Shallow Roots: An Iowa Girl Mystery (Iowa Girl Mysteries Book 1)

by Anomie Hatcher

  Chapter 7

  Maggie turned north on Highway 169, toward Minburn.

  She knew Joe meant well, but there was no place she could travel and nothing she could do to thwart the darkness. Nothing but work, and that had been taken away.

  Even this drive, one she used to make with much greater frequency, reminded her of Ben. She could feel the shadowy fingers, almost see the grim silhouette of death lunging for her side-view mirror, the memories were so close. She gave in to them, for once, out of a selfish desire to see Ben’s face again, to keep him fresh in her mind.

  In the most prominent memory, they were driving out to Original Farm for dinner, by invitation of Loki. She and Ben had been dating for a few months. On the way out, Ben had grilled her with questions about her friends, The Originals.

  “So, how do you know these people?” he had asked.

  “Between college semesters, I lived with them as a boarder. I worked during the day, picking crops, weeding, composting, that sort of thing.”

  “And you slept there?” He was teasing her. The night before, she had stayed at Ben’s apartment for the first time, though they hadn’t gotten much sleep.

  “Slept well every night. I’m a hard worker you know.”

  “Yes, I do know.” He leaned over to press his lips to her ear. “A hard worker.”

  “Hey! Not a good idea to distract the driver like that!” The car swerved slightly. “I’ll have to pull over.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “No, naughty boy. I said we’d be there by six.”

  “And they’re farmers. Very punctual people, I’ll bet.”

  “Stop!” Maggie laughed. “They’re hippie gardeners, more like.”

  Ben sat back in his seat, put a hand on her leg. “What are their names again? Thor, God of Thunder? Loki, God of Mischief?”

  Maggie laughed again. “Close. Tor, not Thor. It’s his family’s house, belonged to his dad, who was a more, shall we say, traditional farmer. When his dad died, Tor sold some of the land and kept the rest for a small farm. The Originals moved out to the farmhouse where they started growing organic vegetables.”

  “The Originals, huh? Do they secretly fight crime on the weekends? Hey! Look out for Original Olive, or she’ll blast you with her awesome power of uniqueness.”

  Maggie laughed and gave Ben’s hand a little slap.

  “No Olives, sorry. Their names are all nicknames, though. They used to be roomies and came up with the idea to do something original, to take a different path than other young people, something else besides the typical college then job, marriage then kids, you know? They wanted to make a difference, establish a new sort of community. The Originals wanted to live sustainably by growing organic food for themselves and selling it at an affordable price, putting any profit back into the farm. They wanted to live well in the sense of doing right by the earth. They also wanted to create a new kind of family unit, one of intention rather than coincidence of birth. I think that’s why they don’t use their given names. It’s all about choosing one’s path, making conscious decisions. At least that’s how Loki tells it.”

  “Loki—the hairy monkey man you had a thing with.”

  “That’s the one. Only, we didn’t have a thing. Just—friends with benefits.”

  Ben frowned. “And why are we going to his house, again?”

  Maggie tried hard not to smile. She turned the car onto a dirt road and pulled over, parked and looked at Ben.

  “You’re the only one for me, Ben Eliot. Loki and I are friends. That’s all.”

  Ben reached for her. They ended up being late to dinner after all.

  Maggie shook off the memory, noticing that she’d slowed her driving. Thankfully there wasn’t much traffic on the highway. She’d nearly missed the county road that led to Original Farm. She made the turn, an aching heaviness pressing in from all sides.

  Focus on something else.

  She forced herself to look at the trees, some still decorated in tangerine and crimson, but most like black skeletons on the edges of toothy grey cornfields.

  No good.

  She looked down at the road itself, covered with gravel and dead leaves. As she approached the farm, she noticed several wooly bears making their way across, resembling a parade of escaped moustaches. She slowed the Beetle to a crawl, to avoid squishing the caterpillars. They wiggled on, oblivious to their good fortune. A red squirrel had not been so lucky. It was flat except for its tail, which waved back and forth in the wind.

