The Gardens of Digby Green: Whistler’s Woods
“Bixby,” Ray muttered as he parked the work van alongside the woods. He’d never gotten along as well with the man as he had Marquez. The sergeant, uneasy enough to pace and lick his lips, met Ray at the opening of what looked like a deer trail, and led the way along it.
Fifteen feet into the woods, the scent of rot penetrated the shrubby undergrowth, and flies buzzed loudly. Bixby stepped aside into tall weeds, but Ray went on, murmuring “I heard a fly buzz when I died…” and confronted a scene that redefined unspeakable. Only another human being could have created such an arrangement.
Miss Dickinson’s poetry wasn’t going to help him cope.
Bile rose, and he pivoted to gag and spit at the foot of an oak. “This took time,” he whispered, and looked again, attempting to focus on the pieces that would provide the quickest identification.
Two severed left hands, one male, one female, fingers interlaced, palms up… the skin the greenish gray of advancing decomposition. Ray shuddered.
“Looks like the aftermath of a zombie attack, don’t it, Wilkinson?”
“Shut up, Bixby. The dead deserve the best we have. Be useful, and go get body bags from my van.” Ray tossed the cop a key. When the sergeant sprinted away, Ray faced the scene again.
Slowly, he walked the scene perimeter. Two-thirds of the way around the small clearing, clothing tossed into brambles caught his eye. A purple sleeve cuff… shaking, he reached out. Rose had one exactly like it, that she wore to church. He’d always liked the silky fabric when her slight movements beside him made contact with his forearm.
Surely, he’d seen her garment in the bedroom closet that morning. She wouldn’t have worn it to a movie and game night… he honestly didn’t know. “Know…know…NO! NO! NOT My Rose, it’s Not, it’s Not…”
The next thing Ray understood was that someone gripped his upper arms, and was shaking him with intensity. When his vision cleared, he was looking at Marquez’s face.
“Bixby called for backup,” Marquez said. “I walked you out of there, and the Commissioner says you’re on three weeks’ leave, starting now. Do you understand? Your deputy has taken over.”
Ray nodded, as his breath came in deep gasps.
“Let go of the blouse, Ray. I’ve got an evidence bag right here for it.” Marquez shook the bag open.
“What, what size is it? I can’t read the label.” He held out the garment, and the detective glanced inside the collar.
“It’s a 20,” Marquez said.
Ray sagged. “Too large for my Rose.”
The Gardens of Digby Green is a serialized story that posts on Fridays.
Next week, part thirty-three, Mailbox.
Find a link to purchase Heartland Treasures anthology here.
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