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, dead, 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 Greece 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 those puppy dog eyes.
“Okay … why are you telling me? You’re old enough to grab your breakfast.”
“But we love 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. “Yeah, guys, I’m here in front of Deanna Carmichael’s home. Earlier this morning, and around 8:30, police arrived at this residence to discover the homeowner shocked as she says she was digging to plant some flowers when she noticed something sticking out of the ground – a male human hand.”
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?
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