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

by Anomie Hatcher

  Maggie prodded herself back into scientist mode.

  I recorded known factors about the specimen and observed what happened when one environmental element at a time was altered. When there are too many possible outlying factors, you need to try and isolate the cause.

  Without a motive, there is no crime.

  I need to pin down a motive.

  Maggie pulled her laptop out of its case and plugged it into the wall outlet. The computer had sat unused for so long that the battery was quite dead. There was no internet access at Original Farm, but her task tonight would not require connectivity. She could go into town and use the web access at the public library tomorrow. She needed to visit the pharmacy, anyway.

  Ben had teased Maggie about her secret account password. They had shared the laptop, but kept separate log-ons.

  “What if you die and I need to access your side?” he had scolded. “Are there military plans in there? I’ll tell you my password: it’s ‘beseeingu’.”

  Remembering his words, her chest contracted. She typed in her password: cr33p1ngcharl13.

  At the time, such measures were unnecessary, an element of maintaining her independence and nothing else. But now, keeping her log-on confidential felt like a matter of personal safety. If there was something afoot at Original Farm, she might well be in danger.

  Maggie opened up a new document and created a simple chart. Her headings were entitled “Name,” “Motive,” and “Evidence.”

  The supposed methodology for anyone on the list was death by known fatal allergen at this point, so Maggie did not include that as a category. Her thoughts in that direction would prove nothing without motivation. Without an apparent motive, the police could point out that death due to an allergy was accidental. Like Lyle, anyone else she told might disbelieve her about the allergy to begin with, since chamomile was not typically a problem. Eggs, peanuts, and milk yes—but innocent little daisy-like flowers? She would research the possibility of chamomile being a fatal allergy at the library, in case there was nothing in the journals.

  She typed, “Name: Tor (David Falstaff); Motive: --”

  She left it blank for now, thinking only that he might need the money for some reason. Maybe Original Farm was losing money. She made a note to find out about their financial situation.

  “Evidence: --”

  She took down a few notes about the photo and the letter, and Tor’s comments regarding the city council meeting. More information would be readily available in the local paper, which she could read at the library.

  There was nothing to add for TomTom (Anabel Jones) or Namasté (Beatrice) but their names. She didn’t even have a birth name for Loki, just “Name: Loki.” That felt a little weird, considering their history. Maggie put TomTom, Namasté and Loki on the chart strictly in the interest of being thorough. For Sunflower, she had a little more to add.

  “Name: Sunflower (Susan Wilcox); Motive: Self-protection, avoiding arrest; Evidence: Fennel’s journal entry.”

  She needed a location for more detailed facts about each individual, gathered either from personal observation, library research, or Fennel’s journals. She started two new files—one for Sunflower and one for Tor—and prepared to jot down a laundry list of to do’s and observations in each of them.

  Before pulling out the journals, Maggie got up and latched the pathetic excuse for a lock on her bedroom door. If nothing else, the hook latch would give her a few minutes to hide the journals again, should such a move become necessary.

  She thumbed through to the November 21, 1990 journal entry about Sunflower and added the basic facts to her file: avoided arrest in California, accused of murder, kept her true identity secret from her closest friends for a decade and a half. Perhaps the trip to the library would provide an opportunity to research Jeremy’s death, see if what Sun had revealed to Fennel was true. Lots of papers had searchable web archives these days. She could start looking in papers in the Sonoma area of California. If Sun had come to the Originals shortly before they started the farm, that would have been about 1979 or 1980. That gave Maggie a time frame in which to start searching.

  In Tor’s file, Maggie made a note to herself to look into the Val-U-Shop issue, maybe by reading the local paper to see how much community support there was for the store. Maggie still held out hope that Tor had River City’s best interest at heart, or that maybe Original Farm was in financial trouble and he was going to use the money to keep the farm afloat. Either way, it seemed unlikely that he would go to the extreme of killing off Fennel to make sure the deal went through. Tor would have to be pretty desperate. Maggie had a hard time imagining Tor getting that worked up. Sunflower, on the other hand...

