Roots of Murder

by Janis Harrison

  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.

  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 you—”

  “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.

  “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.”

  “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 sm
oothed 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.”

  She was in the process of tucking the extra money into her bra. Her hand froze over her breast, and she gave me a wide-eyed stare. “Say, I bet that’s why you’re here in town. The Amish man’s flowers.” She shook her head. “Too bad, honey. My Leray says he has that deal in the bag.”

  I touched my bottom lip with the tip of my tongue, then worked at keeping my voice normal. “Leray?”

  “Yeah, Leray Hodges. Why, cupcake, didn’t I tell you about my honey? He’s just a big old sweetie pie.”

  I shook my head slowly. With all this talk of honey, cupcakes, and sweetie pie, I was going to need an insulin shot to combat the sugar rush. “Does he live around here?”

  “Sure does. Lives at the edge of town for now. Later we plan on moving, just as soon as he makes that killing—”

  Her voice trailed off. “Lord almighty. Bad choice of words, what with that murder an’ all.” She giggled. “If my sugar bear can get the widow to agree, we’ll be living on easy street but in another town. All the roads in Woodgrove have potholes and dead ends.”

  Chapter Nine

  I came out of the café to find Leray’s green van parked at the curb. I wasn’t pleased to see him leaning against the rear of my car. He had one arm across his belly, the other elbow propped on it. He was picking his nose with his little finger.

  “A real sugar bear,” I muttered as I walked toward him. He’d traded his patched jeans for a pair of ill-fitted dress pants. The pleats in front were puffed out like the guy was glad to see me. He immediately let me know that wasn’t the case.

  He rubbed his little finger down the side of his leg, then nodded toward the café. “What were you doing in there?”

  “It’s lunchtime,” I said.

  “Other places to eat. Try River City. I hear they have restaurants.”

  “And I hear congratulations are in order. You’re a busy man. Engaged to Bubbles. Engaged in all kinds of deals. Does Moth know you’re working at cutting him out of Isaac’s flowers?”

  “Heard you’d been to see him. I ain’t the only one who’s been busy.”

  I shrugged. “My day off. I get around. See people. Talk.”

  Leray’s eyes narrowed. “Cute. You think you’re damned cute playing detective. Won’t get you nothing but trouble.”

  “From you?” I asked.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “You’re the one who’s going to be in trouble if you’re working both ends toward the middle. I’d hate to have Moth and Allison on my back.”

  “Whaddayou mean?”

  I leaned against the door of my car. “Allison asked me to go in with her and the other florists. The plan is to offer the Miller family money for Isaac’s flowers. But Moth says he had an agreement with Isaac. He seems confident that he has the rights to everything Isaac grew. Where does that leave you and the florists?”

  Leray snorted. “Moth don’t have squat. As for that Thorpe woman, she’s more into organizing and running over people than she is the facts.”

  “What facts?”

  “That without me, none of them have diddly. I’m the one Isaac trusted. I’m the one the family will listen to.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Didn’t look to me like they were ready to jump at the deal you were offering.”

  “They’ll understand,” he replied with a sly smile, “once they see the whole picture.”

  “What is the whole picture?”

  “Just you never mind. Isaac and me had some long talks. He was coming around to my way of thinking until last week.” Leray scowled. “Them Amish are damned funny. Dealing with them is like walking through a field of cotton candy in a rainstorm. One minute, you’re walking on clouds. The next, you’re up to your ass in goo.”

  “What happened?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Leray pushed off from my car. “Gotta go pick up my woman.” His round face split with a grin. “She’s a fine thing. Fine thing. Got our evening all planned out. A little mood music, a grilled steak, a mess of parsnips, crusty French bread, a glass of wine, and who knows what’ll happen?”

  Parsnips? The king of romance.

  I tuned him out. His blathering was bringing my headache back. Damn, my brain was acting strange. Cotton candy. I could see great mounds of it floating before my eyes. A conversation with Leray was like eating some of the stuff. On the surface it looks filling, but take a bite and it’s only fluff.

  He was talking about the parsnips, telling how his mother used to cook them. I interrupted him to say, “Flowers die without attention. Who’s taking care of Isaac’s?”

  Leray stared at me. I didn’t like the look in his eyes. I reached behind me and opened the door. “It isn’t a secret,” I lied. “I see your plans slipping away. Too many people are involved. You aren’t alone in this. Not anymore.”

