Roots of Murder

by Janis Harrison

  The way this order was placed and where it went gave me the heebie-jeebies.

  The hairs on my neck gave an answering tingle.

  Chapter Five

  The envelope was ordinary. No marks. No writing. Not even my shop’s name typed across the front. I laid it aside, along with the invoice for the wreath and the letter. I wasn’t sure what I had or if it was important.

  Two hundred dollars was a lot more than the average person would spend on a wreath that would sit on a country road. My delivery fee to Woodgrove is eight dollars. Why all the secrecy in making the order? Why all the extra money?

  I knew Lois would have stashed the zippered pouch in its usual hiding place. I went to the holding cooler and switched on the light. It was there in the left-hand corner, nestled behind a container of flowers.

  As I reached for the pouch, I saw a few of Isaac’s flowers. Thoughtfully, I ran a finger over the golden petals of a zinnia. Something niggled at me. Some impression I’d gotten looking at Isaac’s field. Or was it something someone had said this morning? What was it? It was so damned frustrating. The more I tried to remember, the more other thoughts intruded.

  I unzipped the pouch and took out the two hundred-dollar bills. Old bills; not those new ones that look like Monopoly money. On impulse, I sniffed them. Odd. I sniffed again. Very, very subtle,

  With the refrigerated air circulating among the flowers, I could be mistaken. Holding the money by the corners, so my scent wouldn’t be on them, I stepped into the workroom.

  This time when I put the bills to my nose, I was sure I smelled something other than my own shop. I know its scent. I also know Lois’s. She likes dramatic fragrances. This was sweet, light, and faintly musty. As if the bills had been tucked away near powder or sachet.

  Was I reaching here? Maybe. But I didn’t want to lose this scent. I looked around the workroom for something to put the money in. My eyes lighted on the corsage work center. On the shelf were plastic boutonniere bags. Carefully, I tucked the money in the bag, worked the trapped air out, and taped it shut.

  At my desk, I picked up the letter and sniffed it. I thought it smelled like the money, but I couldn’t be sure. To be on the safe side, I removed the staple from the invoice and stored the letter in another plastic bag.

  I sat in my chair, proud that I’d preserved evidence. Then I scowled. Evidence of what? Was I being ridiculous? With Isaac’s murder uppermost in my mind, was I looking for foul play around every curve?

  “Curve of the road?” I mumbled, thinking of the three dead teenagers. Hmm. Had the driver been distracted? By what? The accident had been investigated by the Missouri Highway Patrol. Surely, if foul play were suspected, they’d be hot on the trail. I’d heard nothing, not even a whisper that the wreck was anything more than an accident. So why did I feel uneasy? The wreath. It came back to that wreath, and the way the order had been delivered.

  I closed my eyes and heard Carl’s voice in my ear. “Let it alone until you have more information.” I opened my eyes and sighed. Good advice, but where was I supposed to look for this mysterious data? I waited, but this time Carl’s voice was irritatingly silent.

  The ice in my Coke had melted. An experimental sip told me I didn’t want any more of it. Beads of moisture had run down the paper cup and left a ring on a trade magazine I’d planned to read. I reached for a tissue. As I wiped the glossy cover, I saw that my subscription was about out. Stamped on the front were the words: ANNUAL SUBSCRIPTION HAS EXPIRED. TIME TO RENEW!

  “Annual?” I murmured. “Annuals?”

  My brain kicked in. That’s what had been bothering me in the cooler. To make sure I was on the right track, I pulled a flower catalogue from a shelf. Next, I hunted up my last invoice from River City Wholesale Floral Company. Item by item, I went down the list, checking each type of flower against its description in the catalogue:

  Celosia—Yes

  Cosmos—Yes

  Zinnias—Yes

  Except for the baby’s breath, all the flowers in Isaac’s field were annuals. It was September. Missouri is usually hit with a killing frost in October. Once the night temperatures drop, the flowers die.

