“Those gloves,” Margaret whispered, her trembling finger pointing to the worn leather garden gloves lying abandoned in the empty greenhouse. “They’re exactly where he left them.”

Detective Morris studied the elderly woman’s weathered face, noting how her eyes never left those gloves. The greenhouse felt oppressively empty despite its size, afternoon sunlight casting long shadows through the dirty glass panels.

“Tell me about the last time you saw your husband, Mrs. Cooper,” Morris said softly.

“It was such a beautiful morning,” Margaret began, her voice distant. “Thomas was so excited about his new roses. He’d been cultivating them for months in this very greenhouse. Said they would be his masterpiece.”

“And the gloves?”

“Those were his favorites. He never gardened without them.” She paused, wringing her hands. “That morning, he put them on as usual and went to tend his precious roses. I brought him tea at noon, but he wasn’t here. Just the gloves, placed neatly on this table. I assumed he’d gone to get supplies.”

Morris watched as Margaret’s fingers traced the edge of the wooden workbench. “But he never returned?”

“Three days. Three days I waited, Detective.” Her voice cracked. “The police said he probably left me. Abandoned his home of thirty years. Ridiculous! Thomas would never leave his gardens. Never leave his roses.”

Morris examined the gloves more closely. They were well-worn but meticulously maintained, like everything else in the greenhouse. Something caught his eye – a dark stain on the inside of the right glove.

“Mrs. Cooper, did your husband ever mention having enemies?”

Margaret laughed, a hollow sound. “Thomas? He barely left the property. Lived for his plants and nothing else.” She stopped suddenly, her face darkening. “Except…”

“Yes?”

“There was that horrible developer. Kept pressuring us to sell the property. Thomas refused every offer. Said he’d rather die than see his gardens torn down for condominiums.”

Morris nodded, making notes. “And when was the last time this developer visited?”

“The morning Thomas disappeared.” Margaret’s eyes widened. “You don’t think…?”

“We’ll look into it, Mrs. Cooper.” Morris glanced at the gloves again. “Though I suspect the answer might be closer to home.”

Margaret smiled sadly. “You’re right, Detective.” She reached for the gloves. “Would you like to see Thomas’s roses? They’re quite spectacular now.”

Morris followed her through the greenhouse to a locked door. As Margaret fumbled with the key, he noticed dirt under her fingernails.

“They need constant care, you see,” she continued, swinging the door open. “The soil must be just right. Rich. Deep.”

The detective’s flashlight beam cut through the darkness, illuminating rows of magnificent roses. And there, beneath the flowering bushes, a hand protruded from the soil.

“He would have destroyed everything,” Margaret whispered, slipping on the old garden gloves. “Our life’s work. I couldn’t let that happen.”

The door clicked shut behind Morris. In the greenhouse’s emptiness, Margaret’s smile gleamed like polished bone.

“Now, Detective, shall we discuss what makes the best fertilizer?”