Roots of Murder

by Janis Harrison

  Cecil is the one who’s a pain in the butt, but I didn’t say that. I’d taken a good look at the magazine in my hand. No glossy pages. The words inside looked like gibberish. It was a much more interesting topic than Cecil’s opinion of me, which was nothing new. I held the magazine up. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a magazine.”

  “I know that. What kind? It’s in a foreign language.”

  “Not foreign. It’s an Amish publication called The Budget.” She took it out of my hands and put it back on the shelf.

  “And you subscribe to it?”

  “Yes,” she said wearily. “This town and these people are important to me. I can’t afford to make a blunder when I deal with the Amish.” Her tone turned waspish as she demanded, “Are you going to investigate that?”

  What had started out as a congenial conversation was deteriorating. It was time to do some serious groveling.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I came to you because you understand the Amish. Apparently, you even speak their language. I admire you. So does everyone here in Woodgrove. You see people when their emotions are raw with grief. You give them comfort, make their burdens easier to bear.”

  Her chin quivered. “I try.”

  “I came to ask you who’s on the Amish council. Did they have the power to make Isaac stop growing his flowers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who are they?”

  She hesitated, then answered, “There are three men. Eli Detweiler. Reuben Hosteiler. He moved to Woodgrove two or three years ago. Last fall, he lost a leg when his buggy had an accident with a car. Leo Mast is the third. He and his family have been visiting back east for the last few weeks. They’re thinking of moving back to Pennsylvania.” She bustled up from her desk. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  “One more thing.” I kept talking, though the look on her face didn’t invite me to continue. “How far would the discord between Isaac and Detweiler have gone?”

  “What’s too far?”

  “Murder.”

  Margaret’s mouth grew round with disbelief. She gulped twice before she could find her voice. “Are you accusing one of the Amish of murder?”

  “I’m not accusing anyone. I’m merely looking at motive. Who would have a reason to kill a peace-loving man who grows flowers?”

  “Why couldn’t it have been a stranger? A vagrant?”

  I raised my eyebrows in amazement. “Do you seriously believe that Isaac was murdered by someone passing by? Again, why? What’s the motive?”

  “I don’t want to think about it,” replied Margaret, “and you shouldn’t—”

  The phone rang. She turned her back on me and took two deep breaths to compose herself. She picked up the receiver.

  “Woodgrove Funeral Chapel,” she said in a calm, precise voice.

  She sounded normal, but when she smoothed her hair, I saw her hand tremble. I listened, not so much to the conversation as to the texture of her voice. Gentle, tranquil, resonant. A minute ago, she’d been upset with me. Now she was calm and helpful. She was good at her job. Very kind and patient with the people.

  “ … funeral set for one o‘clock Thursday here at the chapel. Yes. Yes. Visitation is Wednesday from seven till eight o’clock. That’s true. The family is waiting for a daughter to fly in from Alaska. Something about a mixup with her tickets.”

  When she hung up, I asked, “What do you know about Bishop Detweiler?”

  It was interesting to watch the varied emotions flash across her face. Margaret had been in her helpful mode when she replaced the receiver. At my question, her face did a reversal, searching for an appropriate hostile emotion. She settled on icy silence and marched out of the office. I stayed where I was and listened to her progress. Her gait was quick and solid. The woman was annoyed, but I wasn’t going to be diverted.

  I stepped into the hall. I’d never had a fear of the dark, death, or in this case, funeral homes. Carl had always said that events, situations, and places were merely the settings for violence. It’s human beings who create the mayhem.

  Margaret had disappeared, but she had switched on several lights. I gazed around me. The architecture of the old house was beautiful. Filigreed oak cornices decorated the ivory walls. A broad staircase rose six steps, then disappeared into a gracious curve to the second floor. The wood gleamed in the soft lighting. The house’s present-day use made it difficult to see how it might originally have been arranged. Walls had been removed; others had been built. An eight-foot-wide corridor ran from the front door to the back.

  Across from me was a cozy little room where family members could sit and reflect. Like the rest of the chapel, its carpet was hunter green. Mauve and burgundy—striped material covered padded chairs.

