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

by Anomie Hatcher

  Somewhere around this time, not long after camp, Mary introduced Maggie to the concept of a library card.

  “Ask an expert,” Mary had said. “I don’t know. And,” she had hastened to add, “Heat up this bottle for baby Skye.”

  Maggie had begun by looking for a decent answer as to why leaves change color in the fall. All the children’s books she found on the subject were vague to the point of being irritating. They contained banal poetic verses such as, “Leaves change color, then fall down. Red and gold and orange and brown.”

  Maggie had quickly moved on to the adult non-fiction section. And now, as she lay on her back in mess of leaf litter, staring up at canary-colored leaves, she remembered the bliss of finding a clear answer to the first of her many questions.

  Different pigments provide different coloration. For example, the leaves of the aspen turn yellow as the days grow shorter, approaching the autumnal equinox. The chlorophyll in their leaves is dying. Less sunlight means the xanthophyll takes over, so green gives way to yellow.

  “Thinking about Ben?” Loki asked. Now he was propped on an elbow, gazing at Maggie.

  “No, actually. I was thinking about the changing pigmentation of aspen leaves that occurs during fall.”

  “Really?” Loki guffawed. He rolled back and forth, laughing. Twigs clung to his thick brown hair and plaid jacket.

  “Well. Botany was my first love.”

  “About time you forgot Old-What’s-His-Name.” Loki turned onto his back again, pressing the top of his head into the ground, so he did not see the horrified look on Maggie’s face.

  I’ll never forget Ben!

  “Remember you told me once that Ben didn’t like to French kiss, that you had to explain to him how one set of lips is linked to the other…”

  I said no such thing! You insipid waterbug! She began to shake.

  Loki’s head pivoted awkwardly toward Maggie, crown still planted in leaves.

  “Baby, I’m kidding. I’m only kidding!” Loki reached out to her. “You science-y types are too damn serious. Laughter heals, don’t you know?”

  Of course. Only kidding. Maggie tried to relax. Must get used to full-time Loki.

  “Hey! Imagine we’re growing roots! We’re connected deep down, way underneath the soil, like your aspens.”

  So he had been listening.

  She sat up. “I have to pee.”

  “So go, already. Pick an aspen, any aspen.”

  “I’d like a toilet.”

  “Yeah, okay. Anyway, I need to go help the neighbor kid with a painting project he’s got going.”

  “Is that right?” Her voice was sharper than she meant it to be.

  “Yup. He looks up to me, doesn’t have a creative bone in his body.” Loki shrugged. “I do what I can.”

  They headed back to the road. Maggie’s tension subsided.

  “Does this neighbor boy live just east of you?”

  “Yes—how did you know?”

  “I think I met his mom yesterday.”

  “Candy? She hates Original Farm, thinks we’re evil, anti-family values perverts. She calls the cops on us for breathing too loud.”

  “And she lets you hang out with her son?”

  “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Teenage Toby needs an outlet.”

  Maggie remembered Loki sleeping his way through each group of summer boarders, male and female alike.

  “What sort of an outlet?” she asked.

  “You bad girl! He is way underage!”

  But Loki looked pleased.

  Back at the farm, Maggie found the bathroom in a hurry.

  The meager breakfast had been burned off by the walk and she was starving. Still, she didn’t feel comfortable digging through someone else’s fridge.

  Sunflower was having a cup of coffee at the kitchen table.

  “Want a cup?” Sun asked.

  “Um, thanks. Is it decaf?”

  Sunflower snorted. “Hardly.”

  “I’d better not. My stomach’s been upset—caffeine’ll make it worse.”

  No response.

  “Sun?” Maggie began. “I’m sorry about missing a baking day. I am here to help. I know you and TomTom must be working hard to keep up.”

  “We’re doing okay.”

