Page 151 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

Making a home in the old suit and lying dormant for decades, the seed must have germinated in the warm soil, recently overturned. Hungry for sunlight, it sprouted and thrived. And grew through and around the rich compost of Brian Fillmore.

Armand left the stifling, stultifying, murderous building and headed outside into the last rays of that day’s sun. To wait for the local police. After a few minutes, he decided to explore. He walked along the fieldstone terrace and around the corner. There he stopped. In front of him was Miss Wolcott’s garden.

It was neglected, of course. Overgrown, to be certain. Gone to seed, as they say. But oh, what seeds. A riot of color greeted him. The garden had been allowed to run wild, and had taken full advantage of that freedom.

The plants were intertwined, entwined, as though at play. Like its creator, the garden had broken free of the constraints of convention and tumbled beyond the borders into what had once been manicured lawn. It was impossible to tell where one variety ended and another began. And it no longer mattered. This was nature in full frolic.

Here Miss Wolcott came alive and was immortal. He could almost see her kneeling. Hands deep in the soil. Tending a garden unlike anything anyone had seen before. Unstructured, apparently undisciplined. It was giddy and joyous.

And free.

Armand spent a moment taking it in. Feeling her presence, and the deep peace and yet vitality of this place. All the more striking given the contrast to the derelict and dreadful house behind him.

In the near distance, Armand saw a structure that looked like a small Greek temple.

A folly.

A folly …

Folly.

Armand made his way toward the temple, trying not to step on and hurt the plants, which reached out and seemed to want to embrace his legs.

Like the rest of the property, the folly had fallen into disrepair. But the disintegration had been helped along. Some of the floorboards, in the middle of the structure, were charred by bonfires. Others had been pulled up. While the fire looked old, the tearing up of the floor looked more recent.

He paused. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up in warning. He turned quickly, but there was no one there. At least no one he could see.

He turned back to the hole and shone his flashlight down into the hollow but couldn’t see anything. Getting on his knees, Armand shoved his hand in and felt around. Still nothing, except dirt and a few spiders, which he guided off his arm and back into the hole. Finally he turned the beam up to the domed ceiling.

It was filthy. Smoke from generations of bonfires had darkened the white ceiling. They were lucky the entire thing hadn’t burned down.

Folly indeed. Or at least foolish.

Still, he could see that something had been written around the base of the ceiling, like a ribbon. A slogan, a phrase. An aphorism? A few letters were still visible through the soot. Taking from his satchel the shirt he’d changed out of that morning, Armand got onto a concrete bench and began rubbing.

When he’d uncovered most but not all, he climbed down and took a deep breath. It was hard work, and imperfectly done, but he’d cleaned off enough. He stepped back and looked. It was in Latin. A quote? But no. Those were the Latin names for plants.

He sat down and, breathing in the sweet evening air, he contemplated what he’d uncovered. All around him, Armand could hear the hum of insects and the slight rustle of leaves picked up in the breeze.

He listened closely but couldn’t hear anything else. And yet he still had the sense of being watched. Perhaps it was the looming house following his movements.

He again looked behind him. Again, nothing. Then he gazed out. He could see why this temple had been built just there. From the folly there was a spectacular view across a valley.

Had Miss Daisy Wolcott sat where he was? Had she basked in the setting sun and gazed out over her garden, her creation, and across the valley. Had she sighed? As he just did.

This was no folly. This was a place where young, middle-aged, elderly Daisy had found calm, contentment. Where she could rest in peace.

Though she had one more task to perform. She needed to spread her ghostly seeds. Was dropping them on her unsuspecting neighbors’ gardens revenge for their unkindness?

He hoped not. He hoped the Daisy Wolcott of his imagination had wanted to preserve. To create, not attack. But he might be wrong.

What was it her letter said?

He brought it up on his phone. One paragraph especially impressed him.

If you do not value the information contained in those documents, I will take them back and donate them to a professor and a university that will know its immeasurable value to humanity.

Immeasurable value.