wanted to start a new life and didn’t care about us anymore.” That didn’t make sense to me. “But would he really do that, Deanna? He loved those kids. I just don’t see him leaving and never contacting you guys.” She glares at me, and I figure I have gone too far. “What are you getting at, Patrice?” Uh, oh, no one calls me by my full name. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to offend you. I just find it strange that after you guys divorce, he leaves, and you don’t hear anything from him. Then two years later, his dead body was found in your yard. I’m not blaming you for anything, just trying to make sense of it.” She gets up. “I – I shouldn’t have come here. First, I’m interrogated by the police who think I could have killed him, then Troy’s mother, and now you, my friend.” She looks hurt, and I realize I should have just listened. “No, please, don’t leave. You came here as a friend, and I shouldn’t judge you.” Her stance softens, and she sits back down. I need to just shut up. “The thing is Troy’s mom blames me. She’s never liked me and said that even if I didn’t kill him, I might as well have.” She starts crying again. “She blames  ? He was the one who had an affair and it had been going on for a year, a whole freaking YEAR.” An angry tone takes over, and her face shows it. “She then blames me for the affair. Can you even …” “I’m so sorry. Apparently, she thought her son could do no wrong, which is often a parent’s attitude, especially a mother.” If any of my sons ever do that to their wives, I will clock them. But I know mothers who coddle their sons and enable their behavior. “Yeah, and now she’s probably telling all her church friends about me. I can’t go back to church now.” I knew Deanna was a Non-denominational Christian, and they go to the local and only church in town – the same one Carmichael’s worship. The prominent religion is the LDS one, so the Community of Christ congregation, one I have been to a few times, isn’t huge, but the two religions sometimes host events together. Before I can say anything, my phone rings not buzzes. Hardly anyone calls me, so I answer. “This is Trice.” “Hey, Trice, this is Gray. I need to talk to you. Can you stop by in about 10 minutes?” His voice sounds urgent. “Yeah, sure. What’s this concerning?” I sound formal, but I don’t want Gray to know I’m talking to Deanna. “We found something disturbing.”

Here are a few more facts about Asters: Asters prefer areas with cool, moist summers and cool nights in sites with full to partial sun. In warmer climates, they do not like the hot midday sun. Give plants plenty of water at the time of planting. Add mulch after planting to keep the soil cool and prevent weeds. All asters have the potential to spread. They are rambunctious plants that are spread by underground rhizomes. While they make for excellent ground cover and very rarely cause any real problems in the garden, they can occasionally become quite weedy. After flowering is over, all asters should be cut back hard to ground level. This will encourage the clumps to spread and develop, and it is good practice to mulch over these plants in the autumn to protect them from frost and improve the ongoing fertility of the soil. Okay, now for Chapter Nine ... On Sunday, I take it easy. I spent all day Saturday gardening and doing chores, and my back is screaming at me now. I hate that my body keeps reminding me I’m not a spring chicken anymore. I have a movie on Sunday night in the bedroom when I hear another loud noise, followed by Hercules barking like crazy and then the cat hissing back. Oh, good grief, not this again. I’m ready to call animal control if this stupid cat won’t quit antagonizing my mutt. After a few minutes, Hercules enters my bedroom and jumps on the bed. “You sure told him, didn’t you?” I scratch his back, and he rolls over so I can pet his belly. It’s 9:03, and Brock is still in the attic working. Having a lawyer for a husband can be quite lonely. I grab some water and a few cookies downstairs, suddenly feeling all alone and a bit afraid. I can’t stop thinking about this person’s text message. If I do find the ring and give it to Gray, he can find out who it belongs to, arrest them, and then we can put this whole thing behind us. I have an idea. HEY, YOU BUSY? I text Leah. NO, WHAT’S UP? MEET ME OUTSIDE IN FIVE OK … WHAT’S THIS ABOUT, TRICE? JUST MEET ME. K After grabbing a small flashlight, I quietly open the door and step outside, keeping Hercules from following me, and then shut the door. It’s a balmy night. The stars twinkle in the nighttime sky, and I can hear the faint sound of crickets. It’s their mating time. Leah’s porch light comes on a few minutes later, and she opens the door. I scrunch my eyes in that direction. My eyes are starting to go blurry at far away distances, but I can see her walk across her lawn and then across the street. It’s eerily quiet tonight. “Okay, I’m here,” Leah says, folding her arms. I tell her what the person texted me about the ring and try to gauge her reaction. “Wow, this is getting insane, Trice. The fact that this person seems to know more about this case than the police is just weird and even disturbing.” “It is, and I keep feeling like it’s up to me to find this ring before the killer does.” “Trice …” Leah cocks her head and signs deeply. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right, but if I find this ring, we can get it to Gray and nab this person.” Leah looks taken aback. “ “Yeah, the thing is, I need someone to be my lookout while I see if I can find the ring in Deanna’s yard.” Leah looks at me like I have two heads. “You have got to be kidding me. You know how dangerous this is, right?” “Yes …” I bite my lip. “But, if you could just stay on the sidewalk, kind of obscure, I could do some searching. If a car comes by or you see anyone, you can duck behind the tree and text me. I have my phone.” “Trice, I have a bad feeling about this. Why can’t you just let the police handle it?” I get it, I really do, but if I don’t do it, the killer will find the ring, and our lead will grow cold. “Because this person, for some reason, wants to communicate with me. I can’t blow it.” Trice shakes her head and sighs. “If I do this, promise me whatever you find that you will take it to Gray and let them deal with it.” I lie and tell her I will. “Okay, I’ll give you 15 minutes. I told Trev you needed me to help you with something, but he doesn’t want me out this late, especially since they found Troy dead.” “Oh, thank you!” I hug her and then eye Deanna’s yard as I plan how to search it. After ensuring Leah was in an obscure spot, I carefully lift the police tape and slide under it, careful not to pull any of it down. I could have used my phone’s flashlight, but I want my phone free if Leah texts me. I push the LED flashlight on and crouch low. Ok, now the killer was searching right by what I call Troy’s grave. I drop to my knees and start searching with my free hand. I had previously pulled on my gardening gloves to protect my hands and ensure my prints couldn’t be detected. So, I begin to dig in the dirt, sweeping any leaves or mulch to the side. Even though it's warm with no wind, a cold shiver courses through my body. I can’t believe I’m doing this. After fifteen minutes, I get up, feeling dejected. I looked everywhere I thought it could be and didn’t find it. Of course, I never thought that the killer could have already found it, but then I remember what the person texted me. They wouldn’t have sent the riddle and subsequent message about finding it if it were found. “Psst,” I summon Leah. She comes over. “Did you find anything?” “No. It could be anywhere. Maybe the killer just dug the hole thinking it could be there, but who knows. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack, and to be honest, I feel like I’m going on a goose chase.” “You know, you could send an anonymous text to Gray about the ring. Would this person even know?” Leah just didn’t understand. “Believe me, they will know. I will have to come back another night and look some more.” “Oh no, Trice, do we have to?” I could tell it was bothering her. I didn’t want to put her in the middle. It’s not fair. “Lee, it’s OK if you don’t want to get involved. I wouldn’t blame you.” I could tell she was grappling with what to say. “I will help one more time, and then I just can’t do it again, and you shouldn’t either.” I could tell in her voice and on her face, and I knew. She was scared. I say goodbye to Leah, watch her walk across the street and inside her home, and then head for the door when I hear an unknown voice. “What are you doing?”

