Roots of Murder

by Janis Harrison

  AMISH MAN MURDERED IN FLOWER FIELD

  I pushed my plate aside and gave full attention to the story. My frustration grew as I read to the end. Nothing I didn’t already know.

  My conversation with Moth had left too many questions unanswered. I took a notebook from a drawer and made a list. When I was finished, I nudged my plate closer and took a bite of tuna. I studied the paper and saw a few loose ends could be tied up, if I could phone Evan. Since that was impossible, I tried another route.

  Allison’s home number isn’t on my frequent caller list. I looked it up, and after taking a deep breath, I dialed. While it rang, I muttered, “I must be desperate.”

  “Hello,” she trilled.

  “This is Bretta.”

  A moment of stunned silence, then Allison regained her equilibrium. “Tough luck, Bretta. You’re out. We’re in.” She hung up.

  “In what?” I said, slamming down the phone. “Deep shit, if you ask me.” Which she had, and I’d turned her down.

  Hindsight. I should have played her, let her have plenty of line. If she thought I was on her side, I’d have information. As it was, all I had were conflicting statements. How could Allison be in if Moth had an agreement with Isaac? Allison had said the coalition would cut Moth out and have more profit. It couldn’t work both ways.

  Quickly, I gave my fingers more exercise. I found another competitor’s home number. As soon as I identified myself, she hung up. Three more times I made calls to area florists. Each time I was rebuffed, politely but firmly.

  Allison had done her work well. She’d sewed up the coalition with a steel thread. I was shut out. No information, not a clue as to their plans. Hadn’t it occurred to any of them that Isaac’s flowers were annuals? That they might be putting together a package deal that was going nowhere? I tapped my fork against my plate until the racket I was making annoyed me. I was at a dead end.

  There’s a thought. “Dead?” I did another search in the phone book. I found the number and dialed.

  In a deep, somber tone, Margaret answered, “Woodgrove Funeral Chapel.”

  “Margaret, this is Bretta Solomon. Got a minute?”

  “Sorry, Bretta,” she whispered. “A family is here making arrangements. We’ll have to talk another—”

  “Wait!” I interjected, in case she was going to hang up. I was getting a complex. Besides, there wasn’t anyone else to call. “Can I see you? Tonight?”

  “Tonight?” echoed Margaret in surprise. “No, I—”

  “Tomorrow, then? In the morning, unless you’ll be in church.”

  Margaret sighed. “If it’s important, tomorrow morning will have to do. Ten. I can’t get away for church. I … uh … there are things to do here. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to say good-bye.”

  This time when I hung up, I was satisfied. I’d gotten something. I’d even gotten a kind farewell.

  Sunday morning dawned bright and cool. I left the River City limits with a pair of sunglasses perched on my nose. I’d spent a lousy night. Saturday’s events had played over and over in my mind without any results, except my eyes were heavy and my head throbbed. Three cups of coffee hadn’t done any good. It was early, at least for me, on a Sunday. Just past eight-thirty. I hoped a leisurely drive to Woodgrove with the car window down would blow the dust off my brain.

  Once again, I passed the turnoff to Woodgrove. I wasn’t as interested in the scenery as I was in seeing if the wreath was still there.

  When I came to the curve in the road, my heart jumped. At first, I thought there’d been another accident. I counted four cars parked along the side of the road. As I slowed, I saw a group of teenagers standing among the sheared-off trees and brush.

  I didn’t want to intrude on their grief, but this was too good a chance to pass up. I parked my car at the head of the line, left my sunglasses on the dashboard, and climbed out. The young people turned at my approach. There were fifteen in all. I saw tears. Red eyes. Several yellow roses. And the wreath.

  Two boys were tying a black ribbon around the massive tree trunk, hiding the nasty gash. In silence, we watched them climb up the deep ravine, their sneakers slipping on the dewy grass as they clutched at mangled saplings to haul themselves to the top.

  I waited until they were with the others before I spoke. “I’m sorry about your loss.” I pointed to the wreath. “I own the flower shop where that was purchased.”

