I turned and looked at Isaac’s flowers. I sighed, trying to understand Detweiler’s way of thinking. Wasn’t any creative gift from God? Still looking at the flowers, I apologized. “I’m sorry, Evan, I just don’t see the problem. Raising flowers seems so harmless. Who can it hurt?”
“Isaac,” murmured Evan softly.
Were the flowers the motive for Isaac’s murder? I turned around to ask him if that was what he meant. But Evan was striding toward the house, and it wasn’t flowers on his mind.
A hearse had pulled into the driveway. Isaac was home. That was what Evan was talking about. My heart sank. The sheriffs car had pulled in, too.
Chapter Four
A somber scene unfolded as Evan received his brother’s body. Margaret Jenkins slid from behind the steering wheel of the hearse. She’s in her sixties, her hair gray. Judging from the thickness of the braids that wrapped her head like a coronet, it’s very long. Her lantern jaw gave her face a gaunt, stern expression. Her eyes could be kind, her voice resolute and strong.
While I wouldn’t classify Margaret as a close friend, we were well acquainted. It’s always in a florist’s best interest to be on good terms with the local funeral director.
I’d never been to an Amish funeral. I didn’t plan to attend Isaac’s. A few months ago, when I’d taken an after-hours delivery to the Woodgrove Funeral Chapel, Margaret arid I’d gotten into a discussion about the Amish. She’d been free with her knowledge, and I’d sat longer than I’d planned, listening to her talk.
She had told me that she embalms the body and dresses it in a simple cotton shift, then delivers the deceased to his family. They dress him in clothes usually reserved for Sunday worship or other special occasions.
Today, Margaret acknowledged me with a conservative smile. She shook Evan’s hand before she moved to the rear of the hearse and opened the door. A stout, take-charge woman, she grabbed hold of the stretcher and rolled it out. The wheels dropped into place with a clatter. The sheriff motioned for a deputy to take the lead. With Evan’s help, they rolled Isaac across the yard. Cleome held the door open.
Suddenly, Rosalie burst from the house and ran past Cleome. I was surprised to see Margaret, who remains dignified at any given moment, leave her end of the stretcher. On the uneven ground, the stretcher tipped. I heard Sid say, “What the hell?” as the men scrambled to keep the body in place. My attention moved to Margaret and Rosalie. They embraced with fondness.
Margaret put her lips close to Rosalie’s ear. Whatever she said made the younger woman nod her head twice and wipe at her tears. I glanced at Cleome and saw her frowning at this open display of grief from Rosalie.
The men carried Isaac up the steps. Margaret, her arm wrapped firmly around Rosalie’s thick waist, disappeared after them. Cleome closed the door.
I figured the sheriff would stay inside with Evan and the family for more questioning. Margaret would be coming out, since her part in Isaac’s homecoming was finished. I waited impatiently. I wanted to ask her about Eli Detweiler before Sid made an appearance. I wanted to know who was on the council. I was caught off guard when Sid stepped outside and headed straight for me.
I licked my lips uneasily. It wouldn’t do to show my nervousness to Sid. My chin came up a notch. Good. Don’t be on the defensive.
Sid is short, about the same height as my own five feet seven, with round features, light red hair, and freckles so thick on his pale skin they look like a fungus. At forty-six, he insists that he’s a confirmed bachelor. After Carl died, Sid had called me a few times to ask how I was, but I’d always been left with the impression that his inquiry had come from his friendship with my husband, not because my well-being was on his mind. He could be charming or rude, depending upon his mood and the circumstances. I was loitering on the fringes of a murder scene, so I had a pretty good idea of my reception.
“Now, Sid, let’s not—” I began, but he galloped past me toward the deputy who was guarding the field. I knew the drill when I saw the deputy consult a notebook. He pointed and gestured until he’d filled Sid’s ears full.
Sid nodded once before backtracking to me. This time I didn’t speak. I folded my arms across my chest and waited.
He stopped three feet from me and said, “My, my, you’ve had a lively morning, Bretta. Got your afternoon all planned out too, I suppose?”
