The Mystery Megapack

enough now. She was right—in the yard, she didn’t hear activity of any kind. At the center of what used to be her rose garden, she started digging a hole about two feet out in each direction: scooped a shovel full, stepped up on the fender, and tossed the load of dirt into the bottom of the boat. Then back to the hole again. After a time, she began to dig down and not just out, getting into a rhythm. Several times, overcome by exhaustion, she almost stopped, but memories of her lovely Peace Roses floating in a bowl of water on her table in spring, or of drinking in the fragrance of her Iceberg roses in late summer, kept her working. Eventually she had to lean a small metal ladder from the boat up against the side of the hole. She added another three beats to her rhythm.
    When she heard the rumble of a trash truck several blocks away accompanied by barking dogs, she put all the tools on top of the substantial pile of dirt in the boat and replaced the tarp. She quickly anchored the protective netting from the shed over the hole in the ground by pinning it with pieces of stem she had saved from her decimated rose bushes. Scattering stones in a random pattern along the edges, she completed the camouflage by covering the entire surface with pine straw from her yard.
    It was almost dawn by the time she finished, so after her shower, she stayed up and went through her usual routines. By two in the afternoon, she had to lie down, falling quickly into a deep sleep. When she awoke, she was able to run a few errands before meeting her aunt for dinner, as though it were just a normal day in the life of a woman whose husband traveled.
    Thursday night Gina only needed to dig for three hours to get the hole to the perfect depth. It was a good thing she was finished because the boat was full of dirt, stem to stern, and she had trouble crawling out of the hole, even with the ladder. She retrieved the gas can from the shed and set it inside the kitchen. She raked the pine straw back onto the net-covered hole, mixing in some of the small stones that plagued their yard. She sprinkled the entire area with pine cones in what she hoped looked like nature’s way. She showered and scrubbed under her fingernails with a brush.
    In spite of the shortened work night, by the next afternoon Gina had worn herself out pacing from the truck to the front porch and back again. She was waiting to distract her husband as soon as he was dropped off at the foot of the driveway, desperate to keep him from his usual Friday afternoon love-fest with his boat.
    She could see the self-satisfied mien of his mouth turn into a frown as the car pulled up to the curb. He leaned over and said something to his co-worker, who then nodded and wiggled a quick wave in her direction as Axel climbed out of the passenger side.
    Gina started in about how the truck wouldn’t start as soon as the car pulled away, describing the pop, pop, pop sound it had made, trying not to make eye contact.
    Axel walked over and laid his garment bag on the front stoop like always, then reached for the keys swinging from her fist.
    “What the hell’d you do?” he asked and got into the driver’s seat. “Leave the lights on?” The engine caught immediately and roared loudly as he stomped down on the gas pedal.
    “Well it works now.” He rolled his eyes at her. “I don’t know what the problem was.”
    Her husband’s grousing was ramping up when the shrill racket of a smoke alarm inside the house stopped him mid-sentence.
    “What’s that?” Axel jumped out of the truck and ran down the sidewalk and up the stairs quick as a flash. Gina closed the truck door he had left open and retrieved his bag.
    The upper portion of the foyer and hall were clouded with smoke. A crackle and hiss issued from the kitchen. Gina knew the fuel was only the few rashers of bacon she’d left frying on the stove as a back-up plan to keep him away from the side yard.
    Axel grabbed the handle of the skillet with a pot holder and shoved the pan of flames off the burner. “What’s the idea of going outside when you’ve got food on the stove? What’s the matter with you?”
    He threw open the kitchen windows. “Why are you cooking bacon anyway?”
    “I’m making black-eyed peas,” she said.
    He left the kitchen mess for her to clean up. “Well, make sure you don’t walk away from the next batch.”
    Even though her ploy to redirect her husband had worked, Gina didn’t stop shaking until she heard