fertilizer

Meredith fed the dogs and let them out for five minutes, watching to make sure they didn’t head for the toolshed. When they were back in, she sat at her kitchen table and contemplated a bite of something herself. Maybe some yogurt and a hot cup of tea. Meat didn’t seem at all appealing. Her own spot, the most peaceful place she could imagine, had been violated. She knew rather a lot about death. At her age, one did. But not murder. Would she ever be able to really enjoy those Parson’s Pinks again, knowing what had lain among them?

       On the other hand, she thought later, staring at the floral wallpaper of her bedroom, bone meal was good for roses. Perhaps blood was too.

        It struck her as ironic that someone had planted a body in the President of the Garden Club’s rose garden. Club politics could get pretty vicious, but they had never been a killing matter.