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Marigold Allen wandered around her garden. She smiled
at massed flowers, nodded approvingly at citrus trees
bowed under the weight of fruit that were big and
round, and clapped her hands at rows of ripe
vegetables. She sniffed fragrances in the air, the
perfumes of various flowers and the aromas of assorted
herbs; as if to win her approval, they turned their
blooms towards her or emitted an extra burst of scent.
Tendrils of vines plucked teasingly at her hair, as if
they meant to entangle her in an embrace.
She turned to work in a garden bed. Her ample backside
raised in the air, she was in the process of digging
out a long trench, preparatory to adding fertiliser,
when she heard a voice from the side-gate: “Marigold!
Oh, Marigold!”
She winced. It was Alex Papadopoulos, the aged widower
from across the street. Fat, bald and piggy-eyed, he
had definite designs on Marigold. She contributed only
terse (if not actually curt) remarks to his banal
conversations, but he never seemed to take the hint
that she was uninterested.
“Oh... Marigold,” said Alex in a different sort of
voice.
He had let himself into the garden and practically
sneaked up behind her. She suspected he was studying
her rear, which she might have let slide, but then he
pinched one of her buttocks.
Marigold jumped up angrily, fully intending to
threaten him with her spade. But the plants acted
first, and she knew better than to interfere with
them. A pumpkin vine snagged Alex’s ankles, pulling
him down; a grapefruit tree dropped its fat fruit upon
his head; a bougainvillea slashed him with its thorny
tendrils; and a morning glory entwined itself about
his neck and tightened mercilessly. Within a minute he
was swollen-faced and purple and very dead, though
whether from the floral assault or a simple heart
attack, Marigold did not know.
With the help of her green friends, she quickly
dragged Alex’s corpse into the hole she had just dug
and covered it over. The police might come and ask
questions, but they would not suspect her, despite the
evidence of recent digging. After all, what
well-maintained garden did not contain beds of freshly
turned earth?
Marigold smiled. In the early spring she would plant a
new crop of vegetables that would surely flourish with
such a rich source of blood and bone. And next summer,
she would truly enjoy her Greek salads.
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