Roots of Murder (12 page)

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Authors: Janis Harrison

BOOK: Roots of Murder
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Sid stomped his way to Sam and produced a piece of paper. Impatiently, everyone waited while Sam went through the motions of pulling his eyeglasses from his overalls pocket. He adjusted them on his nose. Peered at the paper. Looked at the other men.
“Search warrant,” I murmured. Why Sam's place?
Sid spread his arms to encompass the entire area. His men hesitated. I smiled. Searching for anything on Sam's place would be worse than looking for the proverbial needle. I settled myself for a long wait, but ten minutes later a deputy gave a yelp of success. He pulled a plastic bag from his pocket, fussed about with it on the ground, then held up a two-foot length of pipe.
The murder weapon? Evan had said Isaac was struck down with a piece of pipe. I studied Sam Kramer. He seemed more concerned with the goat. Sid put the pipe under Sam's nose. Sam reached for it. Sid jerked it away. Was Sid accusing Sam of murder? Sam flapped his arms vehemently.
I couldn't hear anything, but I'd seen enough. I wanted out of the area and to be on my way back to River City before Sid had a chance to see me. I left the thicket, slid down the rocky slope, and leaped the ditch. I hurried to my car, which I'd left unlocked. I was sure I'd left the window down, but it was rolled up now.
Strange, I thought, as I opened the door and hopped in. Just as I'd figured, the afternoon sun had heated up the interior. I squirmed as the vinyl seat burned through my jeans. I started the car and switched on the air conditioner. Pressing on the accelerator, I gathered speed quickly. I leaned over and checked the glove compartment. The money and letter were still in their plastic bags. I sighed my relief.
My thoughts returned to what I'd just witnessed at Sam's place. It was damned odd to me that among all
the trash that surrounded the property, the sheriff and his men would so quickly find the murder weapon. Or was it merely a piece of pipe? I'd seen plenty of scrap iron lying around.
A rustling in the backseat startled me. I glanced over the seat but didn't see the source. It sounded like cellophane. I flipped off the blower for the air.
There it was again—a slick, delicate riffling of movement over crisp paper. A few days ago, I'd dropped the wrapper from a sugar-free cookie on the floor. Was that it?
“Mouse?” I groaned. “Could a mouse get in my car?”
I hate mice. What if it crawled up my pants leg?
I glanced down and thought my heart would stop. I saw a forked tongue tasting the air and beady eyes staring up at me. A snake was crawling out from under the passenger seat.
My first impulse was to hit the brake pedal, but I was doing sixty miles an hour. Was the snake poisonous? Would it strike if I moved my foot off the gas and onto the brake? Maybe knocking heads with Mr. Engelhart had done more damage than I'd thought, and the snake was only an illusion.
I looked down. Nope. Still there.
My brain felt wrapped in cotton, my mouth dry with fear. I didn't know what to do. I sure as hell wasn't going to drive the remaining miles to River City with a snake.
Sid.
Where the hell are the cops when you need 'em? They had guns. They could shoot the …
A movement caught my eye. The snake was on the prowl. His head shifted from side to side. His tongue flickered.
I cringed, afraid to breathe. Most of his body was still under the seat. How long was he? His head appeared enormous. But that could've been fear magnifying the size:
He stretched his neck toward my legs. If he crawled under my feet, I was done for. I was afraid to move my foot to the brake. What if the motion excited him?
“Think,” I muttered wildly. “What do you know about snakes?”
