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Authors: Janis Harrison

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BOOK: Roots of Murder
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He stopped abruptly, and I nearly rammed my nose into his broad back. My feet skidded on the gravel as I did some fancy dance steps to keep my balance. If Evan
noticed my ungainly performance, he made no sign. His eyes were'on something else, his lips pressed into a grim line.
I followed his gaze and saw Isaac's field of flowers. Two acres in full-blown color, grown by a man who had been truly dedicated to his work.
Drawn to the exquisite display, I walked closer. I barely noticed Isaac's greenhouse and the holding shed where he'd kept the cut flowers until they were trucked into River City. My attention was on the field.
Clouds of white baby's breath billowed in the breeze, an airy, ethereal background to the other blossoms. Bright carmine asters. Celosia with orange, scarlet, and golden yellow plumes. Burnished cosmos. Zinnias. Statice. A mass of vibrant blue cornflowers struck a brilliant contrast and rivaled the sky with their color.
My fingers itched to touch these beauties, to stroke the velvet petals and smell the mixed aromas, but a movement farther up the hill killed my artistic desires. A sheriffs deputy leaned against a tree.
“What's he doing?” I asked.
Evan's mouth turned down. “You'd have to ask the sheriff.”
“How long has he been there?”
“The men change, but someone has been up there since Thursday night. After Isaac died.”
A guard? In Isaac's flower field? Gently, I said, “The newspaper didn't give any details about Isaac's death. What happened?”
Evan jerked his head toward the colorful array. “My
brother died up there among his flowers.”
“What was he doing?”
“Cutting flowers for market.”
I tried to think of what might have happened. “Was he using a wagon? Did the horse bolt?”
Evan grinned weakly. “Old Jake doesn't have the energy to run.” He sobered and his fingers skittered over his wiry beard. “I don't always understand your English laws, Bretta. Why an autopsy? What are they looking for?”
Was this possibly murder? But what if I was misreading the sketchy information? Playing it safe, I hedged, “A detail about Isaac's death must not have set well with the coroner. What was said to you?”
He snorted his frustration. “All I get is questions without answers.”
“What kind of questions?”
Evan flapped his hands impatiently. “Did Isaac have any enemies? No. Did my brother take a nip or two on the side? No. Did my brother and I quarrel?” His voice rose in outrage. “Absolutely not.”
With an effort, he calmed down. “I called you, Bretta, because I trust you. I want you to find out what's going on. I want to know when we can have Isaac's body back. Our people are nearly finished with the coffin. The grave is being dug. He's already in God's hands. It's up to us, his family, to finish our earthly duty.”
“Evan, I'm a florist. I can't do anything about Isaac's body. When the coroner is finished with his examination, the body will be released to the funeral home. I'm
sure Margaret will bring Isaac home as soon as she can.”
Margaret Jenkins owns Woodgrove's only funeral home. I knew the Amish counted this older woman as a friend. She'd made herself indispensable to the Amish colony around Woodgrove by taking them in her car to doctor appointments or other errands too far away to be reached with a horse and buggy. I offered her name to Evan, hoping he'd take comfort in it. I held out my hands helplessly. “Until then, there's nothing anyone can do but wait.”
Evan sighed. “I just don't understand.”
“Maybe if you told me what happened,” I prompted.
Reluctantly, without emotion, Evan related the events of his brother's death. He recited the facts in a monotone, as if he'd repeated this story a dozen times.
“Isaac and I'd been at a farm sale Thursday afternoon. We got home late, and Isaac still had flowers to cut for pickup the next day. I offered to help, but he said he needed to think. Since I had my own chores to do, I left him hitching up Old Jake to the wagon so he could collect the flowers.”
“What did he need to think about? Was there something specific on his mind?”
“Not that I know. He was always reading books, going to the library.”
“So you were at the barn, and Isaac was alone in the field?”
He gave me a quick look. “Isaac wasn't alone all the time. But that's getting ahead of the story.”
Isaac in the field. Isaac not alone. Isaac dead. The
nasty picture was coming into focus, but I pressed my lips together and let him talk.
“I had finished the chores and was washing up for supper when Amelia, Isaac's daughter, came to the house for help. Her mother had found Jake still hitched to the wagon outside the holding shed, but Isaac wasn't inside. The cans of water had been overturned, the flowers ruined.”
Evan's stoical composure cracked. He mopped his damp face with a handkerchief. “Rosalie didn't wait for me. She went to the field and found Isaac. He was dead.”
Evan fingered the fastener of his suspenders. “I will apologize for Cleome. She's upset because I called you. She thinks I'm stirring up trouble. The way I see it, the stirring has already been done. Cleome says, let it rest, bury our dead and continue with God's plan.”
