Deadhead and Buried

by H. Y. Hanna

  “Hubert, can I ask you something?” she spoke up, interrupting him as he started rambling on about some exciting news he had for her.

  He stopped, looking surprised at her tone. “Uh… sure.”

  “Was Dr Goh my grandmother’s GP?”

  “Dr Goh…?” He looked completely bemused.

  “Is he a good friend of yours?”

  Hubert looked slightly shifty. “Well, I wouldn’t call him a friend, exactly. We’re both on the board of OGS.”

  “OGS?”

  “The Oxfordshire Galanthophiles Society.”

  “Oh.” Poppy was slightly nonplussed. “Um… I overheard a conversation you were having on your phone—with Dr Goh. You asked him to express concerns about something and said that you’d make it worth his while.”

  Hubert flushed. “Oh… uh… that.” He cleared his throat and said defensively, “It wasn’t anything… ahem… illegal…”

  “Bribery can be a criminal offence,” said Poppy. “It’s sort of like the reverse of extortion, isn’t it? When you offer money to—”

  “What? I wasn’t offering Dr Goh money!”

  Poppy blinked in confusion. “But… but you said you’d make it worth his while. What were you offering him then?”

  “Bulbs! Galanthus woronowii 'Elizabeth Harrison’, as a matter of fact. It’s a rare yellow snowdrop,” Hubert explained at her blank look. “Very hard to find. Even harder to bulk up.”

  “Ohhh… I thought you were offering him money to lie about my grandmother’s—” She broke off guiltily.

  “I wasn’t asking Goh to lie!” said Hubert indignantly. “I just wanted him to… uh… express some doubts. About Martin Veeland. He and I are both in the running to become the next president of OGS, you see. The nominations are next month and… and it’s obvious Veeland would make a lousy president. I mean, the man is just a chequebook gardener! Gets all his plants from eBay,” said Hubert contemptuously. “But he’s got good connections and I could see all the board members voting for him, just because of the bloody old boys’ network. So I was just trying to even the odds—get some of the board members on my side.”

  “And… and Dr Goh wasn’t my grandmother’s GP?”

  Hubert looked bewildered by the seemingly random question. “Eh? No, Goh’s not a GP. He’s an opthalmologist. Why?”

  Poppy felt embarrassed and very stupid. She had completely misinterpreted the eavesdropped conversation! She gave Hubert a weak smile.

  “Er… nothing. It was just a mistake. So… you said you had some exciting news for me?” she said quickly, to distract him.

  His face brightened. “Ah—yes!” He spread some documents out on the kitchen table. “Look at this! It’s a second offer for Hollyhock Cottage and gardens, from a company called Blackmort Developments, and they’re offering double the amount of the first company. Can you believe that? Twice as much money!”

  He rubbed his hands, obviously thinking of his whopping agent’s commission on the increased amount. “It’s simply too good to miss. And they’re prepared to transfer the full amount—minus a modest agent’s fee to yours truly, of course,” he gave a little cough, “—in cash to your bank account as soon as you sign the contract. So I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up the sales agreement and all I need is your signature… here.”

  Hubert thrust a pen at Poppy and slid one of the pieces of paper in front of her. She looked down and her eyes widened at the number on the page in front of her. She had never seen a pound sign with so many zeros after it in her life! Her head swam slightly. With that kind of money, she could buy fresh roses every day… get a whole new wardrobe… go on a round-the-world cruise for a year…

  She picked up the pen and her hand hovered over the dotted line. She thought of the glittering lights of Hollywood… of her father, waiting to be found… of a glamorous new life in America…

  …and then she thought of a garden deep in the heart of rural Oxfordshire, with climbing roses and towering hollyhocks, and fragrant lavender lining the path to a little cottage nestled among the flowerbeds…

  Poppy put the pen back down and pushed the paper away from her. “No,” she said.

  “N-no?” stammered Hubert. Then his face cleared. “Ah, you mean you prefer the first offer? Well, I suppose it’s not as much money but it’s still a very good price—”

  “No,” said Poppy again. She took a deep breath. “I mean—I’m not selling the cottage. For any price.”

