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Authors: Janis Harrison

BOOK: Roots of Murder
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I couldn't wait for sometime. I needed answers now. “Would she visit with me while I'm here?”
“She's lying down. I don't want to bother her. Tomorrow will be hard on her. In the next hour, our families will begin to arrive from Illinois and Indiana for the funeral. They should have been here last night, but one of the vans they hired had engine trouble. They had to stop to get it fixed.”
“How long will they stay?”
“Two or three days.”
Two or three days—too much time would have passed. “Tell me about the plants, Evan.”
“Not much to tell. Isaac kept the mother plants on a table in front of the greenhouse. Inside are the new starts. They're just a bunch of plants, to my way of thinking.”
“They're not just a bunch of plants,” Rosalie said from behind the screen door.
I sprang up and turned around. She stepped out on the porch but kept the door open. She looked tired, her eyes red-rimmed, her face wan.
“Did our talking disturb you?” I asked.
“No. But I want you to understand about Isaac's plants.”
“I'd like to hear about them.”
Rosalie's lower lip quivered, but she steadied it. When she had control, she explained, “They're special. They weren't bought from strangers. They're part of our heritage. Some of them date back generations.”
“What kind of plants?” I asked.
“All kinds. My family are direct descendants of the first Amish to come to Lancaster County. Those people brought plants from their homeland, and each time a son or a daughter married, several different slips were given to them. When I became Isaac's wife, my mother gave us our starters.
“My husband loved having those plants because they had a history of coming to America with Jacob Ammann, our Amish founder. Isaac said the plants are a tough strain because they've survived over three hundred years.”
Tears filled her eyes, and she pulled a handkerchief
from her sleeve. “They're not just plants. They're part of my life with Isaac.” She cradled her bulging stomach. “They're something my children and I can cherish.” She turned and went into the house. The door closed.
I looked at Evan. “Can I see these plants?”
He shrugged. “I guess so. Why?”
“I don't know. Just curious.”
Evan flashed me a ghost of his old smile. “And people think we Amish are strange.”
I'd tried to coax Evan into coming with me to Isaac's greenhouse. But I left him on the porch, convinced that he had to follow Sid's order. I sighed. Dealing with someone's death is painful under any circumstances. For that death to be murder, and for a peaceable man like Evan to know that he's suspected, was more than he could comprehend. Add in the complications of living by the Amish faith in a world structured for our modern society, and he was out of his depth.
Carl had thought Sid a good sheriff. A good detective. So why was I involved? Was Margaret right? Was I lonesome? Sometimes. I sure as hell didn't think I was better than Sid at deduction, but my methods for seeking the truth would differ from his.
This community had been my community. I knew these people. I'd grown up with most of them. I'd shared meals with them. I didn't know how much Sid knew about them, or if he was prejudiced against the Amish. Was his mind open to all possibilities? What if
he was looking only for evidence to convict Evan? I couldn't let that happen.
Sid would boil me in oil if he knew what I was thinking. If he knew what I was doing … well. I swallowed uneasily. That thought was as welcome as my annual trip to the gynecologist.
The holding shed was my first stop. I opened the door. No windows, and no plants. Gravel on a dirt floor. Empty except for some buckets stacked in a corner. I pulled the door shut and went to the greenhouse.
The entrance was covered by an awning. Sitting on a makeshift table underneath was Isaac's collection of plants. I looked them over carefully. None were growing in clay or plastic pots. A bushy fern had its roots in a discarded aluminum roaster; an old blue granite teakettle was home to a striped airplane plant. Two handleless saucepans held a Christmas cactus and a shamrock plant. The table was white enamel. At first glance, it resembled a kitchen stove. With the assortment of pans on top, it looked as if someone was cooking up a chlorophyll meal guaranteed to bring on a case of photosynthesis indigestion.
“Get a grip,” I said aloud.
I touched the lump on my head. Painful. I'd been having weird thoughts since butting heads with Mr. Engelhart.
The greenhouse was approximately forty feet long and was sunk in the ground up to the eaves. Air currents carried hot, moist air up the five steps that led down into the pit. The glass roof slanted up to a ridge
cap, and along the top were hinged windows. Since the day was warm, most were cranked up for ventilation.
