Today's Reading
CHAPTER ONE
If you've never had the pleasure, let me assure you that a quintessential Irish garden in the height of summer is a magnificent sight to behold. Vibrant blooms in a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors, shrubbery crafted by artists, playful fairies, gnomes, and angels, all forming a path to an ornate fountain in the center. Imagine if you will, a stately manor house beckoning in the distance, proudly standing behind sturdy limestone walls. But if all you see is the beauty, then you're a fool. Because did you know that many of those manor houses exist because of the violent dissolution of monasteries? Wealth thrown to the aristocracy and Tudor men, eager to feast on someone else's lands while the Irish farmer toiled and struggled? You might dislike me for educating you, but can you fault me if some people prefer their roses in the form of little colored glasses?
Besides, you are liable to point out, an Irish garden can exist anywhere. They can flourish in front of sweet little cottages with thatched roofs. In the back of semidetached flats in town. Even windowsill boxes can be transformed into a flowering bonanza. I'll give you that—gardens are for everyone, and they can flourish everywhere. But do you know what else gardens hold? Weeds that choke and drown. Secrets that are burrowed deep into the rich, dark soil. Sharpened weapons: spades and rakes and stakes. Oh, my. Butterflies that flutter with beauty in front of your face while darting bees sting you in the back. Yes. One must look closely at Irish gardens, for one never knows what lurks amongst the blades. I know someone who purports to be a nature lover and to nature she will return. Would you like to know my favorite time to visit a garden? At night, of course. When it's shrouded in a cloth of dark. Danger can lurk. Danger can strike. Do you see the resemblance? Manicured lawns, objects made of stone, angels hovering about, and things buried deep in the earth? If you haven't figured it out, I'd be happy to spell it out. One man's garden might be another man's grave.
CHAPTER TWO
"Would you please read that one again?" Siobhán O'Sullivan drummed her fingers on their farmhouse kitchen table, something Macdara had already somewhat politely asked her not to do. Her study-weary husband sighed. They had been at it all night. Morning had announced itself through the kitchen window, bold and uninvited, blinding them with a ray of sunshine. At least there was coffee, and Macdara had warmed blueberry scones in the oven. The rich smell of the heavenly concoctions filled their small kitchen and took the edge off the torture.
Normally Eoin would have stepped in to make them brekkie, but he was ensconced with his restaurant opening. Ann was away at her first year at the University of Limerick, even though the summer had barely begun, she'd moved to campus upon returning from their holiday at sea because she was on the camogie team and practice would start soon. At least she was close to home. Gráinne and James, on the other hand, had stayed behind in Lahinch to renovate Gráinne's new inn, and Ciarán, who had just passed his Leaving Certificate had concluded(against Siobhán's will) to take a "gap year." It meant he was technically still living at home but more often than not was out with friends or fellow musicians. She fully supported his fiddle playing, and he was fierce talented at that, but she was bracing nearly every day for him to announce that he was running away with a band. As usual, life was changing faster than Siobhán could keep up. And with all this chaos swirling around her, the task of passing her detective sergeant exams was daunting.
Camped out next to her, a pile of textbooks teetered like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Preparing for the exams from home had been challenging enough, but now there was commotion going on outside, and this went way beyond rattling wind and chirping birds. Chainsaws, drills, workmen barking orders—it was madness, and for once it wasn't all taking place in Siobhán's poor head. But it was too late to find a quieter place to focus; she'd promised Eoin that she would keep an eye out for a special delivery. His restaurant, The Six, was going to have its soft opening in two days. If that wasn't enough, he had rented out the field in front of it to a contestant for Kilbane's Top Garden Contest. Cassidy Ryan. Tomorrow was the first day of the contest and the town was abuzz with excitement.
Siobhán's mam had had a green thumb, and their back garden in town had been an oasis of fresh herbs and flowers. Often, Naomi O'Sullivan would dry and hang the herbs in the kitchen of the family bistro and adorn the tables with fresh cut flowers. How her mam would have loved the garden competition, maybe even taken home the coveted prizes of ten thousand euro and The Golden Rose.
"Officer Healy is on patrol," Macdara was saying. "It's evening and he's nearly finished for the day. He's strolling down the street—"
"I thought he was walking."
...
