The neighbors have, although until today the gardens were usual, not a pastime no one would seriously guess. The flowers are conceptual homonyms bordered by Boxwood africans no breadwinning cardinal would bless with its roost. Grass beneath a golden ninebark is slightly depressed where some pistol was. For the past few years the neighbors have wondered daily What the hell is it this guy does? What, with him always vaguely mumbling "...lots of business trips." It's dark now, blood spatter coagulates on the picket fence. Four tire streaks on the road, the responding policemen kept it hushed, speaking in code to disembodied voices on a radio. Not much more than a glance and shrug at the neighbors' concerned inquiries. One consensus formed: he was deep in consequences from promises he couldn't keep. This was speculative, of course. The palm trees rustled above their heads. "Maybe he was a clandestine," one of the neighbors remarked as another dismissively barked, "Ridiculous! He kept a garden!"