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Authors: Janis Harrison

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BOOK: Roots of Murder
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“How about giving me a hand?” she asked.
I nodded and picked up the pumpkins. Margaret grabbed the rest of the load, and we headed for the door. She continued a rapid-fire conversation. I didn't mind. I'd come to hear her talk. Later I'd steer the topic around to Isaac and the council. Until then, I was content to listen.
“ … something special in the front lobby. Once a funeral is over, and the flowers are gone, it seems kind of dreary.” She juggled her burden, so she could fit the key in the lock. “Nothing quite so dominating as a Christmas tree or jack-o'-lanterns, but something that will soothe the families and friends when they come by to pay their respects.”
“I'm surprised. Most funeral directors get their fill of flowers.”
Margaret grunted success with the lock and pushed the door open. We stepped into the dark. On familiar ground, she rushed ahead. I followed more carefully. There were windows, but in this part of the chapel, they were covered with heavy draperies.
“I love flowers,” said Margaret, her voice floating back to me in the dusky light. “My mother always had a garden. We had fresh-picked flowers on the table all summer. In the winter, when the flowers were gone, she'd use cut branches of cedar to give the house a special aroma.”
She flipped on the office light, then sighed. “All these years later, I can't smell cedar without thinking of home.”
I stood in the hall with the pumpkins. She stirred herself-and apologized. “Here I am going on and on, and those pumpkins are cumbersome.” She motioned with her chin to the far side of the room. “We'll put them in that closet. I'll arrange them later.” She hurried around her desk and wrestled the door open. We set everything on the floor.
With her arms unburdened, Margaret gestured selfconsciously to her clothes. “If you can stand to look at me, I'll wait to shower and change after you leave. In the meantime, I need a cup of coffee. Would you care for one?”
“I'd love it,” I said. “I didn't sleep well, either.”
Margaret stepped into a small room off her office. I followed and saw a kitchenette. I stood in the doorway and watched as she filled a percolator with water. I like my coffee strong, but I raised my eyebrows at the double measure she used.
While she took cups down from a cabinet, I found myself telling her about my trip to Moth's office and his decor, Her tongue clicked a few times—“tsk, tsk”—when I described the stuffed animals and Harvey, the snake. She frowned when I mentioned questioning Moth about Isaac's murder.
“Why are you getting involved?” she asked, leading the way back to her office. She nodded to a chair beside her desk.
I sat down and sighed. “I'm not sure. Evan wanted me to see why an autopsy was conducted when Isaac died. But the sheriff has answered that question.” I sighed again. “I can't get Isaac's death out of my mind.”
“Didn't your husband just pass away?”
“A little over a year ago.”
“Sounds to me like you're lonesome. You have too much time on your hands.”
Pop psychology from a funeral director. Humph. Instead of analyzing me, she could take a look at her own
life. I knew her story. She'd been trained as a nurse but had traded occupations when her husband, Leon, was diagnosed with cancer. Before he'd become too ill to work, she'd gone to mortuary school. Once licensed, she'd taken over the funeral home when he passed away. In other words, she'd switched from saving lives to preserving death. Surely that deserved a couple of visits to a therapist.
“The flower shop keeps me busy,” I said, “but I miss helping Carl with his investigations.”
“You helped him? How?”
“Mostly, I listened. I was his sounding board. He'd tell me what was going on, who the suspects were, and I'd ask questions, poke holes in his theories. I liked it.”
“But he was a trained policeman, my dear. You're”—she softened her words with a smile—“merely a florist.”
I shrugged. “Mysteries fascinate me. However, it isn't just Isaac's death. The Amish are intriguing. I could never live like they do, and I'm not talking about the lack of phones, electricity, or automobiles. I'm too verbal. I'm always ready to question everything. To have one man tell me how to live would be frustrating.”
“You're thinking of Bishop Detweiler?” When I nodded, she said, “He isn't telling them how to live, Bretta.”
“It sounds like it.”
“He's only telling his people how the Bible says they should live. Those aren't his rules. He doesn't make them.”
“But he enforces them to his liking.”