  He took a step toward me. I jumped in the car and locked the door.

  “Listen to me,” he shouted. “Evan said he’d hear me out after Isaac’s funeral. I have first say. Hear that? I have first say about Isaac’s plants.”

  As I left, Leray was glaring maliciously after me. I pressed icy fingers to my hot cheeks, trying to calm down. He was a man desperate to protect his interests. Exactly what they were, I hadn’t a clue.

  I left Woodgrove with my mind in a jumble and a lump on my head. Several questions had been answered, but another set had cropped up. I decided to drive by Evan’s and see how many buggies were in the yard. I needed to talk to him. I wanted to make sure Sid hadn’t done anything rash, like arresting Evan for Isaac’s murder.

  I’d seen the gleam in Sid’s eyes. I’d heard the determination in his voice. Evan had messed in a murder investigation—Sid’s investigation. Sid is smart. Evan is naive. Sid might feed Evan too much rope, hoping the Amish man would hang himself. Evan, trying to cooperate, might unintentionally slip the noose over his head.

  With a death in the family, I wasn’t sure if Evan would attend church. I knew the services were held at a different Amish home each Sunday. A special wagon carried the wooden benches from house to house as the service moved around the district.

  I slowed down as I approached Evan’s home. It looked deserted, the doors shut. The buggy was gone from the shed. I coasted by Isaac’s house and was surprised to see Evan sitting alone on the front porch. I applied the brakes, backed up, and pulled in.

  Evan came slowly to his feet. He moved across the grass like an old man. His skin was sallow, his eyes haunted.

  I got out of the car and stood quietly, waiting for Evan to look at me. When he did, I asked, “Can we talk?”

  “Everyone’s gone to church. I stayed with Rosalie and … Isaac.” He drew a deep breath in through his nose but let it out through his mouth in a weary gust. “I have to stay close,” he explained bitterly. “The sheriff told me not to go anywhere.”

  For the first time that day, I smiled with genuine amusement. “Evan, Sid didn’t mean you couldn’t move out of the yard. He just doesn’t want you to hop on a plane and fly away.”

  Evan ducked his head. “Yeah, but I figure I’d better toe his line.”

  We walked to the porch and sat on the steps. “I guess Sid’s been talking to you,” I said.

  Evan’s cheeks flushed above his beard. “Yesterday he took m
e into River City to his office. They didn’t bring me home until after dark.”

  The man was embarrassed. I was moved to touch him on the sleeve. “Sid has a job to do. He has to ask questions. I imagine he thought he’d get straight answers if he took you away from these familiar surroundings.”

  Evan hung his head. “It was mortifying to be carted off.” He glanced at me. “I didn’t do anything wrong, Bretta. When I found Isaac in the field, I thought he’d slipped off the wagon and hit his head. There was a cut. Not much blood. It was only when I picked him up that I knew his neck was broken.”

  He rubbed his work-roughened hands together. “Years ago, we had a colt that was as wild as a March wind. I was trying to herd him into the barn, but he went crazy and ran into a plank fence. I was fifty feet from him, but I heard the crack. He’d broken his neck.”

  The rasp of Evan’s hands rubbing back and forth sounded like sandpaper. He sighed softly. “It was the same with Isaac. When I picked him up, his head flopped just like that colt’s.”

  “That’s why you didn’t call an ambulance?”

  “I didn’t see what they could do. He was already cool. We take care of our own. We bathe them. We dress them. Until a few years ago, we didn’t involve a funeral home at all.”

  Evan lowered his eyes and shuddered. “I guess I didn’t know what autopsy meant until I saw what they did to him. I dressed him. Only me. Rosalie wanted to be there, but once I saw—” He gulped. “I took care of him. She won’t ever know. Ever.”

  Tears pricked my eyes. “I’m sorry, Evan. Sorry for all of this. I wish there was something I could do.”

  “There is.”

  “What?”

  Evan’s voice vibrated with emotion. “Find out who killed Isaac. Find out why all this is happening. I feel like my life is—” He held out his hands helplessly. “The sheriff thinks I’m hiding something. The only thing I haven’t told him is that Katie saw someone in the field with Isaac. I’ve talked to her, but she doesn’t know who it was. She was in our garden. Isaac’s field is up on the hill. Her eyesight is poor. She’ll get glasses after I harvest the corn.”