Mulch ado about nothing

either teacher. He can’t think about anything except his late wife and trying to pretend she’s still alive. He doesn’t appear to have any connection with either of the teachers.“
    “Charles Jones?“
    “He comes to our minds because we don’t like him, Shelley. He’s so stuffy, prim, and dull, but that doesn’t mean he’s hateful enough to knock someone off. Eastman didn’t even make criticisms of Jones’s garden. In fact, Eastman seemed to be the only one who slightly approved of Edmund’s style of gardening.“
    “But we have no idea what other relationship Charles and Dr. Eastman might have had, completely outside of gardening tastes.“
    “They didn’t appear to have ever met.“
    “But maybe they were both concealing their acquaintance for some reason,“ Shelley said like a dog with a delectable bone to chew on.
    Jane gave Shelley her due. “Charles Jones is a cold fish, I admit. A rigid perfectionist from what we’ve seen of his house and yard and his perfectly ironed and spit-polished personal appearance. And he’s not very pleasant. He was complaining to me about Ursula and her garden. Swore there were ticks in her yard and wouldn’t set foot beyond the patio. He isn’t the least bit likeable, but I just don’t see him doing something—anything—in a fit of passion. I don’t see him as having the least passion about anything.“
    “Jane, just remember his garden. He’s a very controlling person. Especially in the way he tortured and isolated those plants,“ Shelley said, getting up and jingling her car keys. “Think about this while I take the girls to the grocery store and show them how to buy eggs that aren’t cracked or have dirty shells. They need to know about salmonella.”
    Jane propped up her bad foot on a chair and thought about what Shelley said. From their limited knowledge of the class members, none of them was strictly normal. Ursula led the pack in sheer personality disorder. Could she have developed some loony theory that Julie Jackson and Stewart Eastman were part of a dangerous conspiracy that she had to eliminate? It was certainly possible given her bizarre beliefs.
    And she was a big woman. If she’d dug up and hauled around those tombstones in her garden by herself, she was strong enough to wrestle a body into a compost bin. On the other hand, she was perpetually cheerful and up front with her views and didn’t seem to take the least offense when someone doubted that she was right. And her tending to Jane had been a kindness, however useless and unsolicited.
    Jane often prided herself on being able to pierce the veil of people’s personalities, but she was striking out this time. She’d spent more time with Ursula than she’d wanted or needed, but still had no idea what really made her tick.
    Nor could she figure out Charles Jones. He was a stiff, cranky, overorganized man. Something of a prig, in fact. But what kind of concealed life he might have was entirely unknown to her. He might secretly love Mozart or Jackson Pollock. He could have a sexy lover of either sex. He could be a rabid right-wing fanatic or a secret agent for the Nazi underground. Who could guess what was under that haughty, prim facade?
    As for Miss Martha Winstead, she was just as much of a mystery. Had she ever married? Had children? Traveled? What was her background? And most of all, was her hatred of Stewart Eastman legitimate? There was always another side to any story, and maybe his actions had been justified. They’d never hear his version, though.
    Miss Winstead’s beloved cousin, whom she’d characterized as so meek and sweet, might have actually been a tartar of a woman who was set on dragging her husband’s career into the dust out of sheer stupidity or spite. Even the account of his serving divorce papers on her when she was ill could be an exaggeration or even downright untrue. They’d only heard Miss Winstead’s highly colored account of the marriage.
    Miss Winstead had a steel spine, was highly opinionated, and believed she was always right. And she was also a snoop, not that Jane hadn’t done her own share of snooping. But Jane didn’t share her gossip and opinions with strangers, only with Shelley. Miss Winstead told them a lot of gossip about the other classmates when she was virtually a stranger to Jane and Shelley.
    Still, she was a little woman, probably in her mid-sixties at least, with those small knobby hands and thin arms. How could she possibly