This is getting ridiculous; I punch in my response. WHO IS THIS, AND WHAT DO YOU WANT? I’m aware I’m responding in all caps, but then so are they. I wait to get a response, but nothing comes. Whoever it is just wants to play games, and I’m ready to call their bluff. LOOK, YOU RESPOND WHAT YOU WANT, OR I’M BLOCKING YOU Shortly after, a message appears. THEN YOU WILL MISS OUT ON THE ANSWER What answer? Wait, does this person know who killed Troy? I have to know. WHAT DO YOU KNOW? IF YOU ONLY KNEW … I abruptly stop where I am just before opening my door. Butterflies attack my stomach, and I suck in a deep breath.  I don’t respond. Suddenly, I feel eyes watching me, and I quickly open the door to safety. I shut the door behind me and hear Brock call out, “That you, Trice?” Of course, it’s me. Who else would it be? “Uh, yeah.” “I will be working late again. Court is in a few days, and I’m way behind,” I hear his yell from the attic. All he’s done is work. How can he be so far behind? But I’m tired and so head straight to bed and hope those four words don’t haunt me. ______________________________ Surprisingly, I wake up refreshed and can’t believe I slept so well. I look at my watch. It’s only 7:10 am, perfect for our walk. Hercules stretches and gets up from his doggy bed in the corner of the room. “Hey, Herc, ready …” I don’t need to finish the sentence because he jumps up, wags his tail, and darts for the door. “Hold on; I gotta get ready.” Fifteen minutes later, we shut the door behind us, and I head down the street; however, I stop and back up after I get past Deanna’s home as something catches my eye. The yellow tape still surrounds the property, but the crime scene has been tampered with. The hole is still there, but it looks deeper now, and adjacent to it, a smaller hole has been dug, but you wouldn’t notice it unless you came close. I know the police haven’t been here since Wednesday, and I’m sure there will be a warrant to search the house after Deanna has been questioned, but I’ve been watching the house to ensure no kids try and breach the tape and get curious, but this hole is fresh. Should I contact Gray, or maybe it’s a stray dog? Pickles left with the kids, so I know it’s not their dog, and Hercules is never out front without me. I’m so fixated on the spot that I almost ignore my phone buzzing. Another riddle. WHAT’S SMALL, GOLD OR SILVER, AND GOES ON FOREVER Oh, yay, more games. I say the riddle in my head, but it’s like my brain doesn’t want to work. Plus, Hercules keeps pulling on the leash. I’ll have to think about it on our walk. I start walking, and by the time I get to Jack’s house at the end of the street, it hits me: a RING! I punch the answer in my phone. VERY GOOD Then a thought bursts into my head. Did the killer leave evidence behind, like a ring? And, if he did, he returned to find it last night! When just moments before, I was enjoying our walk, with a mostly overcast morning and lower temps, I suddenly feel cold, but I have to at least get in a 30-minute walk, but as I cross the street and head west, I try not to let an ominous thought that the one who was in my backyard was the same person who was digging in the Carmichael’s yard the night before. LISTEN, I’M NOT A CHILD. STOP TREATING ME LIKE ONE, I quickly text. Whoever this is seems to enjoy playing these games, but I don’t. YOU’RE RIGHT YOU’RE NOT IF YOU FIND THE RING, YOU'RE ONE STEP CLOSER What does that mean? One step closer to what? Oh great, now  have to find a ring. What ring and where? Why don’t I just tell Gray, and then he can take it from there? But then, I would have to explain the rest of the messages, and then he will scold me for not telling him before. This person will stop texting, and what leads I have will be gone. No, I must keep this to myself … for now. _____________________________ It’s half past eight o’clock when I step out of the shower. I feel like I’ve been up for hours, and I need to run some errands before I need to get the Saturday chores done, which include trimming some gangly rose bushes, deadheading some petunias, and weeding – oh joy. I told Brock I would pick up his dry cleaning. No, I don’t iron and don’t judge me. Once I’m done with my errands, I pull into the driveway and click the garage door remote control, but before I pull in, I look to my right at Deanna’s yard.   I can’t think about that right now. And as Scarlett O’Hara says in  “I’ll think about that tomorrow.” It’s already getting warm, and the clouds that were obscuring the sun earlier have now moved on, and it’s a mostly sunny day. Shoot, I really wanted some rain. I slather myself with sunscreen, don my gardening hat, and grab my tool bucket. Even though it’s the weekend, I know Brock is working on his case, so I have no idea when I will see him today. I start in the front yard, getting as many weeds as possible. I trim some of the boxwoods and deadhead the flowers. Before I know it, an hour has passed, and I’m sweating. I take a big drink of my Gatorade and glance next door. What if I’m messing around trying to find the ring some night, and the killer returns and finds me? Then what? I need to speak to Leah; she could be my lookout. Almost as if this person can read my mind, they text: LET’S KEEP THIS BETWEEN US

At five minutes to 3:00 p.m., Leah and I plop down on her couch with iced tea and cookies. The TV is on Channel 2, and we sit in anticipation for the press conference that will either confirm or deny the dead male body found in Deanna’s front yard is Troy. “Oooo, here we go,” Leah says, increasing the volume. Gray is standing at the podium with the press snapping their cameras. I listen intently to the medical examiner’s findings. “I knew it!” I punch the couch. Leah’s eyes look dilated as her hand clamps over her mouth. Suddenly, I remember the riddle from the text message, and my stomach drops as if I just flew down a roller coaster. This person knows what he was poisoned with. OMG, what if I have been talking to the killer this whole time? I return my attention to the screen. The press starts in all at once, but Gray quiets them saying he would take a few questions, but then they wouldn’t hear from him until the investigation is complete. Leah shuts off the TV and turns to me. “You were right. I can’t imagine who would do this. I mean, Deanna doesn’t have it in her to poison him and then dump his body in her backyard.” “Yeah, Deanna doesn’t seem the type. But then who?” Shivers flood my body just thinking about everything that has transpired, especially these cryptic messages that keep popping up on my phone. Who is doing this and is it the same person who dumped Troy’s body? Another vision pops into my head, that of the night before when I I saw someone in my backyard. Have they come back to the scene of the crime? And why did they sneak around in my yard? So many questions swirl in my head. The phone buzzing in my pocket snaps me out, as I stare at the one-line message: TOLD YOU SO I slightly gasp but it was enough for Leah to say, “What happened?” Should I tell her? Maybe if she knows, I can have a witness … just in case. “I never told you this before, but I’ve been getting text messages since the discovery from an unknown number.” I give her the phone. “What?” Leah holds the phone up. “Trice, this is serious. You need to tell Gray about the messages.” I know she’s right, but I keep feeling that this person has to know more, and if I tell Gray, I won’t find out what. “Please, just hear me out. This person