“The sheriff might have something to say to that.”
“The sheriff is a
gr
t r
s sprecha.”
The Amish speak a combination of High German and Pennsylvania Dutch. I didn't understand the phrase Evan used, but I knew Sid Hancock, sheriff of Spencer County. Sid is abrupt and relentless, maybe a good combination for a lawman, but lousy if you're on the other end of his interrogations.
Sid and I'd gotten off on the wrong foot not long after he'd been elected sheriff. Carl had come home one evening thoroughly frustrated with a case he was working on. The county was being plagued by a rash of petty robberies. No leads. No witnesses. The pilfering covered
all four corners of the county. Nothing major was taken: small appliances, feather pillows, silk flower arrangements, Tupperware, baskets, stuffed toys, and other odds and ends.
I'd laughed and said maybe the deputies needed to attend some local garage sales. Carl had passed on my suggestion to Sid. They'd acted on it and the robbers, a woman and her three daughters, had been apprehended.
Carl had been interviewed by a reporter from the
River City Daily
. Like the kind and loving husband he'd been, he proudly included me in the success of the bust. The paper gobbled up this tidbit and spit out a front-page tale that made me sound like I was the next Nancy Drew of River City. Sid had been furious. He'd wanted the limelight kept on his office, not transferred to the wife of one of his officers.
Since that fiasco, I tread lightly around Sid. I didn't want to think about him and what his reaction would be when he heard that Evan had summoned me to the farm. A glance at the deputy left me with little doubt that Sid would hear. On the other hand, my friendship with the Amish, especially Evan, is no secret.
“Did you tell the sheriff about someone being in the field with Isaac?” I asked.
“No” was Evan's terse reply. “I don't want that man questioning my Katie.”
“Katie?” This news hit me broadside. The thought of Katie having seen something sinister made my skin crawl with bumps of apprehension. My favorite among Evan's children, nine-year-old Katie is as fresh and innocent
as a shasta daisy. “What's she got to do with this?”
“Nothing,” snapped Evan, “and that's the way I want it. I saw no one. No car pulled into the drive. Rosalie didn't see anyone. No one came to either house.”
His wide shoulders slumped as if he'd taken on the weight of the world. With a dazed expression, he continued quietly, “Katie says that she saw someone in the field. My brother is dead, but no one has admitted to being with him before he died.” Evan's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Why not admit to being with Isaac that evening? Why keep it a secret?”
His eyes caught mine in a pain-filled gaze. He answered his own question. “Unless something wicked happened. Something so terrible that the person has to hide it.”
I took a deep breath, as if to make a lengthy speech, but I said only one word. “Murder.”
Evan's lean frame shuddered. Our heads turned in unison to the flower field. The blossoms were a lovely memorial to Isaac's short life.
“Did Katie recognize—” Before I could get the words out, a scream of terror ripped the air.
“That's Cleome,” shouted Evan, taking off at a run.
I followed Evan around the buildings and saw Cleome in the garden trying to keep an aggressive billy goat at bay with her hoe. The goat was black and white with lethal-looking horns curled up and over his head. Using the hoe, Cleome nudged the animal. Instead of retreating, he pawed the loose soil, lowered his head, and took a bold step in her direction. Her mouth stretched wide, and she erupted with another ear-shattering scream.
Evan reached the garden, pressed his hands on top of the woven-wire fence, and vaulted over. “Shoo! You old rover,” he shouted.
This goat was no fool. He might intimidate a woman, but Evan was another matter. The goat gave us a superior look, then, as graceful as a deer, he leaped the fence, sauntered across the yard and up the middle of the blacktop highway.
Cleome followed his retreat with fire in her eyes. Her hands rested on her hips; her weapon lay at her bare feet. A bundle of energy, Cleome Miller was short in stature but stood tall in her faith. She had a round face,
plump cheeks, and sharp, intelligent eyes. Her stomach was pudgy and misshapen from bearing one child right after another and another.
She clucked her tongue before saying, “Our cats and dogs are killed on this road, but that old goat can come and go as he pleases without harm ever approaching a hair on his mangy hide.”
“Sam Kramer?” I asked.
Cleome grimaced. “Some things never change. It's a good thing Isaac didn't see—” Her voice trailed off. She struggled for composure. Evan took a step in her direction, but she raised her chin and squared her shoulders. When she spoke, it was back to more mundane things. “I have bread in the oven.”
Carrying her hoe, she walked briskly between the neat rows of vegetables. At the end, she hung the hoe on the garden gate and hurried to the house.
