Roots of Murder

by Janis Harrison

I didn’t wait for Evan. I ran across the yard. At the greenhouse door, I paused to look at Isaac’s field. The flowers were gone. Plowed under. Here and there were bits of green stems, and a few ragged flower heads waved dejectedly above the freshly turned earth.

  I smelled rain in the air. The clouds were closing in on the sun. Tears filled my eyes. It was a sad, desolate picture.

  At my side Evan murmured, “I did that today. It was like burying Isaac all over again.”

  There was nothing to say. I turned to the greenhouse and went down the steps. Shock took my breath away. I stared in amazement. All the plants were dying: shriveled stems; dried-up leaves; buds limp and black.

  “What happened, Evan?” I managed to ask. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. They just started dying.”

  “But I saw them Sunday. They were fine.” I walked down the aisle. “A plant doesn’t die this quickly. It doesn’t turn black.”

  I touched a leaf with a fingertip. It fell, setting off a chain reaction. More leaves fell like shattered dreams. “I don’t get it,” I mumbled. “When did you first notice there was a problem?”

  “Yesterday, they didn’t look right. This morning they were worse.

  I sniffed a few times.

  Gruffly, Evan said, “It’s nothing to cry over, Bretta.”

  “I’m not crying. Don’t you smell that? What is it?”

  He shrugged. “Just greenhouse, I guess.”

  “No. That isn’t greenhouse.” I frowned, trying to think. “I’ve smelled it before.” I closed my eyes in concentration. A memory was just at the edge of my mind. I could almost see it, but it didn’t look right. It didn’t fit my scenario of events. I opened my eyes and found Evan staring at me. He must have thought I’d lost my mind. I asked him, “Did you fertilize the plants?”

  “No. I just watered them from the holding tank.” Evan pointed. “The tank is buried underground. We use a small pump to push the water through the hose.”

  “Where do you fill the tank?”

  “The spout is outside. The water comes from our main well.”

  “Pump me some water, Evan. I want to see it.”

  His shoulders slumped. “Aw, Bretta, that pump is old and needs fixing. Most of the time I have to carry water from the house to prime it.”

  My jaw was set. Evan sighed. “All right. But can I just dip out a bucket?”

  “I don’t care how you do it. I want to see the water that’s in the storage tank.”

  “It’ll take me a few minutes.”

  He moved a small potting bench, then slid a piece of sheet metal to one side to reveal a trap door that was two feet square. He flipped it up. I leaned over to look in, but it was too dark to see. He found a piece of rope and tied it to a bucket. Slowly, he lowered it into the hole. We heard the kerplunk as it hit bottom.

  The odor was stronger over the trap door. It made my nose tingle. “How much water does this storage tank hold?” I asked.

  “About three hundred gallons, but there’s not that much in here now. I haven’t gotten around to filling it.”

  Evan drew the bucket up and set it down. It contained only about three inches of water, but it was enough to see that it was clear.

  Something had been added to the storage tank. Something so deadly it had killed the plants in four days. I walked to the far end of the greenhouse and stared at the dying parent plant. Not a sprig of green anywhere, or I’d have hustled it off for Dan Parker to save.

  All of Isaac’s painstaking work was gone. He might not have wanted the money, but his widow and children deserved to have this plant. It had been part of Isaac’s life. Now it was dead. It had been murdered with the same calculated ruthlessness that had killed him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  On the walk back to the house, Evan told me the reason for his spontaneous invitation for me to join them for supper. Jacob, Emily, Matthew, and Mark had gone home with the relatives for a visit. Luke and John were too young to care, but Katie had wanted to go with her older siblings. I was her consolation prize. My words, not Evan’s.

  Our small group was lost at the big trestle table. The meal began with a silent prayer. I’d eaten Cleome’s cooking several times in the past. The menus weren’t designed for a calorie- or cholesterol-reduction diet. The recipes didn’t come from a “time saver” or a “quickie meal planner” article out of a magazine. This was food to sate a workingman’s appetite.

  I gazed at the banquet before me. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, and green beans cooked with bits of home-cured ham. There was a plate of biscuits, each crusty, golden sphere more than three inches tall and accompanied by a blue crock of country-churned butter. Dessert was the pies I’d seen earlier.