obviously has more information and confides in me, so I must follow this through.” “Trice, what if this person the killer? Did you think about that?” I did, but my instinct tells me they aren’t. “He or she could be luring you in so that you will trust them. I mean, I really don’t understand why they are even messaging you but be careful.” She hugs me, and I feel guilty for making her so concerned. “I will, but Lee, I really feel this person is helping to solve the crime. I don’t know why they chose me, but I have to keep this under wraps, OK? I haven’t even told Brock.” I feel worse that I haven’t told my husband, but he will say what Leah did and then take it one step further and go to Gray himself. I can’t let that happen. I go back to the house. The kids are watching a movie, the same as when I left them. I figured they would be fine while I watched the press conference for a few minutes. I find them riveted to the TV when I come down the stairs. This was probably the fourth time they had watched in the past two weeks. Claire was dancing, and the boys were mimicking their sister dancing. “Get your groove on, boys,” I chuckle. They immediately stop, embarrassed. Later that evening, when the grandkiddos leave, I prepare for the Beginners to Gardening club I started five years ago. Several ladies and a few men were interested, so we get together every week for an hour or two, rotating between homes and chatting about gardening. We have about fifteen in the club, but only about eight show up religiously. I get it; people have lives and sometimes can’t make it. This week, the lesson is about using a drip system for plants. It saves water and ensures that each plant gets an accurate amount of consistent water. Plus, some plants don’t like overhead watering. I start out the door but quickly send a message to this anonymous sender. OK, I’LL BITE. _______________________ When I get to Leah’s home, I hear the chatter of women and men talking about none other than Troy. I can already tell we won’t discuss gardening much. “Hi, guys,” I interrupt. “Hey, Trice,” Caroline pipes up. She’s the most active in our club and is my assistant, as she’s dubbed herself. She’s about a decade younger than me and owns a tech start-up company and has been successful so far. Her brunette hair is straight as a pin and just touches her chin. Her deep green eyes stand out amidst the dark brown eyeliner and smoky gray and rose eyeshadow she couples with pure black mascara. She almost looks exotic with her porcelain skin. “So, what do you think, Trice?” Laurie turns to me. It’s like she thinks I’ve been sitting here the whole time. “About what?” I sit down in one of the chairs Leah has provided. “About Troy being dumped in Deanna’s front yard, of course.” Laurie chuckles a little, and her dimples show slightly. She’s closer to Caroline’s age and has the popular cheerleader look we all love to hate. Her blonde hair snakes down her back, and she’s her skin is tanned from all the outdoor recreation she does. She and her husband, Ken, and their two children, 5-year-old Brooke and 3-year-old Ashley are mini me’s of Laurie. She dresses them the same, and their equally long, blonde hair shines. They all could be models.     “Well, I’m not sure. It’s definitely weird that this happened two months ago, but I don’t think Deanna had anything to do with it. If you would have seen her face. She looked shocked to her core.” “Yeah, makes sense, but the divorce was messy, and no one had seen or heard from Troy since then. It was like he …” “Vanished,” Yolanda finishes the sentence, staring off into space. Out of everyone in the group, Yolanda is the one who won’t take crap from anyone. Coming from a law enforcement family, her father taught her at a young age to defend herself, especially since they lived in the Bronx. When she was a teenager, they moved to Utah as her father took a job as the local police chief of Grantsville until he retired, and his son, Carson, took his place. That was twenty years ago. Yolanda confided in me that her brother would have probably led the gang life if they hadn’t moved. She’s in her late forties now, at least 5 inches taller than me, but still has the skin of someone in their 30s. Her brown skin is nearly flawless, and her short, curly hair frames her oval face perfectly. Her chocolaty eyes are large, with the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen, and no, they’re not fake. “Exactly,” Leah chimes in. “What gets me is that someone was bold enough just to dump his body in their front yard. I mean, they had to have done it at night, but no one heard anything? It just doesn’t make sense.” Heather, the youngest of the group, is like me. We love to watch true crime, and sometimes, after the meeting has ended, we will chat about the latest podcast episode. I’m envious of her youth and exuberance. She’s 27 or 28 years old and has an athlete's body. Her wavy ombre hair of blonde, brown, and black goes just past her shoulders, and her striking blue eyes are devoid of makeup. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear any, but she doesn’t need it. Her heart-shaped skin is olive, and her legs, her most prominent feature besides her eyes, go on forever. Of course, she’s 5’11, but with heels, she towers over everyone. “Nothing makes sense,” and before I can stop myself, I instantly regret what comes out of my mouth next. “I talked to Gray, and I think he knows more than what he’s leading on.” “Really?” “What, tell us?” “I knew it!” I become bombarded with questions from everyone in the group. Shoot, why didn’t I just keep my big mouth shut? I clasp my hands together. “Well, it’s just how he acted when I talked to him.” I mean, I did bother him at work, so I can see why he was impatient. “Right before I got off the phone, he said something that’s been bothering me.” All ten eyes are on me, waiting. “I told him I wish I knew who it was that was buried in Deanna’s backyard and his only words were, “If you only knew.” “Okay, he had to have known it was Troy then. Did he see the body when it was in the bag? I mean, that makes sense he would say that,” Laurie says. “Yeah, true, but it was the way he said it, as if this wasn’t a surprise that it was him. We all knew the marriage was in trouble a few years prior to the divorce, and I heard my fair share of yelling from both, but there has to be more to the story. I’m about 99% sure Deanna didn’t kill him, but then who did? He worked for the IRS, so maybe someone he audited it had it out for him.” Even as I said the words, I didn’t really believe them. “I heard that he had a gambling addiction, and partly why Deanna divorced him. He spent much of their savings on gambling, which was supposed to be the kid’s college fund. Maybe a loan shark got him,” Heather shrugged. Good grief, Heather and I need to quit watching so much true crime. “I didn’t know that,” Yolanda says. “But if that’s true, whoo boy, those thugs will kill and ask questions later.” She purses her lips together. We all nod. It wasn’t a secret that our little group didn’t have much love for Troy, seeing as he had an affair and then left Deanna and the kids. However, we never wanted him dead either. We talk some more and barely even mention gardening. What could I expect? Next week, we can chat about drip systems. Around 10:00, I say my goodbyes, with Leah saying we will discuss gardening next time. As I dart across the street, my phone buzzes, and I instinctively know who it is. READY FOR ANOTHER RIDDLE?