As soon as I heard the door shut, I asked Evan, “What did she mean about Isaac?”
“Sam and Isaac had an ongoing feud. The goat has been a constant worry for Isaac. We've tried talking to Sam, but he says someone is letting the goat out of his pen to cause trouble.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“I don't know that they are. That's Sam's story. Isaac and I talked about fencing off the flower field.” Evan nodded to the wire enclosure. “But you saw how well that works.”
I was about to say Sam was a harmless, if eccentric, old man when a red pickup truck barreled into the
driveway. Under his breath, Evan muttered something, then ducked his head as if embarrassed.
I could guess at his words because I recognized the driver. “Cecil Bellows making a neighborly call?” I asked.
“Call? Yes. Neighborly? No,” replied Evan as he picked his way out of the garden. He propped the gate shut with the hoe, then we walked toward the truck.
Edna, Cecil's wife, caught sight of us and timidly raised her hand. She got out of the truck when she saw Cleome standing on the porch.
From inside the cab, Cecil said, “Well, woman, get on with it. I have work to do.”
Edna lifted a covered dish from the seat and hurried across the yard to Cleome. “I won't bother Rosalie, but I wanted her to have this casserole.”
In the olden days, Edna Bellows had been my mother's best friend. Mom had said Edna was like a little brown wren, tending her nest, raising her brood, looking after the neighbors. According to my mother, Cecil, on the other hand, was a buzzard. That said it all.
Today, Edna was properly dressed for a condolence call. Brown skirt, tan blouse, sensible shoes and hose. There was just the right note of sympathy in her voice. No probing questions. No awkward tears.
As I started toward her, Cecil leaned on the truck's horn. Above the roar of the engine, he yelled, “I said to hurry, Edna. I gotta pick up a tractor part.”
From the perch of his four-wheel-drive machine,
Cecil smirked down at Evan. “Miller, you people might have the right idea using horses. You don't have time to go all over the country making useless social calls.”
Evan was too kind to comment. “Reticent” could never be used to describe me. I stepped forward. “I see your manners haven't improved.”
Cecil leaned out his window to give me a long, hard look. “Bretta McGinness,” he said, calling me by my maiden name. “Well, I'll be damned. I'd know that voice anywhere, though you look like your throat's been cut.” I stiffened at the snide reference to my recent weight loss. “Same disrespect for your elders,” he continued. “I always told your mother that she let you get away with too much. If you'd been my kid, you'd have—”
“—moved five states away,” I filled in dryly. That was what his three children had done.
Cecil's eyes narrowed. “Always too big”—he gave a rude guffaw of laughter—“and I mean
big
for your britches. Your body may be smaller, but your mouth ain't. One of these days it'll get you into trouble.”
Spiteful words gathered on my tongue, but I'd baited the old man enough. I lifted my chin and gave him glare for glare.
Cecil turned from me to shout, “Edna, goddamn it, let's go!” He gunned the motor.
A quick look of understanding passed between Edna and Cleome before Edna hurried back to the truck. It was a stretch for her to get from the running board to the seat, but once she'd made the climb, Cecil released
the clutch, and the truck spun gravel down the drive. Cleome went to her husband's side. “Poor woman,” she murmured.
“She should be used to Cecil's behavior,” I commented. “They're the same age my mom would have been. In their seventies. Been married for years, and he hasn't changed.”
Evan grinned, revealing the gap in his teeth. It gave him an impish look. “I think he's worse.”
“Shame on you, Evan Miller,” chided Cleome mildly. Looking at the casserole in her hands, she said, “I'll take this to Rosalie. She hasn't had any appetite. Maybe Edna's cooking will tempt her.”
Evan surprised Cleome and me when he suggested, “Bretta might like to go, too.” He added words in his Amish dialect. Her response was clearly negative, his filled with determination.
I felt like a third wheel, a turd in a punch bowl. No one had asked me if I'd like to make a condolence call, which I didn't. I had nothing to offer Rosalie but empty words of sympathy. A bouquet in hand had often eased me into a difficult situation, because the flowers worked as an icebreaker. Of course, in this case, flowers would be the last thing Rosalie would want to see.
While I'd been thinking, Cleome and Evan had come to an understanding. One look at Cleome's downturned mouth told me it hadn't been amicable. She marched off to Rosalie's. I reluctantly followed.
I fell into step next to her, cutting my stride in half to match hers. “I'm not here to cause trouble,” I said.
“No need for you to be here at all.”
“Evan asked me to come, to help him find out what happened. What do you think?”
“It's not for me to think,” she said sharply. “We aren't put on this earth to question or to exact retribution. If someone harmed Isaac, it is written by our Lord, ‘Vengeance belongeth unto me, I will recompense, saith the Lord.'”