“Paperwork is waiting for me at the flower shop.”
“Good. Go do it.”
He turned away, but my question stopped him. “How was Isaac murdered?”
Sid glanced at me over his shoulder and ground out, “Neck broke.”
“Oh. Evan didn’t tell—”
Sid spun on his heel and faced me. “Your Amish buddy isn’t telling much of anything. I bet he also didn’t tell you that he carried the victim to the house. That he scrubbed the goddamned body. That it was two hours before my office was notified.”
I swallowed nervously. “What’ll that do to your inquiry?”
“Don’t you worry about my investigation. I’ll do fine. Worry about why Evan Miller moved his dead brother from the scene of the crime. What was he trying to get rid of? What does he have to hide?”
“I’m sure Evan—”
“You’re sure?” Sid barked a crude laugh. “I don’t give a damn if you’re sure or not. I’m the one who has to be satisfied.”
I kept my voice even. “What I meant was, I don’t think Evan was intentionally destroying evidence. He wouldn’t think of the field as a crime scene.”
Sid made a show of wiping a hand across his forehead. “Well, that relieves my mind.”
I didn’t like the way his mind was working. “You’re being unreasonable, Sid.”
“And you’re keeping me from my job. Don’t presume upon our friendship, Bretta.” He rested his hands on his gun belt and threw back his shoulders. “Dealing with these people would try the patience of Job. It’s up to me to find the truth.” He stared at the house. Softly, so I had to strain my ears, he murmured, “And nothing or nobody is going to keep me from it.”
I was so caught up in my thoughts that when I left Evan’s house, I turned the wrong way, taking the scenic route back to River City. This time I could have been riding through a trash heap for all the good the beauty did me.
I told myself I didn’t for a minute believe Evan was responsible for Isaac’s death. But why hadn’t he told me up front about moving and washing the body? Was Sid right? Did Evan have something to hide? He hadn’t told the sheriff about Katie seeing someone in the field with Isaac. I was in an awkward position. If I told Sid, I’d jeopardize Evan’s confidence. If I didn’t tell, I’d be screwing with a murder investigation.
I knew the Amish wanted others to respect their right to choose how they lived their lives. Like most of us, they don’t want interference or persecution. But thinking of Eli Detweiler made me wonder if persecution was being practiced within their own Amish community.
Automatically, I took my foot off the accelerator as I approached the curve where the three boys had died in the car wreck. Somehow it didn’t seem right to speed uncaringly past. I glanced at the spot, then stomped on the brakes.
In the time I’d been at Evan’s, someone had placed a wreath at the side of the road. I recognized that oversized wreath. The last time I’d seen it, it had been hanging in my shop window, the focal point of my fall display. I’d made it myself. Bronze, orange, and gold silk chrysanthemums on a twenty-four-inch circle of grapevine. I’d tucked dried nuts, berries, and bittersweet among the colorful foliage. Pricey at one hundred and twenty-five dollars, I figured it wouldn’t sell. Yet here it was, fastened to a wire easel that was pushed into the ground.
A car came up behind me, blared its horn, and swung around me. The driver glared as he passed. As if I needed another reminder this curve wasn’t safe to park and gawk. I checked my mirror and pulled away.
I’d told Sid I had paperwork at the shop. Routine stuff, but the thought of seeing who’d spent over
one hundred dollars on that wreath made me press harder on the accelerator.
Once I was in River City, I drove down Jefferson Street, turned left on Hawthorn, passed two law offices, an insurance agency, and would have breezed on by the Pick a Posie flower shop, except the owner, Allison Thorpe, was standing outside at her delivery van and saw me coming. She stepped to the edge of the street and flagged me down. Traffic is light on Saturday, since most of the surrounding businesses are closed. I pulled into a vacant slot.
Before I could get the lever into park, Allison pecked on my window. One look at her face told me she was on a mission. For an instant, I was tempted to lock my door and drive away. But I knew Allison. She’d hunt me down and have her say anyway.
Reluctantly, I pushed the button and lowered the window. “Hi, Allison. Working late?”
