Roots of Murder

by Janis Harrison

  “This is Norton Munsterman.”

  I almost laughed. Norton? I cleared my throat and said, “My name is Bretta Solomon.” Oops! Should I have given him my real name? Too late now. “Uh … Dan Parker gave me your number. I’m sorry to call so early, but I need some information.”

  “What about?”

  “Mutations. How much would one be worth?”

  He didn’t answer immediately, but I could hear him breathing. Finally, he said, “Since Dan gave you my number, I’m assuming you’re tackling a chrysanthemum mutant.”

  “That’s right.”

  His tone was guarded. “I’m not authorized to quote sums. I sell cuttings to growers. I help them establish a rotation plan for growing pot mums.”

  “Generally, then, are they worth money?”

  “Are you asking if it’s beneficial for a propagator to pursue a sport?”

  “Isn’t that what I said?”

  He chuckled. “In a roundabout way.”

  “Well, are they?” I persisted.

  “Depends on the sport. What are we talking about? Size of blossom? Color? Shape of flower? Growth habit?”

  I was getting more questions than answers. “Could we keep this purely hypothetical, Mr.—uh—Munsterman? I don’t need a figure. I just want to know if a mutant could be worth money?”

  “Hypothetically, sure. A woman back east is a millionaire several times over. One of the lavender mums in her backyard mutated with an unusual number of petals.”

  “Millions?” I gulped. “From a chrysanthemum?”

  “Not just any chrysanthemum, Miss—Mrs.—uh—Sodamen. A sport. A one-of-a-kind that’s never been seen before. Barker’s doesn’t pay that amount in one lump sum. Royalties are paid on each cutting that’s sold and shipped out to the growers. In some cases, it’s only a few cents a plant, but over a year’s production, the sum can be staggering.”

  I said my thanks, assured him that if the sport proved to be exceptional, I would call him. When I hung up, my stomach was jumping. Millions?

  I went to my room to get my purse. When I came to the master suite, I stopped and stared at the wooden panel. I knew the time was coming when I’d have to face that room and all its grievous memories. Last night I’d allowed myself to remember the Carl I’d loved, the Carl who was alive and vibrant. Soon I’d have to explore the circumstances of his death, and my denial in dealing with them. I’d have to put my loving ghost to rest. It was time.

  I touched the brass doorknob and drew a sharp, painful breath. I exhaled slowly. But not today.

  On the drive to the flower shop, I kept thinking about all the money that could be involved in Isaac’s mutations. Wealth was too worldly for the Amish. Isaac wouldn’t have been interested. But Hodges, Moth, Sam Kramer, and Cecil were all mercenary men.

  Would Bishop Detweiler have allowed Isaac to take the money? Never. If Detweiler disapproved of Isaac selling flowers for profit, the old man would pop his cork if he knew millions were involved. But maybe he already did.

  I parked in the alley and tried to pressure myself into figuring things out. It was a no-go. Around and around my thoughts went. I’d settle on a suspect, then fact would refute it. I’d settle on another, but my heart wasn’t into believing people I knew were capable of murder.

  For the time being, I gave up and went into the shop. We were kept busy with orders but never rushed. Over the course of the morning, while we worked, I filled Lois in on my conversation with the Barker representative. I cleaned out the back cooler and made several fresh bouquets for the front display case.

  Lois and I were too busy to go out for lunch, so we had Lew pick up a pizza. I’d promised myself one slice. To offset the extra calories, I’d have a salad for supper. It was a good plan, but I hadn’t counted on my weakness for food overriding my convictions. Like an alcoholic who can’t take that first drink, so it goes with someone addicted to food.

  I’d eaten two pieces for lunch. It was now after three o’clock. The box was sitting within easy reach. I didn’t fight the urge. I grabbed a third wedge.

  I was chewing and contemplating a particularly difficult order, when the front doorbell jingled. Lois went up front to wait on the customer. I didn’t bother looking up. My attention was on my order. It called for a sweet and dainty bouquet. Fine. I could handle that. I arranged pink carnations, miniature roses, white daisies, and baby’s breath in a pastel wicker basket. What had me stymied was how to incorporate the customer’s favorite fourteen-inch stuffed elephant into the arrangement.