Sitting at dinner with Brock, my mind goes in a million directions. I can’t get the last words Gray said out of my mind. I’ve hardly touched my food when Brock turns to me. “Penny for your thoughts,” he says, dishing up some more mashed potatoes. I contemplate on whether to tell him I called Gray, even though he said not to, but I must tell someone. Another thing that strikes me as odd is that Deanna told the police she discovered the body at around 7:30, but I was going past her house at 8:15, and no one was out there, let alone a dead body that was dug up. I mean, she very well could have just gotten the time wrong as she was in shock. “I called Gray, and before you say anything, he wasn’t bothered by it,” the little lie flies out of my mouth. Brock raises his eyebrows. “Anyway, he told me the body was only a few months deceased, which is weird. I keep trying to figure out how someone just digs up a yard and tosses a body into it in a nice neighborhood. You know?” Brock sighs, the same sigh Gray made on the phone. “I wish you would just leave it alone, Trice. There’s nothing you or I or anyone else for that matter can do. The police are handling it, and I’m sure we will get more information once the medical examiner has done an autopsy. Until then, don’t let it become an obsession.” He pulls down his short-rimmed glasses to his nose and gives me  look, and then pushes them back up again. “Yeah, you’re right. There are just inconsistencies that I can’t quite understand.” Brock knows me all too well; he knows my true crime binge-watching, my hyper-awareness of everyone and everything around me, and he also knows I love watching murder mysteries. I’m a lost cause. A few hours later, I dump the remainder of my dinner into the disposal, turn it on, and watch as it sucks it up. A clanging noise causes me to flip it off quickly. Did a spoon or fork get caught in there? I put my hand in, but it’s clean. I listen to see if I hear it again. It’s probably just a cat, but curiosity and all that. I peer out the window. The sun has already gone down and is nearly pitch black on a clear night, so I can't see the backyard well. I don’t see anything and conclude it’s just a stupid cat, but then I hear Hercules start barking. Oh, here we go. He darts out the doggy door to the back and starts his, what I call, warning bark. He’s quite protective, so if anyone out there shouldn’t be, he uses the “Get off my lawn!” bark. I throw the door open and yell for him to knock it off, but he’s persistent. “Herc, there’s no one out here,” and yet, when I say those words, I don’t know if they’re true. I’ve always felt safe in my backyard, so I go out and over to where the mutt is, and he’s cornered; you guessed it, a black cat with piercing yellow eyes is hissing at him from where it perches in our Cottonwood tree. But then another movement catches my eye as it darts to the side and then is gone. I slap my hand to my chest, feeling my heart race.  Goosebumps form on my arms, and I instinctively wrap them around myself, scurry back to the door, and fling it open. “Brock!” I charge up the stairs to the attic, where I know he is. “What?” He doesn’t move when I get there, just studies papers before him. “I just saw someone in our backyard!” “What, when?” He stops and looks up at me as if I just told him the goldfish had died. “Just now. Come, quick!” I motion with my hands. “It’s probably just a shadow, Trice.” “No, it’s not.” At this point, he gets off his chair, pushes past me, and walks down the stairs and out the back. Whatever it was is likely long gone since he took his time. I follow him out, and Hercules is still growling at the cat, staring him down. This cat loves to taunt him and has been in our tree numerous times. It’s one of our backdoor neighbors, and by the look of him, the black cat with green eyes gets plenty to eat as I see him lay his chunky belly across a sturdy branch. He doesn’t care that Hercules is barking and trying to get at him. Cats are like that; they act like they own the neighborhood, and  the nuisance. “I don’t see a thing except that stupid cat,” he shakes his head. “Herc, no bark!” Of course, the mutt listens to Brock, but I tell him repeatedly, and it’s like our kids when they were younger, and they completely ignored me. “Someone was out there. I watched them dart off to the side and then take off.” “Trice, we have a fenced-in yard. You are seeing things. Maybe it’s time to lay off those true crime stories, eh?” Maybe he’s right. But I swear … Later that night, I’m watching another true crime story. Yes, I’m a glutton for punishment. This story features a local town that never had a murder until a decade ago, and then five women went missing in a month, and they knew a serial killer was out there. I sat there, watching the host, tearing up when she talked about the victims' families. I couldn’t imagine what those poor families had to endure. If That ever happened to my daughters-in-law, it would destroy my sons and Brock, and I. We love each of them like a daughter. I finally shut my laptop down at 10:30, the magic number to hit the sack. Brock hadn’t come in yet; he was still working on his case. I drift into a restless sleep and come wide awake at 3:30 when the sound of footsteps pounds on our hardwood floor. “Sorry, babe,” Brock sits on the bed, takes off his shoes, then climbs into bed. “Go back to sleep.” It’s not good for Brock to burn the candle at both ends, but I can’t think about that when all my body wants is sleep. ____________________________ The next morning is bright and sunny, and as I glance at my watch and notice it’s nearly 9:00 a.m., I bound out of bed. The kids will be here any minute. How did I sleep in? Brock is already gone, probably having only had 5 hours of sleep. I rush to get dressed and put on a little makeup so I don’t look like a ghost and get downstairs just as the grandkids punch in the Ring code and come bursting through. “Grandma, I’m hungry!” Chris makes a beeline straight to the kitchen. “Didn’t your mom feed you before you left?” That’s typically what happens. “Not today. She was running late.” I couldn’t blame her as I was too. I pull out the cereals and milk and let them have at it. So much for my walk. If I had gotten up at 7:30 like usual, I would have had time to take it before the grandkids showed up, but now, it’s too late. Hercules wags his tail. He knows we should be leaving, but I rub his head and say, “Not now, buddy.” He skulks away and heads out the doggy door. After I play some Xbox games with the boys and a princess game with Claire, I turn on Disney in the basement and let them watch something for a while. I turn on my laptop and type in Channel 2 News, and the first article that pops up is about the dead male body. Here we go … Every fiber of my being is screaming that the dead body is Troy. Who else would it be? If Deanna and the kids haven’t seen him since their divorce, and she has no idea where he is, the logical conclusion is that someone murdered him and then dumped his body in her front yard. And then a new thought gives me chills.

