by Margaret S. Hamilton
This story has never before been published and felt like a great fit for around Earth Day with it’s gardening theme!
Flexing her fingers encased in leather gardening gloves, Betty Birdsall leaned back and admired her freshly-weeded rock garden. Now that it was mid-June, the fuchsia creeping phlox had faded, but purple rock cress and blue star creeper were in full flower, complementing the pink hydrangeas in bloom against the house.
“Very nice, indeed.” Clara Cogbill, chair of the annual House and Garden Tour, tapped a few notes on her tablet. “I suggest more pink in your plant selection, but, of course, it’s up to you.”
Betty muted a murderous glare. “I’ll add a few impatiens. Would you prefer soft or hot pink?”
Clara always had a quick comeback. “Soft pink, of course. Nothing too harsh with your gorgeous hydrangeas.” She leaned closer to Betty. “Tell me, what’s your secret?”
“Nothing other than the usual soil amendments.” Betty clamped her mouth shut. She made her own compost from leaves, vegetable peelings, and coffee grounds. Very special coffee grounds. She shared her compost with a few close friends, not gardening wannabes like Clara.
Betty’s scruffy white dog, the size of a half-loaf of bread, with a ferocious overbite, whined and clawed her leg.
Betty picked her up. “Mabel needs a nap. If you’ll excuse me?”
“Certainly. The woodland garden behind your house is delightful, perfect just the way it is.” Clara leaned in for another confidential exchange.
Mabel growled and barred her teeth.
“Betty, my feeble attempt at a woodland garden is overrun with moles and chipmunks. The deer ate my hostas off at the ground.”
“What a shame.” Betty turned to climb her steep front steps. “Hostas are deer candy. I spray them, and, of course, Mabel alerts me when deer are on the property.”
“And moles? Please tell me you have a humane solution.” Clara batted her bulging blue eyes.
“I don’t.” Betty had a solution, but not one she cared to share with the woman.
Clara had one more item to discuss. “The tour guests will come through your neighbor’s yard?”
“Yes, everything is in order.”
With no additional questions, Clara finally left.
Thirty seconds after her departure, a woman screamed in the neighbor’s yard, across the lane from Betty’s home.
“Not again.” Betty headed toward her driveway.
The screaming continued. Mabel tuned in, creating a two-soprano duet.
Betty patted her. “Simmer down. Jenn Daly screams every time she sees an animal, even a field mouse, in her garden.”
Jenn’s husband Mike opened the gate at the rear of their yard and used a push broom to encourage a black rat snake to leave.
“Hugo, I told you to stay away from Jenn’s yard.” Betty marched closer, still holding Mabel.
The six-foot snake lifted his head and the first twelve inches of his body off the pavement and gave Betty the stink eye.
“Hugo?” Mike asked.
“Hugo divides his time between the bird sanctuary and my woodland garden. After he devours all the moles, mice, and chipmunks in my yard he moves on.”
Mike gave the snake another swipe with the broom. “We’ve got lots of moles, but Jenn prefers to use traps.”
“Didn’t you line the bottom of your fence with chicken wire to keep the snapping turtles away from your dogs?”
“We did. I suspect your pal Hugo climbed a tree and dropped in.”
“I guess the pickings are too good in your garden.” Betty approached Hugo. “Now git!” She prodded the snake with the toe of her trail shoe before he finally slipped under the bird sanctuary chain link fence, silent and supple, his body bulging on one side after a recent meal.
Mike slammed the garden gate closed. “Uh, Betty, we’ve got company.”
Mabel started barking at top volume.
Betty turned, clutching a squirming Mabel. She stood a foot away from a snapping turtle with a shell the size of a hub cap. “Gertrude, you’re two weeks late.”
Gertrude gave her a smirk, her hooked upper beak more pronounced than in previous years, and positioned herself in front of the Daly’s gate, rocking back and forth.
“What do I do now?” Mike held the push broom in front of his feet. “She could snap a paw off one of the dogs.”
“Gertie lays her eggs in the green space farther down the lane. Have a snow shovel handy?”
Mike bellowed for his teenage sons. “Boys, I need a snow shovel, pronto.”
The two teens appeared a minute later, each holding a snow shovel. “Dad, what’s up?”
They were both barefoot. Betty edged away from the snapping turtle. “Kids, if you’ll take Mabel, I’ll use a snow shovel to guide Gertrude on her usual egg-laying path.”
“A snapping turtle? I want to see.” The older son put his hand on the gate latch.
“No shoes, no snapping turtle,” Betty said. “Would you mind holding Mabel?”