  Maggie stared at the squirrel’s tail, fascinated. Unsure why something so odd would draw her attention, she fought against a recollection that scratched its way upward. It was the color—something about the color—that drew her eye.

  “Oh!” she gasped, unprepared for what came. The sandy auburn color was the same as Ben’s beard. He grew facial hair during the cold season for Maggie, because she liked the way it felt. He had just started this year’s beard when...

  Maggie stopped the car completely, seeing nothing but Ben’s stubbled cheek behind bloody glass.

  She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there when someone knocked on her window.

  “Are you lost, Hon?” a woman’s voice called, somewhat muffled by the glass between them.

  Maggie looked up to see a middle-aged woman with ash blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wore an apron over her t-shirt, sweat pants and tall rubber boots. A mixed breed dog that looked like a cross between a wolf and a collie circled around the woman’s ankles, wagging its barrel-shaped body back and forth in a happy dance.

  Maggie put the window down.

  “No. Thanks. I’m okay.”

  “You sure? You don’t look okay. Look like you seen a ghost.” The woman’s mid-section shook when she chuckled. The dog made a happy yip.

  “Hush, Mule,” the woman said, giving the mutt a nudge with her knee.

  “I just—remembered something about—” Maggie started. She looked around and noticed that she had stopped in front of what was probably the woman’s driveway.

  “Someone who died recently. My—” she faltered. “My fiancé.” Close enough.

  The woman’s violet-lidded eyes filled with tears, “I’m so sorry. You just sit here as long as you want. Only, no,” she decided. “You shouldn’t be in the road like this. Combine’ll come along and mow you down. Pull into the drive if you want. Maybe come in for some coffee?” She nodded encouragingly, gesturing toward the rutted gravel driveway that led to her home.

  Maggie pulled herself together. “No. Thank you, though. You’re very kind. I’m on my way to see friends at Original Farm. It’s just around the bend.”

  The woman’s tears vanished and she made a huffing noise. She promptly marched back to her house without another word. The dog gave a hopeful backward look at Maggie before following his mistress.

  In a better state of mind, Maggie would have been amused. Apparently, the Originals were not on good terms with the neighbors.

  As Maggie drove around the curve, the patchwork-painted barn came into view, bright squares decorated with alternating spiral, kokopelli and leaf symbols. The Original Farm sign at the start of the driveway had a nicely lettered quote from John Stuart Mill:

  “All good things which exist are the fruits of originality.”

  She parked her Beetle next to the violently purple tool shed. Standing made her dizzy, so Maggie leaned against the car for a moment, dropping her luggage.

  “Mack!” Loki vaulted over the porch rail and landed solidly on the ground. He swept Maggie up in a hug. “You’re here! I knew you’d come! Let’s go tell Namasté.”

  Loki grabbed her hand in one of his, latching onto her bags with his other hand, and quite literally pulled her into the house.

  “She’s here, Mama Bear!” he yelled to Namasté, then bounced up the stairs two at a time with Maggie’s things.

  Namasté smiled around the corner, “Hello, Maggie. Good to see you.” The skin crinkled arou
nd her eyes. Camel grey dreads extended to her waist. She waved a wet, red hand.

  “Hey,” Maggie responded. She peered around the corner. The countertop was covered with splatters of red liquid, as was the sink, several knives, and the apron covering Namasté’s clothing. Had Maggie not known she was dealing with a house full of vegetarians, she might have guessed that some poor beast had recently been butchered on the premises.

  “Just finished canning the last of the beets,” Namasté explained. “Let me wash up and I’ll be right there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Want some tea?”

  Maggie gave a tired nod, then ambled over to sit in a burgundy armchair and wait. She heard the sound of cups bumping and a teakettle being filled with water from the tap.

  Maggie looked at the room around her. The house was unchanged from her last visit. Near the door, the battered mahogany hall tree stood, its ancient mirror cracked at one corner and its silvery backing turning black at the edges. The room reflected in the hall tree mirror was a warped version of the real thing.

  The wooden floor needed a good refinishing. TomTom’s congo drums sat in a corner. The same mismatched, second hand furniture gave seating space and acted as a divider between the living and dining rooms. Shelves filled with an odd assortment of books flanked either side of the fireplace, AAA travel books next to outdated encyclopedias, Neitzsche’s Good and Evil nestled between the Tao Te Ching and Anna Karenina.