After our walk, I settle into doing some work and Zoom with a client about their marketing strategy for a new product they developed. It’s nearly 1:00, and I can take a break and grab some lunch. I decide to check out some information about arsenic. I know it’s a fast-acting poison that kills in minutes if given enough, but in smaller amounts, it causes gastrointestinal symptoms, including abdominal pain, diarrhea, heart disease, numbness, hair loss, convulsions, and even cancer.  I learned about it many years ago in one of my gardening classes when pesticides were discussed. As I read, I realize that arsenic is found in several things, either organically or non-organically, and it’s not that easy to get. One such source is pesticides. The use of arsenate pesticides has largely been eliminated in the U.S., but three states still have contamination, including Washington, Wisconsin, and New Jersey. You would have to be exposed, though, for longer amounts of time to have the systematic effects. So, how did the killer get arsenic? I scroll down, and this paragraph catches my attention. So, it can kill slowly or quickly, depending on its source and volume, and can be virtually undetectable.  If this person who texted me the riddle knows Troy was killed with it, how do they know? Am I really conversing with the killer? And why me? What do I have to do with any of this? I contemplate talking to Brock about the text messages. Obviously, someone is toying with me, but why? Is it to scare me, warn me, or something else? If I tell Brock, he will want to report it to the police, but I need to follow this and see where it leads. If I feel in danger, then I will go to him. I know he will be upset and hurt, but these messages maybe aren't meant to harm me but to inform me. I turn on the TV to see if any new information has come out since yesterday, but nothing so far. I know getting the medical examination report back can take days or longer, so I have to wait. I look around my kitchen, a stark contrast to Leah’s. We’ve lived in this house for thirty years when Ian just turned 5, and it looks like it. We have the same cherry oak cupboards and marbled white and black tile. The windows have a film I can’t see to remove, and our table is made from a dark cedar my brother-in-law gave us for our 20th anniversary that looks a little worn. We did redo our counters at the same time Leah did hers, as she gave us the wholesale discount from one of the suppliers of her interior design company. We chose a sleek white and black speckled granite that we did in both the kitchen and the bathrooms about five years ago and painted the walls beige throughout the house. A few accent walls of creamy white and smoky blue completed the look. I have Knick knacks on a few shelves in the corner back wall and one large square mirror to frame our table. And like Leah, I cut fresh flowers and arrange them weekly. The rest of the house looks lived in, especially when our grandchildren come over. Occasionally, we have sleepovers with all 8 of them. After playing games, we spread sleeping bags downstairs, give them pizza, popcorn, and drinks, and then they crash after watching TV for hours. Brock and I sit in the living room upstairs with a glass of wine and watch our show. We check on them, turn off the TV and lights, and head to our bedroom. It gives their parents a much-needed break, and we get to spend time with them, sugar them up, and then say goodbye. It’s a win-win. When we bought our home in 1993, we loved the layout. The three-story, 2800 sq foot property housed a large family room, den, and half-bath downstairs. A spacious living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom were on the main floor. Upstairs were three bedrooms with two more bathrooms – the master and the guest. All three boys had a room, with Josh and Ian upstairs and Eric in the basement since he was older. A small attic split the boy’s bedroom, and our room was across the hall, so we watched both monsters well. A master bath and guest bathroom down the hall was our saving grace. My oasis, though, is our backyard. Sitting on ¼ of an acre are several gardens I tend to, with a cobbled stone pathway that leads to the west and east gate, a water fountain over to the east corner with circular rows of perennials and annuals, including petunias, sweet alyssum, and lilies surrounding it. On the south side, a white vinyl fence is a backdrop for purple and yellow irises with different annuals in front that I plant every year. We also have a trampoline and playground for the grandkids on the east side of the house. A large wraparound deck on the bottom level attaches to a similar one on the top, so we have plenty of room to host barbeques and parties. And my favorite structure is the gazebo in the middle of our lawn which is the main attraction. I cut out the grass surrounding it and planted rows of pink and purple hydrangeas. Since they like shade more than sun, the gazebo protects them. I snap out of my trance and realize there’s not much food to eat after the grandkids ransacked it the day before, and since they are coming back tomorrow, I need to replenish the milk, cereal, and stuff for lunch and snacks. It’s expensive feeding four kids these days. _____________________________ After I pillage Walmart for anything and everything we would need for the week, I get home and check the TV for any news. I sit down on my plush tan couch and hope there's something, but I know there's likely not. When nothing shows, I turn it back off and then remember I would call Grayson, (Gray) The Chief of Police. I punch in his number and wait. “Chief Grayson,” he answers, sounding weary. “Hey Gray, it’s Trice. How’s it going?” “Well, let’s see, my dog died last week, the fridge is broken, and now I have a dead body we have yet to ID, and the press is breathing down my neck.” “Oh no, Peaches died?” He loved that dog and took her everywhere with him, but I could tell she was getting old and wasn’t sure how long she had left. “Yeah, bone cancer. The vet said she would have died of something, given how old she was.” I could tell he didn’t want to talk, as I could hear him sigh. Peaches was nearly 14, but losing your fur baby is still heartbreaking even though they get old. “So, what can I do for you?” Now, I feel bad for calling and doing what the press is doing, breathing down his neck about the dead body. “Not much, just wanted to say hi.” “Trice, I know you, and you don’t just call me to say hi, so out with it.” Shoot, now what do I say? “I just thought, you know, you can fill me in on the details of what happened at Deanna’s.” I cringe, knowing I’m wasting his time. He sighs again, this time heavily. “Look, right now, all I know is that Deanna discovered a male body yesterday morning around 8:00. She was shocked and didn’t know how the body got there or how long it had been there. She said nothing ever looked out of place, and she was afraid of what the police would ask her because she had no idea how it happened and when. From the looks of the body, it wasn’t there a very long time, maybe a few months.” I narrowed my eyebrows. “Only a few months, that’s it? That makes no sense. Someone had to have dug up