Roots of Murder

by Janis Harrison

  I paused for a second, then asked, “When those boys were killed on the curve, did the Highway Patrol suspect something, and their suspicions didn’t reach the public?”

  Silence.

  “I have to know, Sid. Were there questions?”

  “Those boys are dead and buried. Speculating will cause the families nothing but more heartache.”

  “So there were suspicions?”

  “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “Skid marks didn’t jive with the path the car would have taken if it was just traveling too fast to make the curve. The patrol officer figured the driver came around the curve, saw something, probably a deer. He swerved, lost control, and that was it.”

  “Like hell.”

  “What?” demanded Sid. “You aren’t thinking that kid found a snake in his car?”

  “No, no. Of course not.”

  “Then what are you doing raking this up?”

  “Just thinking.”

  “Yeah, well, when you get to thinking, you give me a pain in the … head. I’m hanging up now. I have work to do.”

  “Motive, Sid. Why was Isaac murdered?”

  “Time’s up. Just because I’m called a public servant doesn’t mean I’m here to do your bidding.”

  Click, He was gone.

  Before I could be annoyed that Sid had been so rude, I smelled something burning. “My pizza!”

  I slammed the phone down, hurried to the oven, and pulled the door open. A cloud of smoke billowed in my face. I choked and fanned the air. The cheese had turned to a smoldering, glutinous mess, the crust a fine ebony. I grabbed the pizza with a hotpad and tested it with a fork. The pizza was ready—ready for the trash.

  Irritated, I dumped it into the bin and searched in the refrigerator. I needed to go grocery shopping. It had been days since I’d stopped for more than a quart of skim milk and a loaf of bread.

  “What to eat?” I muttered. The cold air from the refrigerator swirled around my bare ankles. The sensation brought back memories of the snake. I slammed the door and leaned against it. Holding my head in my hands, I slid down until my rear end rested on the floor.

  In the hospital, the medicine had kept my thoughts out of focus. Since coming home, I’d forced them away. Now they rushed in, bringing back all the fear and hysteria.

  I’d been told I was cool-headed, that I’d reacted with common sense. But now a sob worked its way up my throat. Self-preservation makes the weak strong. Makes the strong desperate. Makes the desperate … murder.

  I’d poked in a murder investigation. I’d poked until I’d annoyed the culprit. I’d made him feel that I was to be feared. That I needed to be stopped. I wiped my face on the sleeve of my robe and almost smiled.

  I’d asked for a sign so I’d know if I was on the right trail. As a child, I’d been cautioned not to wish for something unless I was prepared for the consequences.

  I’d wanted assurance that I was on the right path. Well, I had it. I was on that path. The path of a killer.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I rarely take an afternoon away from the flower shop, so. I decided to make the most of it. I fixed a cup of hot chocolate, added some marshmallows for my sweet tooth, and curled up on the couch. With pen in hand, I made a list of everyone I’d talked to on Sunday. When I was finished, I was amazed at the length.

  “Busy, busy,” I murmured. “Busybody,” I amended, thinking of Detweiler’s quote.

  Was I? You damned betcha. That snake had clinched it. B.S.—Before Snake—my activities hadn’t really hurt anyone except the guilty person. I chewed on the cap of the pen. How long had the snake been in my car? I shivered. The vehicle I’d heard while I’d been on Sam’s property was my best bet. I was certain I’d left the driver’s window down. It was up when I came back.

  My eyes traced the letters of a name I hadn’t considered as a suspect. Edna Bellows. She said she’d been by my flower shop. Had she pushed the order for the wreath under the door?

  I leaned against a pillow and remembered when I was a kid in 4-H Club. Edna had taught a class on snakes. The boys had been thrilled because it was much more exciting than woodworking. I’d had a crush on one of the guys and considered trading sewing for snakes. I’d given it some serious thought, but the boy’s dimples didn’t have that much attraction. I’d stayed with my needles and thread; of course, that hadn’t done me any good either.

  Where would Edna get a snake? And not just any snake but a python? Where would anyone get it? Unless they already had one in their possession. Moth. If he had one snake, he could have two. Would Sid talk to him?