Inside the greenhouse, the temperature was comfortable. The walls that supported the roof were made of cement blocks. A central walkway ran the length with a bench on each side. The steady drip of water plopping into a bucket was the only sound. No fans. No motors. No automation.
Hodges could rest assured. The plants were being cared for. Everything was wet. In fact, someone had watered recently. Drops caught the light and glittered on the lush green foliage. On my left was a huge wood-burning stove. Two long sections of clay tiles formed a flue that ran from the stove under the benches.
I walked down the path on the lookout for something spectacular. A rare specimen. I was afraid I'd see it and not know. I can identify a ficus, a philodendron, a bromeliad, or a dracaena, but those are standard flower shop varieties.
I was looking for miraculous. All I saw were young starters from the plants outside on the table. Near the back was a roped-off section of chrysanthemums. Not a particularly unique flower. I got to the end of the walk and started back.
I glanced at the roof and was dazzled by the sun reflected on the glass. I searched behind the stove, in the stove, among Isaac's supplies lying neatly on a few shelves. I went up the steps to the houseplants and snooped among their healthy foliage. I came back down befuddled.
All the other plants were lumped together except for the section of chrysanthemums. These plants were in all stages of growth—an old plant in a cast-off dishpan, cuttings that didn't have roots, small plants with new foliage, large ones with buds but no blooms. Each neat row was labeled with numbers: 3–15–97. 8–21–97. 1–12–98. 5–14–98. 9–5–98. Were these propagation dates?
“Think,” I commanded myself.
Moth had spoken of “anything Isaac Miller had a hand in growing.” Isaac had been studying propagation—the reproduction or multiplying of a plant. To my inexperienced eye, Isaac had been reproducing new chrysanthemum plants from the mother plant growing in the dishpan. The dates showed he'd been keeping a record. None of the other plants had tags with dates.
I gave the mother plant a closer inspection. I poked at the dirt. It was firm. I tried to pick it up, but it was too heavy.
Why all the interest in Isaac's plants? Leray said that once Evan saw the whole picture, he'd understand and would cooperate. Bubbles said she and Leray would leave Woodgrove and be on easy street. That sounded like she was expecting a comfortable life. Money?
I went down the aisle for the third time and stopped again at the budded chrysanthemum plants. Lots of tiny nubs crowned each sturdy stem. In a few weeks they would be bursting with color.
Like a thief, I cast a furtive glance around, then pulled off a bud. Carefully, I eased a fingernail under the thin membrane that held the petals in place. The
tiniest bit of color. Dark. I popped off another bud from a different plant. Same deep hue. After several more, I decided there weren't any yellow, lavender, or white among Isaac's plants. All were dark. But not burgundy or purple. Bronze? I didn't see any brown tones. More like red.
A shadow crossed the glass above me. I jerked my head up so fast, the world took a nosedive. I clutched the bench and peered blindly at the dark figure towering over me. My heart pumped like a piston in a race car. All that was between us was a thin sheet of glass. It offered me little protection. One well-placed blow, and I would be showered with razor-sharp shards. Before I could think, small fingers tapped lightly on the glass.
I shaded my eyes and saw Katie. The air passage to my constricted throat opened, and I took a much-needed breath.
“Hi,” I called weakly. I motioned for her to come to the door of the greenhouse. I got the impression of a shy smile, then the shadow melted away.
I looked around one more time. It irked me that Moth and Hodges knew more than I did. It left Evan wide open to be hoodwinked by a pair of greedy men. Perhaps it had even cost Isaac his life.
Katie was waiting for me when I came up the steps. I grinned at her. “What are you doing?” I asked. Her answer was low and bashful.
I stopped rubbing the telltale plant stains off my fingers. So there would be no misunderstanding, I repeated
what I thought she'd said. “Your father told you I was here?”
She nodded.
I paused to let this news sink in. Evan had sent his daughter to me. Nothing odd about that. Evan knew I liked Katie, enjoyed visiting with her. But he also knew I wanted to talk to her about the night Isaac was killed. Was this his okay to question her about what she'd seen?
For a minute I was overwhelmed with a flood of emotions. There could be no bigger demonstration of trust than what Evan was giving me. But with that trust came responsibility. What if I upset Katie? What if I asked or said something that frightened her?
