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Authors: Janis Harrison

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BOOK: Roots of Murder
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Moth followed my gaze. “I see you've spotted Harvey.” He plucked off the lid and stuck his hand in the case.
I was close enough to see the snake's tongue flicker. He apparently liked what he smelled because he glided up Moth's arm and circled it like a bracelet. “I taught him to do that,” bragged Moth.
I gestured to the room's other occupants. “Doesn't their fate make him a little nervous?”
Moth ignored my question and thrust his arm out to me. “You want to hold him?”
I managed to quell a shudder. “Not this time. Maybe later.”
Moth nodded, not surprised. He eased the green lasso off his arm and dropped it back into the case. Instead of putting the lid in place, he picked up a sheaf of papers. “Let's get on with this. I want to look over these notes and still have time to change into my tuxedo.” In a smug voice, he explained, “I'm master of ceremonies at tonight's taxidermy gala.”
Taxidermy gala? Not two words I'd think of in the same sentence. I was glad my flower shop hadn't gotten that order. What would I have used for centerpieces? I pictured blue delphiniums and red roses artistically arranged around a preserved raccoon. I turned off my lurid imagination and smiled pleasantly. “I'll try not to keep you.”
“Yes, well. Why did you want to see me?”
It took me a second to rethink my reasons for being here. Harvey wasn't helping, slithering around his case. I cleared my throat and took my gaze off the snake. Looking at Moth wasn't much better. His eyes gleamed at me. “Did you know Isaac Miller was murdered?” I blurted. So much for leaving this in Sid's hands. I watched Moth for his reaction. I'd hoped for openmouthed disbelief. What I got was mild surprise. I guess a man who has a snake for a pet isn't caught off guard easily.
Moth raised his eyebrows. “Really? Of course, I heard
there's to be an autopsy. But murder?” He clicked his tongue distastefully.
“How much longer will Isaac's flowers be available?”
Moth grimaced. “How should I know? Depends on the weather. Middle to the end of October.”
“Did Isaac mention that he might have to stop growing them?”
He leaned back in his chair and tossed the papers on his desk.
“He
didn't.”
I caught the emphasis and asked, “Did someone else tell you?”
“Yes, but I don't take much stock in someone who calls and doesn't have the decency to identify himself. I ignored the call.”
“Was it a man or a woman?”
“It could have been either. We didn't have a lengthy conversation. The person told me to stop buying flowers from the Amish man. He hung up. So did I.”
“Did you mention this to Isaac?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“No reason. How did he react when you told him?”
“I don't know. Surprised.” Moth rethought his answer. “No, not surprised, more like resigned. I really don't remember.”
“When was this?” I asked.
Moth shifted restlessly in his chair. “A few weeks ago.”
“Did you know there's a plan among some of the florists to cut you out as middleman?”
His pointed chin shot up. His eyes closed to slits. “Where'd you hear that?”
I took a page from Hodges's prolific repertoire of words. “I see people. Talk. Get around.”
Abruptly, Moth stood up. “This is a waste of my time. I don't know what you're up to, but if it's to cause trouble, you've come to the wrong man. Isaac and I had an agreement. No one”—his voice deepened dramatically—“and I mean no one but me will be able to buy anything Isaac Miller had a hand in growing.” He came around the desk. “If that's all, Mrs. Solomon,” he said, “I have to get home and change.”
Slowly, I walked to the door. “With Isaac's death, won't your agreement become invalid?”
“No, it will not. I have the situation well in hand.”
In the doorway, I turned with another question. Before I could ask it, Moth exclaimed, “Get back in here, you little rascal.”
I knew he wasn't talking to me. Harvey must have made his escape. I did the same. I hurried down the corridor, past the vending machines, down the staircase. I didn't take a full breath till I was sitting in my car.
I carried the stepladder out of my garage and set it by the front steps. With my hands on my hips, I gazed above me. There it was, my newspaper, teetering on the edge of the gutter.
With each step up the ladder, I swore I'd get to the bottom of these shenanigans. What had I done to this kid? I racked my brain but couldn't come up with a single thing. At first, I'd figured the boy was going through puberty, and his mind was on something else. But after talking to a couple of neighbors, I discovered that the placement of my paper was a calculated prank. None of them were experiencing this kind of treatment.
I tucked the paper under my arm and put the ladder away. I didn't know the kid. He'd been on the route for about six months. I had a telephone number and a name: Jamie Fenton. I'd seen him only once, about a month ago. I'd come home early from the shop with a sick headache. When I heard the thud of the paper hit the side of the house, I'd gone to the front door. He was too far down the street to call to, but I'd seen a pudgy kid, a
ball cap, and chubby legs pedaling for all they were worth.