  Maggie paused. “Do you not want me to be here?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Maggie wasn’t sure where to go from there. “It’s great that you are still baking. I mean, the gluten-free project was Fennel’s baby, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Maggie waited to see if Sunflower would elaborate. She occupied herself by thinking up better plant nicknames for the tight-lipped Amazon: Hawthorn, Bramble, Chokeberry, Hedge.

  Yes—Hedge works on many levels, Maggie thought. Or maybe the name Barb.

  Eventually, Sunflower cleared her throat and spoke again.

  “She was going to start her own bakery.”

  “Who?”

  “Fennel. Who do you think? She invited TomTom and me to come with her.”

  “And leave Original Farm?” Maggie was surprised.

  “Yeah, sooner or later. It was a good idea. She had a lot of customers and would have had more, with a shop in Des Moines.”

  “What did Tor think?”

  “He wasn’t crazy about it. Fennel’s business kept—keeps—us going in the winter. The flours are expensive, but people will pay a ridiculous price for bread they don’t have to bake themselves.”

  “And they’re willing to drive out here to pick it up.”

  “Sometimes, yeah.”

  Tor came inside just then, and began rubbing his hands together in front of the fire. “Hey, ladies.”

  Maggie wondered why he did not wear a hat over his shiny, bare head. It seemed like his scalp would get cold. No sooner than the thought had crossed Maggie’s mind, Tor dug through a pile of outerwear on the hall tree and found a stocking cap. He shoved the cap into his pocket.

  Tor fits his name, she thought. A rocky pinnacle. Solid, dependable. Bald.

  “Maggie?” Tor asked. “Would you mind taking over my cooking night? I’ve got some late business in town. I’m trying to work with some members of the city council, now that Fennel’s gone. We’ve got this important issue.”

  “Sure! I’d love to cook.”

  “Thanks,” Tor came over to put his hand on Maggie’s shoulder. To Sunflower he said, “How’re the pumpkins coming along? Who’s watching the stand this afternoon?”

  “Namasté,” Sun answered. “As if you don’t already know.”

  “I can help with that, too,” Maggie offered.

  “Maybe the day after tomorrow,” Tor said. “I think we’re covered till then.” He smiled. “It’s good to have you here, Maggie.”

  “Thanks.”

  He put the hat on and walked back outside. Sunflower got up to refill her cup.

  “Where are TomTom and Namasté?” Maggie asked.

  “Where do you think?”

  Sunflower gestured toward Namasté’s closed bedroom door with her head.

  “Oh.”

  Maggie knew, from talking to Loki, that it was agreed upon that no interrelationships within the Originals would be tolerated. However, in a group of people whose primary thrust was to steer clear of old rules and norms, even the rules they set for themselves were not adhered to rigidly. TomTom and Namasté were convinced that no one knew about them, but anyone who paid attention was wise to their regular hook-ups. Maggie naturally thought of them as a couple, but had learned not to mention it, since none of the others did. Out in the open, the topic would require confrontation and nobody wanted that.

  Why they chose mid-morning to be intimate instead of the relative privacy of nighttime was beyond Maggie. Perhaps it had something to do with living in the moment, an idea that would appeal to both women, Maggie was sure.

  TomTom emerged from Namasté’s first floor bedroom, surprised to see Sunflower and Maggie at the table. She le
aned back through Namasté’s door to call, “No, I haven’t seen that CD. It’s still missing.”

  Sunflower rolled her eyes.

  “Think I’ll take a shower,” Maggie said. She walked up to her borrowed room and dug through her luggage for something to wear. Maggie toted her shower supplies and clean clothes down to the second floor bathroom.

  About halfway through showering, the water began to get cold. She hurried as quickly as she could, but ended up freezing by the time she switched off the faucet and stepped over the edge of the claw foot tub, onto the bath mat. Teeth chattering, Maggie shivered her way back up to Fennel’s bedroom. She started a dirty laundry pile next to the dresser and began to tidy the bed. The journals tumbled loose. One fell on her foot.

  “Ow!” I need to put these back.