Panic brought sweat to my forehead. Moisture trickled down my back. Pee running down my legs would surely be next.
Pit viper. Could I see any pits? I was afraid to look. Rattlesnake? No diamonds, no sound. Cottonmouth water moccasin? Didn't want him to open his mouth so I could check. Copperhead. They were plentiful around this rocky area. No copper color. This snake was black and tan with light-colored rings across its back.
Snakes are cold-blooded. Warm air makes them active. Would cold air … ? The controls for the air conditioner were close at hand. So was the snake. More of his body had slithered from under the seat. The vent was aimed at him. If could just …
Sharp curve.
I wrenched the steering wheel. My speeding tires squealed a protest. I gripped the wheel tighter. Which was worse? An accident or a snakebite?
Damn. It was a hell of a choice. I eased my foot off the accelerator. The movement caught the snake's eye. He glided forward until his head was draped over my shin bone. I could feel his weight.
A whimper rose from my throat. Not all of his body was visible, but there was enough. Over four feet long.
While he was occupied with my legs, I slowly worked
my right hand to the temperature control. Gently, I flipped on the air. A blast of cold hit my damp face. I pushed the fan switch up to MAXIMUM and looked down through the spokes of the steering wheel.
The snake wasn't affected by the lowered temperature. His restlessness was aggressive, his interest in his surroundings keen. I tipped up my toes, taking more pressure off the gas pedal. The shifting of my leg muscles was minute. But he felt them. His head arched. We stared at each other, then I had to give my attention to the road.
I'd gradually cut my speed to thirty. I was past panic. I'd entered hysteria. I considered driving on the wrong side of the road, opening the door, and flinging myself out into the weeds.
Pain upon landing, possible broken bones, and a car that would be a total wreck kept me in my seat.
Just ahead, a car turned out of a side road. It was Sid. Behind him the other patrol. cars waited for me to pass. I needed to get their attention. I employed an age-old, tried-and-true method: I flipped them my middle finger.
It worked. They pulled behind me. Red lights flashed on. I released my seat belt.
This was it. If the snake hadn't bitten me by now, perhaps it wasn't the biting kind. It was a chance I had to take.
Sid's brake lights came on. He was pulling over. I had help behind me. I had help in front of me. I had a snake draped across my legs. The air inside the car was
frigid. How fast could a snake bite? How fast could I slow my car and leap out? If he was poisonous, at least I had an army of police to get me to the hospital. Ditto if I broke an important part of my anatomy.
I tensed, then threw caution to the wind. In one movement, I slammed on the brakes and opened my door. The car was still moving when I rolled off the seat and hit the pavement.
I tried to cradle my head, to take the brunt of the impact on my arms and shoulders. Hot pain shot through my body. Squalling tires on asphalt screamed in my ears. I heard a crash. Then dead quiet.
Was I alive?
Suddenly, a string of profanity filled the air. I didn't figure God allowed that kind of language in heaven. Slowly, I opened my eyes.
Blue sky. Sticky tar under my head. I moved my arms. Wow! Too much pain to be dead.
“Holy shit, Bretta,” said Sid, standing over me. “What the hell kind of trick was that?”
Instead of answering, I pointed a shaky finger toward my car. The crash I'd heard had been my own driverless vehicle rear-ending his. The impact had swung my door shut. Two feet of the snake's body had been caught between the door and its frame. He wasn't dead, either. His mouth was open. His body writhed viciously.
The sight was more than this woman could handle. Let Sid piece it together. With a sigh, I sank into oblivion.
 
