Read Between the Tines

"That's about it for today's KALM Farm to Market Report. This is your host, Ollie Grayson, reminding you to keep your radio dials tuned to KALM for our Seeking singles month. After our mid-morning news, Paige Turner, KALM's single gardening gal and host of Through the Garden Gate, offers sage dating advice that you won't want to miss."

Sage dating advice?

Did Ollie know me at all? Clearly not. The only sage advice I could offer was how to grow the plant, both as an herb and a decorative perennial. Not that I should expect Ollie to understand me if just a month ago half the town thought I was guilty of murdering City Manager Bud Picklemann.

Murder. Really!

I snapped off the radio and watched my best friend Lisa Winkle attack an overgrown garden bed, clawing at dense clay soil with a heavy-duty rake. Beads of sweat from the
Oregon
summer sun glistened on her forehead, but she didn’t slow down from the heat.

I couldn’t help but smile as I snapped off the radio. Best friends since elementary school, she was one of the few people in town who'd believed I hadn't killed Bud, and I owed her my undying gratitude for her support. For helping me out on my latest landscape project this morning, I owed her babysitting and a dinner out with her hubby Perry.

"Time to go," I said and leaned my hoe against the fence. "Roger will kill us if we're late for the show again." My gardening talk show, produced by Lisa, aired at noon in the summer months.

Lisa stretched her back and sighed. "This work is killing me. It would be so much easier if I went to the gym instead of counting on your projects for exercise."

"But I'm a lot cheaper than a gym membership." I smiled and crossed the yard near a freshly planted flowerbed to get to my truck.

As she pulled the door open, the hinge grated like fingernails on a chalkboard. "So what'll you do if we move?"

Cry, whine, lose sleep.
"I guess I'll have to hire someone." I wanted to be supportive of her potential move from Serendipity to
Portland
, and I tried, honest I did, but my tone came out a bit snappy. Snappy enough to turn Lisa's smile into an adorable pout as she climbed onto the dusty seat and leaned her head back.

I aimed my landscape-weary vehicle down
Main Street
, the aptly named central thoroughfare of Serendipity,
Oregon
for the short drive to the station. Snuggled in the middle of the
Willamette
Valley
, Serendipity had reinvented itself to attract the tourist trade. The town capitalized on being the home of Pacific Pickles by dotting the streets with bright green trashcans in the shape of pickles. But did they stop there? No. Someone's very creative mind birthed Briny, a giant pickle mascot who attended local events and an annual pickle festival also took over the town in May.

I glanced at Lisa. Usually a chatterbox, she'd been far too quiet. Shoulder propped against the window, her lower lip had grown. Maybe I'd upset her. Despite my desire to lock the whole Winkle family in their home so they couldn't leave me, I found my supportive friend tone. "So how's the job hunt going? Has Perry decided on one of the offers yet?"

She shook her head, sending the lip back to a normal position. "No and I don't get it. He says he's bored by his practice here then keeps dragging his feet about choosing the law firm he wants to work for. I wish he'd make up his mind so we can get going."

Yes, keep dragging
. "Sounds like you're in a big rush to get out of here."

"Me? You know I don't really want to move, but if we're going, I want to get it over with." She exhaled with enough force to send dust flying on the dashboard. "There's just so much to do. It takes planning and organization to move a household."

I patted her knee. "You need to relax a bit. Once Perry makes a decision you'll have plenty of time for your usual obsessing."

"I have to obsess if I'm going to get everything done. You only have yourself to worry about. I've got twins and a husband to organize." Her tone sounded mean-spirited, but I knew she wasn't demeaning my single status, just trying to emphasize how overburdened she felt. Usually easy to get along with, my perky little Shasta daisy had been a bit cranky for the last month.

I had this habit of classifying everyone as a plant using the plant's traits. Most of the time Lisa was carefree and relatively trouble free like the Shasta daisy, but this potential move had catapulted her out of her comfort zone.