  I had the toy in one hand and the slice of pizza in the other when Lois said, “Bretta, this young lady is here to see you.”

  I looked up and there stood Jamie at the counter. My first impulse was to ditch the pizza in the trash can under my table. Instead, I put down the elephant and motioned for her to come closer.

  When she was at my table, I laid the pizza carefully on a napkin. “I could have tossed that in the trash when I saw you, but you might as well know dieting isn’t easy. You’ll have days when you want to eat everything in sight. Usually, I fight the urge. Today, I concede this battle, but there’s still tomorrow. I haven’t lost the war.”

  Puzzled, Jamie asked, “What made you eat pizza today?”

  Before I answered, I pulled a step stool closer, then perched on the seat. At this level I could look directly into Jamie’s troubled blue eyes. I hoped I’d find the right words to make her understand.

  “Losing weight isn’t just about food, sweetheart, it’s about emotions, stress,” I touched my chest, “stuff going on inside you. I ate pizza today because I have some personal issues that are bothering me. I also ate it because I get tired of worrying and thinking about what I can and can’t have.”

  Jamie ducked her head shyly. “I passed up three cookies and a bag of chips today.”

  Tears burned my eyes. I gave her pudgy little body a brief hug. “Gosh, that’s wonderful. I’m proud of you.” I looked at her closely. “How did it make you feel?”

  The wide grin that stretched across her face made her freckled little nose wrinkle. “It wasn’t so bad. Dad packed me a lunch. Grapes and a sandwich with low-fat turkey and lettuce. Tonight, we’re going to the grocery store. He says there’s a woman at work who brings chocolate cookies. The kind that don’t have very many calories. I can only have two, but that sounds great.”

  “So your dad is helping out, huh?”

  “Big time. He says it won’t hurt him to shed a few pounds, too.” She took a step back. “I’ve got to go. My paper route, you know.” She shot me a quick look. “Can I come by or … uh … call you if I have”—she nodded to the slice of pizza—“one of your Kind of days?”

  I leaned forward and touched her auburn curls. “You can come see me or call anytime. I’d love to have you and your father over for dinner one night. I can show both of you some of my quick and easy meals.”

  Jamie nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. That’d be great. Dad needs a woman in his life—besides me, of course.” She waved good-bye and hurried away.

  Lois stood looking after her but waited until the door had closed before she turned to me. Her tone was serious. “As a mother of five children, I have to tell you …”

  I cringed, expecting the worst. After all, I didn’t have one iota of experience with children.

  “ … you did a helluva job, Bretta. You handled her like a pro. You gave her just what she needed.” She waggled her eyebrows in a disgustingly lecherous manner. “Now tell me about Dad. How old is he? Have you met him? Is he cute? Best of all, I take it, the man is single.”

  Before I could answer, the phone rang. Lois made a face. “This topic is far from closed,” she warned, as she picked up the receiver.

  Being with Jamie had given me a warm, fuzzy feeling. Without an ounce of regret, I dropped the pizza in the trash, then zeroed in on the damned elephant. Suddenly, I smiled. I grabbed a bolt of pink satin ribbon and made a big fluffy bow. I attached it to the elephant’s neck
and tied the ends of the ribbon to the handle of the basket. The elephant wasn’t in the arrangement, but he looked like he was smelling the flowers. It was sweet, cute, and done. I took the bouquet to the back for Lew to deliver.

  By four, the phones had stopped ringing. All the orders were finished, and I’d answered as many of Lois’s questions about Bill Fenton as I could.

  “I think I’ll go on over to Evan’s,” I said to Lois.

  “Are you going to tell him that Isaac’s mums could be worth big bucks?”

  “I don’t know. He’s already decided to get rid of Isaac’s field flowers. He may plan on disposing of the greenhouse plants, too.”

  Lois gasped in horror. “What if he already has?”

  “I don’t think so, unless Detweiler’s harping convinces him. When I was there Sunday, the plants had been freshly watered. I think he’ll look after them for a while. But I can’t put off talking to him.”

  “Go,” said Lois, waving me impatiently on my way. “It makes me crazy to think something worth a fortune is just sitting there in a dishpan.”