  I gulped. I thought I’d blown my diet eating pizza. What was I going to do now?

  As I put some food on my plate, I searched my brain. If my mouth was open talking, I couldn’t be shoveling food into it. All I needed was a subject. Something that would be of interest to my Amish listeners.

  I looked around me. Mom was gone. An entirely different kind of life was being lived within these walls, but there was the same feeling of love and family here. I smiled as I remembered Mom and me popping corn, then sharing a bowl while we laughed at the antics of Red Skelton on television.

  Amish don’t have televisions. The farm? Mom and me driving the tractor into the pond. Amish don’t use tractors. I looked at the jelly on the counter. I relaxed and talked about something everyone at the table could appreciate.

  A kerosene lamp hung from a hook in the ceiling. The glow cast shadows on the planes and hollows of the faces around me. The family’s clothes were dark and somber, but their eyes were alight with curiosity.

  “My mother was a wonderful woman, but she thought the only reason we had summer was so we could work in the garden. We pickled beets, shucked corn, shelled peas, broke beans.” I took a deep breath and added, “We stemmed strawberries, peeled peaches, crushed grapes.” I grinned. “By fall my fingers were almost stubs, but the cellar was packed with jars full of preserved fruits and vegetables.”

  “And you helped?” asked Katie, in awe of this revelation.

  I smiled at her. “I think I spent more time in the garden than I did playing at the creek.”

  “What did you play?”

  I waved away Evan’s offer of a second helping of chicken. “Well, let’s see. I’d take my dolls, Mom would fix me a snack, and I’d have a picnic. You’re lucky to have brothers and sisters to play with. When I was your age, it was just me and the birds and frogs. I’d stay as long as Mom would let me.”

  Katie gave Cleome a shy look. “But it’s never long enough.”

  Embarrassed by their rapt attention, I chuckled. “That was many, many years ago, but I’d still like to see that old tree and the creek.” I pushed my plate away and declined Cleome’s offer of a piece of pie.

  Thunder rumbled. This time it was closer.

  “It’s going to rain,” said Katie fretfully, eyeing the changing weather.

  “I like walking in the rain,” I replied.

  Cleome started to shake her head, but Evan said, “We’ll save dessert for later. Go on. A little water never hurt anyone.”

  We bowed our heads for the silent prayer that ended the meal. Once every head was up, Katie jumped from her chair and hurried to the door.

  “Maybe it won’t rain until we get back,” she said hopefully and pushed open the door to skip down the steps.

  I paused long enough to thank Cleome for the meal. Her eyes met mine. I was surprised to see a gleam of respect. Had she and I finally found common ground? I thought of Mom’s blue granite canner sitting unused on a shelf in my garage. Impulsively, I offered it to Cleome.

  For a moment, I thought she was going to smile. It was there at the corner of her mouth, but she wouldn’t let it free. “I can put it to good use” was all she said.

  I nodded to her, then glanced at Evan. He gave me a sly wink bef
ore picking up a book.

  Outside, the sky was crowded with ominous, roiling clouds. The wind had picked up, bringing a freshness of rain already fallen somewhere close by. I caught up with Katie, whose exuberance was a match for the swirling tempest overhead.

  From the house, the land sloped gently to the creek. Past the creek was the back pasture where the ground leveled out to the Millers’ property fence. Beyond that was the gravel road and the Bellows’ acreage.

  Daylight had faded, but trees were visible, their leafy branches black against the navy sky. Lightning streaked occasionally, but it wasn’t close enough to cause us concern.

  Katie had brought a flashlight, but I assured her I didn’t need it. Our destination was marked by the oak tree that stood like a friendly giant patiently watching our approach. It was much taller than its companions, its girth more than Katie and I could’ve reached around. Years had passed since I’d been this way, but the tree was as I’d remembered—the roots exposed, creating neat crevices where we could sit.

  For a time, we didn’t speak. We listened to the water ripple over the rocks in the creekbed. Off to our left, a bird chirped a warning that strangers were about.

