Mulch ado about nothing

nurseries might have testing kits, or one could contact the Agricultural Department to provide the material to do the testing.
    Mention of a federal agency didn’t go down well with Ursula. “How would I know if they were telling me the truth?“ she said. “Everybody in the government lies.”
    Dr. Eastman, who hadn’t been subjected to as much of her philosophy as Jane had, merely looked at her with curiosity. “Why would anyone deceive you about soil acidity?”
    Ursula waved this comment away with a gesture that dislodged a small disposable camera from somewhere on her person.
    Stefan Eckert asked, “Do Dr. Jackson’s notes say anything about water gardens? And the kind of plants that are best for this area?“
    “I don’t believe so,“ Dr. Eastman said. “But there’s a lot of information available from the county extension office. Shall we adjourn the class and go see Miss Winstead’s and Mr. Jones’s gardens early?”
    Charles Jones was on his feet at once. “Excellent idea.”
    Jane murmured to Shelley that this was a good plan. It would allow them to get home early so she could arrange for the cooking lessons and be home when her “rented“ garden arrived.
    They rushed along to Charles Jones’s house, which was as tidy and boring as he was. A front lawn as neat and well clipped as Dr. Eastman’s surrounded a small, absolutely symmetrical, colonial-style home. The evergreen shrubs flanking the front door were clipped into absolutely perfect box shapes. The sidewalks and driveway hadn’t so much as one errant leaf or blade of grass ruining their pristine condition.
    “I hope my tires are clean enough to park here,“ Shelley said, pulling the van up the driveway.
    Miss Winstead wasn’t with them this time because her house was the second on the tour and she’d driven herself to class. She parked her car in her own driveway and strolled along the sidewalk to greet them. “Don’t even think about walking on the grass,“ she advised. “The front yard is wired up somehow to turn on blinding lights to keep kids and dogs from daring to step off the walkways.
    Charles himself arrived a moment later, and parked a boxy new Volkswagen on the street so his guests could use the driveway. “I’m so eager to show you everything,“ he said as Jane was levering herself out of the front passenger seat of Shelley’s van.
    “Should we go around this side of the house?“ Shelley asked.
    “No. There are no gates. We have to go through the house,“ he replied, waving them toward the front door. He opened a series of complicated locks and hurried ahead, presumably to turn off various alarm systems. Then he stood in the open door welcoming the others, who had all arrived at the same time.
    Jane and Shelley looked around the living room. It was large but sparsely furnished, with neutral colors and bookshelves filled with computer manuals, and no ornaments whatsoever. The boxy furniture was stark and vaguely Scandinavian, and lined up like it was still on display in a furniture store.
    Charles escorted them through a hall and into a kitchen that was as spotless as he was and out the back door into the yard.
    There was very little grass back here. But many gardens. As sparse as the house itself. Vast areas of mulch highlighted individual specimen plants. The whole area was laid out like a grid, with square gray blocks as pathways, and each single plant was carefully labeled.
    It was so Charles Jones.
    Jane worked her way along a path and leaned forward to examine an interesting-looking perfectly round plant with deep red blooms and almost black centers with yellow stamens.
    MONARCH’S VELVET CINQUEFOIL, the label said, followed by the unpronounceable Latin nomenclature. It was the single plant in the bed. There wasn’t even a nice ground cover around it, just boring mulch. And the next bed was a small grouping of DELPHINIUM ASTOLAT, so the label read. Six tall spikes of ruffled pink flowers, all carefully staked. Again, isolated in their splendor and looking beautiful, but lonely.
    “Why is this so depressing?“ Shelley said quietly and sounding genuinely sad.
    “Because it’s so terribly regimented,“ Jane said. “The flowers are absolutely perfect and beautiful, but stand like soldiers in separate companies lined up for a picture. And look at the solid fence all around the yard. It’s like a prison for the poor flowers, each in its own little naked cell.”
    Ursula, across the yard, was