  Hubert’s mouth fell open. His jaw worked up and down but no sound came out. Finally, he croaked, “You’re having me on, aren’t you, cousin?”

  “No, I’m perfectly serious,” said Poppy. She stood up from the table. “I’m staying in the cottage.”

  “But you can’t. Don’t think I don’t know the terms of the will,” snapped Hubert. “You can only live here if you continue the family business.”

  “I… I’m going to. I’m reopening Hollyhock Cottage Garden Nursery.”

  “What? But you don’t know the first thing about running a plant nursery!” sneered Hubert.

  Poppy raised her chin. “I can learn. The Lancasters have plants in their blood—and I’m a Lancaster.”

  “You… you can’t do this!” spluttered Hubert furiously. “You have to sell the cottage—then at least I’d get something out of the commission! The estate should have come to me! ME!” He jabbed his chest. “Mary Lancaster had no right giving it all to some illegitimate brat who’d never even met her! You owe it to me to sell the place, so that at least I get some share of the proceeds—”

  “I don’t owe you anything,” said Poppy, drawing herself up to her full five feet, two inches. “I’m sorry that you lost out in the will, Hubert, but that’s not my fault. My grandmother had the right to leave her estate how she chose—and she chose to give it to me.”

  She paused, then added softly with a smile, “Maybe because she knew that I would honour her memory. She knew that I wouldn’t sell the cottage and gardens to some property developer to chop up into townhouse units—no, she knew that I would fulfil her dream: make Hollyhock Cottage my home and the garden nursery my living.”

  She gathered up the papers from the table, stuffed them into Hubert’s lifeless hands, and steered her cousin to the front door. A few minutes later, she stood on the front porch and watched as he stalked angrily down the path and out into the lane, slamming the gate behind him.

  Peace descended in the garden. A soft breeze stirred the leaves in the trees and bent the tall grasses and weeds growing by the path. A few loose rose petals fluttered past, like pretty pastel butterflies chasing each other in the wind.

  Poppy took a deep breath and looked around. Her heart sank as she took in all the weeds, the thorny brambles, the overgrown bushes… It was going to need a lot of work to restore the cottage garden to its former glory. She had no money, no plan, and no experience…

  She felt a flash of panic. Oh my God—have I done the right thing? She could have taken the money and by this time next week, she would have been on a cruise ship, sipping a cocktail in the sun. Instead of which…

  Then she glanced down and her heart gave a different kind of lurch. There, by the side of the path, was a mound of lush green leaves surrounding a cluster of flowers. They were a vivid cherry-red, shaped a bit like lilies, with strikingly marked petals that seemed to glow in the late-afternoon sun, and they were absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful.

  Poppy dropped to her knees beside the mound and reached out to touch a silky red petal, a smile of wonder breaking across her face. It was the alstroemeria—and it was flowering! She laughed; it obviously hadn’t suffered any ill effects from having its pot smashed on someone’s head, followed by a hasty planting by a complete beginner gardener.

  She stroked one soft green leaf and felt a sense of achievement and pride, such as she’d never felt before, as she looked at the first flower she’d planted. She glanced round again—at the overgrown beds around her—and this time, instead
of despair, she felt excitement fill her. She couldn’t wait to fill the garden with beautiful flowers—all planted by herself!

  As she was about to stand up again, her fingers brushed against something in the soil next to the alstroemeria. Poppy picked it up: it was the tip of a stem, dry and withered, with tiny dessicated leaves and flower petals that still showed a faint lavender colour. It must have fallen off a plant which had been flowering a few months ago and it had lain forgotten in the neglected garden, drying slowly into a thing of faded beauty.

  It’s a sprig of heather, Poppy realised, seeing the resemblance to the pin she had been given by the charity volunteer on the street. And with that thought came the memory of the woman’s voice:

  “Flowers have meanings associated with them, you know... Heather symbolises transformative change—from the mundane to the extraordinary.”