“I’ll give your dog to Mom,” he said. “Maybe she’ll stop screaming.”
Betty handed over Mabel and accepted a snow shovel, as did Mike.
“Gertrude will enter the green space where that orange cone is. I marked the spot several weeks ago.”
As Betty nudged Gertrude along the pot-holed lane, Mike walked ahead, stopping the occasional bike rider, and alerting the neighbors. His sons clomped behind them wearing unlaced hiking boots, taking videos with their cell phones.
Residents popped out of their bungalows to wave and cheer. Gertrude seemed to enjoy her annual visit and picked up speed. Betty nudged her off the lane and into the adjacent green space, where Gertrude disappeared into the boggy vegetation.
Betty headed back to Mike’s gate. “Show’s over, folks. Gertrude will take an hour or two to lay her eggs. I’ll wait for her to re-emerge and escort her to the bird sanctuary fence.”
“How does she get through the fence?” Mike asked.
“A big snapping turtle sized hole underneath. Gertrude has used the same route for thirty years.”
Jenn appeared with a leashed Mabel at her side. “Is it safe yet?”
“I’ll make sure Gertrude stays out of your yard.” Betty suppressed a smile. In addition to her family and job, Jenn was one of the Garden Club worker bees, turning up every Saturday morning to weed the community flower beds. In return, Betty had helped Jenn create a three-season garden filled with flowering bushes and perennials.
“After Gertrude tends to her needs, we’ll be in good shape for the House and Garden Tour.”
Due to a lack of parking on the lane, Betty had waited years for the opportunity to have her gardens on the annual tour. With access from Jenn’s yard, she could finally participate. Nothing, not a black snake, not a snapping turtle, would disrupt her place on the garden tour.
“What … what about the snake?” Jenn’s voice quavered. “He … he crawled over my hiking boots.”
“Hugo was just being friendly,” Betty said. “Normally, black snakes are quite timid. Didn’t your dogs spot him?”
“No, they ignored him. Some watchdogs they are.” Jenn and Mike owned two medium-sized golden doodles who howled. Betty suspected they harbored a bit of hound dog in their gene pool.
“Still going ahead with mole traps?” Betty asked.
Jenn bit her lip. “I don’t know what else to do. The moles have tunneled through the garden beds and across the lawn. I’m not running a snake lunch counter all summer.”
“Let’s revisit the topic after the garden tour. Are the dogs interested in the moles?”
“Too interested. They each caught one and left the corpses on our bed.” Jenn shuddered. “I thought the moles were dog toys until I picked them up.”
“You might want to check the dogs when they come through your doggie door.”
Betty had a question for Mike, who taught chemistry at the local college. “Did you get results from the dead plants?”
“Easy enough. My students found white vinegar, Epsom salts, and dish detergent on the foliage and stems. I did a quick internet search. It’s not an effective weed killer. The mixture kills the leaves but not the roots of the plants. They may regenerate next year.”
“Dead plants?” Jenn asked.
“Still trying to identify the perp,” Betty said. “Let’s keep the situation quiet. Clara Cogbill doesn’t need to know. She was just here snooping around my yard.” Betty picked up Mabel. “Keep your gates locked. I’ll be back to check your garden on Wednesday, the day before the tour starts. Give your yard a good watering early in the morning.”
*
The next day, Betty put Mabel outside at daybreak. Mike was already in his backyard, pouring a viscous brown liquid down the mole holes.
Betty crossed the lane and looked through the gate. “What’s your secret remedy?”
Mike hefted a bucket. “A bit of this, a bit of that—tabasco sauce, castor and peppermint oils, all mixed with water. A deterrent, not a poison. No toxic chemicals.” He emptied his bucket in the last hole. “Anything to keep your snake pal away. Double win if the dogs don’t kill any more moles.” Mike whistled for the golden doodles. “Give me a call if you find more dead plants.”
*
Betty sent a group text reminding the garden owners on the tour to watch for dead plants, but not to discuss the situation with Clara Cogbill. After donning her garden club sun visor embroidered with daisies, she loaded Mabel into her car seat and crawled down the lane, watching for snapping turtles on the move. Gertrude was getting on in years, but some of her progeny might use the same turtle-laying grounds.
All the gardens on the tour checked out: the perennials were dead-headed, the beds freshly edged. Betty crisscrossed the yards, checking for mole holes and tunnels. Other than evidence of rabbits and deer, the gardens were in good shape.
Betty made a circuit of the town, stopping to examine the roadside flower beds at major intersections. Brown geraniums. She screeched to a halt. Betty dug up the dead plants, a pronounced odor of vinegar clinging to them. After dumping them into a paper yard bag, she called Mike Daley.