  I struggled to my feet and went to the phone book. Pet store. I looked in the Yellow Pages. Eight stores. I rolled my eyes but dialed the first number. I didn’t have anything better to do. I wasn’t ready to get in my car and take a drive.

  The first four didn’t sell snakes. On the fifth try, I struck pay dirt. “I was wondering if you sell snakes?” I began.

  “Yes.”

  “Pythons?”

  “Yes, we do.” His voice deepened as he employed his sales pitch. “Regardless of their bad publicity, snakes, especially pythons, make excellent pets.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  My attitude wasn’t that of a prospective customer. The brightness in his voice dimmed. “Lady, I’m busy. If you’re interested, we’ve got three in stock.”

  “What about food?”

  “Yeah, they eat. Mice, rats. Depends on the size of the snake.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut on this image. “Who buys them?”

  “Snake owners. Look, I—”

  “Can you give me their names?”

  “Are you kidding? We don’t give out that information. Besides, there are over thirty.”

  “Thirty people have snakes?” I squawked.

  “That’s just from our store,” he boasted. “Of course, we do specialize in reptiles.”

  “J. W. Moth,” I said.

  “Good customer. Are you a friend of his?”

  The lie came easily. “Sure.”

  Respect came across the line. “He’s steered several friends our way. Come on in. I’ll personally see to it that we find the right snake for you. What’s your name?”

  Impulsively, I answered, “Edna Bellows.”

  “All right, Edna. When you come into the store, ask for Rodney.”

  “How about Margaret Jenkins?”

  “What?”

  “She told me to call you, too.”

  “Fine. Is she a customer? Did she get a snake here?”

  On a roll, I decided to push my luck. I asked, “How about Hodges?”

  “Leray? Sure. Great guy. Loves old Arnie, his python.”

  I hung up. Moth and Leray. Why wasn’t I surprised? Leray had been leaning against my car when I came out of the café. Leray Hodges. A snake owning a snake. But that didn’t fit. The salesman had said Leray loved Arnie. Why put something you love, even a snake, in a car with someone who would destroy it, given the chance?

  I glanced at the clock. Almost three-thirty. Time for the paperboy. I took up my position at the window so I had a clear view of the street. Yesterday, he’d tossed the paper on my porch. What would he do today?

  I peeked out the window. I’d learned from my neighbors that Jamie delivered the papers between three-thirty and three-forty-five. It was getting close to that. I leaned forward.

  Five minutes later, I saw the biker. He had refined his work to a fine art, each movement accomplished with precision. Feet on pedals. Knees against handlebars to steer. Hands free to grasp papers from the basket and toss them. Pedal, reach, toss. Pedal, reach, toss. I was impressed.

  He came down the street at a good clip until he got to my house. His feet stopped. His eyes swept the house.

  Suddenly, I remembered my car visible on the drive. “Hell and damnation,” I muttered. “He knows I’m home.”

  The bike wobbled. I stared at the kid. Very overweight. Sloppy clothes, black jogging pants, huge T-shi
rt. A ball cap pulled low on his forehead. He tossed the paper. I heard it hit the porch. With a burst of speed, he picked up his synchronized movements and rode on. I kept watching, saw him glance over his shoulder, then he was gone.

  Disgusted, I chastised myself, “If you’re going to catch the kid in the act, have the smarts to pull your car into the garage.”

  I stepped out on the porch, picked up the paper, and brought it inside. Back on the couch, I flipped it open. Nothing new. Probably just as well. I was too tired to think, too tired to move. I fell asleep over one of Allison’s newspaper ads. I could only hope other readers had done the same.

  I woke at eleven, stumbled to the bathroom, and brushed my teeth. I got into bed and drifted back to sleep. Eight hours later, I awoke to clouds hiding the sun.

  It would have been easy to stay in bed. I’d told Lois I wouldn’t be in until noon. But I had things to do. I creaked out of bed, inspected my scrapes, and checked to make sure the automatic coffeemaker had started brewing.

