Roots of Murder

by Janis Harrison

  I doubted it. My marriage to Carl had taught me many things about police work. One was the fact that officers of the law doggedly follow the same procedure. Question the suspects. Look for inconsistencies. Check alibis. Nine times out of ten, the motive for murder is anger, jealousy, or greed. Sid might look for greed, but only in an obvious way. I couldn’t picture him in the greenhouse plucking off flower heads and wondering at the bud formation on a bunch of chrysanthemums.

  Through the windshield, I gazed up at the sky. Softly, I said, “I need a sign that I’m on the right track. Could you … uh … help me out here?” Afraid that I might be taken literally, I added, “No bolt of lightning. Just something I’ll recognize.”

  I waited. Nothing happened. I sighed. What had I expected? It was Sunday. His day off.

  Chapter Eleven

  Human activity around the Kramer homestead was nonexistent, but the animals were going strong. A dozen chickens scratched under shade trees. Ducks and geese heralded my arrival with frantic honking. The billy goat that had journeyed to Cleome’s garden was tethered to a fence post. His bucket was on its side. A dark pattern of moisture had spread across the dry, barren ground.

  I stood next to my car and stared. My jaw should have hung in disbelief, but I kept it clenched. The smell of livestock was overpowering. The flies were so thick, I worried that something might pop uninvited into my mouth if it was open.

  The house had never been much, but time and little upkeep had taken it farther down the path to ruination. The front door was boarded over, its porch minus most of its floor. Windows were askew. The foundation was crumbling away, bringing the structure to its knees.

  Years ago, the place had been considered an eyesore. Today, that would have been a compliment. Evidence of Sam’s get-rich-quick schemes was scattered around the yard. Cars, rusted and abandoned in tall weeds, had been disemboweled, the parts sold for a quick buck or two. Aluminum cans, tossed haphazardly in and around four fifty-gallon barrels, waited to be taken to a recycling center. Lawn mowers and garden tillers sprawled like wounded soldiers on a battlefield, their crankcases bleeding oil, their usefulness a dim memory.

  Among the trees was a row of empty, dilapidated rabbit hutches. The whole town knew that Sam had bought a herd of rabbits, planning to breed them and sell the offspring for slaughter. Sam had seen dollar signs every time he’d put a doe in with Elmo, a fine, lop-eared old buck. Elmo had serviced his herd with energy; he’d humped away with glee. But he didn’t produce any babies. The rabbit was sterile, as well as a carrier of a disease akin to gonorrhea in humans. By the time Sam figured out something was wrong, his entire herd had been infected. The community had gotten a big laugh at Sam’s expense. All agreed that only Sam would invest in a rabbit that had a venereal disease.

  I approached the back door cautiously, sidestepping alternate piles of manure, hunks of iron, and scraps of lumber. I didn’t have to knock. The door opened as soon as my feet touched the creaky porch steps.

  The only time I’d seen Sam in anything but overalls and the dingy long underwear he wore winter and summer was at my mother’s funeral. He’d arrived in a black suit that had smelled of mothballs and been covered with a powdering of green mold.

  “Hello, Sam,” I said.

  A feisty seventy-five, Sam was tall and thin. He had a head of hair a younger man would have envied, though time had changed it from black to gray. His teeth were false and too big for his mouth. He worked around them until they were in place.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Bretta Solomon.” I helped him make the connection. “Lillie McGinness’s daughter.”

  “Lillie?” He spoke my mother’s name softly, almost devoutly. “Miss that woman,” he declared. He reached into his pocket and brought out a pair of Kmart’s finest black-rimmed glasses. He pushed them over his ears and studied me, cocking his head first one way and then another.

  “Don’t look like Bretta to me,” he declared.

  “I’ve lost weight. How are you?”

  “Can’t complain,” he muttered, eyeing me as if I were a bug stuck on a pin. He pronounced judgment. “Liked you better the other way. A woman needs meat on her bones. Gotta have a place to grab hold.” He heehawed with such vigor that his upper teeth flipped out. Quick as a lick, he caught them and wallowed them around until they were situated.