  “Who’s it from?” asked a girl with long hair. “It doesn’t have a card.”

  “That’s why I stopped.” Briefly, I explained about the note under the shop door.

  A tall boy, older than the others, stepped forward. “I’m Josh Baxter. Ned was my little brother.” Tears clogged his throat, making his words quavery. “He was behind the wheel. I taught him how to drive.” His voice broke. “I thought I taught him well.”

  A couple of the kids touched Josh’s arm. He nodded, took a deep breath, and pointed around the group. “That’s Mike’s brother, Steve. That’s Eric’s girlfriend, Heather. The rest are friends. Classmates of the guys.”

  “What do you think?” I asked softly. “Who do you think might have sent the wreath?” I studied their young faces. All shook their heads. Grief had left them vulnerable. Not one, but three important people had been taken savagely from their lives. I knew how death worked. This group would never be the same. It was sad. It was also damned unfair.

  “Perhaps your parents sent it?” I offered.

  Steve answered, “Never happened. The house reeks of flowers. Mom says she doesn’t want to see another one ever again.”

  Josh said, “If my parents wanted something like this, they’d have discussed it with me.”

  Heads waggled agreement. I gave Josh one of my flower shop cards and asked, “If you should hear anything, would you get in touch with me?”

  As I drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror. The group was huddled in a circle, their arms wrapped around each other’s waists. For some people, this is the best way to deal with grief. To share it; to take solace in being with others who understand. It was a heart-wrenching scene. My throat tightened.

  When Carl died, I’d suffered alone. Dad had sent a sympathy card. Carl’s mother and brother live in Nashville. Irene is blind and lives in a nursing home; the trip to Missouri would have been too difficult for her to make. Darold, Carl’s brother, was too stingy to fork out the cash for the trip.

  There were friends, but nothing like this. I was touched by the depth of compassion in these young people. I envied their close relationship. It took a couple of tries before I could swallow the lump in my throat.

  After Carl’s death, I’d been numb. It had been months before the full realization of my loss had sunk in. Hard work and long hours helped, but often my lack of a family still seems overwhelming. I miss having someone to love. I’d give ten years of my life if I could pick up Carl’s dirty clothes a few more times.

  My destination didn’t help my frame of mind. Woodgrove Funeral Chapel was two blocks off the main drag in a residential area. I parked on the street. Since I was early, I took my time walking to the front door.

  The funeral home looked like the other houses on the block, except for the discreet sign posted near the driveway. In this part of the country, nearly all the funeral homes were initially family dwellings. Most are rambling two-story structures, with plenty of room on the ground floor for seating guests attending a service.

  Margaret had an apartment upstairs, but not a separate outside entrance. I wondered what it would be like to live above a funeral home. Did she ever have guests over? Did she have to watch what she cooked, so the aroma of bacon or cabbage wouldn’t linger in the slumber room?

  I tried the door. It was locked. I walked around to the side door, where flowers were delivered. It, too, was locked. I cupped my hands to the glass and peeked in. Dark. With time to kill, I decided to take a stroll to the rear of the property.

  The day was as good as it gets in September—warm, a few c
louds, and a breeze that was better than any mood-altering drug. The grounds were in tiptop shape. The hedges were neatly trimmed, the grass freshly mowed. Red geraniums in mammoth terra-cotta pots provided cheerful but tasteful dots of color.

  A vegetable garden was well tended, the rows straight and weed-free. I recognized cucumber, squash, pumpkin, and okra plants. There were other rows, but I ignored them when I spied a ripe tomato gleaming like a ruby sitting on green velvet. I picked it, polished it on my sleeve, and took a bite. The succulent juices ran down my chin. Absently, I wiped them away and looked over the rest of the property.

  The lot wasn’t deep. There were no outbuildings. The garage was located under the house. The cement drive sloped down to two big doors. I checked the small windows. Only the black hearse. Margaret’s car was gone.

  Had she changed her mind about attending church? Had she forgotten I was coming?