  Maggie saved her work and shut down her computer, leaving it plugged in to fully charge overnight. She began reading the journals in order, slogging through the everyday bits for any relevant, specific data there might be about chamomile.

  Thirty minutes later, lids growing heavy as lead aprons, Maggie came across the very thing for which she was looking.

  January 14, 1989

  The medicinal cream Mom sent me for Christmas had chamomile in it. I know she was trying to be helpful. I have eczema and she remembered that, at least, but somehow the fact that I almost died once from using just such a cream totally escaped her mind. Doesn’t she remember the trip to the emergency room when I was thirteen? I am her only child, for God’s sake– how could she forget? I swear sometimes I think she’d rather be childless.

  Thank goodness I did not use the lotion. I have learned to read labels carefully, as a matter of survival. But to think that I’d have to proofread a Christmas gift from my closest living relative—what was she thinking? Maybe she’s trying to kill me.

  (Okay, I know that was uncalled for, but I’m still a little mad.)

  As an adult, I have only had to use my adrenaline shot once, when I ordered a pre-made tea mix from a reputable company. They still claim it had no chamomile in it, but my body knows better. It’s such a weird allergy that I don’t even tell people about it anymore. I just make my own tea and read labels. In case of accidental contamination, I’ll use the shots, but only if I have to—the injection site hurts like hell and the ache afterward feels like the flu.

  I knew it! Maggie thought. I knew it! I’ll have to tell Lyle.

  Fatigue tugged, despite the exciting find. Maggie decided to ignore the fact that becoming easily exhausted was a symptom of pregnancy. Until she visited the pharmacy tomorrow, there was no sense getting worked up. Her period would most likely start any day. For the time being, she would listen to her heavy eyelids and blurred vision and call it a night.

  Maggie hid the journals in the cookbook cache, and turned out the light.

  The next morning was a baking day. Thankfully, Maggie had set her cell phone alarm before dropping off to sleep the night before. It went off at five, jerking her out of a pleasant dream where she and Ben were flying in and out of tree branches, holding hands.

  The moment she sat up, nausea hit her like a wall. The room tilted. It was all Maggie could do to make it to the bathroom in time. She held her own braid this visit.

  Cleaning herself up, she crawled back up the stairs for something warm to wear. In order to make it back down the stairs safely, she sat on her bottom and softly bumped down one stair at a time, to minimize the amount of movement required to get to the first floor.

  “You look green,” Sunflower proclaimed.

  TomTom lifted her strawberry head from where it rested on her arms at the table and squinted bloodshot eyes at Maggie. “Sun’s right, Maggie. You look worse than I feel. Two a.m. hurts a lot more than it used to.”

  “Well, what the hell? Am I baking alone today? You two are useless!” Sunflower pounded the table. TomTom winced.

  Maggie steadied herself with a chair, and slid onto the seat gingerly. She couldn’t speak yet. She didn’t want to open her mouth.

  “I’ll be dandy once I’ve had my first cuppa,” cr
oaked TomTom. She reached out to grasp the handle of her empty mug, and pressed her forehead back down onto the table. The coffee maker burbled next to the sink, the acidic, earthy scent of fresh grounds permeating the kitchen.

  “Yeah, right,” responded Sunflower. “What about you, Maggie? You should probably go back to bed.”

  “No, I’ll be fine. Just give me a little time. And maybe a cracker.”

  TomTom lifted her head. “Hung over?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “I’m just—it’s just a little stomach upset. It’ll be gone soon.”

  Thankfully, TomTom was too groggy to put two and two together. Instead, she rose slowly and began walking to her room. She turned and crooked a finger at Maggie, indicating she should follow. “Probably nerves,” she said. “I’ve got something that will help.”

  Maggie edged after TomTom, using furniture to steady her shaky footsteps. She had never been invited into TomTom’s room before. It was almost entirely red—crimson velvet drapes with little balls on the hem like a person might find in an Old West whorehouse, walls painted ruby, a bedspread the color of glamour girl lipstick. The effect would be nauseating on a good day, Maggie thought.