  “I like it here,” whispered Katie. Her voice was soft and dreamy. “It’s a good place to think.”

  “When I was your age, I’d lie back and stare up at the stars. I’d wonder all sorts of things.”

  “You would?”

  “Yeah. Like what keeps an airplane in the air. Or why you can make bread one time, and it’s light and tasty, and the next it isn’t fit to feed to a dog.”

  She laughed. “Or how about, why do the stars just hang? Or what makes clouds so fluffy?”

  I pointed. “Those clouds don’t look very fluffy to me. We’d better start back. I have to drive home, yet.”

  Katie sighed. “I don’t know why it had to rain tonight.”

  Before I could reply, I heard voices from across the creek. “That sounds like Cleome.”

  Katie stirred uneasily. “Yes.”

  I strained my ears. “Is that Edna with her?”

  “Sometimes after supper they meet to visit.” She glanced at me. “We’re not supposed to tell, or Mr. Bellows will be mad.”

  I almost snorted. Mad wouldn’t begin to describe Cecil’s reaction to his wife being friends with an Amish woman.

  “Does Evan know?” I asked.

  Katie nodded. “We feel sorry for Edna. She doesn’t have many friends.”

  A word popped into my mind. Without thinking, I said it aloud. “Shunning.”

  Beside me, Katie gasped and came nimbly to her feet. My muscles didn’t react nearly as quickly, but I scrambled up. “What is it, Katie?”

  She stammered, “Why … uh … what … we don’t talk about that.”

  “It’s all right, Katie. I’m sorry, I said—”

  “What’s wrong with flowers?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bishop Detweiler said if Isaac went against the council’s decision, it would be the same as going against God. Isaac would have to be punished. But I don’t understand. All he did was grow flowers.”

  This was Evan and Cleome’s job to explain. Not mine. “Let’s go back to the house,” I suggested. “Keep the light off. We can find our way.”

  We stepped from the grove of trees through some tall fescue grass and into the mowed pasture. The rain was fast approaching. I could feel the mist on my face.

  We quickened our steps. I was ready to make a dash for cover, when I heard a vehicle on the gravel road. I stopped when it slowed down. Was it Cecil? Had he discovered Edna’s secret? I waited for his shout of anger. The car’s engine shut off. A door closed.

  “Who’s that?” asked Katie.

  “I don’t know. Let’s watch.” Afraid our silhouettes might be seen, I tugged on her arm, and we knelt on the pasture.

  It was a man. His low oath carried to us, followed by the sound of cloth tearing. We heard a dull thud, then a figure appeared. He held a flashlight, the beam bright. It pinpointed his limping progress across the open field.

  “Is that Mr. Bellows?” worried Katie.

  “No,” I said grimly. “Go to the house and get your father. Tell him to meet me at Isaac’s greenhouse.”

  “If it isn’t Mr. Bellows, who is it?”

  I had a good idea, but I wanted to catch him in the act. In her ear, I whispered, “Tell Evan to be very quiet and not to have a light on.”

  Katie trembled. I put my arm around her slim shoulders. “Do as I say. Keep your light off. Circle the pasture so he doesn’t see you.”

  “Is it who killed Isaac?”

  I gave her a hug of reassurance. “Go get your father. We’ll take care of it.”

  She hurried off. I trailed the intruder as he loped along. He hunkered close to the ground, but the light remained on. ,

  I worked my way to within sixty feet of him. I wanted to close the distance, but I was afraid he’d turn and flash the light behind him. When he topped the hill near Isaac’s field, the light went out.

  Had he changed his mind? Or had he scurried on? Taking a chance, I assumed the latter and picked up my pace. When I reached the crest, the clouds split and a deluge of rain bombarded the field. My shirt was soaked in an instant. I stopped long enough to wipe the water from my eyes. Through the plopping of raindrops, I heard the unmistakable sound of an umbrella being swooshed open.

  I clenched my teeth and muttered, “Pompous little turd.”

  We neared the greenhouse. I rubbed my chilled arms and looked longingly at Evan’s house. Was he on his way?