  So why all the hoopla over Isaac’s flowers? At the most there might be three more weeks of cutting time. Nature would take its course, the flowers would be gone, and Detweiler would get his way. Hodges wouldn’t make that much money from three cuttings. Why was he so anxious to get control of the flowers? Or was it Allison who wanted control? Had she roped in Hodges? I shrugged. Regardless of who had contacted whom, the question was why. Why all this interest in a bunch of flowers that would be dead in a few weeks?

  I rubbed my eyes wearily. My stomach rumbled, letting me know it was time to put something in it. Something healthy, not a double cheeseburger, though my mouth watered at the thought.

  The invoice from River City Wholesale Floral Company lay on my desk. Noting the phone number under the letterhead, I impulsively dialed. It was a long shot that anyone would answer on a Saturday afternoon.

  To my surprise, a man picked up the receiver and growled, “Damnit, Louise, I said I’d be home by four.”

  “Uh … is this River City Wholesale?” I asked.

  Silence greeted my question. I pictured his indecision. He could either admit I had the right number and therefore have to deal with me, or he could say I’d misdialed.

  I waited to see which way he’d go. Finally, he sighed. “Yes, this is River City Wholesale, but we’re closed. Today is Saturday.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you. This is Bretta Solomon. I have the Flower Shop.”

  “Which shop?”

  “The Flower Shop. Solomon. On Hawthorn.”

  “Oh, yeah. The big wom—good customer,” he amended hastily. “This is Moth, but if you’re calling about your statement, you’ll have to wait until Monday when Cheryl’s in her office.”

  “This isn’t about my statement, Mr. Moth. I’d like to drive out and talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  I should have thought this out more carefully. What did I want to talk to him about? Not Isaac’s murder. Sid would cover that. Keep it simple. “Isaac Miller’s flowers,” I ventured.

  “From what I understand, the flowers will be here at the usual time. Place your order, and we’ll do the rest.”

  So Moth already knew the flowers would be delivered on schedule. Interesting. Leray Hodges was on the ball. He’d talked to Allison. He’d talked to Moth. What else had he been up to?

  “This isn’t about the delivery,” I said. “I think it might be in your best interest if you’d talk to me. I won’t take up too much of your time.” I glanced at my watch. “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “I don’t know what this is about, but … all right. Come to the side door on the east. Go up the stairs. My office is at the end of the hall.” He laughed lightly. “You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and hung up before he could change his mind.

  I switched off the lights, picked up the two plastic bags containing the money and the letter, and hurried out to my car. I didn’t want to stuff the packets in my purse, so I locked them in the glove compartment.

  My destination was across town on the outer fringes of the city. I’d given myself a deadline of fifteen minutes. I took a shortcut past the county courthouse, traveled down Truman Avenue, then hung a right on Duvall. This put me in the older section of town. Here the streets were narrow, some still paved with bricks. After several blocks, I made a left onto Carriage Road. Its claim to fame was as the historical starting point from where the rest of the town had taken shape. The street hugged the bluffs, and at one point I caught a glimpse of the river in the distance.

  River City was founded in 1810 by a group of pioneers, lost in the vast Missouri wilderness, on their trek west. They’d come to the Osage River, had made camp to discuss their next move, then never left.

  The group’s leader, James Horton, has been credited with being bl
essed by divine guidance when he settled here. I had my own opinion. I’d seen a portrait of Horton’s wife hanging in the River City Museum. Stern eyes, stubborn jaw, generous mouth. I figured Hattie Horton had grown tired of her husband’s wanderlust. Unwilling to take another step, she’d dug in her heels and proclaimed this stretch of virgin Missouri soil home. I liked to think that Hattie was the original “liberated” woman. She’d stood up for her rights, pointed out that she was tired of weevils in her food, baths in a creek, and wheels under her butt. Now, years later, River City residents were profiting from her taking a stand.

  With two minutes to spare, I pulled into the warehouse parking lot. At one time the two-story gray building had been a livestock auction barn and slaughterhouse. The holding pens were long gone, the cattle trailers replaced with a fleet of burgundy delivery vans. On the ground floor were the supply rooms where items of the floral trade were stocked. The room-size coolers that had once chilled freshly killed animals now held flowers.