  A post office throw-away item was tacked on the wall near the bottom of the stairs: cubby hole shelves where mail for each housemate was deposited after the daily postal delivery. Maggie noticed that Fennel’s mail cubby was stuffed full of catalogs and envelopes. She also noticed that someone had labeled one of the cubbies ‘Maggie.’

  The aromas of brown rice and cumin permeated the air, familiar and exotic at once, different from the smell of nothing that had been the air in her apartment.

  Loki came downstairs and sat on a footstool, pulling it so close to Maggie that their knees touched. He wasn’t much taller than Maggie, though a bit broader through the shoulders. His familiar sweat-and-patchouli scent wafted toward her. Seconds later, he jumped up and started poking at the smoldering bits of wood in the fireplace. Sparks and ashes flew onto the hearth.

  “Hey, I think we need more firewood. Usually we don’t keep the fire too high during the day, but I think we should get it roaring, don’t you?”

  Maggie shrugged and Loki was out the door. A few minutes later, she heard the steady thunk of an axe hitting a chopping block. The music of wood chunks falling into a pile reminded her of bowling pins being knocked over.

  Namasté, now rid of her gory apron, came in with two steaming mugs and placed one on the table next to Maggie. She sat on the couch, tucking one foot under so that it disappeared beneath her voluminous skirts.

  “Hello,” she said again.

  “Hi.”

  Namasté studied Maggie with a tilted head.

  “I’m glad you came. I think we’ll be able to help one another.”

  Maggie suppressed the surge of annoyance that she felt before answering.

  “How so?”

  “Time will tell, young one. Time will tell.”

  Namasté sipped her tea and breathed deep, steady breaths, looking for all the world as if the two of them were at some cosmic tea party discussing inner tranquility.

  “What will time tell us?” Maggie asked, frowning.

  “That, I do not know. I only know what I feel. You are hurting and so are we. I’ve had several dreams about you, Maggie. Would you like to hear them?”

  “Maybe later.”

  Namasté smiled and nodded as if she had expected this response.

  Maggie took a sip of her tea and nearly spit it out. “Ack!”

  “I should have warned you. Sorry about that. This is Fennel’s tea. I know—really awful tasting, isn’t it? I’ve been drinking it lately to feel closer to her.” Namasté paused and looked at a spot on the floor. “From what we have put together about the day she died, Fennel drank a cup of tea, like she did every morning. There was a cup spilled, right there by the chair you’re sitting in. Also, someone had gone through her dresser. I have often wondered if she was drinking tea, heard a noise upstairs and went up to investigate.”

  Maggie was taken aback by the change in Namasté’s tone, in her realistic description of events. She waited to hear more.

  “Whoever it was may have pushed Fennel down the stairs in their hurry to escape being caught. They probably thought we were all outside for the day. They must have known it wasn’t one of Fennel’s baking days and assumed she was outdoors, too. It would have been easy to miss her from the back, if she was sitting in that chair. She was small, like you.”

  Forgetting the previous nasty sip, Maggie took another drink of tea and gagged.

  Namasté continued. “So, the question is, who was in Fennel’s room that day?”

  “And what were they looking for?” Maggie added, coughing a bit.

  “Yes, that too. I can’t imagine what Fennel had that would have been worth robbing. None of us have wads of money lying around, nothing like that. Well, except for Auntie Diluvia, and she’s been empty for months.”

  Despite herself, Maggie was hooked. What had happened to Fennel? The prospect of investigation was magnetic, irresistible and altogether distracting.

  Just what I need, she thought.

  Loki came in with an armload of firewood and dropped it on the floor.

  “Catching up?” he asked.

  “Yes, I think we’re all caught up now,” Namasté answered.

  “Where am I going to be sleeping tonight?” Maggie asked.

  Namasté and Loki looked at one another.

  “Fennel’s room,” they answered together.

  “There’s no sense having you crash on the couch or a cot when there’s a perfectly good room not being used,” Loki added. “I picked up the mess.”