  I arrived at Evan’s house forty-five minutes later. Storm clouds had gathered in the south. The crisp, warm days of September were about to give way to a cold, dreary fall rain. The sound of thunder rumbling in the distance accompanied me up the steps to the back porch. I knocked.

  Katie came shyly to the door. “Hi,” she said. “We’re baking.”

  I sniffed appreciatively. “I could smell it all the way from River City.” She giggled until her mother called from inside.

  The humor in Katie’s face died. Soberly, she held the door open. “Come In,” she said. “I have work to do.” She slipped past me. I wanted to touch her, to bring a smile back to her lips, but I couldn’t say anything with Cleome sitting there. The Amish woman ruled her brood with a stern hand, and I knew better than to interfere.

  I was annoyed with Cleome, but I couldn’t help admiring the scene before me. It had all the nostalgia of a Thomas Hart Benton painting. Jars of jelly sat in neat rows on the counter. Two loaves of freshly baked bread rested nearby. Three pies were cooling on the table. Cleome sat in a rocking chair, a stained apron across her lap, her hands busy with a bowl and a paring knife.

  She looked almost charming with her devotional cap tied on top of her braided hair. But I knew her tongue could be as razor-edged as the knife in her hand.

  My tone was cool. “I came to see Evan.”

  Cleome matched that temperature. “He’s busy.”

  “I’m sure he is.” I leaned against the cabinet and watched the blade slice through the brown skin of a potato. “Where is he?”

  She didn’t answer. She stood up and went to the sink, where she operated a hand pump. After rinsing the potatoes, she filled a pan with water, cut the potatoes into cubes, and set the pan on the stove. Once the flame had been adjusted to her satisfaction, she stared at me. “Leave us alone,” she said.

  Direct. I could deal with that. I was a forthright person. “Not yet,” I countered.

  Cleome pursed her lips and pulled a lethal-looking butcher knife from a drawer. My eyes widened. But she only went to a dishpan where a chicken carcass soaked.

  She attacked the bird with the knife, pierced the meat, and exposed the bone. I watched, mesmerized by her nimble fingers. They always seemed to be in danger of a painful nick, but she’d move them out of the way. The chicken pieces would separate and fall into the bloody water.

  I waited until she’d finished and had put down the knife. I wanted another go-around with Cleome, but not while she held that dagger in her hands.

  Before I could speak, the door opened and Katie came in with a basket of sun-dried clothes. On her way through the kitchen, she said, “Bretta is to stay for supper.” Her chin trembled when Cleome turned, but Katie didn’t yield ground. However, she did switch from English to their dialect.

  It didn’t take an Einstein to figure out what was said. The words weren’t familiar, but I know a butt-chewing when I hear it, in any language.

  Katie’s eyes filled with tears. I winked at her and said, “After we eat, I’d like to take a walk. Maybe go down to the creek.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cleome frown. Recklessly, I added, “I’m sure your father won’t care. I’ll fix it with him.”

  Cleome waited until Katie had left the room, then whispered fiercely, “Take your walk. Enjoy your last evening here. It’s all behind us now.”

  “Behind you?” I exclaimed.

  “Evan plowed up Isaac’s flowers today. He’ll sow wheat tomorrow. Hodges is dead. He won’t be bothering Rosalie or any of us again.”

  “He was murdered, Cleome, so it isn’t finished. It’s your right not to see me again, but don’t you want the guilty person punished?”

  “Our Lord will take care of that.”

  “What if the reason for Isaac’s murder still exists? What if the killer comes back? He has to be found.”

  Cleome’s lips spread into a pious smile. “It doesn’t matter. In our Lord’s words, ‘When he knoweth of it, then shall he be guilty.’ We don’t know anything. None of this concerns us. We are not involved. We are not answerable to you, either.”

  Her calm, condescending attitude was like tossed gas on a smoldering fire. My temper flared. “Soon,” I prophesied, “regardless of what you want, the outside world will come knocking on your door.”

  I’d just finished delivering my bit of prognostication when tires crunched on the drive. Cleome stared at me, then out the window. A burgundy van labeled RIVER CITY WHOLESALE FLORAL CO. had parked behind my car. The van door opened, and J. W. Moth stepped out.