her plants, dropped Troy in the ground, and then replanted them. Who would have done that and why?" He cocked his head. "What makes you think it's Troy?" Oh shoot, I didn't even think about what I was saying. “Come on, Gray. Who else would it be? He's been missing for two years. What father just up and leaves his family without a word and then never contacts them again?" He bows his head, and then I remember. His father did when he was 13. "Oh, Gray, I- I didn't mean ..." "No, you're right. Who does that? Unfortunately, more than you think." "I just don't think Troy would; he doesn't seem like someone that would abandon his family." But then, maybe I didn't know Troy as well as I thought I did because I never thought Gray's father would leave either. "Believe me, Trice, I hope not, but it may partially explain the dead body. But, seeing as he hasn't been heard of or seen for two years makes this case very strange. I mean, where has he been and why kill him now?" I take a chance. "What did Deanna say when you questioned her?" "Trice, you know I can't divulge that information." I tried. "But, I can say that she told one of my officers that she went out there regularly to weed but never saw anything suspicious.” Deanna  ? In all the time I have known her, I never saw her in the yard weeding. She watered and trimmed but did not weed. She told me it hurt her back, and they would return the next day anyway. That part is true. “Gray, do you know when the examination will be concluded?” “They promised me by end of week, but the full tox results won't be in for a week or longer.” So, in another two days. “Okay, thanks for humoring me.” “Did I have a choice?” He chuckled. “Not really.” Gray knows I’m a stubborn mule and won’t stop until my questions are answered, or problems are solved. Maybe that’s why I love gardening and marketing so much. There are always challenges to address and fix, and then you see the reward. “Well, I need to get some paperwork finished. Need anything else?” My thoughts race back to the unknown text messages, but I never say anything to Gray. “No, but thanks for the info. I just wish we had any inkling of why someone would do this.” But the following four words Gray utters to me haunt me the rest of the day. “If you only knew …”

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.

I hope you're enjoying the book so far - again, let me know your thoughts! I'm on a roll and have written ten chapters so far. I write a chapter a day and then edit and proofread. I may not catch every grammar mistake, so if you see any, please let me know! I have a pretty thick skin from all my rejections thus far, so you won't hurt my feelings. A quick tip about Asters is that, in general, it's best to transplant them in the spring or fall. Spring is the best time to transplant if you live in an area with a cool climate. Fall is the best time to transplant if you live in an area with a warm climate. Now, onto Chapter Three ... As soon as I duck inside my house, my phone buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket and see the message: HEY GARDENING GURU, DO YOU WANT TO KNOW THE SECRETS TO ASTERS? IT’S IN THE SOIL I look at the message, puzzled but also slightly freaked out. Who is this, and how did they get my number? Better yet, how did they know about my YouTube channel, and why did they mention ASTERS?? Goosebumps dot my arms, and my heartbeat accelerates. I get great comments on my channel, mostly from other gardening enthusiasts, but I’ve never had a message about it or the fact that a dead body was just found where my neighbor’s asters used to be. This is NOT a coincidence. “Hun, you look like you’ve seen a ghost ... or," he pats my stomach and grins, "like you’re going to be sick.” I know he's messing around, but he also wanted a girl every time I became pregnant. It just wasn't meant to be; instead, I got three rowdy boys that loved to scare their mother to death on more than a few occasions. “Yeah, right!” I playfully slap him on the shoulder. How could he think I was pregnant, for God's sake? It would be an immaculate conception, as Brock had a vasectomy after our youngest was born. There was no way I would have another boy if I could help it. “I would love a little girl,” Brock says, putting his arms around my waist. “A little mini Trice would be fun. I would dress her up in fancy dresses and parade her around, and when she turned into a moody teen, have a shotgun nearby in case one of the guys got handsy.” “Are you serious? You’d be nearly 77 when she graduated!” I chuckled. “Plus, you wouldn’t let her out of the house until she was 30.” “You got that right,” he said, then planted a big kiss on my cheek. “So, what’s up?” For a minute, I forget about this cryptic message I had received, but then it slams back into my thoughts. “Well, you heard the sirens, right?” “No, I was taking a shower.” “That had to be the longest shower in history, then,” I joke. “You know me and my showers, babe. I have to be pristine clean.” He smacks his lips. “That you do.” My husband is nothing, if not a clean freak. Call it OCD, but he was raised by a mother who religiously kept their home spic and span. He grew up doing chores, but not just any chores. His mom was a single mother since Brock’s dad died when he was 6, almost the same age I was when mine died. That’s what drew us together when we first started dating in the 80s. He was the only son with three older sisters, so he was the “man of the house” and was expected to do what his father would have done. This meant plumbing, electrical, mowing, and even farming. His grandfather taught him to “take care of your momma and sisters,” and he swore he would. From that day forward, he kept his word. In fact, sometimes, he still travels to help his mother and sisters out, even though they live in Iowa. “So, the police found a dead body in Deanna’s flower bed!” “Say what?” Brock looks at me and then laughs. “I’m dead serious,” and then realized that was the most inappropriate pun for this conversation. “Haha,  now that’s a pun if I ever heard one.” I was getting frustrated, wanting him to take it seriously. “Yes, they just removed a dead body not more than 30 minutes ago. I was walking by the house and saw a big hump right where her Asters were, and then on my way back, there were police, firetrucks, an ambulance, and the medical examiners at the house. The hump was gone, and a big hole took its place. You should have seen Deanna's face. She looked terrified. But then I would be too if the police had just discovered a dead body in my yard. But I don’t understand how and when someone could dump a body and why. Did Deanna know? Did she contact them? It’s all so weird,” I say, drifting off into my world of imagination. “Oh wow, that’s crazy,” Brock ran his fingers through his almost silver hair. He’s three years older than I am, turning the big 60 soon, and is self-conscious about his black hair that has “turned old,” as he has put it. Well, duh … he’s no spring chicken anymore, even though he doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him, but his wrinkles are becoming more prominent on his light olive complexion, whereas mine have been there for a least a