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He discovered the skeletal remains as he was carefully digging up the rosebush. The fingers were wrapped around a tightly sealed jar. Gently, he wrestled the jar from the bony grasp of whoever laid there. He gingerly stepped out of the hole and shovelled some dirt back in, ensuring the remains stayed well covered. He shook off the dust and took his time walking back to the house, whistling nonchalantly, in case any neighbours were looking on.
To whom it may concern,
Here lie the remains of my wife, whose life I extinguished with a pillow while she slept. She suffered none; I loved her too much for it to be otherwise. It was cold and calculated, I admit. I did not even have the excuse of passion for it. I just wanted myself to be the last person she slept with.
If you are reading this now, it only means the subterfuge I have planned, literally for the rest of my life, has succeeded.
Jail would not have helped our children or me so I thought it best to do it this way; better for her to be thought an adulteress than me a murderer. At least, that is what I think is best for our children.
I would be grateful if you could pass this message to the family of Samuel Keating: tell them Sam is under the hydrangeas.
Michael Kenner
The old couple next door said it was all bad memories that caused the family of the late Michael Kenner to dispose of the house so quickly. Michael’s wife just upped and left him and the kids with an out-of-towner one day, the story went. Michael never recovered from that and he turned to gardening for solace. It was more an obsession for he allowed neither his children nor anybody else to step foot on his gardens. He just tendered it everyday till the end. And his garden was spectacular: the dark crimsoned rose bush; the blue and white hydrangeas; the yellow puffs of chrysanthemums and the cobbled walk snaking its way amongst them on the manicured turf.
They decided to leave the garden alone when they moved in. His wife was so enamoured with the rosebush that she often joked, “When I die, put me under that bed of roses.”
A loud roar from the TV brought him out of his reverie. He looked up at the inert form of his wife on the sofa and walked over. She looked so peaceful, a smile on her lips. He took the empty mug she clasped in her hands; it was empty of the coffee he brewed for her this morning. He placed his finger on her carotid, no pulse and the body was still warm. So it happened not too long ago, he thought. It worked better than he had hoped, that herbalist in Bangkok was right: calm, peaceful and without pain.
He read Michael’s note again. How I wanted it to be so, he thought, but it looks like it’ll have to be the chrysanthemums now…
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