  Poppy stared at the dried sprig of heather and a smile spread slowly across her face as the truth hit her. She’d thought that she needed Hollywood glamour, a rock-star father, a round-the-world cruise and more, to make her life extraordinary.

  But she’d been wrong: the extraordinary had been here all along… in a beautiful cottage garden in England.

  Don’t miss the next book in this series!

  SILENT BUD DEADLY

  (The English Cottage Garden Mysteries ~ Book 2)

  Poppy never imagined she’d move to the English countryside and fall in love with a smug, demanding, ginger-haired male. Of course, that’s before she discovers that she’s inherited a cottage garden nursery and before she meets a certain talkative orange cat named Oren. Now she’s embracing a new life filled with rambling roses, scented herbs, warm summer days… and weeds (lots of weeds), as she attempts to restore the neglected cottage garden to its former glory.

  When she lands her first gardening job at a beautiful country house, Poppy is delighted to earn some much-needed money. But she barely sets foot in the flower bed before the meddling next-door neighbour drops dead—murdered by a lethal poison. Before she knows it, Poppy is busy weeding out suspects, helped by whacky old inventor Bertie and his feisty terrier, Einstein, plus a whole host of nosy villagers… not to mention Nick Forrest, the maverick crime author.

  But with her clients’ flowerbed mysteriously dying and red herrings at every turn, Poppy soon discovers that neither gardening nor sleuthing are as simple as she thinks…

  Here is an excerpt:

  What had she been thinking? She had no plans, no skills, no real experience of gardening. She had nothing other than a few plant books left by her grandmother and a lifelong love of flowers. Why did she ever think she would be able to run a garden nursery?

  Her anxiety deepened as she thought of the credit card bills she still had to pay off. She might have a place to live rent-free now but she still had to keep up the minimum payments on the credit card each month, and with no job and no income, how was she going to find the money? That bit of cash from the estate was only enough to tide her over for a few weeks, but after that?

  A bee flew past her ear, buzzing merrily on its way back to its hive, and startling Poppy out of her agitated thoughts. She closed her eyes and took several deep, calming breaths. When she opened them again, she became aware of the faint sound of feline cries.

  Oren! She looked around for the ginger tom. He was no longer by the bush, washing his face. Instead, cries were coming from the very back of the garden. Hurriedly, she pushed her way through the undergrowth, following the cries until she came to the walled corner at the rear of the garden. Growing against the limestone wall was a monster of a rosebush—no, not a bush, but a huge rambler with enormous thorny canes snaking out in all directions, like the tentacles of some spiny sea monster. Clusters of creamy-white flowers decorated the prickly stems that arched out across the tangled mass, so that it looked like the sea monster was covered in foam, having a bubble bath…

  Poppy stared at it, wondering what to do. The rambler rose formed a huge mound, taller than her and several feet wide. Oren’s cries were coming from deep in the spiky mass. Had he wriggled in somehow and then got stuck amongst the barbed branches?

  “Oren? Are you there?”

  “N-ow! N-oooow!”

  “Hang on… I’m coming!” called Poppy

  She reached forwards tentatively and tried to lift one of the stems. “Ouch!” She jerked back as a sharp thorn embedded itself in her thumb.

  She took a step back, sucking the wound on her thumb, and considered the monster plant again. She noticed a gap where its canes were draped over the wall on one side. The opening led into a hollow within the thicket of prickly branches. Slowly, she picked her way around until she reached the wall and, to her surprise, saw a wooden door through the opening.

  For a moment, all the childhood stories she had read of fairy groves and secret hollows in enchanted forests ran through her head… then, as she looked closer, she realised that there was a much more prosaic explanation. The door belonged to an old wooden shed. The rose must have once been planted next to the shed and expected to grow up and cover the wooden roof in a pretty manner, but with time and neglect, it had just kept growing and growing, until it was now eating everything in that corner of the garden. In fact, if she hadn’t come round to the side, next to the wall, she would never have even realised that there was a shed underneath.