Margaret's tone was patient. “The Amish consider
themselves servants of God. He put them here on earth for a purpose and that purpose is written in the Bible.”
“But if five different people read the same scripture,” I argued, “there might be five different interpretations. Who decides what's right?”
Margaret frowned. “They have to believe that the man they've chosen is strong of character and will lead them down the right path.”
“What of Isaac's flowers?” I asked. “Do you understand why Detweiler wants them to die?”
“Yes.”
“Then would you explain it to me?”
“Grain is grown to feed their bodies, to keep them healthy, so they can worship the Lord. It's a sin to waste so much land on frivolous flowers. A few is a pleasure. Too many is an extravagance. Too worldly for the Amish.”
I wasn't convinced, and it showed. Margaret waved a hand dismissively. “Bretta, Isaac is dead. To keep rehashing it will only bring hurt. If Evan lets the flowers die, then things can get back to normal.”
“Normal?” I exclaimed. “How can they ever be normal? Isaac is dead. Rosalie is a widow. Her children will grow up without their father. What's normal about that?”
Margaret winced. “True,” she murmured. Abruptly, she got to her feet and went to the kitchenette. “You're too outspoken for your own good,” she called through the doorway.
“I've been told that before,” I admitted. “I've also been called a Missouri mule.”
She came back into the office carrying two steaming cups. Carefully, I accepted one and took an experimental sip. I tried not to make a face. This brew would grow hair on one of Margaret's pumpkins.
I set the cup down and mused aloud, “I can't help but think that Isaac was killed by someone he knew.”
The cup of coffee in Margaret's hand tipped. Hot liquid spilled across the desk. Her knees buckled, and she flopped weakly into her chair.
I rushed around the desk, plucked a magazine off a shelf, and fanned Margaret. “Are you all right?” I asked.
She rubbed a trembling hand across her face. “I'm fine,” she murmured. “I felt dizzy for a moment.” She gave me a sheepish grin. “I've been trying to do too much. I forget I'm not as young as I used to be. The brain's willing to do the tasks, but the body's beginning to rebel.”
I stopped fanning and stepped back. “Oh. I hoped maybe something I said jogged your memory, and you had a clue as to who'd killed Isaac.”
Two rosy spots of color bloomed on Margaret's pale cheeks. She gave me a curt look before grabbing a handful of Kleenex from a box. As she blotted the soggy papers on her desk, she said, “The idea. Isaac knowing his killer. You grew up here, Bretta. You know these people just as well as I do.”
“Someone killed Isaac.”
“Leave that to the sheriff.”
“But Evan asked me—”
Margaret's exasperated sigh cut me off. “Cecil said you were annoying, but I stood up for you.” She tossed the brown-stained tissues in the trash. “Perhaps I was hasty in coming to your defense.”
Cecil is the one who's a pain in the butt, but I didn't say that. I'd taken a good look at the magazine in my hand. No glossy pages. The words inside looked like gibberish. It was a much more interesting topic than Cecil's opinion of me, which was nothing new. I held the magazine up. “What's this?”
“It's a magazine.”
“I know that. What kind? It's in a foreign language.”
“Not foreign. It's an Amish publication called
The
Budget
.” She took it out of my hands and put it back on the shelf.
“And you subscribe to it?”
“Yes,” she said wearily. “This town and these people are important to me. I can't afford to make a blunder when I deal with the Amish.” Her tone turned waspish as she demanded, “Are you going to investigate that?”
What had started out as a congenial conversation was deteriorating. It was time to do some serious groveling.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I came to you because you understand the Amish. Apparently, you even speak their language. I admire you. So does everyone here in Woodgrove. You see people when their emotions are raw with grief. You give them comfort, make their burdens easier to bear.”
Her chin quivered. “I try.”
“I came to ask you who's on the Amish council. Did
they have the power to make Isaac stop growing his flowers?”
“Yes.”
“Who are they?”