No polite “How are you?” from this woman. “Where’ve you been? I called your shop several times but was told you weren’t in. I called your house and got that blasted answering machine.”
I smothered a sigh. Allison—the name conjured up adjectives like dainty, wispy, tinkling. Instead, I faced bristly eyebrows that needed trimming with a hedge clipper. Deep-set eyes, a hawkish nose. An attitude that would make the pope throw up his hands in despair.
“I’ve been running errands,” I said. “What did you want?”
She looked down her nose at me. “I’m calling a meeting of the area florists.”
“Why?”
“A coalition is needed.”
“Coalition?” I said. “What for?”
She thrust her jaw forward. “Isaac’s flowers, Bretta. Get with the program. If we make the Millers an offer, we can hire someone to work the field and produce the flowers. We’ll cut out Moth, the wholesaler, as the middleman. We’ll all come out ahead.”
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. My, my. It seemed that everyone had plans and deals for Isaac’s flowers and the poor man was still above ground.
I dropped my gaze to the bouquet Allison held in her hands. Apparently, she’d been on her way to make a delivery when she’d spotted me. The florist in me perused the arrangement. Not bad. Good lines. Too sparse with the filler and greenery for my taste. The card read Isabelle Quigley. If those flowers were from her daughter, I was pissed. I usually got that order.
Allison was known for going to her competitors’ customers and asking them outright to give her shop a chance. If they took her up on her offer, she’d add extra flowers the first few times. In the end, her parsimonious ways would take over. The customers became dissatisfied and went back to their original place of doing business.
The name of her shop, “Pick a Posie,” was at the top of the envelope. Posie? You don’t hear that word too often. Yet today I’d heard it several times.
A direct attack on Allison would net me nothing. On a whim, I decided to fish for information. I cast my line. “Who would we hire to work the field?”
Preening, she said, “As it happens I have someone in mind.”
“Oh, really?” I jiggled the line. “We’re talking quite an investment. Can we trust this person to do the work?”
She ignored the bait to look up and down the street. “This is poor business discussing something so important out here.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve talked to the other four shop owners. They’re interested.”
“Busy, busy,” I muttered.
“We have to jump on this. Measures have to be taken to preserve the quality of the flowers. They’ll go downhill if left unattended.”
I wasn’t asking the right questions. I reeled in my line and beefed up the lure. “I might be interested if I can be convinced we’ll find someone suitable.”
Allison beamed.
Not a pleasant sight. Allison pleased with herself is more annoying than Allison in a snit. “Before I decide anything, I’d want to interview this … uh … person.”
She nearly wiggled with success.
I sank the hook, then watched her flounder as I laid out my conditions. “He’d have to be sharp, personable, have references. A college degree wouldn’t hurt.”
Allison struggled helplessly. “Well, now … Bretta,” she began slowly. Her words gathered speed as she tried to slip free. “Keep in mind we’re dealing with a man of the soil. He’s used to having dirty hands. We can’t expect him to do the work in a three-piece suit.”
I put my car in reverse. As I backed away, I landed her, left her gasping for air. “I don’t imagine Leray Hodges owns a three-piece suit, Allison.”
Her jaw went slack. She recovered enough to demand, “How did you—”
I cut her off in midsentence by squawking my tires on the pavement.
“Damned woman,” I said aloud.
There were three fast-food restaurants in the ten blocks to my flower shop. In my present mood, I saw each of the three as pitfalls. I passed the first, my eyes straight ahead. Before I lost weight, I’d head immediately for food when my emotions got out of kilter. It didn’t matter what I ate. Half a box of Hostess cupcakes—a bag of chips. At the second restaurant, I hesitated, even went so far as to reach for my turn signal. Still I drove on.
After my encounter with Allison, I felt that same old need to stuff my face. I told myself I was frustrated, irritated, and aggravated. I was not hungry. I guess I wasn’t very convincing. At the third restaurant, I moved out of traffic and zoomed into line at the drive-through window.
