Hearse and Gardens Read Online Free PDF
Author: Kathleen Bridge
quite different than Byron Hughesâs. I didnât charge for my time or designs. I just invoiced a reasonable markup for the items I placed in my clientsâ cottages. That made me very popular, but not very rich.
Dinner consisted of Stuffing à la Mac and Cheese: follow the boxed stuffing microwave directions, dump in a nuked cup of macaroni and cheese, mix together, and youâve got a meal to satiate your worst hormonal carb crave.
My father, the best home chef Iâve ever met, would have a canary if he knew about tonightâs meal. However, his gastronomical genes hadnât missed me completely. Iâd learned using fresh herbs in cooking wasnât for gourmet chefs only. I grew my own year-round. I had herbs in a windowsill planter and in two gardens, one on the side of my rental and one at Little Grey, hidden behind the follyâmy secret garden.
Herbs helped elevate fast-food and microwave dinners to another levelâa palatable one. I pinched off a few leavesof sage and thyme from the windowsill planter and added them to my Stuffing à la Mac and Cheese. Oooh la la. My father had taught me a tip about storing fresh herbs. He told me to only wash them right before using. And if I needed to store fresh herbs in the fridge, I shouldnât wash them, just wrap them gently in a damp paper towel, then put in a Zip-loc bag with trapped air.
After dinner and a few more hours of work, okay one hour of work, and one on the Internet surfing for design inspiration, I bundled up and stepped onto the deck. The wind off the ocean was merciless. I flipped down the flaps on my fur-lined hat and secured the chin strap. Then I grabbed the vintage Red Rose Coffee tin from the plant stand and went to the beach.
The sky was clear, freckled with crisp white stars. I took out my flashlight and aimed it on the milk-mustache foam left by the huge waves beating the shore. I found a stick wide enough to use as a shovel and dug a hole. I opened the tin, turned it on its side, and slid the seagull corpse into its final resting place.
In my head, I recited the words from my motherâs eulogy, written by Samuel Butler.
I fall asleep in the full and certain hope that my slumber shall not be broken. And that though I be all-forgetting, yet shall I not be all-forgotten. But continue that life in the thoughts and deeds of those I loved.
I thought about the skeleton in the bungalow. Was it foul play or accidental?
Foul play
was just a nice way to say murder.
It felt like someone was nearby. My rental butted up to a small nature preserve on one side, and on the other, my neighbor was a seasonal occupant. I was isolated. Afact I usually reveled in, but not tonight. Tumbleweeds of kelp somersaulted across the beach. I turned to go, and the weirdest feeling crawled up my spine, like the hairy legs of a tarantula.
Iâm not a soothsayer, but I must admit, between the seagull and the skeleton, I had a bad case of the ooks. And without my hearing aids, a banshee could be clomping toward me with a butcher knife and I wouldnât know it.
I tore up the steps, locked the French doors, and with spastic fingers set the alarm.
CHAPTER
FIVE
I tried to start each day with a simple but powerful five-minute meditation. As I looked out at the ocean, I repeated over and over again, âThank you. Thank you. Thank you.â
Elle had called to confirm our plans for the day and to tell me the skeleton from the bungalow was positively identified as Harrison Falksâs son, Pierce. Not a huge surprise. Pierceâs death was ruled suspicious and a possible homicide. The CSIs deduced someone locked Pierce in the recording studio and placed the bookcase in front of the door. Another no-brainer. Pierce had no keys or wallet with him. The room was empty, except for the desk and chair. One question on everyoneâs mind, including the paparazzi, was where the heck was Helen Morrison, not to mention the Warhol painting of
Dinner consisted of Stuffing à la Mac and Cheese: follow the boxed stuffing microwave directions, dump in a nuked cup of macaroni and cheese, mix together, and youâve got a meal to satiate your worst hormonal carb crave.
My father, the best home chef Iâve ever met, would have a canary if he knew about tonightâs meal. However, his gastronomical genes hadnât missed me completely. Iâd learned using fresh herbs in cooking wasnât for gourmet chefs only. I grew my own year-round. I had herbs in a windowsill planter and in two gardens, one on the side of my rental and one at Little Grey, hidden behind the follyâmy secret garden.
Herbs helped elevate fast-food and microwave dinners to another levelâa palatable one. I pinched off a few leavesof sage and thyme from the windowsill planter and added them to my Stuffing à la Mac and Cheese. Oooh la la. My father had taught me a tip about storing fresh herbs. He told me to only wash them right before using. And if I needed to store fresh herbs in the fridge, I shouldnât wash them, just wrap them gently in a damp paper towel, then put in a Zip-loc bag with trapped air.
After dinner and a few more hours of work, okay one hour of work, and one on the Internet surfing for design inspiration, I bundled up and stepped onto the deck. The wind off the ocean was merciless. I flipped down the flaps on my fur-lined hat and secured the chin strap. Then I grabbed the vintage Red Rose Coffee tin from the plant stand and went to the beach.
The sky was clear, freckled with crisp white stars. I took out my flashlight and aimed it on the milk-mustache foam left by the huge waves beating the shore. I found a stick wide enough to use as a shovel and dug a hole. I opened the tin, turned it on its side, and slid the seagull corpse into its final resting place.
In my head, I recited the words from my motherâs eulogy, written by Samuel Butler.
I fall asleep in the full and certain hope that my slumber shall not be broken. And that though I be all-forgetting, yet shall I not be all-forgotten. But continue that life in the thoughts and deeds of those I loved.
I thought about the skeleton in the bungalow. Was it foul play or accidental?
Foul play
was just a nice way to say murder.
It felt like someone was nearby. My rental butted up to a small nature preserve on one side, and on the other, my neighbor was a seasonal occupant. I was isolated. Afact I usually reveled in, but not tonight. Tumbleweeds of kelp somersaulted across the beach. I turned to go, and the weirdest feeling crawled up my spine, like the hairy legs of a tarantula.
Iâm not a soothsayer, but I must admit, between the seagull and the skeleton, I had a bad case of the ooks. And without my hearing aids, a banshee could be clomping toward me with a butcher knife and I wouldnât know it.
I tore up the steps, locked the French doors, and with spastic fingers set the alarm.
CHAPTER
FIVE
I tried to start each day with a simple but powerful five-minute meditation. As I looked out at the ocean, I repeated over and over again, âThank you. Thank you. Thank you.â
Elle had called to confirm our plans for the day and to tell me the skeleton from the bungalow was positively identified as Harrison Falksâs son, Pierce. Not a huge surprise. Pierceâs death was ruled suspicious and a possible homicide. The CSIs deduced someone locked Pierce in the recording studio and placed the bookcase in front of the door. Another no-brainer. Pierce had no keys or wallet with him. The room was empty, except for the desk and chair. One question on everyoneâs mind, including the paparazzi, was where the heck was Helen Morrison, not to mention the Warhol painting of