  Oren was standing outside the door, pawing at the wood and demanding for it to be opened.

  “What do you want to go in there for?” Poppy asked. “It’s just a dirty old shed, probably full of cobwebs and spiders…” She shuddered.

  “N-ow!” said Oren, pawing eagerly again at the door. His tail twitched from side to side, and his whiskers quivered with excitement.

  What on earth could be in an old shed that could get him so excited? Poppy wondered. Carefully ducking under a thorny stem, she went up to the door and tried the handle. To her surprise, the door wasn’t locked, although it was stiff, the catch rusty. It took her several shoves to push it open. It swung inwards with a creak of the hinges that would have made any horror movie proud and Poppy felt an uneasy tingle creep up her spine, despite the sunny day.

  She peered through the doorway but the brightness of the sunshine outside and the tangle of rose stems covering all the windows made it hard to see anything in the darkened interior. Poppy took a deep breath and stepped in. Slowly, her eyes acclimatised. The place was crammed with old pots and seed trays, metal tins and glass jars, coils of rubber hose and lengths of twine, rusty shovels, bags of what looked (and smelled) like dried manure, and an assortment of decaying leaves, twigs, and other junk.

  Poppy took a few steps into the shed, wrinkling her nose at the musty smell. It looked like nobody had been in here for months: the cobwebs she had been dreading festooned every corner and a thick layer of dust lay on the potting bench by the window. Well, it was hardly surprising. With that thorny monster covering it on the outside, nobody would want to approach close enough to see the shed, never mind come in. Her heart sank at the thought of having to clear and sort out all this clutter and her first instinct was to back out and shut the door on all this mess. But before she could move, Oren streaked past her legs, making a beeline for the pile of burlap sacks in the corner.

  He sniffed the pile intently, then looked at her over his shoulder. “N-ow?”

  “No, Oren—we’ll come back and sort things out another day,” said Poppy, wanting to leave the grim, dusty interior and get back out into the bright sunshine.

  The cat ignored her, pawing at the sacks instead. “N-ow! N-ow!”

  Poppy frowned, then picked her away across the floor to the pile. “What is it?”

  Oren jumped up onto the top of the pile and pawed at the sacks again, his claws hooking in the rough fabric. Poppy lifted a corner of the burlap but saw nothing.

  “N-owww!” said Oren, climbing around the pile, his tail lashing with excitement.

  Poppy exhaled in exasperation. “What, Oren? There’s not
hing here, just a heap of old sacks—”

  She broke off suddenly as her ears caught a sound. She froze. Was that… a squeak?

  Something moved in the pile. Poppy jerked her hand back, inadvertently knocking one of the burlap sacks off the top and exposing what was underneath. There was a scurry of movement, more squeaking, and Poppy found herself suddenly staring at several beady black eyes.

  It was a nest of rats.

  ***

  Join my Readers’ Club Newsletter to get updates on new releases, exclusive giveaways and other book news!

  http://www.hyhanna.com/newsletter

  Have you read my other mystery series?

  The OXFORD TEAROOM MYSTERIES

  "Scones, a tea shop in England, a kitty & a murder -

  yes, please!"

  A Scone To Die For (Book 1)

  Tea with Milk and Murder (Book 2)

  Two Down, Bun To Go (Book 3)

  Till Death Do Us Tart (Book 4)

  Muffins and Mourning Tea (Book 5)

  Four Puddings and a Funeral (Book 6)

  Another One Bites the Crust (Book 7)

  Apple Strudel Alibi (Book 8)

  The Dough Must Go On (Book 9)

  All-Butter ShortDead (Prequel)

  The BEWITCHED BY CHOCOLATE Mysteries:

  "A cozy mystery with the perfect blend of magic and mayhem. This series has me completely bewitched!"

  Dark, Witch & Creamy (Book 1)

  Witch Chocolate Fudge (Book 2)

  Witch Summer Night’s Cream (Book 3)