  The grass was slick under my feet, and my hair straggled in my eyes. A light flashed on briefly as the man got his bearings. I moved faster now that I knew exactly where he was. The greenhouse door creaked open. His shoes crunched on the gravel steps; then he was inside.

  I waited to see if Evan was nearby. But I heard only silence and the pitter-patter of rain on the glass roof. Would the intruder turn on his light? I waited. His greed won out over his fear of discovery. The light came on, and he drew a sharp breath.

  Carefully, I followed him down the steps. He had his hand over the lens to diffuse the glare. From the crook of his arm dangled the collapsed umbrella. I crept closer.

  In the glow, his face was pale. His pointed nose emphasized his weasel appearance. His actions deserved my crude assessment. He was a sneak thief. My lips curled with contempt as he played the light over the dying plants.

  “All dead,” I said quietly. “Just like Isaac.”

  J. W. Moth whirled. Like a cornered animal, he searched for a means of escape. There was none. I blocked the only exit.

  Moth was desperate. He shone the light into my face. Blinded, I instinctively put up a hand. He swung hard and his umbrella slammed into it. I groaned as pain shot up my arm. I couldn’t see, but I heard his feet crunch on the gravel as he rushed me. I put both arms up and received another vicious pounding with the damned umbrella. I reached for it but couldn’t get a hold.

  Moth caught me off balance and pushed me aside. I fell. As he leaped over me, I made a grab for his ankle. I connected, and he sprawled across me. His knee hit my chin, and for a second, I saw stars.

  I shook my head to clear my vision and saw the flashlight had fallen on the bench. It was tilted up to the roof. The light reflected on the water-spotted glass overhead, turning the drops into a treasure trove of sparkling gems.

  Moth’s curse filled the air as he tried to wiggle out of my grasp. I’d hoped he’d lost his “weapon” in the scuffle. No such luck. He countered my attack by beating my hands, my back, and my face with the umbrella.

  I let go of his ankle, and he struggled to his feet. He picked up the flashlight but aimed it away from my eyes. Holding the umbrella like a sword, he backed toward the steps.

  I came slowly to my feet and inched toward him. My aggressive action infuriated him.

  “Stay away from me,” he warned.

 
“You aren’t going anywhere,” I declared. “If you do, the sheriff will hunt you down.”

  “Hunt me down?” he whined. “I didn’t do anything. I only wanted to see the plants.”

  “Murder isn’t anything?”

  “Murder?” he squeaked. The umbrella wavered. “What are you talking about?”

  “Isaac.” The name dropped between us.

  The umbrella dipped to the ground. “What does that have to do with me?”

  “How did you know to cross the pasture to get here?”

  “I saw the road this afternoon when I left the Millers’. I followed it and decided to come back tonight to see the mutation.”

  “It wasn’t the first time you crossed that pasture,” I accused. “You did it the same night you killed Isaac.”

  Moth looked bewildered, but not so addled that he didn’t notice I’d worked my way closer. The umbrella came up. He pointed the silver tip at my throat.

  “You’re crazy,” he shouted. “I’m going back to town, and you can’t stop me.”

  “But I can,” said Evan. His voice drifted eerily from the shadows. It caught Moth off guard.

  Moth swiveled the light in Evan’s direction. The Amish man looked impressive in the illumination. Rain had plastered his workshirt to his muscular arms. Moisture dripped from his face and ran in rivulets into his black beard. When the light flashed in his eyes, Evan stood like stone, never wincing.

  “Mr.—uh—Miller,” stammered Moth, “I—uh—well …” Finding an adequate explanation beyond his capabilities, Moth did the only thing he could. He ran. He zipped by Evan and up the steps.

  “Why didn’t you grab him?” I demanded.

  Calmly, Evan stepped farther into the greenhouse. He took a packet of matches from his pocket and lit the lantern in his hand.

  I ran up the steps and peered after Moth into the gloom. “Hurry,” I called to Evan. “He’s getting away.”

  Evan adjusted the flame, then moved at a snail’s pace up to where I stood. He held the lantern above his head, and we saw Moth fleeing across the pasture in a drizzle of rain.

  “We have to stop him,” I said, and I took a couple of steps. When Evan didn’t follow, I turned and asked, “What’s wrong?”