Touch of a Lily

The Archibald family mansion was the biggest house I ever set foot into. Who needs 7 bathrooms? A family of fifteen, maybe. But there were only two people living there; sixty-something-year-old Mr. Archibald and his new half-of-his-age wife.

And me, their new housekeeper.

Ms. Archibald adored flowers, but I was the one who had to dirty my hands planting and caring for her latest crazes.

"Make sure they're photogenic," she'd say. Her social media was full of her selfies with the flowers. Oddly, there were very few photos of her and her husband. I suppose no one could make him photogenic.

He was a strange man. His clothes always had to be immaculately pressed, shirts white as the fresh snow and shoes as shiny as a mirror.

"Go water my flowers," Ms. Archibald told me on one occasion when I was in the middle of ironing.

"But the forecast predicted rain," I said.

"Are you trying to be smart with me?" her soft voice asked.

I had no choice, but to set the iron aside, and go water her precious plants.

I tipped over the bucket and let the water find its way down the flower bed. I was in no mood for her stylish watering can.

I already turned to leave, when I heard coughing. It was a high-pitched cough, the sound I imagined a mouse with a cold would produce.

"Are you trying to drown me?" someone asked in the same high-pitched voice.

"Who said that?" I asked, looking everywhere, seeing nothing.

"I did," the voice replied. "You can hear me?"

"Yes, I can hear you. Stop making jokes and show yourself."

"Down here," the voice came from freshly drenched flower bed.

I parted the green leaves, finding a stem with little white flowers beaded like pearls on a string. They smelled fantastic!

"I never realized there were such lovely flowers here!" I said to no one.

"Why, thank you," the flower said.

The flower said?

That was it, I lost my mind!

I stumbled backwards, not at all gracefully.

"Come closer," the flower pleaded. "You must help me!"

"Help you? I already did! I watered you."

"You have to tell them what he did," the flower was persistent.

"Tell who what who did?"

"Tell whom."

"What?"

"Tell whom, not who." The flower sighed. "Never mind. You need to inform the authorities about the whereabouts of Ms. Archibald."

"Why would I need to inform the authorities that Ms. Archibald is in her dressing room."

"Not this one, Mr. Archibald's first wife."

"His first wife went missing years ago!"

"She never went far. Mr. Archibald put her right here. My roots are touching her."

After hours of pondering, I anonymously called the police.

The body was exactly where the lily said it would be.

After that, Mr. Archibald moved into significantly smaller living quarters, bathroom included.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

I planted the lily in a pot on my balcony. The next spring, it blossomed again. It looked stunning, smelled divine, but didn't say a word.