  As I got out of my car, I thought about J. W. Moth. I usually deal with a sales rep, or I do my ordering over the phone. I didn’t know Moth personally, but I’d seen him presiding over the open house the company held twice a year—springtime and Christmas. He was a prissy little man, fastidious in his appearance. Every hair, what there was of it, always in place.

  After crossing the parking lot, I rounded a corner of the building and found a door helpfully marked OFFICE. I tested the knob. It was unlocked as promised. I opened it and was confronted by a long, steep flight of dusty wooden stairs. I tilted my head back and saw another door at the top.

  I heaved a sigh and started the climb. By the time I reached the last step, my feet were dragging, my breath coming in painful gasps.

  “Gotta get more exercise,” I wheezed. When I could breathe normally, I swung open the door. “We spare no expense” was the cynical thought that ran through my brain.

  The corridor was dingy, illuminated by three bare bulbs, their wattage more in keeping with a spook show than a place of business. To my right was an alcove with two vending machines. A trail of round blotches on the beige carpet gave evidence of sloppy practices. I followed the path and saw that the spots ended at the door to billing. I vowed to look over my statement with a more critical eye if this was any indication of the people who manned the computers.

  All but one door was closed, the rooms dark behind frosted glass. From the one open door, sunshine pooled in the hall, and I hurried toward it.

  I paused to let my eyes adjust to the light, then raised my hand to knock. I froze before I could connect with the door frame. Pecan paneling, aqua carpeting, and an outside wall made of glass were the grandiose setting of a room that was a “road kill” museum.

  Two squirrels were staged on a tree branch that was suspended from the ceiling. A skunk peeked at me from behind a woven basket. Deer heads were mounted on the walls. An opossum was frozen in time, his glassy eyes stretched wide, as if amazed at his predicament.

  Moth stood smiling behind his desk. His face was thin, his eyes dark and direct. Narrow lips and a pointed chin did nothing for his physical appearance.

  “Mrs. Solomon?” he squeaked in a high-pitched voice. “I haven’t seen you for a while.” His eyes grazed my face, then meandered in a long, lazy stroll down the length of my body. “You’ve changed,” he said softly. “Very nice. Very nice indeed.”

  Did he think I’d be interested in him? Only when these animals could twitch their tails.

  When I continued to stand in the doorway, Moth gave me a smile that made his lips disappear. “Won’t you come in?” he invited.

  I nodded politely. I perched on the chair he offered and forced myself to sit quietly and not crane my neck. It wasn’t until Moth took a seat that I saw the snake. It lay in a glass case on the corner of his desk. As big around as a kindergartner’s pencil, the creature looked to be two feet long. Its color was the same shade of Nile green as the apples I’d been forbidden to eat as a child. The snake moved, and I felt the same queasiness I’d had then when I’d snitched too many apples.

  Moth followed my gaze. “I see you’ve spotted Harvey.” He plucked off the lid and stuck his hand in the case.

  I was close enough to see the snake’s tongue flicker. He apparently liked what he smelled because he glided up Moth’s arm and circled it like a bracelet. “I taught him to do that,” bragged Moth.

  I gestured to the room’s other occupants. “Doesn’t their fate make him a little nervous?”

  Moth ignored my question and thrust his arm out to me. “You want to hold him?”

  I managed to quell a shudder. “Not this time. Maybe later.”

  Moth nodded, not surprised. He eased the green lasso off his arm and dropped it back into the case. Instead of putting the lid in place, he picked up a sheaf of papers. “Let’s get on with this. I want to look over these notes and still have time to change into my tuxedo.” In a smug voice, he explained, “I’m master of ceremonies at tonight’s taxidermy gala.”

  Taxidermy gala? Not two words I’d think of in the same sentence. I was glad my flower shop hadn’t gotten that order. What would I have used for centerpieces? I pictured blue delphiniums and red roses artistically arranged around a preserved raccoon. I turned off my lurid imagination and smiled pleasantly. “I’ll try not to keep you.”

  “Yes, well. Why did you want to see me?”