  The fog that had lifted briefly came wafting back over Maggie. She could look forward to lying awake in the bed of a dead woman, mulling through endless ruminations about Ben.

  “Thank you, Loki,” she said aloud. “That was very thoughtful.”

  Fennel’s room was on the third floor. The door was at one end of a long, narrow space, reminding Maggie of the inside of a school bus missing its bench seats. The ceiling was low and slanted down to three foot walls on the long sides of the rectangular room. A tall window, shaped like a child’s line drawing of a house, took up residence at the end of the room. The window was flanked by gingham curtains and stood opposite the door.

  The furniture consisted of a Jenny Lind bed covered by a yellow bordered quilt that matched the gingham curtains, an antique dresser with attached mirror, a bedside table which held a lamp, and an old metal flower cart. A portable vinyl wardrobe acted as closet, since the room had none.

  There was a space heater, due to the steam heat system never having been installed in the attic. The filaments inside the little box glowed; it was already plugged in and radiating warmth. The room was very tidy, brush and comb set just so on the dresser, bed pillow tucked neatly under the quilt. If Maggie had been ignorant of the circumstances, she could have imagined herself to be checking into the guest room of a quaint bed-and-breakfast.

  But she knew the circumstances. More or less.

  She kicked her largest suitcase, resting next to the bed where Loki had delivered it with the rest of her luggage. Then Maggie walked back downstairs, hopeful that something would distract her between now and bedtime.

  She tried to let go the thought that kept circling round her like an intrepid hammerhead: I will never get to sleep tonight.

  Chapter 8

  Despite her worries to the contrary, Maggie couldn’t help but fall asleep when night came. Fatigue knocked her out before she had the chance to get in a good right hook. As she fell asleep Maggie saw Ben’s face, his head resting on the airbag like it was a large, soft pillow. Sh
e had seen Ben’s face every night since the accident and wished she could fall asleep to a happier memory, something surpassing the worst thirty seconds with Ben lying unconscious, his life ebbing away into nothingness.

  It’s hard to say what triggered the dream. Perhaps sleeping in Fennel’s bed took her REM cycle down a new course. Perhaps Namasté had drummed up her imagination with all that Earth Woman charm. Maggie fretfully kicked at the sheets, her latent mind overcome.

  She saw herself, as though looking down through the roof, lying asleep on Fennel’s bed. She was wearing Ben’s t-shirt, the one decorated with an artsy caricature of Nikola Tesla. Maggie noticed the bangs stuck damply to her forehead and the braid tangled around her left arm like a python in constriction mode.

  Maggie also saw Fennel lying quietly next to her, hands folded across her chest and a peaceful smile playing at her lips.

  Maggie’s heart beat faster, and her hands clenched into fists. Even in slumber, she rallied against the impossible.

  But Fennel would not be gone. In the dream, she rose silently and dabbed at Maggie’s soggy bangs with the corner of a sheet. The sleeping Maggie shuddered, but her mind gave in; weariness and grief left her with little resolve. She relaxed and the dream progressed.

  Fennel, bespectacled and golden-soft as the Mona Lisa, floated around the bed. She came to a stop next to the antique flower cart near the bedroom door. Fennel waited patiently till Maggie walked over, in the dream, and pushed the cart aside. She then nodded encouragingly and pointed at the wall. Maggie’s eyes followed Fennel’s fingertip as it traced the vertical stripe pattern of the wallpaper. Her ghostly index finger traced a spot once, twice; she turned a sidelong glance toward Maggie, her owlish eye full of portent.

  “What?” Maggie asked, her sleeping mouth forming the syllable as her dream self spoke it aloud. “I don’t understand.”

  Fennel merely smiled and rose, floating this time to her dresser. She knelt and passed her hand underneath the dresser, back and forth, as though feeling for something.

  Maggie, having followed Fennel on this short trip across the room, leaned forward to see if she could help. Her dream body stumbled and plummeted sharply. Maggie started awake, gasping from the sensation of falling. Then she blinked, steadied herself, and looked around the room. Moonlight played behind the curtains, creating tree branch puppet shadows against the fabric.