  Next to the sitting area was a medium-sized slumber room. I could have been standing in someone’s home. A couple of sofas, a coffee table with flower arrangement, two end tables, and several boxes of Kleenex. The focal point wasn’t a television but a steel blue casket open at the top.

  I stepped to the door and read the name on the register: MYRTLE RANKIN. I didn’t think I knew her, but I checked to make sure. Nope. She’d been very old and extremely small. Her cheeks were bright with rouge, her lips a pale pink. There were two potted plants sitting on stands nearby. Across the casket’s bottom lid was an example of Allison’s economy casketpieces. I knew without counting it would have eighteen pink carnations and two bunches of leather leaf greenery among the sprigs of fern. Since ribbon is cheaper than flowers, the top of the spray was a mass of loops.

  I turned away. The main chapel was farther down the hall. It held several rows of folding chairs but no casket or flowers.

  Once I passed this slumber room, I was in unfamiliar territory. Carl’s arrangements had been handled by a River City funeral home. When Mom had died, Leon was still director. This part had been added after his death.

  A slice of light showed around the edge of a door. I hesitated. In an unfamiliar funeral home, you don’t brazenly burst into a room unless you’re prepared—for anything. I eased the door open, then pushed it wider when I saw all the empty caskets.

  In my mind, it was the showroom, but I’d been informed by a funeral director friend that certain terms should always be used. It’s cemeteries, never graveyards. Casket, never coffin. Funeral director, never undertaker. Remains or deceased, but never corpse. And this was a selection room, not a showroom.

  I saw approximately twelve caskets in assorted colors and styles ranging from cheap to ornate. The lighting was bright, almost cheerful, if a room filled with caskets could be described as such. Brass and silver fittings gleamed.

  Margaret was at the far end. She glanced up when I came in. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she said. “I’m so upset. Poor Rosalie. One child, and another on the way.”

  “I know.” I worked my way to her, dodging caskets of all kinds. Teal, mauve, walnut. Mahogany, gray, oak. Purple.

  Purple? I stopped to trail a finger down the lavender satin lining. “This is different.”

  Margaret stopped tugging on a bronze metal casket. “I’m sending it back,” she said. “I’ve had it since January. No one wants purple.”

  “I like it,” I said, as I moved down the room toward her. “If it had one of my casketpieces of pink roses, a few purple asters to pick up the color, and some baby’s breath, it would be striking.”

  “Yeah, well, striking doesn’t sell in my business.” She pointed to the casket she was trying to move. “No one is inventive. Families always pick this model for a man. Next time I get a delivery, I’m going to put it closer to the embalming room. I’m getting too old to roll it around.”

  I was ready to offer my assistance but got sidetracked when I saw an L-shaped metal handle lying on the cushy lining. I picked it up and asked, “What’s this?”

  “Some of the metal caskets have airtight seals that serve as a moisture barrier. That crank locks the seal in place.”

&nbs
p; I put the metal handle back where I’d found it. I took hold of the end of the casket she was struggling with and swung it away from the wall. “I’ll help. Just tell me where we’re going.”

  “Over there,” she said, jerking her head to the left.

  We maneuvered the casket across the carpeted floor and stopped before a pair of double doors. Margaret turned to me and asked, “Are you squeamish?”

  I didn’t answer right away. I was in a funeral home. I could move caskets. I could put a single rose in the deceased’s hand. I could pin on a corsage if the family requested it. I gave an uneasy chuckle. “Depends on what you have in mind.”

  “I need to move Mr. Engelhart from the embalming table to his new home.” She indicated the casket. “The hoist is getting worn and often lets me down”—she grimaced—“or I should say, let’s my guest down too quickly.” She waited a moment, then asked, “Will you help me?”

  I looked at the doors. “Is he dressed?”

  Margaret snorted. “He is now. I have yet to bury a naked body, though Priscilla Yarrowby came close. Flimsy little nightie. Black and red garter belt. I think I’ve seen it all, then something new crops up, and I’m taken by surprise all over again.”

