"Ada Jean, honey, I just love what you've done with your husband," remarked Mrs. Darlington.  She had a way of phrasing a compliment and lilting her voice to make it sound sincere even when it wasn't.  

"Why thank you, Miss Marcy."  Ada Jean Lindsey's reply made its way out of the kitchen.  It turned the corner and wandered on in to the living room, arriving at about the same time as the aroma from the coffee.  

"Is she making instant?" Mrs. Darlington wrinkled her nose and whispered to Mary Alice, who was sitting on the divan next to her and fussing with the hem of her flower print dress.  But then Mary Alice always fussed with her dress.  Especially when she was nervous.   

Although she was trying very hard not to look in his direction - a feat which required considerable concentration, seeing as how he was stretched out on the coffee table not more than three feet in front of her - Mr. Lindsey made Mary Alice nervous.  Perhaps the fact that he was dead had something to do with it.   

"Oh, I don't mind instant," Mary Alice managed to say just before Ada Jean returned to the living room carrying a serving tray.  

Ada Jean pushed Mr. Lindsey's knee out of the way to make room on the coffee table for the serving tray.  "Would you prefer sugar or chocolate?" she asked, picking up a pair of serving tongs.  

"Oh, dearie, we must try the chocolate," Mrs. Darlington said to Mary Alice, patting her on the knee as she spoke.  "I read where it's all the rage in Boston these days."  

"Chocolate it is, then.  Chocolate all around.  Just the way they do in Boston," giggled Mary Alice.  

"Now tell me, Ada Jean," said Mrs. Darlington as she fished around in her coffee cup and tried to locate the small square of Ghirardelli chocolate with her teaspoon, "what ever gave you the idea of using a corpse as a flower planter?"   

"Corpse?" interrupted Mary Alice.  "Oh my goodness.  I hadn't even noticed Mr. Lindsey was dead.  He looks so life-like.  You know, I was wondering why he was being so quiet."  

"Not to mention why he was lying on the coffee table with petunias growing out of his ears," snickered Mrs. Darlington.    

"No, no.  I noticed the petunias," said Mary Alice, struggling to remain part of the conversation while adjusting the hem of her dress.  

The petunia comment took Mrs. Darlington by surprise, catching her in mid-swallow, just beyond the point where she might hope to control the reflexive laugh that was about to burst forth from within her.  Coffee that was once half-way down the back of her throat suddenly reversed direction and shot out of her nose, spraying itself all over the coffee table, the serving tray, the squares of Ghirardelli chocolate, and the late Mr. Lindsey.  

Ada Jean's face contorted in horror.  "Omigod, it's ruined," she moaned.  

"Oh, I don't think a little bit of coffee will hurt the flowers, do you?" asked Mary Alice.  She used her napkin to dab away specks of brown moisture from the orchids extruding from Mr. Lindsey's mouth.  

"Ada Jean.  Oh, Ada Jean, I'm so sorry.  So terribly sorry," Mrs. Darlington apologized on Mary Alice's behalf as she took her friend by the elbow and ushered her toward the door.   

"She didn't mean to re-decorate your living room.  Honest, she didn't.  Though I must say, I have read where the coffee-splatter look is considered to be quite stylish out in the Berkshires these days."  

Mary Alice made a noise of sorts.  Not speech, per se, although sound did come out of her mouth.  It just didn't quite get all the way to making syllables out of itself the way sound does sometimes.   

---   

"Oh Eugene," Mary Alice said to her husband when she got home, "You know, just the other day I was thinking how nice it would be if we had some fresh flowers around the house.  Some periwinkles, perhaps.  Or maybe even some marigolds.  A bouquet or two would really liven up the place, don't you think?"  

Being dead, Eugene the telephone stand didn't answer.  Or think, for that matter.  But then, even when he was alive, the man didn't have much of a sense for interior design.   

Mary Alice took the receiver out of Eugene's pocket, flopped down onto the recliner and dialed the number for Gilroy's Florist.  "Good afternoon," she said while fidgeting with the hem of her dress and measuring the dimensions of Eugene's ear canal, "I was wondering if you could tell me how much a periwinkle bouquet might cost these days?"