  “Want to come in?” he asked. “I just fixed up a kettle of turnip greens and ham bones.” He sniffed the air. “Oh, boy,” he said, smacking his lips. Instinctively, I ducked, just in case his teeth decided to make another exit. “Don’t it smell good? Makes my old stomach rumble.”

  It made my stomach revolt. Eat with Sam? Talk about diet control. I quickly said, “I have to get back to River City.” I mumbled something about an appointment. “I stopped to ask about your neighbor, Isaac Miller.”

  “What about him? He’s dead unless them Amish have a way of resurrecting him.” He tee-heed. I waited. “That Isaac was an odd one. Lived in a fine house on some of the best land around, and what does he grow? Flowers.”

  Sam shook his head disdainfully. “It beats the hell out of me how he came up with the idea. Must have been a good one. Heard tell he was sitting on a gold mine.”

  “Did Isaac tell you that?”

  Sam lowered his voice and looked around suspiciously. I wondered if he was afraid a chicken might overhear. “Me and Isaac weren’t exactly on friendly terms. He didn’t like old Saul”—he nodded at the wayward goat—“munching on his flowers.”

  “Did you have words?” I asked sympathetically.

  Sam grunted. “More times than you can count. I told him someone was letting Saul out of his pen. The man didn’t believe me. I don’t blame old Saul for running off to them Amish. They keep their soil fertile and loose.” He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Kind of like their women.”

  I jerked back as he bellowed, but this time Sam covered his mouth with a grimy hand. I swallowed uneasily. The combination of Sam’s cooking, the piles of manure, and plain old filth was pushing bile up my throat.

  “Why would someone let Saul out?” I asked.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Did you ever see anyone? Hear anything?”

  “Nope. I camped out a time or two. But nothing happened.”

  “Was it in the daytime or at night?

  “Both. No rhyme or reason to it. ’Cept it caused me trouble with the Millers.”

  “Did you see Isaac the night he was killed?”

  “See him?” Sam repeated. A light dawned in his nearsighted eyes. He adjusted his glasses. “You’ve lost more than fat if you’d ask me such a question: I know my place, and it’s here. Seems to me you have a place, too.”

  It was a dismissal. I was only too glad to comply. At the end of the driveway, I weighed my options. I could drive back to River City, close myself up in the flower shop, and tackle the paperwork. Or I could keep driving, asking questions. The day was nice, the paperwork boring. I wasn’t sure if I was making any headway, but it was more exciting than adding and subtracting columns of numbers. I decided to take the gravel road that circled behind Evan’s place, then head for home.

  It had been years since I’d traveled this route. I approached the house where the widow Arnette used to live. She’d passed away. I wondered who’d taken over the property, then knew they were Amish once I got closer to the house. The windows were curtainless, and several pieces of horse-drawn farm equipment sat in a neat row outside the barn.

  Detweiler was the name on the mailbox. I pulled to the side of the road and stared at the house. A dog tied to a tree set up a howl, but I assumed no one else was home. I was proved wrong when I heard the back door slam. An Amish woman came into view. She had a pan in her hand and was headed for the dog. She turned to see what was bothering him, and I got out of my car and walked toward her.

  I assumed this was Mrs. Detweiler. She was a thin wisp of a woman. When I was within talking distance, I saw her face was flushed,
her eyes watery. She dabbed at her nose with a white handkerchief.

  “I didn’t hear you drive up,” she said nasally. She hushed the dog with a sharp command. He fell quiet, but his eyes rested eagerly on the pan.

  “I stopped when I saw the name on the mailbox. Are you the bishop’s wife?” At her nod, I said, “I’m Bretta Solomon, a friend of the Millers.”

  I didn’t expect her to know who I was, but the timid smile on her lips dissolved when she heard my name. She stammered, “I … I … What do you want?”

  I’d never thought of myself as a threat, but this old woman clearly saw me as one. She shrank away from me as I tried to make myself seem harmless, neighborly. She sneezed, and I asked, “Are you ill?”

  “Horseweed is in full bloom.”

  She kept eyeing me. It was uncomfortable to be found intimidating. What had she heard? Who had told her to be wary of me? I was sure it was her husband. She sidled a step further away when I said, “I met the bishop at Rosalie Miller’s. Apparently, he and Isaac were having trouble.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “Not trouble.”

