Shallow Roots: An Iowa Girl Mystery (Iowa Girl Mysteries Book 1)

by Anomie Hatcher

  When you came right down to it, Candy was the nuisance. She’d had it out for her neighbors since she found her only son, Toby, watching them with binoculars. “Naked people standing around a bonfire in the middle of the night,” Candy had squawked to Lyle on the phone. “It’s just too great a temptation for a boy of sixteen. It’s indecent!” It turned out that her son went across the border into Original Farm, in order to get a better look. When Lyle pointed out that Toby had been trespassing, the matter was dropped.

  Lyle didn’t show preference for one side or the other, really. He was a fair man, and he knew a thing or two about being different. Growing up in a small Georgia town, the child of a black father and an apparently white mother in the 70’s, he had felt his share of unwarranted disapproval. Those who knew his mother’s story were aware of her Cherokee background, which didn’t decrease their judgment any. Moving to Iowa had been an improvement in that regard, but people still took a second look when his family went out together.

  His father accepted an assistant professorship in Agricultural Economics at Iowa State, when Lyle and his twin brother, Bernard, were eleven. Ames proved to be atypical for a small, mid-western city. Lyle had happily soaked up the eclectic cultural influences afforded by living in the college town.

  The folks at Original Farm were similar to people he’d known in Ames. Lyle had discussed as much with Louise, when she was alive. While the two of them hadn’t been close, he had appreciated her soft-spoken sensibility and her dedication to the community. She was an adamant supporter of local business and she encouraged the city to adopt environmentally sound practices.

  The least he could do was tell Louise’s friends how she had died, in person.

  On his way out of town, Lyle passed the locally owned pharmacy, barber shop and grocery. As he drove by, Lyle tipped his hat to the owner of the upscale consignment shop called Holy Buckets, as she swept maple helicopters from the front sidewalk.

  River City was a haven of local control and small business, thanks in part to Louise Carpenter. Lyle shook his head, remembering Bobby Fowler’s rude comments. Fowler was a home grown River City boy, born and raised, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to figure out who the good guys were around here. Louise might’ve been from elsewhere originally, but she cared about this town as much as any River City native. Big box stores and grocery chains try as they might, this little town had no need for them. Even the grain elevator had been family operated for fifty years.

  It was a short drive to Original Farm and Lyle spent most of it thinking how he’d share his news with Louise’s friends.

  Lyle pulled into the driveway and noticed a green VW Bug with Polk County plates parked next to the shed. He hesitated in the squad car for moment, unwilling to share private news in front of a visitor.

  Namasté came out on the front porch and waved, like she’d been inside waiting, expecting him to show up any minute.

  He got out of the car and walked up to the front porch.

  “Hi, Lyle! It’s good to see you.”

  “I don’t get that response very often.”

  “You’re always welcome here!” She held the door.

  “Thanks.”

  Once inside, Lyle caught the scent of garlic being fried in oil. He heard the sound of someone chopping on a cutting board, and the back door swinging shut with a bang. Namasté brought him into the dining room. He peered around the wall, to see who was cooking.

  “Deputy Rose, this is Maggie MacGilloway, an old friend who’s staying with us for a while.”

  Maggie turned around and wiped her hands on the dishtowel thrown over her shoulder. Lyle was taken off guard, painfully aware how long it had been since he’d dated.

  She was beautiful, but not in your usual show-off-the-goods way. She had little stands of hair curling out of her silvery blond braid and she was dressed in rumpled khakis and a sweater that was too large for her. When she stepped forward to shake hands, Lyle’s attention was drawn to the fact that he was taller by nearly a foot. Lyle had a penchant for petite women, so Maggie had gotten his attention whether she meant to or not. The only thing about her appearance he couldn’t appreciate was the skeptical look on her face.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Lyle responded. Realizing he was laying it on a bit thick, he got back to business. Turning to Namasté, he said, “I’ve got the report.”

  “I thought so. How kind of you to drive out. Fennel’s mom gave the okay?”