I fumed as I waited for my turn to order. Leray and Allison. Who’d contacted whom? A strange alliance, at first glance, but self-serving to both. Bottom line, they wanted Isaac’s flowers. Did Isaac’s death prompt one to call the other with this deal? Or had something been afoot before Isaac died?
“Your order, please,” said the scratchy voice over the intercom.
“A double cheese—” I stopped. I couldn’t say it. My toes curled in my sneakers. “Nah,” I said. “Make that a Diet Coke.”
At the take-out window, I ignored the smells wafting out. I paid, accepted the Coke, and drove the remaining blocks to the shop. I should have been proud of my willpower. All I felt was deprived.
During business hours I park in the alley. Today I took a spot out front. The shop windows were dark, the CLOSED sign in place. Lois hadn’t been too busy if she could lock up on time.
The name of my business was painted above the door: THE FLOWER SHOP. Not very original, but its simplicity suits me. If I had to answer the phone thirty times a day with something cutesy, I’d gag. I guess my inventive competitors were less prone to nausea. Besides Allison’s Pick a Posie, there were Perfect Petals, Fragrant Flowers, Buds and Blooms, and my personal favorite, Whoopsie Daisy.
My shop is narrow but deep, the entry door squarely in the middle with a display window on each side. The window on the right had a Halloween theme. A witch rode her broom across a full amber moon made of Styrofoam and covered with shimmering satin. Polyester stuffing pulled into gossamer strands represented cobwebs. Huge black rubber spiders hid in corners, waiting patiently for their next victim.
I moved a few steps closer and activated a sensor. The biggest spider, about the size of my hand, sprang at the glass. Its jaws opened to expose a blood red mouth. From a hidden microphone came a spine-tingling scream. Thanks to Lois’s husband, Noah, a technical genius, my windows always have something special. The kids love it. The adults remember, and I have more than my share of River City’s floral business.
On my left was the fall display. I eyed it critically. Lois had replaced the big grapevine wreath with a smaller one. The balance was off, but it didn’t look bad. Monday would be soon enough to make something else.
I slipped the key in the lock and pushed open the door. Like a soothing emollient, aromas rushed to greet me. Roses, cinnamon, eucalyptus. I breathed deeply and locked the door behind me. In the shadows, I closed my eyes. It had been a tough morning. I needed to regroup.
This little piece of real estate was more familiar than any room at home. I knew ev
ery nook and cranny. I sipped my Diet Coke. It’s a sorry life I lead to receive this kind of pleasure from walking through the door. My work has always been important to me. But after Carl died, the shop became my mate, my lover, my best friend. I work hard, but I play with it, too. I can be as creative or innovative as the mood strikes. I can make changes without permission. I can buy, sell, set prices at my own discretion. In a nutshell, I can do as I damned well please. And that’s the way I like it. That kind of freedom is worth a lot to me.
I left the lights off in the showroom but flipped the switch for the ones in my office and the workroom. All the floors had been swept and mopped. The trash had been carried out. The day’s shipment of fresh flowers had arrived, and the front cooler was filled with Lois’s arrangements. Her combination of colors and flowers sometimes shocks me, but she has customers who ask specifically for her, so I keep my opinions to myself.
I headed for my desk. Since the call for the wreath hadn’t come in before I left yesterday, I assumed Lois had received it this morning. I pulled out the batch of invoices for Saturday and flipped through them. Zero. Hmm—cash?
“Nothing wrong with that,” I murmured, scanning the cash receipts.
Second from the bottom, I found it. No name at the top. Today’s date. The word “wreath” in the blank for description of merchandise. A sheet of wrinkled white paper had been stapled to the invoice. I turned it over and read:
Florist:
Please place the fall wreath that’s in your window at the site where those three boys died. Enclosed you’ll find money for the wreath and the delivery charge for the Woodgrove area. The remaining cash is for your time.
No signature. Typewritten. Lois had made a note at the bottom of the invoice:
Bretta:
When I unlocked the shop this morning, I found the envelope crammed under the door. I took the deposit to the bank, but I put the two one hundred—dollar bills from this order in the money bag. The envelope is on your desk.
Roots of Murder Page 4