  Maggie picked up the slim books. She moved the flower cart out of the way, opened the little door and crawled through to the small room. It was too dark to see, even during the daytime, so she went back for the flashlight.

  Did Fennel actually write in here? It’s chilly and pitch black.

  Maggie stopped short. The box had been moved. She had left it next to the chair and it was now in the corner, upside down.

  Suspicion rose in Maggie like bile. She held onto the journals and crawled back out. She shoved the journals roughly back under the mattress, then knelt down to feel under the dresser. She couldn’t find the tiny box covered in mother-of-pearl, so she put her face against the floorboards and shined the flashlight underneath.

  No. Definitely not there.

  That someone had been looking for the key was evident.

  Why would someone take the little box? They’ve figured out it’s empty—they must know the lockbox is empty, too, if they picked it up.

  Then she saw the little box, perched innocently atop the dresser next to the comb and brush set.

  I know I put the box back under the dresser.

  Her heart beat rapidly and she began to shake, this time not from cold. Maggie wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head from side to side. It was possible that someone in this house knew exactly how Fennel had died. The idea that any one of The Originals could be capable of murder or, at the very least, capable of hiding important information from the rest, was disturbing.

  Maybe Namasté was right. Maybe a monster had been locked in.

  Careful, Maggie. You’re jumping to conclusions. A few things were moved. That’s not a crime.

  But her body would not agree with logic. Intense nausea drove her downstairs where she threw up in the toilet. There wasn’t much to get rid of in her stomach, but her body seemed intent on purging. Namasté came in quietly and held Maggie’s braid out of the way till the heaving subsided.

  “I thought so.” Namasté ran a cool washcloth over Maggie’s forehead. “When was your last moon?”

  “My what?” Maggie gasped, eyes watering and throat burning like she’d swallowed lemon juice.

  “Your moon. Your blood time. About five or six weeks, I’d guess.”

  Maggie snapped to attention. “No! Oh, no! You’ve got to be joking!” Her mind raced back to making love with Ben the morning of that terrible, fateful day. Did I use the diaphragm? I must have. To Namasté, she said, “We always used protection. Always. And I’m extremely regular. I start on or near the third of every month.”

  “Maggie,” Namasté crooned gently, smoothing the worry lines on Maggie’s forehead with a cool hand. “It’s the fourteenth.”

  ***

  Namasté watched a shaky Maggie disappear upstairs, then walked back down to her own room on the first floor. She loved Maggie dearly, and had a very strong feeling that they needed her here as much as Maggie needed them, but it was difficult to explain things like that to a person who was so spiritually repressed.

  Namasté paused in front of the free-standing mirror in her room to give herself a pep talk.

  “She’ll come around, when the time is right,” she said quietly, nodding at her own image. “Maggie’s feet are already on the path she cannot yet see.”

  Any more time in front of the mirror would bring her down. Namasté’s reflection didn’t match her self-image at all. Not that she was complaining—she was healthy, if not very fit, and she could make it through the day without any major aches or pains. Not many other women made it to forty-six and could say the same. It was just that she saw her former self—Beatrice Hawkins—in the looking glass, not Namasté.

  She felt strong, a tree stump-shaped woman like all of the Hawkins foremothers, but the mirror showed unpleasant crow’s feet stamped across a moon-shaped face and an ever-expanding midsection that would never again look sexy in a tight pair of jeans.

  Moving away from the unpleasant reality of the glass, she went over and smoothed the covers where she had lain with TomTom less than an hour before.

  Fennel’s death had shaken TomTom more than she let on to the others. Since the funeral, she had asked to simply lie down and be held by Namasté every day when they both found the time. The holding time was a comfort to Namasté as well, because of the dreams that would not seem to go away.

  The dreams had to do either with being chased by a predator or an impossible puzzle that needed putting together. The imagery was different, the animal shapes and visions that shook her, sweating, from a deep sleep were varied, but the feeling was the same—the overwhelming sensation of being under the control of a dangerous hand. The dreams involving Maggie were the only reprieve in an endless string of nightmares. She often saw Maggie carrying eggs in a basket (too obvious a symbol to require interpretation) or Maggie putting a chaotic table full of hardware into little jars, bringing order to the mess.