  “Yes.” Lyle glanced at Maggie.

  “It’s alright,” said Namasté. “Maggie knew Fennel. In fact, she’s staying in Fennel’s old room.”

  “You may want to be careful. There’s—well, I don’t want to get ahead of myself,” he said. Damn it, Lyle, pull it together.

  “Here. Have a seat.” Namasté made space at the table.

  “Thank you.” He sat in the wooden chair. “Do you want to relay this information to the rest of the—uh—family? Or, are they around?”

  “Well, people are always on the go. Some of us have other jobs or volunteer work we do during the day, especially as the weather gets colder. Just Maggie and Sunflower and myself are here at the moment.” She turned to Maggie. “Where is Sunflower?”

  “She had some work to do outside.” Maggie turned off the gas burner and pulled the pan of garlic to one side. She remained standing behind Namasté. Lyle could tell Maggie was lying about Sunflower, but he let it go.

  “Okay. You can tell the others. The cause of death identified by the coroner was anaphylactic shock. What generated the shock is unknown. It was some sort of mold, most likely. That’s as far as the report goes. The ME didn’t investigate further and Louise’s mother didn’t ask them to, since cause was identified. It may be that there was something dangerous specifically in Louise’s room, which is why,” Lyle turned to address Maggie, “it might not be such a good idea for you to be staying in her room.”

  Namasté blurted out, “It wasn’t the fall down the stairs?”

  “No, those breaks and bruises were post-mortem. Did you suspect she fell—or was pushed?” This explains her anxiety to get the autopsy results, Lyle thought.

  Namasté did not answer directly, but asked, “What about the fact that Fennel’s room was torn up, like a person was looking for something?”

  “It could be that Louise knew she was having an allergic reaction. Perhaps she had the remedy in her room. If it was a known severe allergy, she may have had an emergency dose of adrenaline or epinephrine.”

  “If that’s true, then why wouldn’t she have gone right to the medicine? Something that important, she’d know exactly where it was. She’d have found it and still be with us today.”

  “Well, when a person’s in shock, they don’t tend to think very clearly. According to the report her throat swelled so she couldn’t breathe. That would’ve limited the flow of oxygen to her brain.”

  “She suffocated to death?” Namasté was getting upset. Maggie walked over and took Namasté’s hand in her own.

  “What had she eaten that day?” Maggie asked. “Fennel was allergic to a lot of things, including wheat.”

  “I don’t know how helpful this will be.” Lyle pulled out the report and fumbled a bit with the Latin. “Stomach contents were water, matricaria recutita, capsicum annuum, zingiber officinale, hydrastis canadensis, urtica dioica, verbascum thapsus—see what I mean?”

  “Chamomile, cayenne pepper, ginger, goldenseal, stinging nettles and great mullein.” Maggie held up a finger for each item, as she listed the common name of each plant. “They’re all supposed to have decongestive properties.”

  “Forensic doctor?” asked Lyle.

  “Botanist,” Maggie answered. She crossed her arms and looked back into the kitchen.

  “Her tea,” Namasté spoke up. “Fennel drank a cup of her tea that morning. We had a cup yesterday. There’s nothing wrong with it, is there Maggie?”

  “No, it wouldn
’t seem so.” Lyle answered for Maggie. He could see that she was deep in thought. He followed Maggie’s gaze to a colorful tin on the counter.

  “Well, I’m sorry to bring unhappy news and run, but I need to get going.” Lyle got up from his chair reluctantly. “The Sheriff needs me in another part of the county.”

  “Thanks for coming out, Lyle. I appreciate it,” Namasté said. She let go of Maggie’s hand and stood up to give Lyle a quick hug.

  “Sure thing.”

  “When is your shift through? Would you like to come over for supper? Maggie is making vegetarian lasagna.”

  Lyle watched Maggie for a response. She was still deep in concentration.

  “What’s the chef say?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you mind if I come by for supper later?”

  “No, of course not.” Her dark blue eyes were steady, but distant.

  You might as well be a fence post, Lyle. Get on with your day.

