Long Tramp to Murder by Lynda Wilcox

Author:Lynda Wilcox
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: cozy mystery, British whodunit, Gardening, female sleuths, funny mystery, humorous, Feel good mystery
Publisher: Lynda Wilcox
Published: 2017-10-02T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

Sergeant Stott was a competent officer, even if KD wasn’t enamoured of his investigative skills. When I drove to Green Delights on Monday afternoon, I had no intention of usurping the sergeant's role, I was simply looking for inspiration along with plants and garden furniture and architecture.

Over the weekend, I had showed Josh’s design to Jerry and we’d pored over them together. Other than a warning to keep an eye on the lad, and our bank balance, he did not disapprove of my decision to employ him. Even better, he was more than happy to leave everything in my hands.

I walked into the compound clutching the list of plants that Josh had suggested and meaning to see how many of them the garden centre stocked. I would probably have to go elsewhere for some of the more exotic items, or perhaps buy them online, but it felt good to be out in the fresh air after a dull and cold few days that had kept me largely indoors.

Between us, Josh and I had worked out a plan of campaign. At this time of year, the garden centre wasn’t busy, and he could easily work part-time; he reckoned Green Delights would probably welcome the slight reduction to the payroll. So, starting tomorrow, he would work on my garden on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.

Lacking a workforce and doing most of the gardening at Fernbank on his own, it would, by necessity, be a piecemeal job. I would pay him each time that he came, and choose and purchase the items I wanted as well as anything else that he needed, with the exception of his tools.

In no immediate rush, I wandered around looking in the windows of the other stores on site. I stopped outside a craft shop, my attention held by the display of knitting yarns and embroidery silks in shimmering rainbow hues. I’m convinced that the ability to knit, sew, or weave is hard coded into the DNA of many women — not me, I get excited in a stationery shop — and, for a fleeting moment, I felt the pull of it. I’ve neither knitted nor stitched since I was at school, but my hand itched to get hold of those beautiful coloured threads and run them through my fingers. I had no explanation for why this should be for I have never considered myself crafty — in either sense of the word. Whenever I needed something to occupy my hands and my brain, I reached for a book.

Thankfully, Jerry shared my love of reading, though these days it was more likely to be police reports, and other work related papers that he’d brought home.

Beyond the colourful array I thought, for a moment, that another shop was selling similar things, until I recognised the quick, darting movement of tropical fish. I found watching the brightly-coloured creatures as they flashed through the water, weaving in and out through lacy fronds of weed, or digging their noses into the gravel on the base of the tank, both strangely fascinating and relaxing.

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