  After a shower, I reached for a pair of jeans, then changed my mind. Jeans wouldn’t impress a proper, eighty-year-old librarian. With Miss Ginko in mind, I put on a dark green skirt and print blouse. On the way out of the bedroom, I grabbed the matching jacket.

  I filled a travel mug with coffee, grabbed an apple, and headed for the car. Lois had told me to check under the seats. I didn’t think I’d ever get in a car again without first making an inspection. All was clear.

  I stopped for gas a couple of blocks from home. While waiting my turn to pay, I worked hard at ignoring the Hostess cupcakes that were within easy reach. Maybe just one. I had a strong hankering for the gooey center. Besides, I’d lost three more pounds. I moved up to pay. There was still time to grab a package.

  Stella, the cashier, leaned across the counter and eyed me from head to toe. “Damn, you’re looking good, Mrs. Solomon. You’re a real inspiration for the rest of us chubbies.” She rubbed her rounded tummy. “I’m gonna have to do something about this before people start thinking I’m pregnant.” She clicked some keys on the register. “That’ll be twelve dollars, unless you want something else.”

  I shook my head and smiled at her. “Thanks, Stella, but the gas is it.” As I walked out the door, I called back to her, “And thanks for the compliment. I needed to hear that this morning.”

  My spirits were high until I left River City. With each passing mile, my nerves were giving me fits. This same posture—hands in the ten and three o’clock positions, leg extended to the accelerator—brought total recall. I kept glancing at the floorboards. I kept remembering the weight of the snake on my leg. My hands shook for the better part of the drive to Woodgrove. ,

  I parked at the library, secured my car, and walked in. I was disappointed to find an unfamiliar face at the front desk. When I identified myself, I was told that Miss Ginko was home with the flu. A stack of books was passed to me, along with a short note.

  I carried the books to a vacant table and sat down to read the note. It said:

  Bretta,

  I’m sorry I missed you. According to my records, Isaac checked out the book on mutations five times in the last three months. Come see me, again.

  Regards,

  Olive Ginko

  I tucked the note in my pocket and saw that the book she’d mentioned was on top. It was old, the pages frequently thumbed. A section near the front didn’t lay flat. I inserted a finger and eased it open. It was a chapter entitled “How to Recognize a Sport.”

  “Sport?” I mumbled.

  I read on quickly. A sport is a plant showing marked variation from the normal type, usually as a result of mutation. Using the index, I looked up “mutation.” “Any hereditary change in a character not due to crossing.” This is not something that a grower develops. A mutation is a freak of nature.

  For three-quarters of an hour, I pored over the book. I learned that mutations happen for no explicable reason. There is no limit and no predictability to the changes that occur spontaneously in a plant. But it’s never the entire plant. A single stem can mutate. From this mutant, other plants can then be propagated.

  My interest perked up as I read: “Mutations seem to occur at a certain stage in a plant’s age or history. The new form may be entirely different from the mother plant.”

  History … mother plant? My mind sorted through all the information. Rosalie had said Isaac’s plants had a history of nearly three hundred years. Did age have to do with the mutations? Was the mother plant in the dishpan one of the plants with a special history?

  Around me, housewives dropped off books and visited by the front door. My concentration was jarred by preschool children asking questions in shrill voices. I wanted to plug my ears. They wouldn’t be so noisy if Miss Ginko was here.

  I turned to the other books. The subjects included construction of greenhouses, ventilation, soil types. It looked like routine stuff. In the last book, I found a brief section on propagating mutations. Quickly, I read through the procedure: trays of cuttings; young plants with new growth; older plants ready to bloom.

  I’d seen plants like these in Isaac’s greenhouse. All were chrysanthemums. All had been cuttings off the parent plant that had been growing in a discarded dishpan. Had that plant mutated?

  I needed more information, but this tiny library wasn’t the place to get it. I put the books on the corner of the desk and walked out to the sidewalk. Where could I get more information on what seemed to be a rare occurrence? Since mutations are rare, did that mean they’re worth money? If so, how much? Isaac had been propagating chrysanthemums. Why? Had he seen wealth in the future? Or had he done it for the pure joy? Maybe both, I decided, thinking how he’d cared for the plants because of their lineage.