  Namasté lit a stick of Nag Champa incense and drew a circle in the air above her head with the trail of scented smoke. She brought the orange-tipped wand to rest in a wooden, banana-shaped incense holder on top of her seed altar—a tiny chest of nine drawers on a cloth-covered table adorned with candles and dried plants. The drawers contained seeds and other items, and represented the people for whom Namasté prayed.

  Fennel’s drawer was full the brim with fennel seeds, and had a miniature scroll of paper buried deep within. Namasté didn’t open Fennel’s drawer any more.

  Tor’s drawer was full of many odd items, especially smooth blue stones found by the river, stones like the ones Namasté had called “turtle rocks” when she was a child. There were also pine nuts in Tor’s drawer.

  Sunflower’s drawer did not contain sunflower seeds as one might expect, but held thistle and milkweed, and a twig that looked like a hand with a pointing finger.

  Loki’s drawer was full of hemp seeds and mandrake root.

  The little drawer for TomTom was full of poppy seeds, chamomile flowers and naturally dyed candy coated chocolates in shades of pink, orange and yellow. Namasté opened TomTom’s drawer and took out a chocolate, placing it in her mouth. As she meditated on healing thoughts for her lover and best friend, Namasté carefully cracked the candy coating with her molars and removed the outer layer with her tongue until there was nothing left but a smooth disc of dark chocolate. This she pressed up and let melt against her hard palate. Eventually swallowing, she smiled and opened her eyes. She closed TomTom’s drawer.

  There was a drawer for each of her parents. Like Fennel’s, these were also no longer opened, but Namasté touched the tip of her index finger to the small, circular knobs that adorned each.

  She skipped over drawer number eight and opened the last drawer. Into this final, empty space she placed the recently picked, fragrant purple flowers from the Creeping Charlie somehow still blooming in the yard, a piece of eggshell, dried shitake mushrooms and a long strand of light blond hair. Bowing her head and steepling her hands in prayer, Namasté meditated and prayed that her young friend might bring order to the chaos and peace to herself in the process.

  After ten minutes, Namasté opened her eyes. Reluctantly, she opened the eighth drawer and pulled out a lacey baby sock
filled with blue corn kernels and jasmine rice and tied with a faded piece of yarn.

  Chapter 10

  “I am not pregnant.” Saying it aloud made her feel better.

  Alone in her borrowed room, Maggie reached between the mattress and box spring. She opened one journal, then closed it again. Setting both journals down on the bed, she went over and latched the hook-and-eye closure on the door.

  Composing herself on top of the bedspread, she leaned a pillow against the headboard, where she could sit out the remainder of her nausea.

  I’m not putting these journals away any time soon.

  Even if Maggie did possess the key, a pair of bolt cutters would make short work of the padlock on the lockbox. The journals were important pieces of the odd jigsaw puzzle that was Fennel’s death. If someone else found the journals interesting, there was probably a good reason why. She began reading the one with the earliest date, scrawled in Fennel’s neat but cramped handwriting.

  May 9, 1993

  I’m so glad Mrs. P and Mr. M liked my new garlic-oregano bagels. They have both ordered a dozen and two more customers are asking to try them. So much for Sun’s skepticism. Do I know my buyers or what?

  Tor wants to plant an acre of heirloom popcorn, thinks we can sell it on the cob. Loki wants to put in some bee houses and start selling clover honey. We’ll see. It might be more work than he’s bargained for. Namasté is still pushing for livestock, thinks we’d do well with organic eggs or goat milk. I’ll vote for eggs, if it comes down to it. Goats smell bad and I’m probably allergic to their fur.

  I wish TomTom would stop drumming. It’s giving me a headache. The candle is almost gone; I need to crawl out and get a new one.