“Betty, can you take a soil sample from the same flower bed? Wear gloves, get your trowel down about six inches. Put the dirt in a zipper plastic bag and stick it in my mailbox. I’m about to head home to walk the doodles.”
*
After Betty had delivered the dead plants and soil sample, she found Clara’s car backed into her driveway, the rear door lifted to reveal six large hosta plants, their root balls wrapped in burlap. Betty’s prized hostas, propagated from stem cuttings which she had nurtured for years.
Betty sent Mabel to confront the thief.
“Get away, you loathsome creature. Don’t touch me.” Clara aimed her foot, clad in a classy British rubber boot, at Mabel.
Betty hoped Mabel would rip the boot to shreds. “Any particular reason you’re digging up my garden?”
Clara straightened up. “After the mess you made in the roadside flower beds, at the last minute I was forced to include my gardens on the tour. I already told you the deer had destroyed my hostas and last night, rabbits ate all the daylily buds.”
Betty crossed her arms. “We have an unknown culprit who killed the geraniums and petunias planted in the roadside gardens with a mixture of Epsom salts, vinegar, and dish detergent. Any idea who that might be?”
Clara leaned on her shovel. “You, perhaps?” Clara always maintained an offensive position.
“Certainly not. It’s an appalling waste of garden club funds.”
Clara plunged her shovel into the composted top soil, already digging up another hosta. “You seem to know the chemical composition of whatever killed the plants.”
“Mike Daley, a chemistry professor at the college, analyzed the weed killer.”
“Is he in on it with you?”
Betty ignored her and tapped 911 on her phone. “Mabel, rip her boots to shreds.”
Mabel grabbed the toe of Clara’s rubber boot and slashed it with her sharp teeth before she started on the second boot.
Clara shrieked and raised her leg, trying to shake Mabel loose. A tenacious terrier, Mabel locked her jaws on the toe of the boot and hung on.
Betty hauled her hosta plants from Clara’s car into her backyard and placed them in their original positions. She checked the front and back seats of the car for a container of weed killer, but found nothing.
Five minutes later, a police officer joined the women in Betty’s woodland garden.
“Officer, thanks for coming,” Betty said. “I interrupted a plant thief helping herself to my hostas. Perhaps she could replant them with my supervision.”
Clara pulled back her shoulders. “As the chair of the House and Garden Tour, I determine whose gardens are open for public viewing. As it turns out, my garden was ravaged by the local wildlife, and Betty kindly offered to give me her hostas.”
Betty ignored Mabel, still attached to Clara’s rubber boot. “Officer, she’s lying. My property, my plants, which I have no intention of giving away.”
The officer took careful notes. “This incident just happened?”
“Yes.” Hands on her hips, Betty stood tall.
“Want to file a police report?”
“I should, but I’ll settle for Clara leaving my property.”
Clara finally freed her booted foot from Mabel’s jaws. “Very well, Betty, you’re off the tour.” She thrust her shovel into the ground an inch from Mabel. “My tour, my decision.”
The police officer closed her notebook. “Ms. Birdsall?”
Betty cleared her throat. “The garden club tour committee selected the gardens on the tour last summer. If a garden suffers damage over the winter, the owner is free to withdraw or replant. I suggest Clara give the local nursery a call. I’m not in a sharing kind of mood.”
Clara shook her shovel in Betty’s face. “You and your friends cleaned out the local plant stores weeks ago.”
Betty crossed her arms. “The Garden Club ordered all the annuals for the public beds from a commercial distributor. We drove several hours each way to collect them.” She paused, then added, “Local suppliers are fully stocked to accommodate customers inspired by the gardens on the tour.
The police officer completed his notes. “Ms. Cogbill, it’s time to leave.”
Clara hefted her shovel. “I’m not finished with you, Betty Birdsall.” She slammed closed the rear door on her SUV.
Betty walked the officer to his patrol car. “Sorry to waste your time. I don’t know what’s gotten into Clara.”
“Someone phoned the department and reported dead plants in the public flower beds. Know anything about it?”
“I know how it was done, suspect who did it, but have no idea of the motive. May I keep you posted?”
He handed Betty a business card. “Please do. I’ll alert the overnight patrols. Chief doesn’t want any trouble during the House and Garden Tour.
Betty dug larger holes for her hostas, inspecting the clay soil for contamination. After she found no evidence of vinegar or Epsom salts, she backfilled the holes with fresh topsoil and compost before she replanted her hostas. Afterwards, she set up her sprinkler to give the plants a gentle soaking.