  “They didn’t agree about the flowers. How do you feel about them?”

  “Why I … I … Eli knows best.”

  Nothing more than I would have expected from a faithful Amish wife. I looked across the road in the direction of Evan’s farm and Isaac’s field. The flowers weren’t visible, but I could see Evan’s barn roof.

  I turned a smile on Mrs. Detweiler. “What a convenience for you. By crossing that fence you can visit Cleome without getting out on the road.”

  “I don’t go much, especially this time of year. The pollen bothers me.”

  “But your husband uses that shortcut, doesn’t he?”

  Avoiding my question, she set the pan on the ground. The dog lapped at the food hungrily. With both hands free, Mrs. Detweiler fretted nervously with the handkerchief. She looked past me and kneaded the fabric frantically.

  In the back of my mind I must have heard the steady clip-clop of a horse’s hooves. I’d been preoccupied with framing my questions, so the sound hadn’t registered. But when I turned, Detweiler was there in his buggy in the driveway.

  He didn’t raise his voice, but his words came easily to my ears. “You will leave my wife alone. You will get off my property. It is written by our Lord, Second Thessalonians, chapter three, verse eleven: ‘For we hear that there are some which walk among you disorderly, working not at all, but are busybodies.’”

  I refused to show this man any emotion. I nodded politely to Mrs. Detweiler, then moved without hurrying to my car. I climbed in, took time to fasten my seat belt before switching on the engine. With my shoulders squared, I drove away.

  Chapter Twelve

  I cruised up a hill and down the other side before my embarrassment gave way to anger. Eli Detweiler was an intimidating man. He might wield power in the Amish community, but he didn’t have anything over me. I should have demanded answers. I should have bullied him as he’d tried to bully me. But that might have caused trouble for Evan. I didn’t want that. Evan had enough to deal with.

  I eased off the accelerator as I entered a tunnel of trees. The shifting leaves created a mosaic pattern of light and dark on the graveled road. With the sun blocked, the temperature dropped ten degrees. My tires picked up rocks and flung them against the undercarriage of the car. The sound grated on my throbbing head. My stomach let me know it had been too long since my last meal.

  I steered through a tight S-curve, then rattled over a bridge spanning the creek that flowed onto Evan’s property. I thought about my promise to Katie, that soon, we’d take a walk. Then I worried that the wrong person might discover she’d seen someone in the field with Isaac the evening he was killed. I wondered if I should warn Evan not to tell anyone, but I didn’t want to burden him with yet another worry.

  Isaac’s flowers were on my right. On the other side of the road were acres and acres of row crops—Cecil Bellows’s pride and joy. He lavished time and money on his land the way some people indulge their children.

  Cecil farmed a total of seven hundred acres, of which two hundred was pasture. Evan’s entire farm was eighty-five acres. Cecil’s horsepower belched diesel fumes. Evan did his work with a team of horses.

  The Bellows’ house sat back from the road and was like everything Cecil owned—big and showy. I slowed when I saw his truck was gone. Edna was in her vegetable garden. When she heard my car, she straightened to shade her eyes with a dirt-crusted hand.

  I pulled into the drive and called out the window, “Hi, Edna. You’re really giving them old weeds hell.”

  She came toward me with a smile of welcome. Though she was slight in stature, her delicate appearance was deceiving. I’d seen her hop on a tractor while her brawny husband manned another, and they would disk a field together. Today, she had on a broad-brimmed hat, saucy green scarf circling the crown and tied in a bow under her chin.

  Her gaze was frank and friendly. “Bretta, I saw you yesterday at Evan’s. I wanted to visit, but you know Cecil.” She touched me on the arm. “You look wonderful, dear. Your mother would be so proud, and a few days ago I was by your flower shop. The windows are lovely. Such artistic talent.”

  “Thanks,” I murmured. “Is Cecil here?”

  “Gone to town. The coast is clear. Want to come to the house for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie?” She gave me a teasing look. “Or do you still eat coconut cream?”