  But hope sparked back to life when Maggie asked if she could walk him to his car.

  Namasté nodded and smiled encouragingly, though Lyle had no idea why.

  In the driveway, Maggie confessed to Lyle. “Namasté is suspicious that someone broke into the house and killed Fennel. She’s been locking the door, which is unusual.”

  “It’s unusual to lock the door?” He wanted to see her smile.

  “It’s unusual in this house.” She maintained an air of seriousness.

  Lyle nodded and waited for her to go on.

  “I mean—she’s been afraid that there’s someone around here who got away with murder. What if that someone lives here?”

  “But there was no murder. The killer may very well be in the house, but it’s some kind of mold or fungus. You need to be careful. Check it out, see what’s lurking behind the walls.”

  Now Maggie grinned. “Been there.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Maggie did not bother to explain the joke. “You know, I don’t easily jump to conclusions. I’m not worried about mold. Molds and fungi create airborne spores that would cause respiratory distress in anyone living here. No one else is experiencing symptoms.” She talked with her hands. They were graceful pigeons spelling out a message, coming to roost on her hips. “Can you hear me out?”

  Lyle nodded again, his sable eyes trailing the dance of her hand motions.

  “Well, I was working in the kitchen. I happened to look at the tin containing Fennel’s tea before you came. She was meticulous about labeling. It had to do with keeping track of ingredients, being careful to let people know what they were eating or, in this case, drinking. Chamomile wasn’t on the label.”

  He waited for the punch line. “And?”

  “Don’t you see?”

  “Not really. Are you saying there was an extra herb in her tea? I think it would be hard to keep track of all those dried leaves, once they’re crushed and mixed together.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Exactly what?”

  “If someone added chamomile, it would be hard to detect.”

  “But not fatal. Come on. Seriously?”

  “People can have rare plant allergies. A woman in my graduate program had to wear long sleeves and protective gloves when we did field work in a vineyard. Touching the grape leaves with her bare skin would cause her a week of nasty hives. It’s quite possible that Fennel was allergic to chamomile.”

  “Killed by chamomile. Okay, say that’s true—why?”

  “I have a theory.”

  “Do you, now?”

  Maggie frowned at him. “Are you patronizing me?”

  “Absolutely not. But, look at it from my perspective. The ME says it was an accidental death, there’s nothing to indicate intended harm and you’re asking me to get excited because a garden variety herb made its way into Louise’s herbal tea?”

  “But, listen—”

  “I am listening, I assure you,” he stepped closer. “I’ll keep listening, too. I just need more to go on.”

  Close up, he saw that she was stressed. Lyle wondered what life had done to Maggie to cause the dark half-moons above her cheekbones. Did she actually believe she was in danger? Were mold spores affecting her ability to reason?

  “I can appreciate that what I’m saying sounds a bit far-fetched. I’ve recently come to the conclusion that life doesn’t always make sense,” Maggie said sadly.

  “It’s a mad, mad world.”

  When she smiled, Lyle had to suppress the urge to reach out and touch the side of her face, an exchange he had often witnessed between his parents. This wasn’t the sort of response he naturally felt on meeting most women. Namasté, for example, or Candy Meadows down the road. Perhaps it was the novelty of meeting someone new in this quiet little town.

  “I’m here when you need me.” He reached into his glove box, found a copy of the face card he handed out to schoolchildren, wrote on it with a pen and gave it to Maggie. “Number’s on the back. Anytime, night or day. I promise that I’ll listen.”

  She turned the card over in her small, expressive hands.

  “Am I still invited to dinner?” he asked.

  “Sure. Though I won’t have anything more substantial to tell you by then.”

  “That’s okay. It won’t be an official visit.”

  He grinned at Maggie to show he was only joking, but she was already headed back into the house.

  Lyle got into his squad car and drove to Waukee.

  Chapter 12

  Maggie went back to cooking, but her thoughts were upstairs. She wanted to start reading the journals again. Perhaps Fennel had mentioned an allergy to chamomile.