  “How do you usually move the bodies?”

  “Not bodies,” she corrected. “The deceased. I prefer to call them ‘my guest’ or by name. My neighbor comes in to drive the family car and do odd jobs, but he’s gone for the day.”

  Talk about odd jobs. But I smiled congenially. “You’ll have to introduce me to Mr. Engelhart. I can’t manhandle him without a proper introduction.”

  Margaret pursed her lips in light rebuke at my humor. She opened the doors to a world I’d only speculated on. While she positioned the casket, she took me at my word and began a long spiel on the life of Mr. Clarence Engelhart. While she talked, I gazed around the embalming room.

  Green-tiled walls and floor. No windows. A porcelain table. Mr. Engelhart. My eyes skimmed over him. Glassfront cabinets on two walls. A drain in the floor. I swallowed. The area was about twelve by fourteen feet. We didn’t have much room to move between the casket and the table. When this house had been a family dwelling, this might have been a small bedroom or a storage room. A pulley hung above the table. Its track looped across the ceiling to the doors where I stood.

  “ … his death reminded me of Leon’s. Long and painful,” Margaret was saying.

  I assumed she was talking about Mr. Engelhart. I nodded sympathetically, then asked, “Where do you want me?”

  “The casket stays here. We bring Mr. Engelhart to it. The hoist works, at one height, which is about a foot lower than I need. When I get him to the casket, I want you to help me raise him that twelve inches. If I get the hoist too high, it slips a cog and will drop the load.”

  “I’ve slipped a cog, too,” I muttered as I walked to the table. I gazed down on the old man. “You did a nice job. He looks peaceful.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The family wants the casket closed.” She grunted as she adjusted four straps around Mr. Engelhart, then buckled them expertly into place.

  Behind her on the wall were two buttons. She pressed one. I heard a soft hum, the slack was taken up, and Mr. Engelhart rose off the table. His legs stuck straight out, as though he were a magician’s levitating act. I had a wild desire to giggle. Poor old fellow. Dangling from the ceiling like a mobile.

  “Stand back until I get him closer to the casket,” cautioned Margaret.

  She pushed the other button. With a jerk, Mr. Engelhart floated on his way, but it was not a dignified process. It seemed to me that the entire system needed an overhaul. The machine stalled twice. These abrupt stops and starts made Mr. Engelhart jiggle and swing.

  “Should I steady him?” I asked.

  “He’s secure as long as I don’t take the pulley up too far. I think I broke some teeth out of the wheel when Mrs. Devinski died. That woman weighed four hundred pounds. Best cook in Woodgrove, but she must have sampled everything she made. I had to order a specially built casket for her.”

  How mortifying! I ran my hands down my slim hips and vowed to leave those damned cheeseburgers alone. No special-ordered casket for this old girl.

  “Okay,” said Margaret. “He’s as close as we can get him. You take his shoulders. I’ll stand here in the middle. We’ll heave him over the side.”

  Heave? Not a word I wanted to think about while grasping a dead man’s shoulders in a room where mysterious things happened.

  I was facing the counter and saw a metal box sitting beside the sink. The manufacturer’s nameplate identified it as an embalming pump. Fastened to the top of the box was a clear canister with numbers and level measures. The entire contraption, was plugged into an electrical outlet. Loops of black rubber tubing coiled on the floor.

  The cabinet above the sink held an assortment of scalpels, picks, and other instruments that looked painful. One, especially, caught my eye. It looked to be made of stainless steel and was twelve inches long. The handle was molded to fit the grip of a hand. The pointed end was wicked.

  “Well?” said Margaret impatiently. “What are you waiting for? He isn’t going to help us.”

  I nodded to the cabinet. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?” replied Margaret, glancing around.

  “That long tool there in the cabinet.”

  “Trocar. Tool of my trade.”

  I chuckled. “In my husband’s line of work it would be classed as a deadly weapon.”

  She rolled her eyes and asked curtly, “Are you ready?”

  I put my hands under Mr. Engelhart’s shoulders. “I guess so. On the count of three?”