She hesitated, then answered, “There are three men. Eli Detweiler. Reuben Hosteiler. He moved to Woodgrove two or three years ago. Last fall, he lost a leg when his buggy had an accident with a car. Leo Mast is the third. He and his family have been visiting back east for the last few weeks. They're thinking of moving back to Pennsylvania.” She bustled up from her desk. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“One more thing.” I kept talking, though the look on her face didn't invite me to continue. “How far would the discord between Isaac and Detweiler have gone?”
“What's too far?”
“Murder.”
Margaret's mouth grew round with disbelief. She gulped twice before she could find her voice. “Are you accusing one of the Amish of murder?”
“I'm not accusing anyone. I'm merely looking at motive. Who would have a reason to kill a peace-loving man who grows flowers?”
“Why couldn't it have been a stranger? A vagrant?”
I raised my eyebrows in amazement. “Do you seriously believe that Isaac was murdered by someone passing by? Again, why? What's the motive?”
“I don't want to think about it,” replied Margaret, “and you shouldn't—”
The phone rang. She turned her back on me and took
two deep breaths to compose herself. She picked up the receiver.
“Woodgrove Funeral Chapel,” she said in a calm, precise voice.
She sounded normal, but when she smoothed her hair, I saw her hand tremble. I listened, not so much to the conversation as to the texture of her voice. Gentle, tranquil, resonant. A minute ago, she'd been upset with me. Now she was calm and helpful. She was good at her job. Very kind and patient with the people.
“ … funeral set for one o‘clock Thursday here at the chapel. Yes. Yes. Visitation is Wednesday from seven till eight o'clock. That's true. The family is waiting for a daughter to fly in from Alaska. Something about a mixup with her tickets.”
When she hung up, I asked, “What do you know about Bishop Detweiler?”
It was interesting to watch the varied emotions flash across her face. Margaret had been in her helpful mode when she replaced the receiver. At my question, her face did a reversal, searching for an appropriate hostile emotion. She settled on icy silence and marched out of the office. I stayed where I was and listened to her progress. Her gait was quick and solid. The woman was annoyed, but I wasn't going to be diverted.
I stepped into the hall. I'd never had a fear of the dark, death, or in this case, funeral homes. Carl had always said that events, situations, and places were merely the settings for violence. It's human beings who create the mayhem.
Margaret had disappeared, but she had switched on several lights. I gazed around me. The architecture of the old house was beautiful. Filigreed oak cornices decorated the ivory walls. A broad staircase rose six steps, then disappeared into a gracious curve to the second floor. The wood gleamed in the soft lighting. The house's present-day use made it difficult to see how it might originally have been arranged. Walls had been removed; others had been built. An eight-foot-wide corridor ran from the front door to the back.
Across from me was a cozy little room where family members could sit and reflect. Like the rest of the chapel, its carpet was hunter green. Mauve and burgundy—striped material covered padded chairs.
Next to the sitting area was a medium-sized slumber room. I could have been standing in someone's home. A couple of sofas, a coffee table with flower arrangement, two end tables, and several boxes of Kleenex. The focal point wasn't a television but a steel blue casket open at the top.
I stepped to the door and read the name on the register: MYRTLE RANKIN. I didn't think I knew her, but I checked to make sure. Nope. She'd been very old and extremely small. Her cheeks were bright with rouge, her lips a pale pink. There were two potted plants sitting on stands nearby. Across the casket's bottom lid was an example of Allison's economy casketpieces. I knew without counting it would have eighteen pink carnations and two bunches of leather leaf greenery among
the sprigs of fern. Since ribbon is cheaper than flowers, the top of the spray was a mass of loops.
I turned away. The main chapel was farther down the hall. It held several rows of folding chairs but no casket or flowers.
Once I passed this slumber room, I was in unfamiliar territory. Carl's arrangements had been handled by a River City funeral home. When Mom had died, Leon was still director. This part had been added after his death.
A slice of light showed around the edge of a door. I hesitated. In an unfamiliar funeral home, you don't brazenly burst into a room unless you're prepared—for anything. I eased the door open, then pushed it wider when I saw all the empty caskets.