 
I spent the night in the hospital. No broken bones. Bruises, abrasions. My body felt like it had been forced through a meat grinder. At some hazy point, I'd opened my eyes to find Sid at my bedside.
I didn't endear myself to him when I asked, “Is my car totaled?”
“No. And I'm fine, too, Bretta. 'Course, Sam Kramer is threatening a lawsuit against Spencer County. Whiplash. Severe neck injuries. But don't let that interfere with your recovery.”
“Sue the county?” I mumbled. “I'm the one who hit you.”
“Yeah, that's right. Store that piece of information in that thick skull of yours in case you have to testify.”
I drifted off. I must have imagined that he picked up my hand and gave it a light squeeze. Not Sid. He was too damned tough to show affection, though I'd seen tears in his eyes at Carl's funeral.
 
I was dismissed by the doctors at noon on Monday. Was Isaac's funeral service over? I took a cab to my house and found my car parked in the drive. The front fender was crumpled. Something brown was smeared on the white paint of the driver's door. I shuddered and turned to the porch. Yesterday's paper lay by the front door. Wonder of wonders. My sore muscles protested as I bent to pick it up.
I entered the house and headed straight for my room. I hadn't called anyone except Lois to tell her I was in the hospital. She had offered to bring me clothes and
to visit. I hadn't wanted either. At the hospital, I'd worn one of their stiff, sterile gowns. Now, all I wanted was a full-length mirror, a hot shower, and my soft robe.
I moaned and groaned as I stripped off my clothes. In dismay, I stared at the bruises and scrapes. My body isn't great in good times; too much fat under the skin for too many years had left ugly stretch marks. The bruise on my hip was monochromatic blues and purples. But the raw places on my elbows were what really hurt.
I took a quick shower, washed the antiseptic smell from my hair, and stepped on the scales. I'd lost three pounds in the last couple of days. Murder was a grim appetite suppressant. Wrapped in my robe, I hurried down the hall, past the closed door. I was always conscious of the master suite, though I tried to tell myself the room had ceased to exist the night Carl died.
I yearned for a hot fudge sundae topped with pecans and whipped cream. I settled for a low-fat pizza and popped it into the oven. While I waited for it to heat, I dialed the Woodgrove Library, a number etched in my memory since childhood. I asked that any book Isaac Miller had checked out in the last three months be set aside for me to look at tomorrow.
The young lady on the phone didn't think that would be possible. I told her to tell Miss Ginko that the request came from Bretta McGinness Solomon. I made sure she had the name spelled correctly and hung up.
Next, I called the flower shop and talked to Lois. Our conversation was brief, since it was the third one we'd had that day. I told her I was taking her advice. I would
be off work until noon tomorrow. If she needed help, she could call one of the part-time designers. After she'd told me to check under my car seat, mind my own business, and drink plenty of orange juice, I replaced the receiver.
Orange juice? I shook my head and took a deep breath. The next number wasn't as easy to dial. Slowly, my fingers found the digits. Someone answered on the first ring. I identified myself and asked for Sid.
His voice was in my ear faster than I'd expected. “What now, Bretta?” he grumbled.
“What kind of snake?”
“A young python.”
“Not a native to Missouri fauna, right?”
“Hardly.”
“Is it dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you find the murder weapon?”
Without missing a beat, Sid replied, “Car door did him in.”
“What?” I said, then grimaced. “I meant the weapon that killed Isaac.”
“I know what you meant. What do you know about a murder weapon?”
“Well … I … you said in the hospital Sam Kramer was in your car. I figured you'd found something and were taking him in for questioning.”
“Not bad deducting,” admitted Sid. “Carl used to say I should …” He stopped, then to my amazement, he volunteered information. “Sam isn't a strong suspect,
but we had to check out an anonymous tip we received.”
“Phone or mail?”
“Mail.”
“Typewritten?” I asked, thinking of the order for the wreath.
“Yes,” said Sid.
“Who'd know the pipe was there except the murderer?”
“Not bad. I wonder why that hadn't occurred to me?” he said sarcastically. “What else have you surmised?”
“The snake didn't get in my car by itself.”
“Doubt it. Don't you lock your doors?”
“In River City. Not Woodgrove.”
“Whose toes have you been stepping on, Bretta?”
I'd been doing a regular Mexican hat dance on everyone's feet, but I ignored his question. “Did you know J. W. Moth of River City Wholesale Floral has a snake? Check him out, Sid, see if he was around Woodgrove yesterday. My car was unlocked and parked …” I came to a grinding halt. If I listed all the places I'd been, I'd be giving Sid an itinerary of my entire day. Not a good move.
“Yes?” he drawled. “Go on. Where were you parked and what the hell have you been up to?”
“Oh. Here and there. This and that.”
He snorted. “I hope you've used some of those brilliant deducting powers to realize that whoever put that snake in your car was hoping to bring you grief. The snake wasn't poisonous, but its creeping around the
floorboards could've led you to have a serious accident.”
“I know. If he'd crawled out about a mile or two back, when I was into all those curves, I might not be sitting here having this conversation with you.”
I paused for a second, then asked, “When those boys were killed on the curve, did the Highway Patrol suspect something, and their suspicions didn't reach the public?”
Silence.
“I have to know, Sid. Were there questions?”
“Those boys are dead and buried. Speculating will cause the families nothing but more heartache.”
“So there were suspicions?”
“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “Skid marks didn't jive with the path the car would have taken if it was just traveling too fast to make the curve. The patrol officer figured the driver came around the curve, saw something, probably a deer. He swerved, lost control, and that was it.”
“Like hell.”

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