Authors: Janis Harrison
Roots of Murder (8 page)
“I've slipped a cog, too,” I muttered as I walked to the table. I gazed down on the old man. “You did a nice job. He looks peaceful.”
“It doesn't matter. The family wants the casket closed.” She grunted as she adjusted four straps around Mr. Engelhart, then buckled them expertly into place.
Behind her on the wall were two buttons. She pressed
one. I heard a soft hum, the slack was taken up, and Mr. Engelhart rose off the table. His legs stuck straight out, as though he were a magician's levitating act. I had a wild desire to giggle. Poor old fellow. Dangling from the ceiling like a mobile.
one. I heard a soft hum, the slack was taken up, and Mr. Engelhart rose off the table. His legs stuck straight out, as though he were a magician's levitating act. I had a wild desire to giggle. Poor old fellow. Dangling from the ceiling like a mobile.
“Stand back until I get him closer to the casket,” cautioned Margaret.
She pushed the other button. With a jerk, Mr. Engelhart floated on his way, but it was not a dignified process. It seemed to me that the entire system needed an overhaul. The machine stalled twice. These abrupt stops and starts made Mr. Engelhart jiggle and swing.
“Should I steady him?” I asked.
“He's secure as long as I don't take the pulley up too far. I think I broke some teeth out of the wheel when Mrs. Devinski died. That woman weighed four hundred pounds. Best cook in Woodgrove, but she must have sampled everything she made. I had to order a specially built casket for her.”
How mortifying! I ran my hands down my slim hips and vowed to leave those damned cheeseburgers alone. No special-ordered casket for this old girl.
“Okay,” said Margaret. “He's as close as we can get him. You take his shoulders. I'll stand here in the middle. We'll heave him over the side.”
Heave? Not a word I wanted to think about while grasping a dead man's shoulders in a room where mysterious things happened.
I was facing the counter and saw a metal box sitting beside the sink. The manufacturer's nameplate identified
it as an embalming pump. Fastened to the top of the box was a clear canister with numbers and level measures. The entire contraption, was plugged into an electrical outlet. Loops of black rubber tubing coiled on the floor.
it as an embalming pump. Fastened to the top of the box was a clear canister with numbers and level measures. The entire contraption, was plugged into an electrical outlet. Loops of black rubber tubing coiled on the floor.
The cabinet above the sink held an assortment of scalpels, picks, and other instruments that looked painful. One, especially, caught my eye. It looked to be made of stainless steel and was twelve inches long. The handle was molded to fit the grip of a hand. The pointed end was wicked.
“Well?” said Margaret impatiently. “What are you waiting for? He isn't going to help us.”
I nodded to the cabinet. “What's that?”
“What's what?” replied Margaret, glancing around.
“That long tool there in the cabinet.”
“Trocar. Tool of my trade.”
I chuckled. “In my husband's line of work it would be classed as a deadly weapon.”
She rolled her eyes and asked curtly, “Are you ready?”
I put my hands under Mr. Engelhart's shoulders. “I guess so. On the count of three?”
“Whatever.”
“One. Two. Three,” I said, and gave the body a boost up. I was pleased. I'd done my part. Mr. Engelhart's upper torso was almost in, though he was hardly in a position that would meet with his family's approval. Margaret huffed and puffed, but she wasn't making headway.
“Want me to come around there?” I offered.
“No. Stay there. He's heavier than I thought. I had Joseph's help earlier.” She wiped a hand across her brow. “You steady him. Don't let him fall. I'm going to raise the hoist.”
“But I thoughtâ” I stopped. I can get myself into the damnedest messes. All I'd wanted was the answers to a few questions, and here I was, wrestling a dead man into his casket. A fine Sunday morning pastime. Behind me the motor whirred and Mr. Engelhart made a jerky leap into the air.
“Stay with him,” instructed Margaret. “Keep him steady. Bend over more, so you can get a better hold. Don't let him sway away from the casket. I can't remember how highâ”
I didn't hear what she said because the winch made a series of high-pitched shrieks. Everything happened so fast. One minute Mr. Engelhart was suspended above me. The next he was falling. I tried to move, but his head cracked into mine. He didn't feel any pain. I wasn't as lucky. A bright light exploded behind my eyes, then a black curtain of unconsciousness dropped into place.
The floor of an embalming room is hard and cold.“Never state the obvious,” I whispered. Carl had been fond of quoting those words. Originally, they'd been said by his army drill sergeant, but they'd found their way into most of Carl's observations on life.
I forced my eyes open. I must not have been out long. Margaret was coming toward me with a folded towel in her hand. When I focused on her, she flung the towel into the sink.
“You're awake,” she said.
Again, the obvious. I could see her. My eyes must be open. Some wayward thought nudged my tender brain. I blinked and slowly sat up. With gentle fingers, I explored the lump on my head. “If that's a cold compress,” I murmured, “I could use it.”
“Let me help you up,” she said and grasped me firmly by the arm. “I'll get you some ice.”
She hauled me to my feet. I swayed weakly. My wavering gaze settled on Mr. Engelhart. Poor old guy. He
appeared to be making a desperate attempt to flee his eternal home. His legs stuck over the edge of the casket; his face was buried in the pillow.
appeared to be making a desperate attempt to flee his eternal home. His legs stuck over the edge of the casket; his face was buried in the pillow.
“Are you going to leave him like that?” I asked.
Margaret shrugged. “I'll get him situated later.”
It didn't seem right, but I'd had enough of embalming rooms, caskets, and bodies to last me a lifetime. Which, judging from the headache that pounded behind my eyes, could be ending sooner than I had planned.
The smell of the room was making me nauseous, or maybe it was my throbbing head. Whatever the reason, I needed out of this confining space.
I waved away Margaret's offer for ice, accepted her apology with a nod, then wished I hadn't. Dizziness forced me to close my eyes.
“You don't look very good,” she said. “Come lie down.”
“Air,” I mumbled. “I need fresh air.” I shook off her helping hand and stumbled out the door and down the corridor.
From behind me, Margaret asked, “Where are you going?”
Dazed, I repeated, “Going?”
“Yes. Are you going home?”
I looked at Margaret and saw lines of worry etched around her eyes. Was she thinking lawsuit? She had nothing to fear. I didn't want anyone to hear this morbid tale. “Now, you mean?”
“Of course, now. Should you be driving?”
Oh, yes. I should be in my car and driving the hell
away from this place. But I didn't say that. “I'll be fine,” I replied.
away from this place. But I didn't say that. “I'll be fine,” I replied.
“But what if ⦔
I blocked her out so I could concentrate on getting the door open. I was unprepared for the blinding sunshine that blazed in my face. I caught my toe on the threshold and nearly plunged headfirst out the door.
Margaret was close by. I felt the brush of her fingers on my arm, but I hurried out into the warm, bright light. I wobbled down the sidewalk to my car. With a studied effort, I fumbled the key into the ignition. When the motor was going, I put the car in gear and pulled away. But only to the next block. Out of sight of the funeral home, I parked and rested my head on the steering wheel.
I lowered my window and took several deep, cleansing breaths. Each time I exhaled, my thoughts grew clearer. The rapid beating of my heart was losing speed. My head ached, but it was a dull, bearable pain.
For a while, I drove aimlessly around Woodgrove. The day had a nice nip. After the stale air in the funeral home, it was invigorating. It made me appreciate just being alive. A breeze in my open window carried the scent of meat roasting over a charcoal fire. My stomach rolled. I wasn't hungry. In fact, my stomach churned with anxiety, but I wasn't sure why.
I drove down the deserted main street looking at the buildings. Most were in good repair. A few needed a coat of paint to spruce them up. Woodgrove has a hardware
store, a bank, a feed store, a grocery store, a lumberyard, and a small library.
store, a bank, a feed store, a grocery store, a lumberyard, and a small library.
On impulse, I pulled into a parking spot and stared at the library. In my early years, I'd spent hours among those shelves of books. Today, it was closed. I knew I'd have to come back, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember why. Two doors down was the Pin Oak Café. Judging from the lack of cars in front, service wouldn't be a problem, and conversation with a local waitress might be informative.
I left my car and walked to the café. My headache had eased, but if I touched the bump, pain radiated out like fiery spokes on a wheel.
“Then don't touch it,” I muttered as I reached for the café doorknob. It was jerked out of my hand, and I stared at Cecil Bellows.
When he saw me, his expression changed. The wrinkles in his face deepened. His mouth drew up; his lower lip pooched out. He looked like a disgruntled bulldog. He slammed the door behind him and took me by the arm.
“We're going to talk, little lady.” He laughed. “Never figured on using that word to describe you. Little? Ha.”
I pulled my arm from his grasp but followed him away from the café. Cecil had on his usual bib overalls. Since it was Sunday, he'd traded his blue chambray workshirt for a festive plaid. He was big and beefy. His work boots were caked with mud, his hands massive, the backs covered with brown liver spots.
“What did you want to talk about?” I asked.
“What are you doing here? Every time I turn around, I see you. What's your business?”
Whatever it is, it's none of .yours, I wanted to say. Instead, I shrugged. “I miss the old hometown. It's a pretty day for a drive.” I stared him in the eye. “Take your pick.”
“Bah!” he spluttered. “You didn't come here for the weather. You're a snoop. A troublemaker. We've already got Sid. We sure as hell don't need you.”
“Did Sid question you? Are you a suspect? Did that nasty temper of yours get out of hand?”
“Why youâ”
“See?” I grinned knowingly. “Possible. It's surely possible. You don't like the Millers. You don't like me.” I opened my eyes wide. “Should I be scared of you, Cecil? Will you use that nasty old temper on me?”
His face darkened to a dull red. “Your mother would be ashamed of you,” he muttered. Shaking his head, he walked to his truck parked down by the feed store.
He was right. Mom would be ashamed. She hadn't liked Cecil, but she'd always treated him courteously. She'd said Edna had a hard enough life without any of us aggravating Cecil. I'd done more than aggravated the man. I'd taunted him about being a suspect in a murder investigation.
Carl's voice chided me. “If you move too quickly, Bretta, you'll alienate all your resources. Besides, Babe, you're ticking people off.”
I looked down the street and saw Cecil sitting in his
truck glaring at me. I hurried into the café, hungry for human companionship and thirsty for a tall, icy glass of lemonade. I had my choice of seats at the counter. I took one by the door. At a back table, two waitresses were puffing away on cigarettes.
truck glaring at me. I hurried into the café, hungry for human companionship and thirsty for a tall, icy glass of lemonade. I had my choice of seats at the counter. I took one by the door. At a back table, two waitresses were puffing away on cigarettes.
“Be right there, sugar,” called the blonde.
Her hair was swept up in a tall do and sprayed rigidly into place. A pair of miniature dice dangled from her earlobes. She hopped up, then bent over to smash out her cigarette. I saw a tiny butt and spindly legs encased in lemon yellow spandex. She didn't wear an apron but had tucked her order book in the pocket of her floral-printed blouse. “What'll it be, cookie?” she asked, moving behind the counter.
“Do you still make fresh-squeezed lemonade?” I asked, then couldn't resist. “Bubbles?”
Her head jerked up. Her eyes widened as she studied my face and recognition dawned. “Bretta? Is that you?”
I nodded. She and I had gone to high school together. Her real name was Melvinna Hixson, but we'd nicknamed her Bubbles because she seemed to float aimlessly through school.
“'Course we do. Why, honey, you look like a million bucks.” She took a lemon from a basket and rolled it across the cutting board. Her fingers went about their task, while her eyes took in my hot pink shirt, the diamond studs in my ears, and the ring Carl had given me when we'd gotten engaged. She added water, sugar, and ice to the lemon juice and set the glass on a napkin in front of me with a flourish.
I wasn't surprised when she came around the counter and plopped down on the stool next to mine. She gave me a broad wink and said, “I heard you were around.”
I took a sip and sighed blissfully as the tart drink slid down my parched throat. “Let me guess. Cecil?”
“Old fart. Don't have a good word to say about nothing or no one.”
“Some things never change,” I remarked.
“You have. Girl, you look great. Ten years younger. You make me feel like a grandma.” She laughed. “Which I am.”
“Really?”
“Five times. 'Course, I take care of myself, exercise, watch my calories.” She gave me a long look. “But I don't have to tell you about that.” She pointed to my ring. “I see you got married.”
“I'm a widow. Carl died a little over a year ago. What about you?”
Bubbles flashed her ring finger under my nose. I caught a glimpse of a tiny diamond. “I'm engaged. I've been married three times,” she said cheerfully, “but the fourth time is the charm for me. I'm making this one last.”
She looked around with a fond smile. “I'll miss this old dump. I always come back here when my marriage ends.”
“You're leaving Woodgrove?”
Bubbles crossed her fingers. “Real soon, I hope.”
We'd covered the pleasantries; now it was time for
some information. Remembering Carl's advice, I tried for subtlety. “You'll miss all the excitement. What with the murder and all.”
some information. Remembering Carl's advice, I tried for subtlety. “You'll miss all the excitement. What with the murder and all.”
“Don't concern me. Amish aren't big on coming in here.” She leaned close and whispered, “They don't tip worth a damn.”
I turned my head away from her stale, smoky breath. “This place used to be gossip central. Has it changed?”
“Nah, we still get the same old coffee drinkers. Whoever said women are the talkers should spend a morning in this joint. These old guys can debate everything from politics to abortion, and to hear them talk, they're the authority on it all.”
“What're they saying about the murder?”
She toyed with a stiff curl. “You'd think conversations would be buzzing, but I haven't heard much of anything.”
“Strange.”
“You bet. This town has an opinion on everything. Most of the people around here tolerate the Amish, but they don't become friends. Everyone knows someone, even does business with them, buying eggs or vegetables in season. Here at the café, George has a standing order for pies, bread, and rolls. They're brought to the back door four times a week.”
“I can't believe no one has speculated on who'd kill an Amish man.” I picked an ice chip from my glass and popped it into my mouth, the picture of innocence. “What do you think?”
“He must have done something. You don't go through this old life without stepping on someone's toes. He must have pissed someone off.”
“Don't you wonder what happened?”
“Not really,” she admitted, unconcerned. She smoothed her shirt front. “I've got me a wedding to plan. I figure white is out of the question, so I found me a beige dress. You know, symbolic like. A soiled virgin.” She hooted. “That's me, cupcake. Soiled, but I enjoyed each and every minute.”
I sipped my lemonade and nodded at her tacky but innocent rambling. Bubbles she'd been, and Bubbles, I saw, had never changed. She was still drifting along. As I drained the last of my drink, I wished her success with this marriage and handed her a ten-dollar bill. She started over to make change, but I told her to keep it as a wedding present.
“It was great seeing you,” I said. “If you need a bride's bouquet for your wedding, give me a call. I have a flower shop in River City.”
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