“That might be fine for the hereafter, but what about now? Don't you think the person who harmed Isaac should be punished?”
“God deals out punishments. Job asked, ‘Why do bad things happen to good people?' To this there is no answer. This is God's plan. He leads. We follow. It's wrong for any of us to interfere.”
I was no match for this woman. I couldn't quote scripture. I couldn't substantiate any views I had with passages from the Bible. I kept quiet, and we arrived at Rosalie's in silence.
As we came up to the front, we heard voices from behind the house. All I could distinguish were male and female. Cleome heard something more. She cocked her head and listened. Without a word, she popped open the door, set the casserole on a table, then brushed past me.
I wanted to ask her what was going on, but I'd seen the steely glint in her eye. She didn't tell me not to, so I trailed her down the path that ran alongside the house to Isaac's cutting shed. I couldn't help wincing as I watched her bare feet stomp across the gravel. She
seemed immune to the pain, her feet as tough as the soles on my shoes.
A battered green van was parked near the shed. It hadn't been there long. I could hear the ping of hot metal contracting as the motor cooled. I watched as a man, standing in front of the van, sucked on a cigarette, then ground it out under the heel of his boot.
He wore a cap pulled low over his eyes. His jeans were grimy. A rip in the knee had been mended by an inexperienced hand. He appeared to be in his fifties, overweight, with most of the flab centered around his middle. His belt rode under his belly and high on his back. The material of his dingy white T-shirt was stretched thin, and I could see the protrusion of his navel through the cloth.
Rosalie was facing him with her back braced against the shed door. She was like a lovely pregnant doll, her bone structure delicate, her eyes a soft doe brown. Twin spots of bright red blazed across her high cheekbones. When she saw us, a look of unmistakable relief crossed her pretty face.
“Mr. Hodges has come to offer me a deal,” she said in a trembling voice.
“Deal?” snapped Cleome. “What kind of deal?”
Hodges likely wanted to ignore Cleome, but it's hard to overlook someone with as penetrating a gaze as hers. “Yes, ma'am,” he said. “Isaac trusted me to truck his posies to River City. Now that he's … uh … gone, I'm offering to help his wife.”
Cleome's eyebrows dipped low. “What do you know
about Isaac's work? You only hauled his flowers. You never helped grow or cut them.”
Hodges puffed out his chest and reached into his pocket. He pulled out the flattened pack, extracted a cigarette, took his time lighting it. After he had the end glowing red, he said, “That's true, ma'am, but Isaac and me talked a lot. The way I see it, we'd do a sixty/forty split. Since I'll be doing all the work, I'd get the sixty end.”
My eyes widened. The man had nerve but not much else. I wanted to say something, but I'd seen the deputy sidle closer. This conversation would be repeated to Sid. I figured if I kept my mouth shut and didn't call attention to myself, I'd be better off.
Hodges waved his hand airily. “Can't be that hard to grow a few posies. A little water here. A little horse sh———manure there. And you've got yourself a profit.”
Rosalie was shaking her head. “I don't think—”
Hodges didn't let her finish. “Look. You won't have to think. I'd do all of that and hand you a check. The way I see it, Isaac didn't charge enough. From what I've heard, those money-grubbing florists are ready to pay big bucks for Isaac's posies.”
Stay in the background after a comment like that? No way. “Oh, they are?” I asked. “Where'd you hear that?”
Hodges hitched up his pants and swaggered closer. With his eyes on my chest, he stated, “I hear things. Ask questions. Talk to folks.”
“Anyone in particular?”
He swallowed, then said, “I get around.”
“I'll just bet you do,” I muttered.
Hodges took his eyes off my chest long enough to give my jeans-clad figure a sharp appraisal. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “You ain't no Amish.”
I rolled my eyes. “Duh. What was your first clue?”
Hodges scowled. “Back off. This don't concern you.”
“But it does concern me,” said a deep voice ringing with authority.
I jerked my head around and saw an Amish man standing by the rear bumper of the van. Behind me I heard a sharp intake of breath and glanced back as Cleome and Rosalie moved together and joined hands. Their eyes were downcast, their faces pale.
The Amish man had his back to the morning sun. The bright light concealed his face but outlined his tall, lank, stoop-shouldered frame. He moved closer. He was well past seventy, but age had favored him with strength and power in the lines of his face. A white beard rested on his chest. His skin was tanned from hours in the sun. His eyes, bright and strong, were illuminated with purpose. He didn't waste time letting us know what that purpose was.
BOOK: Roots of Murder
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