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spotted it. A ramshackle of a structure with a driftwood sign nailed to the front. Two mismatched plastic patio sets flanked a screen door. A tabby cat cleaned his front paws under one of the tables. Cars parked haphazardly in front, on the side, and out by the shoulder. The strong smell of cooked catfish sank into the convertible and I kept my foot on the gas.
    The dirt drive wound around the back. I followed it deep into the South Carolina wild, where trees towered thirty feet, a mix of pines and oaks and Spanish moss. I felt as if I were traveling back in time. The rocky road bounced the Mini. Hard not to since it rode close to the ground, and it took another minute before I reached a clearing. Tucked in the brush off to the side sat a single wide propped up on wood blocks. I circled around until I faced the road and parked.
    The trailer may have looked tired and rundown, but the surrounding landscape shone proudly. A paradise garden befitting Eve herself. Gorgeous flowering shrubs, ornamental trees, and bunches of flowers and greenery. All lively and blooming, even though it was the end of December.
    With gift in hand, I climbed the rickety steps and knocked. Twice, as per Zibby’s instructions.
    The sound of barking dogs was so loud, I feared an entire wild pack was jostling for position inside. Their nails scratched on the door. Combined with their fierce tone, I was sure it’d be enough to ram through the flimsy wood. I quickly scrambled down the steps and away from the trailer.
    “¡Hola!” a voice called from around back. “Estoy en el jardín.”
    A rocky path cut through the heavily manicured parkland and I emerged to find a master gardener’s utopia. A half-acre of cultivated foliage lay before me, all contained behind a chain link fence. A really tall one.
    A round woman in a floppy hat walked through the gate. She wore a floral apron and carried a spade covered in dirt.
    “¡Hola!” I said. “Me llamo Elliott...Soy amiga Zibby and Carla.”
    “Si, si,” she said. “Encantado de conocerte. Bienvenido a mi jardín.”
    “Lo siento,” I said, apologizing. “Mi Español es…pequeño? Little? Small? As in, that’s pretty much all I know. You lost me at conocerte.”
    She laughed. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said in accented English. “Welcome to my garden.”
    “Thank you. Gracias,” I added. My biggest regret in school was not taking Spanish classes. Such a beautiful language, and so often spoken, it frustrated me to be on the outside of conversations. I bought the Rosetta Stone, but it was slow going.
    “What may I help you?”
    I handed her the gift bag. “This is for you.”
    She unwrapped the wind chime from the tissue and held it up. The blue and green seaglass gently tapped against the delicate chrome centerpiece in the light breeze.
    She wrapped me in a hug. “Gracias, gracias. Que hermoso.”
    I thought hermoso meant brother, but she probably knew more Spanish than I did. “Do you have a few minutes to talk? I’m looking into Lexie Allen’s death, and Zibby Archibald suggested you might be able to help me.”
    “¡Dios mio! That poor girl,” she said and crossed herself. “Poison, si?”
    “Si. Something called deadly nightshade,” I said. “Baked into cupcakes.”
    She tsked and opened the chain link gate, then gestured for me to enter. “I have many plantas, botanicas, all types I grow.”
    The garden was organized in rows, but not in any particular order my OCD could make sense of. Most of the rows crisscrossed one another or curved around large oaks and pines. Little stakes stuck out of the ground in random places, written in Spanish, mostly illegible to me.
    We stopped at a rusted metal bistro set near the center of the garden. She reached for a pitcher of iced tea on the table and a plastic cup, pouring the tea to the top before I could protest. “My own recipe. Fine plantas and herbs to improve your health.”
    I thanked her then took the smallest sip possible.