Betty unlocked her garden shed and removed glass containers of leftover birdseed, sunflower seed, and cracked corn, which she sprinkled around her replanted hostas. She curved her mouth into a smile. The field mice, squirrels, and chipmunks would discover the bounty before dawn. Hugo and his kin wouldn’t be far behind. A strong but innocuous offensive strategy was often the best defense.
*
The next morning, the public gardens team reported by group text. Several more beds had been hit, none of them near residences or businesses with doorbell cameras. Betty notified the police department and headed to her neighbor Jenn’s backyard.
Jenn’s rose bushes approached their peak June bloom, her hydrangeas in massed pink clumps under tall maple trees. Daisies and daylilies highlighted two large perennial beds next to the fence, and pots of pink dragon’s wing begonias and burgundy coleus provided color on the shaded terrace.
Jenn promised to remove the few remaining mole traps in her yard. Betty traipsed back and forth, anxious that visitors not twist an ankle in a mole hole.
“Betty, do you see anything unusual?” Jenn stood at the top of her terrace steps.
“No sign of moles or snakes.” Betty gave Jenn what she hoped was a reassuring wave. “I’ll monitor my gardens and yours during the three days of the tour. Two people will be stationed at the base of your driveway directing traffic and assisting handicapped visitors.”
A scream sounded in the woods behind Betty’s bungalow. She raced up her driveway to find Clara standing on the back stoop, shovel in hand. Hugo and several friends lay stretched across a sunny spot near the steps, several with bulges in their midsections indicating a recent meal. The cracked corn and sunflower seeds were gone, with no evidence of rodents.
Mabel barked up a storm from inside the house, jumping high enough to appear in the back door window.
“Clara, what a surprise. Stan’s Feed and Grain received a large shipment of shade perennials, including hostas, yesterday. They sent a text to the entire garden club membership list, so you must have received it.”
“Get those snakes away from me!”
“Where’s your car, Clara? Are you stealing my plants or vandalizing my garden?”
Hugo raised his head and slithered closer to the back stoop.
“Stop talking and get rid of those snakes.” Clara clutched the screen door handle.
“Do I need to call the police again? Where’s your weed killer potion?”
Clara glanced toward Betty’s garden shed.
Betty picked her way through the den of snakes. The shackle on the padlock hung open. Betty pulled on gardening gloves and mindful of Hugo’s extended family, she eased open the door and pulled the light bulb chain. Unfamiliar bolt cutters lay on the potting bench next to a red plastic gas can reeking of vinegar. Nothing else seemed amiss. Betty turned off the light, closed the door, and inserted the broken padlock in the hasp.
“Planning to implicate me for killing the annuals in the roadside beds?” Betty edged around the snakes and stood at the top of the driveway. Mabel continued to jump against the window. Betty would have to rescue her before she collapsed with exhaustion.
“Did…did you call the police?” Clara’s voice quavered.
“Should I? Attempted theft and vandalism on my property, plus killing hundreds of dollars of bedding plants. You’re a disgrace to the gardening community.”
Clara attempted tears. “I don’t know what came over me. You’re a senior citizen who does all her own yardwork and your garden is beautiful.”
“It takes more than designer rainboots to have a lovely garden. I’ve put thirty years into my yard.”
“I should have asked for your help instead of framing you for the dead plants.”
“An apology and offer of restitution would be helpful, including planting replacement geraniums and petunias as soon as possible.”
Clara remained silent, her back against the door.
Something caught Betty’s eye. A smaller snapping turtle emerged from the undergrowth behind her woodland garden. “Well, hello. Did Gertrude send you?”
The turtle seemed lost. “What’s it going to be, honey? Down the lane to the bog or back inside the bird sanctuary fence?”
The turtle was small enough to crawl under the bird sanctuary gate. Betty grabbed a metal rake and urged the snapper down the driveway and under the gate. She would have to check the underbrush in her yard for turtle eggs.
Betty unlocked her front door, calmed Mabel, and refilled her water bowl.
She tapped the number the officer had given her and reported that she had the culprit, a container of weed killer, and bolt cutters. Fingerprints on the evidence would confirm the plant poisoner. The police would find the woman trapped on Betty’s back stoop.
Mike checked in via text message. The plants had been poisoned with the same vinegar and Epsom salts mixture. The soil sample revealed no additional contamination.
Betty rocked in her favorite chair and waited for the police. A pair of red-tailed hawks swooped low over Jenn’s yard and flew away with fresh kill, undoubtedly moles, clutched in their talons.
She and Jenn were finally ready for the garden tour.
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It’s a really nice story. Thank you very sharing.