  “Company,” I murmured. “Not who I’d have predicted.”

  “Who is that?” demanded Cleome uneasily.

  “The buyer of Isaac’s flowers.”

  She relaxed. “Oh. He’s too late. They’re all gone.” With a contented smile, Cleome went back to the stove.

  I watched from the kitchen window. Moth surveyed his surroundings. He glanced at my car, looked at the house. The wind ruffled his thinning hair. He tugged at the waistband of his jeans. Jeans? Moth? I snorted. Moth had dressed down for his visit to an Amish farm.

  Some men wear denim with ease; it fits their form naturally. I grinned when Moth dug at the seam that rode in his crack. I chuckled softly at his annoyed scowl. He rubbed his hands down his pants legs, tugging at the material bunched at his crotch.

  Moth’s adjustments came to a halt when he saw Evan crossing the yard. With mincing steps, he hurried over and said, “Mr. Miller, I had some free time and thought I’d pay you a call.”

  Evan’s voice was low. I didn’t catch what he said. Moth’s answering voice squeaked. “I know, but I hoped I might get you to change your mind.”

  Evan shook his head. Behind me, Cleome tittered. The two men had walked out of my line of vision. Moth’s voice was muffled. I decided I’d have to go out and hear their conversation firsthand, perhaps interject a comment or two.

  I stepped onto the porch and Moth turned. His expression wasn’t filled with delight at the sight of me. He nodded curtly, then concentrated again on Evan.

  Moth’s high-pitched voice deepened with emotion. “This is a tragic situation, Mr. Miller. You’ve lost a brother, and I’ve lost a good friend.”

  What a crock, I thought in disgust. This man’s acting abilities were being wasted in Missouri. He should have been onstage somewhere, anywhere but here. I was moved by his performance, moved to the point I wanted to kick his scrawny little butt off Evan’s property.

  “Would it be possible for me to see Isaac’s greenhouse?” Moth asked. “We had some marvelous plans.” He sighed forlornly. “Now, I’m at a loss. I assume, as his brother, you’ll honor my agreement.”

  “Agreement?” repeated Evan. “I don’t know anything about an agreement.” His eyes shifted to me. “Bretta, do you know what he’s talking about?”

  I pasted a smile on my face. I couldn’t tell Moth to take a flying le
ap. After all, I did depend on him for the bulk of my cut flowers. I had other options, but Moth was in River City when I needed supplies in a hurry.

  “This isn’t a good time,” I explained. “As for the agreement, that will depend on Isaac’s widow. I don’t believe she’s seeing anyone yet.”

  It was amusing to watch Moth’s face. The total of my monthly flower statement must have flashed before his eyes. He struggled to be gracious, though his first instinct must have been the same as mine regarding him. He swallowed his ill humor and nodded agreeably. “Perhaps in a day or two, I can come back and see the glasshouse. I’ll make an offer for its contents.”

  “Do you have a price in mind?” I asked innocently.

  “No” was his short reply. To Evan, he was more congenial. “When I make an offer for Isaac’s plants, the sum will be fair.” Casually, he asked, “Are they in the greenhouse? Are they being taken care of?”

  Evan darted a swift look at me. I met that look and felt a rock settle in my stomach. Oh, boy. Something was wrong. Until I knew the problem, I didn’t want Moth privy to any information. Evan started to speak, but I loudly overrode him. I assured Moth that I’d seen the plants and they were in excellent condition.

  This news didn’t set well. He sniveled, “If she’s seen them, why can’t I, especially if I’m buying them?”

  “I’m a friend of the family. I’m staying for supper. Since you haven’t bought anything yet …” My voice trailed away.

  Moth clamped his lips together and walked to his van. He climbed up on the seat and started the engine. “I’ll be back in a few days,” he called in parting.

  Evan and I watched Moth maneuver the van out of the driveway and onto the blacktop. Once he was on his way, Evan asked, “What agreement? Isaac never said anything about any agreement.”

  I gave him a quick rundown on what I’d learned and what I suspected. Someone knew the value of Isaac’s red mums, and lots of greedy people had hopes for making money.

  “Not anymore,” said Evan. “Come see Isaac’s plants.”