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Authors: Janis Harrison

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BOOK: Roots of Murder
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My steady gaze encountered a scowl on Mr. Fenton's face, a blush on Jamie's. “This really isn't any of my business,” I began, “but that hasn't stopped me before.”
“I heard you say I was part of the problem,” said Mr. Fenton. “What problem are we talking about?”
“Jamie's weight,” I said.
“Weight!” he groused. “I thought this had to do with your newspaper.” He leveled a glare at me. “My daughter is my business. She's a sweet, wonderful girl. She might be … uh … heavy now, but that's baby fat. She'll grow out of it.”
I sat at the table. “Baby fat turns to adult fat. She wants to lose weight. You're the biggest influence in her life.” I smiled. “For now, anyway. In a few years, that will change. She needs your help. Are you willing to give it?”
He turned his attention from me to Jamie. “I guess,” he mumbled. “I don't know what I can do when I don't see the problem.”
“Dad,” wailed Jamie, “it's all that junk food you bring home.”
“But I thought you loved it.”
“I do,” she said, “but it doesn't love me. I eat too much. I don't want to be fat. I want to be like the other kids.”
Resigned, but not completely convinced, Mr. Fenton said to me, “So you're the guru of food, Mrs. Solomon?”
For a second, a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. Oh, dear, I thought, he's got dimples. Deep, irresistible dimples.
I tried not to stare as he drawled, “Solomon was very wise.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Go ahead,” he said. “Let's hear the wisdom of Solomon.”
An hour later, they left with the armload of books. As I closed the door, I heard Jamie's bubbling laughter. Her youthful enthusiasm brought a smile to my lips. But it was Mr. Fenton's—Bill's—warm good night that made my heart's rhythm pick up its beat.
I put the kitchen back in order and locked all the doors. After I showered, I lay in my single bed, staring up at the ceiling. Lois says woman was made for man. After Carl died, I figured I'd had my chance. I'd lived it. I'd loved it. I'd lost it. Bill hadn't said anything about calling me. He hadn't given me any indication that he wanted to see me again. But the warmth in his brown
eyes had thawed a part of me that I'd thought had died with Carl.
Before I switched off the light, I turned on my side and faced the hallway. A corner of the master suite door was visible. My bed was narrow and lonely. The bed in the suite was king-size but just as desolate. I hadn't been in that room since Carl died. Approximately four hundred and fifty-six nights of being alone. A tear trickled from my eye and onto the pillow.
The brain is ruled by a strange and miraculous science. It can be fine-tuned to the point that minor incidents from the past can be recalled. On the other hand, that same globe of gray matter can masterfully conceal details that bring pain.
I turned off the lamp and stretched out. When I closed my eyes, I knew the images would be there. I swallowed and let the pictures form. My breathing went from slow to raspy. Each breath was like a knife in my chest.
Carl. Warm and alive. His smile as intimate as a kiss. His thick dark hair tousled. His amber eyes brimming with tenderness and passion.
Passion. I shuddered. It was a killer.
I awoke the next morning with the uneasy feeling that I'd forgotten something. I poured my coffee and was thinking about breakfast when I saw the note by the phone.
The Barker representative. Calling him had completely slipped my mind. A glance at the clock told me it was too early, but then again, he might be up, getting ready to leave on his route. If I didn't call now, I'd have to wait until eight tonight. I wanted as much information as possible before I talked to Evan after work.
I put the number in front of me and dialed. It was answered by a sleepy male. “Yes?” he mumbled.
“Are you the representative from Barker Brothers?” I asked.
“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.
BOOK: Roots of Murder
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