  “Whatever.”

  “One. Two. Three,” I said, and gave the body a boost up. I was pleased. I’d done my part. Mr. Engelhart’s upper torso was almost in, though he was hardly in a position that would meet with his family’s approval. Margaret huffed and puffed, but she wasn’t making headway.

  “Want me to come around there?” I offered.

  “No. Stay there. He’s heavier than I thought. I had Joseph’s help earlier.” She wiped a hand across her brow. “You steady him. Don’t let him fall. I’m going to raise the hoist.”

  “But I thought—” I stopped. I can get myself into the damnedest messes. All I’d wanted was the answers to a few questions, and here I was, wrestling a dead man into his casket. A fine Sunday morning pastime. Behind me the motor whirred and Mr. Engelhart made a jerky leap into the air.

  “Stay with him,” instructed Margaret. “Keep him steady. Bend over more, so you can get a better hold. Don’t let him sway away from the casket. I can’t remember how high—”

  I didn’t hear what she said because the winch made a series of high-pitched shrieks. Everything happened so fast. One minute Mr. Engelhart was suspended above me. The next he was falling. I tried to move, but his head cracked into mine. He didn’t feel any pain. I wasn’t as lucky. A bright light exploded behind my eyes, then a black curtain of unconsciousness dropped into place.

  Chapter Eight

  The floor of an embalming room is hard and cold.

  “Never state the obvious,” I whispered. Carl had been fond of quoting those words. Originally, they’d been said by his army drill sergeant, but they’d found their way into most of Carl’s observations on life.

  I forced my eyes open. I must not have been out long. Margaret was coming toward me with a folded towel in her hand. When I focused on her, she flung the towel into the sink.

  “You’re awake,” she said.

  Again, the obvious. I could see her. My eyes must be open. Some wayward thought nudged my tender brain. I blinked and slowly sat up. With gentle fingers, I explored the lump on my head. “If that’s a cold compress,” I murmured, “I could use it.”

  “Let me help you up,” she said and grasped me firmly by the arm. “I’ll get you some ice.”

  She hauled me to my feet. I swayed weakly. My wavering gaze settled on Mr. Engelh
art. Poor old guy. He appeared to be making a desperate attempt to flee his eternal home. His legs stuck over the edge of the casket; his face was buried in the pillow.

  “Are you going to leave him like that?” I asked.

  Margaret shrugged. “I’ll get him situated later.”

  It didn’t seem right, but I’d had enough of embalming rooms, caskets, and bodies to last me a lifetime. Which, judging from the headache that pounded behind my eyes, could be ending sooner than I had planned.

  The smell of the room was making me nauseous, or maybe it was my throbbing head. Whatever the reason, I needed out of this confining space.

  I waved away Margaret’s offer for ice, accepted her apology with a nod, then wished I hadn’t. Dizziness forced me to close my eyes.

  “You don’t look very good,” she said. “Come lie down.”

  “Air,” I mumbled. “I need fresh air.” I shook off her helping hand and stumbled out the door and down the corridor.

  From behind me, Margaret asked, “Where are you going?”

  Dazed, I repeated, “Going?”

  “Yes. Are you going home?”

  I looked at Margaret and saw lines of worry etched around her eyes. Was she thinking lawsuit? She had nothing to fear. I didn’t want anyone to hear this morbid tale. “Now, you mean?”

  “Of course, now. Should you be driving?”

  Oh, yes. I should be in my car and driving the hell away from this place. But I didn’t say that. “I’ll be fine,” I replied.

  “But what if …”

  I blocked her out so I could concentrate on getting the door open. I was unprepared for the blinding sunshine that blazed in my face. I caught my toe on the threshold and nearly plunged headfirst out the door.

  Margaret was close by. I felt the brush of her fingers on my arm, but I hurried out into the warm, bright light. I wobbled down the sidewalk to my car. With a studied effort, I fumbled the key into the ignition. When the motor was going, I put the car in gear and pulled away. But only to the next block. Out of sight of the funeral home, I parked and rested my head on the steering wheel.