The gardener was a short, stout man with graying hair. He wore coarse garments, a loose fitting pair of trousers, a dark shirt and battered felt hat. But Penny noticed that his hands and fingernails were clean and there were no trowel marks around any of the shrubs.
“Salt isn’t exactly a ruffian,” she said as the photographer offered no defense. “After all, from where we stood it looked exactly as if you were hiding in the bushes.”
“Then you both need glasses,” the man retorted rudely. “A person can’t work without getting down on his hands and knees.”
“Where were you digging?” Penny asked innocently.
“I was just starting in when this young upstart leaped on my back!”
“Sorry,” said Salt, “but I thought you were trying to get away.”
“Who are you anyway?” the gardener demanded bluntly. “You’re not guests. I can tell that.”
“You have a very discerning eye,” replied Salt smoothly. “We’re from the Riverview Star.”
“Reporters, eh?” The old man scowled unpleasantly. “Then you’ve no business being here at all. You’re not wanted, so get out!”
“We’re only after a few facts about the wedding,” Penny said. “Perhaps you would be willing to tell me—”