decade. Still, his blue eyes attracted me to him, and all three of my boys are the same color. “I need to talk to Grayson,” I mention the Chief of Police’s name, the one I grew up with. Grayson (Gray) Errington had always wanted to be a police officer. We dated a few times. He was 18, and I was 16, but in a small town, you took what you could get, and Gray was a cute guy that all the girls wanted to date. Not too short or too tall, Gray had a chiseled face with one small dimple that drove the girls crazy. It didn't help that his eyes were pure brown, and when he smiled, you swooned (yeah, I sound like Sandy in   when she describes Danny and the time they spent that summer.) He had boasted that he never had a cavity, and I often wonder if he whitens his teeth. “Trice …” Brock’s tone tells me what I already know. I shouldn’t go digging into something that’s not my business. But it is since it’s my next-door neighbor. I look at him innocently. “What? I need to know who that was.” “Let the police handle it. I’m sure once they know, everyone in town and the country will know.” He knows me too well. I love true crime and always watch YouTube videos of it or listen to podcasts about it. I know it’s rather macabre, but learning about the suspect’s motives is fascinating. I get educated on what to look for, especially in a small town where supposedly nothing happens. Except it does, and it did, and it's right next door. “Killjoy,” I mutter, going into the kitchen. “Grandma, I’m starving,” Chris looks at me with   puppy dog eyes. “Okay … why are you telling me? You’re old enough to grab your breakfast.” “But we  your French toast,” he says, eying his little brother, who chimes in with, “Yeah!” I roll my eyes at them but give in. “Fine.” All four boys, including Brock, and Claire, punch the air. When I’m not feeding the monsters, tending to my gardens, or cleaning the house and doing all the ‘Grandma’ stuff, I’m on my computer as a marketing consultant for large and small corporations. I love that I can work whatever hours I want, without bosses, coworkers, or the “culture” of companies that want you to be great at foosball or escape rooms. That’s just not how I work. I like connecting with my clients, and if they’re local, I will meet them somewhere to discuss their marketing goals. Some of my longtime clients also follow my YouTube gardening channel. Hey, you have to nurture them to keep them. So, I give them special discounts on gardening supplies and equipment from companies that sponsor me. It’s a win-win situation. Later that day, after the house was clean and I had worked in the garden for a few hours, weeding, pruning, and digging up some bushes that didn’t make it through our last windstorm, I sat on my deck swing, drinking a cold glass of iced tea. It was 92 today, and I downed my water bottle three times. I’m not a sun bunny, weird as that may be, since I love gardening. I would be perfectly happy with year-round temps of 70 degrees on a partly cloudy day. Watching the clouds drift by, sneaking in and out of the sun, and a slight breeze would be heaven to me. Since that message from earlier, my phone has not buzzed. I told Leah I would come over later in the day. After noticing it’s already close to 5:00, I quickly text, asking if this is a good time. SURE I tell Brock I’m heading over to Leah’s but will be home for dinner in an hour or two. He’s playing X-Box with all three boys, and Claire is coloring, her legs swaying under the desk and her blond pigtails matching the beat to a YouTube Kids video she’s watching on her iPad. He waves me away. “See ya,” is all he said. I had already planned on him grilling tonight, and earlier, I made a salad and had fresh fruit chilling in the crisper. After brushing my hair and dabbing on some makeup, I walk across the street. I turn and look at Deanna’s yard and the same hole with the same yellow tape flapping in the breeze. No one was outside. Of course, I wouldn’t have my kids out there with a hole they could fall into. It reminded me that I still needed to talk to Gray sometime soon. I rap on the door and wait. Leah flings the door open and ushers me inside. “Quick, come!” I follow her as she drags me to their large TV screen in their gorgeous living room. The news is on, and Deanna’s home is front and center. “Listen,” she says, then motions for me to sit on their tan leather couch. A reporter is talking.  I sat riveted to the TV, but all I could think of was the message I had received earlier, and which was likely on everyone's mind. Could it really be him?

A police car, ambulance, and fire truck were lined up at my neighbor’s house, and a body zipped in a black bag was lying on a stretcher. My hand flew to my mouth. What the ever-living just happened? I had heard sirens on my walk, but I always heard them and thought nothing of it. Why would I ever think they were coming to my neighbor’s home? It was our day to watch Chris, Clay, Connor, and Claire, and yes, trying not to screw up their names was difficult. On more than one occasion, I would call the 10-year-old triplets by each other’s names. Claire, the 7-year-old, would just roll her eyes. “Grandma, you will never get it right.” I had to hand it to her. She knew her grandma well. As we get closer to the house, I watch as they are camped out on the sidewalk, just staring, along with other neighbors, more coming by the minute. Breathless, I let Hercules pull me to where they were, his tail wagging. “Boys, what’s going on?” “Don’t know,” Chris said. “Heard the sirens and came out. My eyebrows scrunch inward as I think about the hump I saw just an hour earlier that, now as I look, has been dug up and the hole emptied. So that’s what that was. But who is it? The thought makes my stomach flip flop. My across-the-street neighbor and good friend, Leah, scurried across and met us. “Oh my, what happened?” “We’re still trying to figure it out.” Leah Abernacky, no, not Abernathy, has been my friend for 20 years. She and her husband, Trevor, and their four kids moved in close to the same time we did, and apart from her impeccable style as an interior designer and the fact that she always looks like she’s hitting the red carpet, we are two peas in a pod. We’re the same age, height at 5’5, and have dark brown hair with silver streaks peppered throughout, and we both love gardening. Our boys are also the same age – Jason and Jared are 33 and 31, and her twin girls, who are gorgeous and own a law firm, just turned 29. However, neither is married, and her two boys are across the country in New York, married and with three kids between them; however, she only sees them once a year. So, she told me when my grandkids arrived that she would adopt them as her own and dub them her by-proxy grandkids. Today, she’s wearing black yoga pants and a white tank; her medium-length, dark brown hair, is pulled into a tight low ponytail. I know she just finished working out. At 57, she looks fantastic. But it wasn’t always like that. After gaining nearly 50 pounds several years ago and developing high blood pressure, her doctor told her to lose the weight and start exercising, so she didn’t end up having a heart attack or stroke. She took it to heart and is now a