  I finished my snack and tossed the stem in a trash bin near the garage. I was feeling a bit miffed when the sharp toot of a horn called my attention to the street. I looked down the drive and saw Margaret arrive in a dusty black Cadillac.

  She had the car door open before she’d turned off the engine. “Am I late?” she called.

  “I’m early,” I admitted.

  She shut off the car, picked up her purse, and climbed out. I’d never seen Margaret in anything but a navy dress. Sometimes she pinned a brooch at her shoulder, but most of the time she was unadorned. Today, she was dressed in ratty black slacks, a black pullover, and soiled white tennis shoes. Her hair straggled from its customary neat style. The cuffs of her pants had collected hordes of tiny burrs.

  She gave a self-conscious laugh. “Excuse how I look,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep and didn’t feel like working, so I went scavenging.”

  What did an undertaker scavenge?

  Margaret accurately read the question on my face and said, “Come. See for yourself.” She went to the trunk of her car and popped up the lid.

  I was more than curious. I peeked in and chuckled. Inside were three small pumpkins, some oddly shaped gourds, and a basket of assorted weeds. Their shapes, textures, and intense colors would make an aesthetic bouquet.

  “How about giving me a hand?” she asked.

  I nodded and picked up the pumpkins. Margaret grabbed the rest of the load, and we headed for the door. She continued a rapid-fire conversation. I didn’t mind. I’d come to hear her talk. Later I’d steer the topic around to Isaac and the council. Until then, I was content to listen.

  “ … something special in the front lobby. Once a funeral is over, and the flowers are gone, it seems kind of dreary.” She juggled her burden, so she could fit the key in the lock. “Nothing quite so dominating as a Christmas tree or jack-o’-lanterns, but something that will soothe the families and friends when they come by to pay their respects.”

  “I’m surprised. Most funeral directors get their fill of flowers.”

  Margaret grunted success with the lock and pushed the door open. We stepped into the dark. On familiar ground, she rushed ahead. I followed more carefully. There were windows, but in this part of the chapel, they were covered with heavy draperies.

  “I love flowers,” said Margaret, her voice floating back to me in the dusky light. “My mother always had a garden. We had fresh-picked flowers on the table all summer. In the winter, when the flowers were gone, she’d use cut branches of cedar to give the house a special aroma.”

  She flipped on the office light, then sighed. “All these years later, I can’t smell cedar without thinking of home.”

  I stood in the hall with the pumpkins. She stirred herself-and apologized. “Here I am going on and on, and those pumpkins are cumbersome.” She motioned with her chin to the far side of the room. “We’ll put them in that closet. I’ll arrange them later.” She hurried around her desk and wrestled the door open. We set everything on the floor.

  With her arms unburdened, Margaret gestured selfconsciously to her clothes. “If you can stand to look at me, I’ll wait to shower and change after you leave. In the meantime, I need a cup of coffee. Would you care for one?”

  “I’d love it,” I said. “I didn’t sleep well, either.”

  Margaret stepped into a small room off her office. I followed and saw a kitchenette. I stood in the doorway and watched as she filled a percolator with water. I like my coffee strong, but I raised my eyebrows at the double measure she used.

  While she took cups down from a cabinet, I found myself telling her about my trip to Moth’s office and his decor, Her tongue clicked a few times—“tsk, tsk”—when I described the stuffed animals and Harvey, the snake. She frowned when I mentioned questioning Moth about Isaac’s murder.

  “Why are you getting involved?” she asked, leading the way back to her office. She nodded to a chair beside her desk.

  I sat down and sighed. “I’m not sure. Evan wanted me to see why an autopsy was conducted when Isaac died. But the sheriff has answered that question.” I sighed again. “I can’t get Isaac’s death out of my mind.”

  “Didn’t your husband just pass away?”

  “A little over a year ago.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re lonesome. You have too much time on your hands.”

  Pop psychology from a funeral director. Humph. Instead of analyzing me, she could take a look at her own life. I knew her story. She’d been trained as a nurse but had traded occupations when her husband, Leon, was diagnosed with cancer. Before he’d become too ill to work, she’d gone to mortuary school. Once licensed, she’d taken over the funeral home when he passed away. In other words, she’d switched from saving lives to preserving death. Surely that deserved a couple of visits to a therapist.

