Redhouse
A greenhouse wasn’t someplace Lydia associated with murder. The toasty temperatures. The fragrant breezes. The rainbow hues and aisles of natural wonder. Those were elements of serenity and reflection that engendered a holy atmosphere. Muted library conversations and dappled sunshine were not cohesive with blood splatters and screams.
She was squatted down over a bed of dahlias envisioning the vibrant starbursts erupting in her own flower boxes. A splash of liquid on the plastic wall behind her pierced through the sedate hum of the circulating fans. They weren’t calling for rain, and Lydia turned expecting to see a worker wielding a hose in the next house.
Her mind had difficulty registering the bright crimson runnels on the plastic sheeting.
The translucent profile which stepped into the scene painted an odder stroke yet. The person stood stock still, staring in her direction. She was doing pretty much the same, and her mind danced across the notion of plastic reflections. The silhouette was bigger though, and her eyes caught sight of some translucent thing crawling, slug like along the ground. She turned her head with creaking slowness, afraid the slug thing would be mirrored here in her greenhouse.
No slugs, well, that was discounting the pair of beastly shoppers at the head of the aisle, her with her bottle brown hair and him with his compression stockings almost reaching his shorts.
Lydia turned back to the plastic just as the figure hammered something through it with a pop. Lydia stepped back in shock at the brutality of it, crushing a flat of hibiscus underfoot. Her head tilted sideways in disbelief as the blade began slicing down the length of plastic.