fitness fanatic, and you can tell, as she has a slim waist and somewhat of a six-pack and bulging arm muscles that put mine and our whole blocks to shame. Even though I walk, garden, and occasionally hike, I can’t compare to her two-hour daily workouts that would kill me – no joke. She also has minor wrinkles, and I swear she has Botox done. “I just finished my workout when I heard those god-awful sirens and thought the worst.” She hugged me fiercely, nearly knocking the breath out of me. “I don’t know what I would have done if it had been your house they were going to.” “Oh Lee,” my nickname for her. “Same.” We all watched as the police interviewed Deanna as she stared off into space. Her eyes were fixated on the spot where they found the body. Her long blonde hair looked mussed up, and tears slid down her cheeks. I could tell she was shaken up as she wrung her hands against her black tank top, and her left foot was shaking, making her gray baggy shorts go up and down. She shook her head several times. I couldn’t see the kids and wondered if a relative had come and was watching them inside the house. A horrible thought came to my mind, and I gasped … no, it couldn’t be, could it? “What?” Leah turned to me. “I just thought of who could be in the bag.” We both were thinking the same thing – Troy. “ Just an hour ago, as I started walking down the street, I saw this hump right where they found the body.” “Really?” her eyes widened. “Yeah. It was … odd, but I didn’t think anything of it since she’s always killing her plants from insufficient water or too much, or whatever. You know what I mean.” Leah nodded. Deanna wasn’t much of a gardener; that was her ex, Troy’s, passion. He sure knew how to grow herbs and vegetables and liked that more than the flowers. Still, he wanted the yard to look nice, so he agreed when I mentioned the David Austin roses. They lined his white vinyl fence, which pretty much borders every house on the block, with stunning yellow, white, red, and pink bushes that smelled heavenly. Just shortly after he left, I noticed the asters and figured Deanna put them in. The following year, they blossomed in the spring, and I recalled how pretty they were and that they fit the area nicely. However, the roses overgrew the area, and the weeds started piling up alongside the fence. But with three kids in tow and Deanna needing to work, there just isn’t time to garden, as she has told me repeatedly. I completely understand as she looks haggard these days. When Troy first left, it devastated her. She didn’t eat and barely looked after the kids. Her mother came to live with them for a while and helped while Deanna worked two jobs. Even though she had alimony, it wasn’t enough. I haven’t seen Troy since he left. I figured there would be joint custody, but I never saw him come for the kids, which I thought was strange and heartbreaking for them. I look around the street, and a crowd has gathered by now. People taking pictures with their phones and whispering and pointing. Sometimes, I hate social media because you know that’s where the pics end up and gossip starts, and before you know it, the whole street becomes a tourist attraction. I’m not sure when we will find out who was buried there, and by the looks of it, Deanna won’t be telling us anytime soon. The police also won’t say anything until an identity is discovered. Still, I knew the Chief of Police as I went to school with him. Maybe I can get something out of him – just not yet. “Grandma, what’s in the black bag?” Connor asks innocently. I don’t know how to answer him. “I don’t know, sport.” Even though the boys are all the same age, Connor is more mature and the most sensitive. He also has high-functioning autism and is a brilliant kid. “It’s a body, dummy,” Chris chimes in – the least sensitive of the three and the one without a filter. “Chris!” I turned to scold him. “Why did you have to say that?” “It’s true. The kid has to learn sometime about dead bodies.” If this kid weren’t my grandson, I would be quite tempted to reach over and throttle him. He knows his brother has a difficult time with trauma, especially because he did learn about dead bodies when someone shot a neighbor kid when he was only seven years old. My son and his family had lived in an apartment complex in Portland, Oregon, and while Connor was walking home from school, a fight broke out in one of the apartments, and he saw a teen shoot another teen, who then went down. Connor stared at the blood pooling around him and ran home. He didn’t speak for nearly a week after. It was also the same year he was diagnosed with autism. Connor crowds closer to me and grabs my hand. My heart melts. “It’s okay.” A 7-year-old shouldn’t have to witness death at such a young age.” How do I know? My father passed when I was only Connor’s age. Sometimes, people die when they’re young. The opposite neighbor to Deanna had come to see what was going on, and as I watched, he stood there with a slight grin, his arms folded. I glare at him. He never liked the Carmichaels, especially Troy. “He’s so damn loud,” I heard Jack Montgomery say once a few years ago. “Always blaring his music at 7:00 in the morning while I’m trying to sleep.” Jack is a truck driver and is on the road more times than not. His wife, Cindy, and their two kids are recluses. Cindy is paranoid about anyone coming by, or as she says, “skulking about the street.” The 12- and 14-year-old girls, Brianna and Bridget, keep to themselves and don’t do what typical girls their age do. Cindy even homeschools them. It’s like their prisoners. Jack couldn’t care less what they do since he’s never around, but Cindy was attacked when she was a teenager, and since then, she has developed a panic disorder and is mainly agoraphobic, meaning afraid of open spaces. She told the girls of her harrowing experience, which frightened them so much that they thought the world was a dangerous place, and if they went out for more than a few minutes, someone would attack them like they did their mother. Cindy works from home as a computer programmer, so it works for her. She can constantly “keep an eagle’s eye on them and the street,” she told me once. I feel for her and her girls. Life isn’t meant to be fearful.   Leah hugs me. “Got to go, but let’s chat later, k?” I nod and watch as she jogs across the street. “All right guys, the show is over,” after the vehicles left, one by one, and yellow police tape surrounded the now empty spot in their yard. “Oh, come on, Why can’t we stay outside? It’s summer,” Clay moaned. Yeah, that’s not the reason, and they know it. “Boys?” I plant my hands on my hips, which the boys know means case closed. Claire obediently follows me while the boys take their sweet time. As I said before, Heaven help her. As I start towards the door, I can still see Jack staring at me before he turns and walks away. It sent shivers through me. But the one thought I can't get out of my head is Troy. There are so many questions now that a dead body has been discovered. Why have I never seen or heard from him? Deanna and I have had plenty of coffee chats; she never mentioned him. And then I start connecting the dots, and it dawns on me. It’s almost like he … vanished.