The Petunia Plot

Agnes Periwinkle, even in death, was a high-maintenance client. Her last will and testament stipulated not just cremation, but a full ecological re-integration. "No fancy urns, no sterile gardens," her solicitor read aloud, "Agnes wishes to become a thriving part of the local ecosystem. Specifically, she'd like her ashes mixed into a special compost blend and used to fertilize the prize-winning petunias at the annual village flower show."

Barnaby Grimsby, proprietor of 'Grimsby & Sons: Dignified Departures', sighed, polishing a skull-shaped paperweight. "Petunias," he muttered to his assistant, Derek, whose enthusiasm for life was directly proportional to the number of bodies he was currently *not* handling. "The woman detested petunias in life. Called them 'frivolous' and 'structurally unsound'."

Derek, ever the pragmatist, chimed in, "Perhaps she's having a post-mortem change of heart, Barnaby. A spiritual awakening, as it were."

Barnaby snorted. "Agnes Periwinkle's only spiritual awakening would be realizing she forgot to complain about the temperature in the crematorium. No, this is revenge. She knew old Mrs. Higgins always won the petunia category. Agnes wants to subtly sabotage Mrs. Higgins's victory by becoming the very soil beneath her prize-winners, then… what? Mysteriously wilt them from beyond the grave with passive-aggressive decomposition?"

The day of the flower show arrived. Barnaby, against all professional ethics and his better judgment, had dutifully mixed Agnes's ashes with a premium compost. He watched from a discreet distance as Mrs. Higgins proudly displayed her magnificent, slightly-too-vibrant petunias. "Remarkable growth this year, wouldn't you say, Barnaby?" she chirped, beaming.

Barnaby offered a tight, professional smile. "She always did have a way of getting under people's skin, Mrs. Higgins. Even now." He imagined Agnes, a tiny, spectral smirk on her face, finally winning the flower show, albeit posthumously and anonymously. He just hoped she wouldn't start sending him complaints about the compost's pH level from the great beyond. The man needed a holiday, preferably one where everything stayed resolutely, boringly alive.