  Sunflower reappeared and said, “I don’t like cops.” She peeled a zucchini with unnecessary force.

  Namasté asked, “Why not? Policemen are people, too.”

  Sunflower stopped peeling and glared at Namasté. “My Uncle Kenny made some mistakes when he was a kid. Just selling pot—he never hurt anybody. He had to pull up roots, leave town for a while. We kept in touch, but never let on that we knew where he was to anyone else. Ten years later—ten, I’m telling you—he comes back for Christmas and gets thrown in jail. They didn’t even let him finish opening his presents. Five years in the pen for selling weed and another two for running away. He was never the same guy after that.”

  “I’m sorry that happened to your uncle,” Namasté said. “But Lyle is a wonderful person. He’s a hero.”

  “Hero, my ass. Nobody who chooses law enforcement as a career goes into it with honest intentions. They’re all after power. Cops aren’t happy unless they can push people around. It makes them feel big.”

  Sunflower went back to attacking the defenseless zucchini.

  “Lyle Rose isn’t like that. You’ve never even met him. He went out of his way to come here, to tell us about Fennel’s autopsy.”

  Sunflower paused her vigorous peeling. “What did it say?”

  “Anaphylactic shock. They’re not exactly sure what caused it. She was allergic to many things, as you know. Lyle suspects mold and has ruled out foul play. Still, I don’t feel like this chapter is closed.”

  Namasté sent a pointed look in Maggie’s direction.

  “Oh, stop trying to be so damn mystical,” Sunflower barked.

  Maggie jumped in, before Namasté could answer. “Sun, can you get me the colander? I don’t know where you guys keep it.”

  Namasté wandered into the living room to poke at the fire. Sunflower frowned at Namasté’s plentiful backside.

  “Bottom cupboard, on the left,” she told Maggie without turning around, then continued the argument. “I have my reasons for not trusting cops.”

  Yes you do, Maggie thought as she dug through the cupboard.

  “I’ve invited Lyle to dinner tonight,” Namasté called serenely from the hearth.

  “What?!” The zucchini fell into the open compost bin.

  “He’s a nice man. I don’t think he has many friends in town. I want him to f
eel welcome here.”

  “Well, he’s not welcome! You should have discussed this with everyone first!”

  “Growth is good, Sunflower. Please be willing to accept that Lyle is his own person, that we each make choices and cannot be lumped into categories.”

  “It’s common courtesy!”

  “Not to change the subject, but I wonder if either you have come across my pair of good scissors. I left them in the kitchen yesterday and now they’re gone,” Namasté said.

  “Are you kidding me with the scissors? Don’t avoid the issue!”

  “Ladies! I’m trying to cook here!” Maggie rapped a fork against the side of a cast iron frying pan. Namasté’s calm demeanor was clearly fueling Sunflower’s ire. Sun had balled her hands into fists and looked ready to pounce.

  “Sun, are you helping or what? And, Namasté, all these—um—bad vibes might make their way into our food, don’t you think?”

  The two combatants considered one another; the large and dangerously riled Sunflower versus the comfortably expansive, serene Namasté.

  “If he’s here for dinner, I won’t be,” Sunflower barked.

  “That’s certainly your choice.”

  Sunflower stormed out of the house.

  “She’ll be back,” said Namasté. “I can help you with the lasagna till she cools off.”

  “Thanks.” I think. Now how am I going to talk to Sunflower? Maggie wondered.

  Supper was a small gathering. Namasté, Lyle, Maggie and Loki were the only ones at the table. Tor was at the city council meeting and TomTom had a gig with a band called the Vociferous Troglodytes who needed a substitute drummer since their regular had broken his hand in a bar fight. Sunflower, of course, had her own reasons for missing dinner. Maggie set aside a plate of lasagna and salad for her.

  Lyle came to the door in a pair of faded jeans and a maroon hooded sweatshirt. Maggie hardly recognized him without the uniform. He handed a fistful of wild asters to Maggie, who arranged the flowers in an old stoneware vase for use as a centerpiece.