  It took me a second to rethink my reasons for being here. Harvey wasn’t helping, slithering around his case. I cleared my throat and took my gaze off the snake. Looking at Moth wasn’t much better. His eyes gleamed at me. “Did you know Isaac Miller was murdered?” I blurted. So much for leaving this in Sid’s hands. I watched Moth for his reaction. I’d hoped for openmouthed disbelief. What I got was mild surprise. I guess a man who has a snake for a pet isn’t caught off guard easily.

  Moth raised his eyebrows. “Really? Of course, I heard there’s to be an autopsy. But murder?” He clicked his tongue distastefully.

  “How much longer will Isaac’s flowers be available?”

  Moth grimaced. “How should I know? Depends on the weather. Middle to the end of October.”

  “Did Isaac mention that he might have to stop growing them?”

  He leaned back in his chair and tossed the papers on his desk. “He didn’t.”

  I caught the emphasis and asked, “Did someone else tell you?”

  “Yes, but I don’t take much stock in someone who calls and doesn’t have the decency to identify himself. I ignored the call.”

  “Was it a man or a woman?”

  “It could have been either. We didn’t have a lengthy conversation. The person told me to stop buying flowers from the Amish man. He hung up. So did I.”

  “Did you mention this to Isaac?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “No reason. How did he react when you told him?”

  “I don’t know. Surprised.” Moth rethought his answer. “No, not surprised, more like resigned. I really don’t remember.”

  “When was this?” I asked.

  Moth shifted restlessly in his chair. “A few weeks ago.”

  “Did you know there’s a plan among some of the florists to cut you out as middleman?”

  His pointed chin shot up. His eyes closed to slits. “Where’d you hear that?”

  I took a page from Hodges’s prolific repertoire of words. “I see people. Talk. Get around.”

  Abruptly, Moth stood up. “This is a waste of my time. I don’t know what you’re up to, but if it’s to cause trouble, you’ve come to the wrong man. Isaac and I had an agreement. No one”—his voice deepened dramatically—“and I mean no one but me will be able to buy anything Isaac Miller had a hand in growing.” He came around the desk. “If that’s all, Mrs. Solomon,” he said, “I have to get home and change.”

  Slowly, I walked to the door. “With Isaac’s death, won’t your agreement become invalid?”

  “No, it will not. I have the situation
well in hand.”

  In the doorway, I turned with another question. Before I could ask it, Moth exclaimed, “Get back in here, you little rascal.”

  I knew he wasn’t talking to me. Harvey must have made his escape. I did the same. I hurried down the corridor, past the vending machines, down the staircase. I didn’t take a full breath till I was sitting in my car.

  Chapter Six

  I carried the stepladder out of my garage and set it by the front steps. With my hands on my hips, I gazed above me. There it was, my newspaper, teetering on the edge of the gutter.

  With each step up the ladder, I swore I’d get to the bottom of these shenanigans. What had I done to this kid? I racked my brain but couldn’t come up with a single thing. At first, I’d figured the boy was going through puberty, and his mind was on something else. But after talking to a couple of neighbors, I discovered that the placement of my paper was a calculated prank. None of them were experiencing this kind of treatment.

  I tucked the paper under my arm and put the ladder away. I didn’t know the kid. He’d been on the route for about six months. I had a telephone number and a name: Jamie Fenton. I’d seen him only once, about a month ago. I’d come home early from the shop with a sick headache. When I heard the thud of the paper hit the side of the house, I’d gone to the front door. He was too far down the street to call to, but I’d seen a pudgy kid, a ball cap, and chubby legs pedaling for all they were worth.

  A confrontation was in order. I could complain to the newspaper office, but I wanted to look this kid in the eye.

  Shaking my head, I sat down at the kitchen table, unfolded the paper, and picked up my fork. Eating and reading at the same time is a diet no-no. With a limited amount of food, I’m supposed to savor each bite. Delight in the texture; thrill to the taste. In short, get as much out of the food as I possibly can. A tough assignment when faced with a can of tuna dumped on a bed of shredded lettuce. I might have been more creative, but I wasn’t in the mood. Glancing down at the front page, today’s headline finished the job on my spiritless meal: