Roots of Murder

by Janis Harrison

  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.

  Chapter Three

  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 passage
s 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.

  After acknowledging Rosalie and Cleome with a brief nod, he ignored me and turned to Hodges. “We thank you for your visit, but we look after our own. Isaac’s Rosalie will not want for anything.”

  In his Amish dialect he spoke softly to Cleome and Rosalie. They each nodded once and, without a word, walked to the house.

  Hodges called, “Hey! Wait. We’re not done yet. I want to know …” Their answer was to pick up their pace. By the time they got to the house, they were almost running.

  Hodges spun on the old man. “Why’d you do that? What right do you have poking your nose in this private conversation?”

  I didn’t know this Amish man either, and at this point, I was interested, too.

  He drew himself up to his full height. “I am Eli Detweiler, bishop of this district.”

  “Bishop?” scoffed Hodges. “That don’t cut no butter with me. All my dealings were with Isaac. You never had any say before, and by damn, I don’t see where you get off horning in now.”

  “As bishop, it’s my job to look after everyone. Our lives are simple. We want for nothing. Isaac’s flowers will die with him.”

  Once again, I couldn’t stay quiet. “Die?” I said. “What do you mean, they’ll die?” I thought perhaps he was speaking metaphorically. Apparently, this wasn’t the case.

  Detweiler looked at me, then he looked at Hodges. I didn’t want the bishop to assume Hodges and I were together, so I quickly introduced myself.

  “A florist?” he said. “I see. Then I’m sure you won’t understand. Our children are a gift from God. This is the way we are to view flowers. They bring joy, peace, and reverence to our lives.” His voice deepened. “But we do not profit by them. God has given us this bountiful land to raise grain to nourish our bodies, not grow flowers for sale.”

  Compared to this man, Hodges was a pesky gnat. “What will become of Isaac’s hard work?” I asked, though I had a pretty good idea.

  “The land will be returned to God.”

  Waste not … want not. Was that in the Bible? I was out of my depth here. Still, I couldn’t let it go. “Isn’t it wrong to just throw away all of Isaac’s work?”

  “We don’t look to you for approval. The Lord sanctions our deeds, and misusing the soil is a sin.”

  I knew that as bishop, Detweiler didn’t rule alone. “Was this the council’s decision?”

  He seemed surprised at my knowledge of their community. He pursed his lips and nodded once.

  “When did you last have a conversation with Isaac?”

  Detweiler’s disapproval of me was growing. “That’s not important.”

  When I visit with Evan, I try to curb my tongue because I value his friendship and I don’t want to overstep any boundaries. With Detweiler, that wasn’t the case. I felt uneasy about him. “Did you see Isaac the evening he died?”

  Had we been alone, I’m not sure how Detweiler might have answered or if he’d have answered me at all. Hodges had been fidgeting like an impatient child waiting for his turn to speak. He picked that moment to butt in.

  “Look,” he grumbled, “I want to know if I’m out of a job.”

  “Yes,” said Detweiler without hesitation.

  “That decision hasn’t been made,” countered Evan as he came across the yard.

  It would have taken a chain saw to cut all the tension in the air. Evan kept his eyes on the bishop bu
t directed his words to Hodges.

  “Leray, I’ll have Isaac’s crop ready for you to pick up at the usual time.”

  Detweiler had watched Evan’s approach without comment. Not once did he contradict Evan’s words. They faced each other, their faces immobile. Wordlessly, Detweiler turned. He detoured around Isaac’s flower field, acknowledged the deputy with a brisk nod, and walked across the mowed pasture.

  “Where’s he going?” I asked Evan.

  “He’s taking a shortcut to his house over on the gravel road.”

  Hodges tipped back his cap and said, “That old codger is one mean son of a …” His words trailed off. He jerked his head in the direction Detweiler had taken. “You gonna let Isaac’s posies die?”

  I was sure Hodges didn’t give a rat’s ass about the flowers. All he was worried about was losing out on what he considered a profitable venture.

  Evan sighed wearily. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, if you ask me,” began Hodges.

  “He didn’t.” I’d had all I could stomach of this odious man. “He said he’d have the flowers ready for you. You got what you came for.”

  “Not really,” said Hodges. “Like I was telling Isaac’s widow, I think we should—”

  “Now isn’t the time,” said Evan firmly. “The subject is closed.”

  Hodges wanted to argue, but Evan looked formidable. With a quirky salute, Hodges lumbered to the van. Once he had the engine going, he backed out, leaving a cloud of dust behind and a bad taste in my mouth.

  “I don’t trust that man,” I said. I softened my tone as I added, “I’m not sure about Bishop Detweiler, either.” When Evan didn’t volunteer a comment, I asked, “Is he new to your community?”

  Evan hesitated. For the first time, I got the feeling he might be sorry he’d called me. It was one thing for me to question my own people. It was another for me to question his.

  Finally he answered, “Last fall, Eli was chosen to lead our community when Bishop Seth Fisher was called home to God. Seth’s views were more liberal, and he accepted Isaac’s plan to grow flowers.” Evan rubbed a hand wearily across his face. “Bretta, our people don’t make hasty decisions. Once a bishop is chosen, he’s bishop for life, and his beliefs are carried from one district to another.”