Take now for instance. Her pout had morphed into a huge scowl. If one of my daisies behaved that way, I'd pamper the poor baby with more water, maybe give it a good dousing of compost tea. Not something I could do with Lisa. Drenching her with any liquid, especially one made from fermented garden clippings, would surely end our friendship, so I opted to keep quiet for the remainder of the short drive.

At the station, we strolled up the sidewalk leading to the poorly landscaped building that I'd often begged our miserly station manager to improve.

Lisa looked up at the station's call signal posted in large neon letters above the glass door. "Any idea who'll replace me?"

Was she never going to stop with the moving thing? All I wanted after having a recent run in Bud's killer was for my life to take on a normal kind of boring routine. I couldn't possibly achieve peace of mind if my anchor moved away. Still, I had to keep my feelings to myself and let my little daisy pull up roots if she needed to.

I shrugged as if Lisa filling the producer spot was of no consequence to me and followed her down the narrow hall. We entered our respective booths and settled into the miniscule spaces in a routine we followed six days a week. I'd just put on my headset when Lisa rapped on a large window between our booths then started her countdown to the show with ten raised fingers.

As her last stubby digit dropped, I took a deep breath. "Good Monday morning. This is your host, Paige Turner, welcoming you to the next hour of
Through the Garden Gate
. Our lines are open for your gardening questions, but I want to remind you of this month's Seeking Singles theme. We'll take your dating questions in the last five minutes of the show all week long. So come on singles, call in and we'll offer advice on finding your perfect someone. Don't be shy. Prepare your questions, while we talk gardening." I paused and looked up at Lisa. And who's our first caller, Lisa?"

"Weed Whacker on line one," she said and grinned.

I wanted to sigh, but we were on the air so I stifled it. A regular caller, Weed Whacker frequently misunderstood my advice and found herself in unbelievable messes.

I forced a smile into my voice. "Go ahead, Weed Whacker, you're on
Through the Garden Gate
, and this is your host, Paige Turner."

"Oh, Paige." Weed Whacker's voice gushed over the airwaves. "I'm so glad I got a hold of you. I don't know what to do. I found a. . . a. . .a. . .dead body."

I quickly glanced at Lisa. Phone to her ear, head down, she was either clueless or didn't care if Weed Whacker was up to her bleached hair in another mess. Nor did Lisa seem to be troubled with sending me out on a limb with a chainsaw poised to rip through the branch and send me plummeting.

I turned back and directed my voice at the boom mic. "Is this a joke, Weed Whacker?"

"Why would I kid about a dead body?" Weed Whacker, a.k.a. Daisy Plante's tone gave me a clear visual of her often-vacant eyes, wide open in bewilderment. She couldn't help the vacant part. Think the brain of Jethro on
The Beverly Hillbillies
zapped into the body of Ellie May, and you had a perfect understanding of Daisy. "I need you to come over here, now!"

Her demanding tone left me speechless. Daisy never demanded anything. Though she often confused and frustrated other people, she was one of the sweetest and most patient people I knew.

Lisa tapped on the window and twirled her finger. Her speeding finger and pointed stare told me to say something and get rid of the dead air.

"So where is this supposed body?" I asked, trying to keep my skepticism out of my tone.

"He's right here."

"Where's here?"

"In the woods by the ball field."

"Why are you in the woods, Weed Wacker?"

"Today is the women's slow-pitch tourney. They wanted Briny to be here." For the past two months, Daisy had played the giant pickle with great skill. She took the gig when the usual Briny—the one who never called my show to ask silly questions—broke his leg.

"Okay, so you're at the tourney. But the woods, Weed Whacker, why are you in the woods?"

"Well, I wanted to—wait, are we still on the air?"

"Yes."

"Then I'd rather not say." Her sullen tone came over the phone loud and clear.

At the risk of sounding cold and heartless to my listeners who had no idea I wanted to help Daisy, but wasn't eager to see a second dead body in little more than a month's time, I said, "Why don't you call the police?"

"I can't. I saw how the police chief treated you when you found that city manager all dead on your project. The chief thought you were a suspect just because you found the guy. What if he does the same thing to me?"