BY: Jack Ivey
George spent his days tending to his garden, his pride and joy. Between pruning rose bushes and transplanting lilies, tilling and mulching, he had little time to do anything else, let alone kill someone.
It had been a week since Herb Crenshaw had gone missing and his wife had accused George of doing just that.
“He did it, he killed my husband!” yelled Daisy Crenshaw pointing over the fence as the police took notes. She told them of the arguments he and her husband had had because of certain pesticides she used in her garden that George objected to. “He said it would kill his precious bees. So he killed my husband with a shovel and buried him in his garden!” she shouted.
When questioned by police, George explained he was accustomed to them screaming over the fence at him, it had been going on for years, but murder was a new one on him. He agreed that they had argued about the pesticides his neighbor had used that filtered into his garden, but it was nothing he would kill someone over and was adamant that he did not bury his neighbor or anyone else in his garden. Still he understood they had an investigation to perform.
The police confiscated his garden tools and returned them a few day later, finding nothing incriminating. The following morning they showed up with a court order to “dig up his garden.” George complained loudly, but the document was legal and he had no recourse but to allow them to proceed. He sat apprehensively on a large wooden bench used for storing flower pots and watched, cringing, as the authorities methodically destroyed his precious garden. A single tear crossed his cheek as his beautiful yellow rose bush was ripped from the ground by its roots and his lily bulbs were carelessly tossed to the side.
“Yeah, dig up his stupid garden,” Daisy Crenshaw screamed across the fence, “Murderer!”
George threw a glance in her direction, his face completely devoid of any expression as an accidentally dropped shovel came very close to hitting his feet; still he did not budge from the bench. After several hours of digging, the police had found nothing. He breathed a sigh of relief as he patted his hand upon his wooden seat. “I told you I didn’t bury anyone in my garden,” he said in a respectful tone of voice.
The following week, while repairing the damage done to his garden, George noticed the police taking Mrs. Crenshaw away in handcuffs. He asked one of the officers what was going on. As it turns out, they’d found a shovel hidden in the Crenshaw’s shed covered with blood and her husband’s body buried in her garden. It seems that she had killed him.
“You never know about people,” he said. Then shaking his head he walked away thinking to himself, I can’t believe she would think I would bury him in “my” garden.