  A wave of pure longing swept over me. Edna’s pies were to die for. But so was being caught in her kitchen if Cecil came back before I’d left. I smothered the urge to go in with her. I told her I was on my way home.

  She didn’t try to hide her disappointment. “I get lonesome. I miss your mother, Bretta. She understood so much.”

  I knew what she meant—Cecil. Everyone in the entire town cringed when they saw him coming. It didn’t allow Edna much of a social life when everyone shied away from her husband.

  I was tempted to reconsider, and not just for the piece of pie. I liked Edna. I knew she’d enjoy the company; but I also remembered the way I’d baited Cecil.

  “Maybe another time. Right now, I stopped to ask you about Isaac’s death.”

  She stammered in surprise, “Uh, me? What … uh … could I know?”

  “Did you hear anything unusual the night he was killed?”

  Edna frowned. “I worked in the garden until dark. I like to pick my green beans late in the evening, break them while I watch television, then can them the next morning.”

  “Mom did, too,” I said. “While you were out here, did you see a car or a truck go by?” As an afterthought, I added, “Or a van?”

  “Probably. Someone is always churning up dust.” She motioned to the lime-covered grass and weeds. “I’ll be glad when it rains.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Who was what?” She looked confused, then that cleared and she answered, “Gosh, I don’t remember who went by.”

  I motioned toward the trees across the road. “Did you hear any voices coming from Isaac’s field?”

  “Sounds do carry at night. If the wind is right, I can hear Cleome call her family to supper.”

  “What about the night Isaac was murdered? Did you hear anything?”

  She peered in the car window at me. “Sid asked me the same questions, Bretta. Why are you repeating them?”

  I didn’t need to search my brain for an explanation. The words were there on my tongue, and I knew they were the truth. “I was married to Carl for twenty-four years. In his work, questions are asked all the time. I guess I’ve taken on the habit.”

  Edna nodded. “Yeah. I know what you mean. Forty-seven years of being married to Cecil has changed me, too. I catch myself screaming at the cows when they misbehave. I used to talk real gentle to them.” She sighed. “I’ll tell you, like I did Sid. I heard loud voices, but I didn’t pay them much attention. I do remember thinking it was odd to hear anger coming from the Mil
lers’.”

  “Can you tell me what was said?”

  “Oh, no. All I heard was a raised voice a couple of times.”

  I persisted. “Anything, Edna. A word, even?”

  “‘Stop’ was used a couple of times,” she replied softly. Closing her eyes, she concentrated. “I heard someone say ‘stunning.’” She opened her eyes. “You know, like Isaac’s flowers were stunning.”

  “Was it a man or a woman’s voice?”

  “I assumed it was a man. I really thought it was Evan, that he and Isaac were having a disagreement.”

  “Evan?” I gulped. “Are you sure?”

  “No. I’m not. I’m not sure at all. I just thought it was Evan because I don’t know who else Isaac might’ve had words with.”

  “So you didn’t actually hear Evan’s voice? You just thought it might be him?”

  “That’s right. Who else could it have been?”

  “Whoever killed Isaac.”

  She jerked back in surprise. “Bretta, you’re not looking for the murderer!”

  We both heard tires leave the blacktop road and hit the gravel. “Edna,” I asked quickly, “does Cecil still go to his Moose meetings on Thursday nights?”

  She made a face. “Come hell or high water.”

  I glanced at the road. The vehicle was getting closer. I could see dust fogging the air. “Was he late getting home that night?”

  “No, same time. About ten.”

  I saw a flash of red through the trees. “Did Cecil ever argue with Isaac?”

  Her face closed like a hibiscus bloom at dusk. She turned her eyes toward the red truck that streaked into the drive. In a dull voice, she said, “I see what you’re getting at, Bretta. You’d better go. Cecil is a cantankerous man, but he isn’t a killer.”

  For his seventy-odd years, Cecil could move fast. He was out of his truck and striding toward my car before I had the engine started. I put the lever in reverse and pushed the pedal to the floor. My tires spun. Gravel flew. I skidded toward the ditch. I eased up on the gas and wrestled the car under control. Cecil didn’t follow me to the road, but my window was down. I flinched at his words.