  I already knew Hodges and Moth wanted what Isaac had. But how much did they know? I thought back over my conversations with them. Moth had said, “anything Isaac Miller had a hand in growing.” He’d been covering all his bases. Hodges had said, “I have first say about Isaac’s plants.” As a florist I should have caught the specific use of the word “plants” instead of flowers. In my mind there’s a difference. Apparently, others had made that same distinction. Moth wouldn’t answer any of my questions; neither would Hodges, but there was another possibility.

  My gaze settled on the Pin Oak Café door, which kept swinging as customers went in for early coffee. I followed an old man in and found the café a far cry from the way it was on Sunday. The place was crowded with customers; not a seat left in the house. Silverware clanked against plates, and the smell of bacon frying and hot coffee made me salivate.

  I looked for Bubbles but saw only one harassed waitress. As she galloped by with a tray filled with stacks of pancakes and sausage links, I asked, “Where’s Melvinna?”

  She stopped at a table and slapped the plates down in front of a couple of men. “You find her, and we’ll both know.”

  “Is she scheduled to work?”

  “Yes. Every day but Mondays.”

  The waitress flew by me. I followed in her wake. “Have you called her?”

  “That bozo she lives with doesn’t have a phone.”

  “Hodges?”

  She grabbed two pots of coffee with one hand and balanced a tray of mugs on her other. “Who else? The original sugar bear, to hear Melvinna tell it. I wouldn’t give the fat slob the time of day.”

  “Where’s he live?” I asked, thinking this would be a good excuse to nose around. “I might swing by and see if she’s overslept.”

  “Out at the end of Wharton Street. Edge of town. Gray trailer. Rents it. They want me to take it over, but I won’t step foot in the door until it’s been fumigated.”

  She swept past me but called over her shoulder, “If you see Melvinna, tell her I’m up to my ass in customers. I need help.” As she poured a round of coffee, she looked at me hopefully. I escaped before she could voice the query I’d seen in her eyes.

  Wharton was four blocks north of Main. I hadn’t asked f
or a house number. I didn’t figure I’d need it. I drove out a pockmarked road, passed several houses, then drove for about a quarter of a mile before I spotted Leray’s green van. I parked beside it.

  The trailer had seen better days. The gray metal skirting was curled up from the foundation. The dark roof had rusted, streaking the sides like mournful brown tears. The yard was mowed, the front stoop free of debris.

  I walked down a gravel path to the door and knocked. Inside, I heard the muted sounds of a television. I knocked harder. When no one came to the door, I tried the knob. It clicked free and swung open.

  I put my face to the crack and called, “Bubbles. It’s Bretta. You here?”

  Nothing but an early morning talk show host expounding on the virtues of fresh fruits as opposed to canned.

  “Hello! Anyone home?”

  I wrinkled my nose at the odor—overcooked food and something sour and sharp. I leaned in and craned my neck. Living room—shabby; red and black shag carpet, the kind you have to fluff with a rake. No rake had been used on this floor in years. I turned my attention to the other direction—a kitchen table; peeling paint on the ceiling; and a hand on the floor.

  I did a double take, then slowly stepped inside.

  Hodges was attached to the hand. He lay in the middle of the kitchen floor, still dressed in the same clothes I’d seen him in on Sunday. I didn’t need to touch him to know that he was dead, His head was in a dried puddle of vomit; his mouth gaped. His sightless eyes stared at me.

  I averted my gaze when my stomach gurgled in rebellion. I stretched the neck of my blouse over my nose and took a quick breath.

  The table had been set for two, the plates used. A scum of residue crusted the bottom of the glasses. A mountain of pans teetered on the counter. A greasy skillet sat on the stove. On tiptoe, I peered across the room at the sink, which contained dried and shriveled peelings. The rag rug in front of the sink was kicked up, a chair overturned. Black scuff marks from the heels of his boots marred the gold linoleum floor.