A confrontation was in order. I could complain to the newspaper office, but I wanted to look this kid in the eye.
Shaking my head, I sat down at the kitchen table, unfolded the paper, and picked up my fork. Eating and reading at the same time is a diet no-no. With a limited amount of food, I'm supposed to savor each bite. Delight in the texture; thrill to the taste. In short, get as much out of the food as I possibly can. A tough assignment when faced with a can of tuna dumped on a bed of shredded lettuce. I might have been more creative, but I wasn't in the mood. Glancing down at the front page, today's headline finished the job on my spiritless meal:
AMISH MAN MURDERED IN FLOWER FIELD
I pushed my plate aside and gave full attention to the story. My frustration grew as I read to the end. Nothing I didn't already know.
My conversation with Moth had left too many questions unanswered. I took a notebook from a drawer and made a list. When I was finished, I nudged my plate closer and took a bite of tuna. I studied the paper and saw a few loose ends could be tied up, if I could phone Evan. Since that was impossible, I tried another route.
Allison's home number isn't on my frequent caller list. I looked it up, and after taking a deep breath, I dialed. While it rang, I muttered, “I must be desperate.”
“Hello,” she trilled.
“This is Bretta.”
A moment of stunned silence, then Allison regained her equilibrium. “Tough luck, Bretta. You're out. We're in.” She hung up.
“In what?” I said, slamming down the phone. “Deep shit, if you ask me.” Which she had, and I'd turned her down.
Hindsight. I should have played her, let her have plenty of line. If she thought I was on her side, I'd have information. As it was, all I had were conflicting statements. How could Allison be in if Moth had an agreement with Isaac? Allison had said the coalition would cut Moth out and have more profit. It couldn't work both ways.
Quickly, I gave my fingers more exercise. I found another competitor's home number. As soon as I identified myself, she hung up. Three more times I made calls to area florists. Each time I was rebuffed, politely but firmly.
Allison had done her work well. She'd sewed up the coalition with a steel thread. I was shut out. No information, not a clue as to their plans. Hadn't it occurred to any of them that Isaac's flowers were annuals? That they might be putting together a package deal that was going nowhere? I tapped my fork against my plate until the racket I was making annoyed me. I was at a dead end.
There's a thought. “Dead?” I did another search in the phone book. I found the number and dialed.
In a deep, somber tone, Margaret answered, “Woodgrove Funeral Chapel.”
“Margaret, this is Bretta Solomon. Got a minute?”
“Sorry, Bretta,” she whispered. “A family is here making arrangements. We'll have to talk another—”
“Wait!” I interjected, in case she was going to hang up. I was getting a complex. Besides, there wasn't anyone else to call. “Can I see you? Tonight?”
“Tonight?” echoed Margaret in surprise. “No, I—”
“Tomorrow, then? In the morning, unless you'll be in church.”
Margaret sighed. “If it's important, tomorrow morning will have to do. Ten. I can't get away for church. I … uh … there are things to do here. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to say good-bye.”
This time when I hung up, I was satisfied. I'd gotten something. I'd even gotten a kind farewell.
 
Sunday morning dawned bright and cool. I left the River City limits with a pair of sunglasses perched on my nose. I'd spent a lousy night. Saturday's events had played over and over in my mind without any results, except my eyes were heavy and my head throbbed. Three cups of coffee hadn't done any good. It was early, at least for me, on a Sunday. Just past eight-thirty. I hoped a leisurely drive to Woodgrove with the car window down would blow the dust off my brain.
Once again, I passed the turnoff to Woodgrove. I wasn't as interested in the scenery as I was in seeing if the wreath was still there.
When I came to the curve in the road, my heart jumped. At first, I thought there'd been another accident. I counted four cars parked along the side of the road. As I slowed, I saw a group of teenagers standing among the sheared-off trees and brush.
I didn't want to intrude on their grief, but this was too good a chance to pass up. I parked my car at the head of the line, left my sunglasses on the dashboard, and climbed out. The young people turned at my approach. There were fifteen in all. I saw tears. Red eyes. Several yellow roses. And the wreath.
Two boys were tying a black ribbon around the massive tree trunk, hiding the nasty gash. In silence, we watched them climb up the deep ravine, their sneakers slipping on the dewy grass as they clutched at mangled saplings to haul themselves to the top.
I waited until they were with the others before I spoke. “I'm sorry about your loss.” I pointed to the wreath. “I own the flower shop where that was purchased.”
“Who's it from?” asked a girl with long hair. “It doesn't have a card.”
“That's why I stopped.” Briefly, I explained about the note under the shop door.
A tall boy, older than the others, stepped forward. “I'm Josh Baxter. Ned was my little brother.” Tears clogged his throat, making his words quavery. “He was behind the wheel. I taught him how to drive.” His voice broke. “I thought I taught him well.”