I'd been silent too long. Katie was puzzled. A frown marred her brow. Her. blue eyes became unsure. She was dressed like a miniature Amish woman. Dark dress and apron, white devotion cap tied under her chin. Legs covered with heavy stockings, feet encased in thick-soled shoes.
I touched her on the arm and asked her the first thing that popped into my head. “How was church?”
Katie didn't know how to answer this ridiculous question. She finally whispered, “Fine.”
“Evan says company is coming.” She flashed me a grin. “Lots of cousins to visit with?”
While we had this one-way chat, I searched my brain for a way to introduce the subject of the person in the field. Another thought occurred before I could think
how to phrase my questions. Did Cleome know Katie was with me? That spurred me on.
“Katie, Evan tells me that you saw someone with Isaac the night he died?”
Her first full sentence filled me with alarm. “I should have gone up there,” she said.
“Oh, no. You did the right thing in telling your mother. Did you recognize who it was?”
“No, I've been thinking and thinking. It was just a figure. It was almost dark. I was in the garden picking some cucumbers that I'd missed.”
I chucked her under the chin. “Cleome sent you back out, didn't she. My mother used to do that. I'd pick and pick, but she'd come along behind and find another bucketful that I'd missed.”
Katie's eyes widened with amazement. “That's what happened,” she admitted. “I'd gotten to the end of the row and was going to the house. But I stopped to look at the flowers. They're pretty in the evening with the last bit of sun on them.”
She turned to Isaac's field. “Men were up there most of yesterday. Their feet crushed some of the blooms.” Her tone was sad. “That's exactly where they were that night.”
Doors slammed. Loud voices carried to us from the house. The company had arrived. Katie's head swiveled around.
“Go on,” I encouraged her. “We'll talk another time.”
She hesitated long enough to say, “You told me once
that you used to go for walks to the creek. Will you go with me the next time you visit?”
“I'd like that very much. We'll plan for it after your company has gone home.”
Satisfied, Katie skipped ahead. I followed at a more sedate pace. When I rounded the corner of the cutting shed, I stopped to stare in fascination at the scene before me. The driveway looked as if it had been invaded by a flock of excited blackbirds. Amish women scurried back and forth from three vans to both houses. They carried babies, suitcases, and covered baskets. Their voices rose and fell as they called to each other. Men stood under the trees, their faces solemn, their beards identical in size and length.
It took me a minute to pick out Evan. Three of the men had to be his brothers. The resemblance was remarkable. I moved into view. All conversation came to an abrupt halt when they spotted me. In my hot pink shirt and blue jeans, I stood out like a preening peacock.
Taking a self-conscious breath, I crossed the driveway. Evan looked from me to Katie. He gave a slight nod when he saw the smile on her face. His eyes caught mine in a slow, steady gaze. What transpired between us was as vocal as conversation, though not a word was uttered. I hadn't been mistaken. He'd sent Katie to find me on purpose. His faith and trust in me were startling. My steps faltered.
Cleome broke away from a group of women, her mouth tipped up in a smile. Once her back was turned,
and only I could see, that smile faded. She crossed to me and said, “It's time for you to go.”
“I'm leaving. But would you tell Evan—”
Her eyes narrowed. “Now isn't the time to talk.”
“I can see that.” I spoke evenly. “Tell Evan not to sign anything. Not to make any quick decisions about Isaac's plants.”
Cleome's frown vanished. “I'll tell him, but it won't make any difference. He's decided to plow the flower field and sow wheat.” She favored me with a hint of a condescending smirk, then walked away.
Under the watchful gaze of thirty or more pairs of eyes, I couldn't do or say anything that might embarrass Evan. I got in my car and drove down the road to Sam Kramer's. His was a long lane, the house out of sight behind some trees. I parked and sat.
Suddenly, I pounded the steering wheel in frustration. Once again Evan had neglected to tell me something important. Why? First he hadn't told me about moving Isaac's body from the field. Now he hadn't told me about his decision to plow up the flower field. Had he conceded this point to please Eli Detweiler? What of the plants in the greenhouse? Rosalie would be crushed if they were destroyed; but if Detweiler kept at Evan, would Evan give in?

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