  “The flower shop keeps me busy,” I said, “but I miss helping Carl with his investigations.”

  “You helped him? How?”

  “Mostly, I listened. I was his sounding board. He’d tell me what was going on, who the suspects were, and I’d ask questions, poke holes in his theories. I liked it.”

  “But he was a trained policeman, my dear. You’re”—she softened her words with a smile—“merely a florist.”

  I shrugged. “Mysteries fascinate me. However, it isn’t just Isaac’s death. The Amish are intriguing. I could never live like they do, and I’m not talking about the lack of phones, electricity, or automobiles. I’m too verbal. I’m always ready to question everything. To have one man tell me how to live would be frustrating.”

  “You’re thinking of Bishop Detweiler?” When I nodded, she said, “He isn’t telling them how to live, Bretta.”

  “It sounds like it.”

  “He’s only telling his people how the Bible says they should live. Those aren’t his rules. He doesn’t make them.”

  “But he enforces them to his liking.”

  Margaret’s tone was patient. “The Amish consider themselves servants of God. He put them here on earth for a purpose and that purpose is written in the Bible.”

  “But if five different people read the same scripture,” I argued, “there might be five different interpretations. Who decides what’s right?”

  Margaret frowned. “They have to believe that the man they’ve chosen is strong of character and will lead them down the right path.”

  “What of Isaac’s flowers?” I asked. “Do you understand why Detweiler wants them to die?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then would you explain it to me?”

  “Grain is grown to feed their bodies, to keep them healthy, so they can worship the Lord. It’s a sin to waste so much land on frivolous flowers. A few is a pleasure. Too many is an extravagance. Too worldly for the Amish.”

  I wasn’t convinced, and it showed. Margaret waved a hand dismissively. “Bretta, Isaac is dead. To keep rehashing it will only bring hurt. If Evan lets the flowers die, then things can get back to normal.”

  “Normal?” I exclaimed. “How can they ever be normal? Isaac is dead. Rosalie is a widow. Her child
ren will grow up without their father. What’s normal about that?”

  Margaret winced. “True,” she murmured. Abruptly, she got to her feet and went to the kitchenette. “You’re too outspoken for your own good,” she called through the doorway.

  “I’ve been told that before,” I admitted. “I’ve also been called a Missouri mule.”

  She came back into the office carrying two steaming cups. Carefully, I accepted one and took an experimental sip. I tried not to make a face. This brew would grow hair on one of Margaret’s pumpkins.

  I set the cup down and mused aloud, “I can’t help but think that Isaac was killed by someone he knew.”

  The cup of coffee in Margaret’s hand tipped. Hot liquid spilled across the desk. Her knees buckled, and she flopped weakly into her chair.

  Chapter Seven

  I rushed around the desk, plucked a magazine off a shelf, and fanned Margaret. “Are you all right?” I asked.

  She rubbed a trembling hand across her face. “I’m fine,” she murmured. “I felt dizzy for a moment.” She gave me a sheepish grin. “I’ve been trying to do too much. I forget I’m not as young as I used to be. The brain’s willing to do the tasks, but the body’s beginning to rebel.”

  I stopped fanning and stepped back. “Oh. I hoped maybe something I said jogged your memory, and you had a clue as to who’d killed Isaac.”

  Two rosy spots of color bloomed on Margaret’s pale cheeks. She gave me a curt look before grabbing a handful of Kleenex from a box. As she blotted the soggy papers on her desk, she said, “The idea. Isaac knowing his killer. You grew up here, Bretta. You know these people just as well as I do.”

  “Someone killed Isaac.”

  “Leave that to the sheriff.”

  “But Evan asked me—”

  Margaret’s exasperated sigh cut me off. “Cecil said you were annoying, but I stood up for you.” She tossed the brown-stained tissues in the trash. “Perhaps I was hasty in coming to your defense.”