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a swimming pool, bike and jogging trails, a three-acre fishing lake, and numerous shelter houses and playground equipment. The smell of roasting hot dogs and burgers overpowered the scent of flowers. The peace and quiet I’d noticed this morning was shattered by the shrill screams of children hard at play.
    Tranquility Garden was secluded from the rest of the park by a line of cedar trees. The garden couldn’t be seen until you passed that screen of vegetation and took the path Eddie and Oliver had been landscaping. I squeezed my car into a slot, locked the doors, and headed for that path.
    An elderly gentleman sat on a bench soaking up the sun. We traded polite nods. He commented that it was a lovely day. Weather-wise it was perfect—warm, sunny, blue skies, and clouds sculptured like giant heads of cauliflower.
    I hadn’t eaten in hours, and the aroma of grilled food had made even the clouds take on the shape of sustenance. I would gather up Eddie’s tools, deliver them to his house, and then head for home.
    But all the tools were gone. The shrubs were planted, mulch layered at their bases. Amazed, I walked down the path, touching a leaf, raking the toe of my sneaker against some wayward wood chips on the bricks.
    Spinning on my heel, I headed back the way I’d come. I wondered who was responsible for finishing the work, and stopped near the gentleman on the bench. “Did you see anyone over there?” I asked, indicating the area where I’d been.
    â€œJust Eddie Terrell. Always knew he was a hard worker, but the man acted possessed, heaving tools into the back of his truck.”
    â€œDid he plant the shrubs and spread the mulch?”
    â€œSure did. Dust fogged the air as he worked.”
    I thanked him and went back to the path, taking it to the gazebo that would serve as the altar. The latticed structure was six-sided with a dual set of steps—one for the bride and her attendants, the other for the groom and his. Wood shingles covered the peaked roof.
    Squinting, I envisioned the results of my hard work. Brass baskets filled with masses of white flowers were to be hung in the gazebo’s arched openings. Extensive use of ivy, Boston ferns, brass and copper containers, helium-filled balloons, and yards of gold-shot white tulle were to dazzle the immediate surroundings. Highlighting the altar would be twelve large hurricane lanterns. The reflection pool in front of the gazebo was to have floating wreaths made of flowers.
    Plans called for five hundred candles, under protective globes, to be placed in designated areas and lit at a strategic moment before the wedding ceremony. Thank heavens this chore fell under the heading of wedding coordinator. At last count, I’d heard Sonya had hired twelve people just to light wicks.
    I went up the steps to the gazebo and stood at one of the arched openings. Staring down at the reflection pool, I should’ve been mentally concocting the wreaths, thinking about the mechanics that I’d need to make them float. Instead my mind skipped back to Oliver’s death and Claire’s murder.
    I waited for some revelation, but after twenty minutes nothing came to me except an overwhelming desire to eat.
    *   *   *
    Last October I moved from the house Carl and I’d shared to a mansion that we’d dreamed of someday owning. His life insurance had provided the down payment, which was a bittersweet turn of events. In those early days of ownership, I cared for my new home with all the maternal instincts of a proud mother. I saw my child’s flaws—peeling paint, cracked plaster, and cluttered attic—but knew it would mature into a fine specimen if I gave it the loving attention it deserved.
    That was the rub. When I first moved into the house, I’d worked myself into a frenzy renovating the downstairs. At that time I’d had a goal. I’d scheduled my flower shop’s annual Christmas open house