  “Have a seat.” TomTom patted the end of her unmade bed.

  Maggie lowered herself by inches.

  “No hurling on the floor, okay? Use the trashcan.” TomTom shuffled around in a drawer of her little desk, pulled out a baggy of dried green leaves and a booklet of cigarette papers.

  Maggie’s eyes flew open wide, and she struggled to come up with an excuse for not partaking. TomTom grinned lopsidedly at Maggie

  “Relax. It’s not what you think.”

  TomTom plopped down next to Maggie and began expertly rolling what looked, to Maggie’s eyes, like a joint.

  “Fennel knew a lot about plants—like you. She knew I had a thing with nerves before performing, or just nerves about other stuff. Anyway, I did a little reading myself.” She paused to lick the end of the paper and seal it. “Don’t mind my spit.”

  She lit the end and drew in a deep lungful of smoke. “Here—it’s for you, after all. I don’t need to relax. I’m half dead already.”

  Maggie took the questionable cigarette between her index finger and thumb. She hesitated. “What’s in it?”

  “It’s mostly catnip and mint, on Fennel’s suggestion. I also added sumac and one other plant I can’t remember right now.” TomTom rubbed her face and went over to the drapes and pulled them aside, revealing a window ledge garden. “I grow them all right here and dry them in the closet. Well, all except the sumac. That grows wild, all over the place. Good time to harvest right now—the leaves curl up right on the branch, dry as potato chips this time of year. All you have to do is pluck them off and crush them into the mix, and…” She stopped her drowsy jabbering, taken aback by Maggie’s intense stare.

  TomTom followed Maggie’s gaze to one of the plants on her windowsill.

  “Hey, that’s right!” she exclaimed, brushing the miniature bush of daisy-like flowers with her hand. “I also add chamomile.”

  Chapter 14

  Maggie let the homemade herbal cigarette burn down to her fingers.

  “Ouch!”

  “It’s not going to do you any good that way.” TomTom broke the tip off an aloe vera spike and handed it to Maggie. “Here you go. I need some caffeine, then I’ll fix you up with another toke of Meow Mix.” She left the room.

  Maggie rubbed the cactus ooze on her burn. This was an unexpected turn of events, in the grand surreal scheme of things.

  Maggie moved at turtle speed into a standing position. She shuffled to the closet and opened it to see where the herbs were dried. Above TomTom’s brightly colored costume apparel was a shelf. In addition to several stacked boxes were three paper bags, exactly the right size for a child’s sack lunch. The sacks were folded over at the top and labeled in red permanent marker: “chamomile,” “catnip,” and “mint.”

  Maggie pulled down the chamomile bag and looked inside. It still had a lot of dried flowers in it, the same type Maggie had found in Fennel’s tin of herbal tea. She returned the bag to its resting spot.

  Anyone could’ve walked in here and taken the chamomile, Maggie thought.

  As fast as her dizzy head would allow, Maggie walked back into the kitchen. She slowly pulled an apron from the bottom drawer next to the stove and tied it around her waist. She needed to find out who had tampered with Fennel’s tea, which wouldn’t happen if she went upstairs to lie down.

  “Are you kidding me?” asked Sunflower.

  “Go back to bed, Maggie,” said TomTom. “You’ll make all the customers sick.”

  “What she has isn’t contagious,” Sunflower said, pulling muffin tins out of the cupboard.

  “Thanks a lot, Sunflower,” Maggie said.

  “What are you guys talking about?” asked TomTom. She looked from one face to the other, understanding dawning as the coffee swam through her veins. She sucked in a giant breath. “No way!” she shouted, then covered her mouth and said much more quietly, “Are you really? How far along?”

  Maggie glared at Sunflower and answered, “First of all, I don’t know that I am. I was planning a trip to the drug store today.” She paused and gave the timeline some thought. “Maybe since the day of the accident. I mean, if I am actually pregnant.”

  Tears popped into TomTom’s big, brown eyes, “That’s so wonderful! Who else knows?”

  “Namasté guessed it. You and Sun. Please don’t say anything to the guys. Not until I confirm yes or no. Okay?”