In my mind, it was the showroom, but I'd been informed by a funeral director friend that certain terms should always be used. It's cemeteries, never graveyards. Casket, never coffin. Funeral director, never undertaker. Remains or deceased, but never corpse. And this was a selection room, not a showroom.
I saw approximately twelve caskets in assorted colors and styles ranging from cheap to ornate. The lighting was bright, almost cheerful, if a room filled with caskets could be described as such. Brass and silver fittings gleamed.
Margaret was at the far end. She glanced up when I came in. “I'm sorry I snapped at you,” she said. “I'm so upset. Poor Rosalie. One child, and another on the way.”
“I know.” I worked my way to her, dodging caskets of all kinds. Teal, mauve, walnut. Mahogany, gray, oak. Purple.
Purple? I stopped to trail a finger down the lavender satin lining. “This is different.”
Margaret stopped tugging on a bronze metal casket. “I'm sending it back,” she said. “I've had it since January. No one wants purple.”
“I like it,” I said, as I moved down the room toward her. “If it had one of
my
casketpieces of pink roses, a few purple asters to pick up the color, and some baby's breath, it would be striking.”
“Yeah, well, striking doesn't sell in my business.” She pointed to the casket she was trying to move. “No one is inventive. Families always pick this model for a man. Next time I get a delivery, I'm going to put it closer to the embalming room. I'm getting too old to roll it around.”
I was ready to offer my assistance but got sidetracked when I saw an L-shaped metal handle lying on the cushy lining. I picked it up and asked, “What's this?”
“Some of the metal caskets have airtight seals that serve as a moisture barrier. That crank locks the seal in place.”
I put the metal handle back where I'd found it. I took hold of the end of the casket she was struggling with and swung it away from the wall. “I'll help. Just tell me where we're going.”
“Over there,” she said, jerking her head to the left.
We maneuvered the casket across the carpeted floor and stopped before a pair of double doors. Margaret turned to me and asked, “Are you squeamish?”
I didn't answer right away. I was in a funeral home. I could move caskets. I could put a single rose in the deceased's hand. I could pin on a corsage if the family requested it. I gave an uneasy chuckle. “Depends on what you have in mind.”
“I need to move Mr. Engelhart from the embalming table to his new home.” She indicated the casket. “The hoist is getting worn and often lets me down”—she grimaced—“or I should say, let's
my guest
down too quickly.” She waited a moment, then asked, “Will you help me?”
I looked at the doors. “Is he dressed?”
Margaret snorted. “He is now. I have yet to bury a naked body, though Priscilla Yarrowby came close. Flimsy little nightie. Black and red garter belt. I think I've seen it all, then something new crops up, and I'm taken by surprise all over again.”
“How do you usually move the bodies?”
“Not bodies,” she corrected. “The deceased. I prefer to call them ‘my guest' or by name. My neighbor comes in to drive the family car and do odd jobs, but he's gone for the day.”
Talk about odd jobs. But I smiled congenially. “You'll have to introduce me to Mr. Engelhart. I can't manhandle him without a proper introduction.”
Margaret pursed her lips in light rebuke at my humor. She opened the doors to a world I'd only speculated
on. While she positioned the casket, she took me at my word and began a long spiel on the life of Mr. Clarence Engelhart. While she talked, I gazed around the embalming room.
Green-tiled walls and floor. No windows. A porcelain table. Mr. Engelhart. My eyes skimmed over him. Glassfront cabinets on two walls. A drain in the floor. I swallowed. The area was about twelve by fourteen feet. We didn't have much room to move between the casket and the table. When this house had been a family dwelling, this might have been a small bedroom or a storage room. A pulley hung above the table. Its track looped across the ceiling to the doors where I stood.
“ … his death reminded me of Leon's. Long and painful,” Margaret was saying.
I assumed she was talking about Mr. Engelhart. I nodded sympathetically, then asked, “Where do you want me?”
“The casket stays here. We bring Mr. Engelhart to it. The hoist works, at one height, which is about a foot lower than I need. When I get him to the casket, I want you to help me raise him that twelve inches. If I get the hoist too high, it slips a cog and will drop the load.”
BOOK: Roots of Murder
3.74Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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