Read Online Mulch ado about nothing by Jill Churchill - Free Book Online Page B

screen, and the door itself showed dog scratches. But all in all, it wasn’t the tumbledown hovel Jane had expected.
    They arrived even before Ursula and waited in the minivan for the other car pools to arrive. “I’ve invited Miss Winstead to join us for lunch,“ Jane said to Shelley.
    “I know, so did I,“ Shelley responded. “Where shall we go?”
    By the time they’d settled on a restaurant, the rest of the group had pulled up and were getting out of their cars. Ursula was really excited and not even bothering to pick up the items that were falling out of her bags. Shelley picked up a handheld calculator and gave it back to her as they went around the side of the house. Miss Winstead rescued an invitation to some sort of community meeting and likewise returned it.
    There was a big wooden door to the backyard that was a little crooked on its hinges, which Ursula had to struggle to open. “I don’t usually come around this way. Sorry,“ she said. The door finally creaked back and she made a grand entry gesture that dislodged a butterfly hairpin, which Arnold Waring picked up, grunting with the effort of finding it under an overgrown spirea bush.
    When they got to the backyard, there was a cacophony of barking from inside the house. Ursula opened the back door and shouted, “QUIET!“ The barking subsided.
    The “garden“ was much like Jane imagined it would be. Completely wild and disorderly. Someflat rocks that looked suspiciously like tombstones lay about, forming rough paths. Somewhere genealogists were wondering where their great-great-aunt Mildred’s final memorial had gone.
    There was no grass at all, just a jumble of plants and trees and bushes. Mostly too dry. There were holes in the ground where apparently useless plants had been yanked out. And there was an overpowering smell of decay.
    “That’s the compost pile you smell,“ Ursula said proudly. “I’m surprised I didn’t see one in your yard, Dr. Eastman. It’s the heart of gardening.”
    “You just couldn’t smell it,“ he said. “It’s hidden behind the pines. And compost piles should never have an odor like this unless you’re putting pet waste in it.
    Jane wasn’t going to risk breaking her other foot taking the full tour, and looked around for a place to sit down. There were two iron benches near the house, but they were white with bird droppings. There must have been about fourteen bird feeders hanging from the eaves. Most of them were empty or had an inch or two residue of mildewed seeds. Only the hummingbird feeder looked fresh, but it didn’t have any customers. Jane propped her armpits on the crutches and looked around. She noticed that here and there, dusty electrical wires emerged from the ground and led into one of the areas. Probably some sort of lighting Ursula could turn on at night.
    There were a few neat things in the garden when you studied it. A peculiar iron sculpture about four feet high that looked like a bunch of rusted airplane propellers gone awry caught her eye and whimsy.
    A statue of a woman, nearly life-sized and graceful, was gently turning from copper to green. Morning glories had climbed her and wreathed her upturned head. Jane wondered if this was coincidental or a product of training them that way.
    A stand of bachelor buttons in a deep, eye-watering blue stood solid and proud among a sprinkling of towering bright yellow cosmos with lovely ferny foliage. A tilted, broken wheelbarrow spilled out masses of pink geraniums.
    It was, if nothing else, a messy garden with a lot of blighted areas among spots of true beauty.
    She heard a little cough behind her and turned to see Charles Jones watching her. “Aren’t you going to walk around and look?“ she asked.
    He shook his head. “I don’t want to go home with ticks just to see a bunch of rubble.“
    “But sometimes rubble is good—in small doses. Look at that big piece of egg-and-dart molding among the pink petunias. That’s a good