  “Namasté is so psychic. She must’ve known even before you got here. I’ll bet that’s the main reason she invited you,” TomTom burbled.

  Sun rolled her eyes and turned around to preheat the oven.

  TomTom went on, oblivious to Sunflower’s disdain. “You see, I’ve been studying to be a midwife for two years now, in addition to my farm work here and drumming with different bands for extra cash…”

  “And baking and saving stray cats and knitting lap blankets for the old-folks home,” Sunflower flashed a rare smile.

  TomTom ducked her head sheepishly. “It’s a Gemini thing.” She turned to Maggie. “I would be so honored and thrilled if you asked me to help out. I totally know what I’m doing. I’ve assisted over thirty home births.”

  Maggie looked into TomTom’s face and saw nothing but sweet goodwill. “If it turns that out I’m with child, you’ll be the first one I come to,” she said. Damn the evidence. There’s no way TomTom could’ve known about Fennel’s allergy. Thinking along these lines, she asked, “I was wondering, not to change the subject but, do either of you drink Fennel’s tea, like Namasté does? For, um, feeling closer to her?”

  “Do you want some?” TomTom offered eagerly. “I’ll make you a cup.”

  “No, thanks. I tried some the day I got here.”

  “Disgusting, isn’t it?” asked Sunflower. “I never drink it.” She paused. “I did make her a cup the day she died.”

  Shivers ran over Maggie’s scalp. “You did?”

  “Sun, did you really? That was so sweet.” TomTom rushed over to give Sunflower a hug. “A selfless act of love was the last gift Fennel received before she died. How awesome is that?”

  Sunflower shrugged out of the embrace. “We need to bake. Maggie, are you helping?”

  “I’ll muddle through.”

  Mixing up gluten-free flours with xanthan gum and salt took up the next few hours. In assembly-line fashion, the three women took up their respective posts and produced a bountiful crop of muffins and bagels.

  Maggie felt a deep sense of camaraderie, despite her suspicions. They worked swiftly and efficiently together with very little speaking. She wondered if baking days had happened this way with Fennel. Maggie took up the table, mixing batches of dry ingredients while TomTom mixed in eggs and shortening and taste elements like garlic or cinnamon, depending on the recipe. Sunflower manned
the cavernous ovens, pulling trays out, pushing trays in, turning bagels over methodically in the large pots of boiling water.

  As the last of the parmesan bagels were cooling and the sun was well into the morning sky, Tor came down for a cup of coffee and an apple muffin from the “not good enough to sell” pile. Sounds of stirring came from Namasté’s and Loki’s rooms.

  “Maggie,” Tor asked, “Can you help me bring in the last of the pumpkins? It’s supposed to snow this afternoon and I want them off the ground.”

  Maggie opened her mouth to answer when Sunflower interrupted, “I can do it. You have somewhere to be today, don’t you Maggie?”

  TomTom nodded her head vigorously.

  “Yes, I guess I do,” Maggie answered. She felt guilty suspecting Sunflower of wrongdoing. A wash of shame coated her, replacing the upset stomach feeling, which had evaporated as mysteriously as it had arrived. These people were her friends and she suspected they were capable of murder.

  Tor said, “I’m heading out of town to meet with an old friend, so I’ll be gone most of the day. He thinks he can help us out. We’ve been wanting to add blueberry bushes, but I’ve read they’re prone to problems. My friend is growing some blight resistant varieties that I want to check out. They’re dormant right now, of course, but he keeps great records. He has a connection with someone in the company that sells the blueberry bushes. Maybe he can get us a discount.”

  “Sounds like something Maggie could help with,” TomTom suggested. “She knows plants.”

  “Yes,” Tor shuffled his feet and looked sideways for a moment. He seemed embarrassed not to have thought of this possibility on his own. “Maggie, I’ll take any ideas you might have for me, too.”

  “Where were you planning to plant the bushes?” Maggie asked.

  “I think they would do well on the west side of the barn. Hopefully, it will provide some wind break, and they’d get some afternoon sun.”