A couple of the kids touched Josh's arm. He nodded, took a deep breath, and pointed around the group. “That's Mike's brother, Steve. That's Eric's girlfriend, Heather. The rest are friends. Classmates of the guys.”
“What do you think?” I asked softly. “Who do you think might have sent the wreath?” I studied their young faces. All shook their heads. Grief had left them vulnerable. Not one, but three important people had been taken savagely from their lives. I knew how death worked. This group would never be the same. It was sad. It was also damned unfair.
“Perhaps your parents sent it?” I offered.
Steve answered, “Never happened. The house reeks of flowers. Mom says she doesn't want to see another one ever again.”
Josh said, “If my parents wanted something like this, they'd have discussed it with me.”
Heads waggled agreement. I gave Josh one of my flower shop cards and asked, “If you should hear anything, would you get in touch with me?”
As I drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror. The group was huddled in a circle, their arms wrapped around each other's waists. For some people, this is the best way to deal with grief. To share it; to take solace in being with others who understand. It was a heart-wrenching scene. My throat tightened.
When Carl died, I'd suffered alone. Dad had sent a sympathy card. Carl's mother and brother live in Nashville. Irene is blind and lives in a nursing home; the trip
to Missouri would have been too difficult for her to make. Darold, Carl's brother, was too stingy to fork out the cash for the trip.
There were friends, but nothing like this. I was touched by the depth of compassion in these young people. I envied their close relationship. It took a couple of tries before I could swallow the lump in my throat.
After Carl's death, I'd been numb. It had been months before the full realization of my loss had sunk in. Hard work and long hours helped, but often my lack of a family still seems overwhelming. I miss having someone to love. I'd give ten years of my life if I could pick up Carl's dirty clothes a few more times.
My destination didn't help my frame of mind. Woodgrove Funeral Chapel was two blocks off the main drag in a residential area. I parked on the street. Since I was early, I took my time walking to the front door.
The funeral home looked like the other houses on the block, except for the discreet sign posted near the driveway. In this part of the country, nearly all the funeral homes were initially family dwellings. Most are rambling two-story structures, with plenty of room on the ground floor for seating guests attending a service.
Margaret had an apartment upstairs, but not a separate outside entrance. I wondered what it would be like to live above a funeral home. Did she ever have guests over? Did she have to watch what she cooked, so the aroma of bacon or cabbage wouldn't linger in the slumber room?
I tried the door. It was locked. I walked around to
the side door, where flowers were delivered. It, too, was locked. I cupped my hands to the glass and peeked in. Dark. With time to kill, I decided to take a stroll to the rear of the property.
The day was as good as it gets in September—warm, a few clouds, and a breeze that was better than any mood-altering drug. The grounds were in tiptop shape. The hedges were neatly trimmed, the grass freshly mowed. Red geraniums in mammoth terra-cotta pots provided cheerful but tasteful dots of color.
A vegetable garden was well tended, the rows straight and weed-free. I recognized cucumber, squash, pumpkin, and okra plants. There were other rows, but I ignored them when I spied a ripe tomato gleaming like a ruby sitting on green velvet. I picked it, polished it on my sleeve, and took a bite. The succulent juices ran down my chin. Absently, I wiped them away and looked over the rest of the property.
The lot wasn't deep. There were no outbuildings. The garage was located under the house. The cement drive sloped down to two big doors. I checked the small windows. Only the black hearse. Margaret's car was gone.
Had she changed her mind about attending church? Had she forgotten I was coming?
I finished my snack and tossed the stem in a trash bin near the garage. I was feeling a bit miffed when the sharp toot of a horn called my attention to the street. I looked down the drive and saw Margaret arrive in a dusty black Cadillac.
She had the car door open before she'd turned off the engine. “Am I late?” she called.
“I'm early,” I admitted.
She shut off the car, picked up her purse, and climbed out. I'd never seen Margaret in anything but a navy dress. Sometimes she pinned a brooch at her shoulder, but most of the time she was unadorned. Today, she was dressed in ratty black slacks, a black pullover, and soiled white tennis shoes. Her hair straggled from its customary neat style. The cuffs of her pants had collected hordes of tiny burrs.
She gave a self-conscious laugh. “Excuse how I look,” she said. “I couldn't sleep and didn't feel like working, so I went scavenging.”
What did an undertaker scavenge?
Margaret accurately read the question on my face and said, “Come. See for yourself.” She went to the trunk of her car and popped up the lid.
I was more than curious. I peeked in and chuckled. Inside were three small pumpkins, some oddly shaped gourds, and a basket of assorted weeds. Their shapes, textures, and intense colors would make an aesthetic bouquet.
BOOK: Roots of Murder
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