Roots of Murder (15 page)

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Authors: Janis Harrison

BOOK: Roots of Murder
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“What kind of plant is it?”
I wanted information, I didn't want to give it. “Does that matter?”
His sigh of exasperation whistled in my ear. “Yes, Bretta. It matters.”
Reluctantly, I said, “A chrysanthemum.”
“Then I'd call my Barker representative.”
I made a grab for the worktable to steady myself. “Barker?” The name was difficult to say around the lump of excitement that swelled in my throat.
“That's right. That company's one of the biggest mum developers in the United States.”
“Could I call your man myself?”
“I guess so.” I heard papers rustle. “Here's his number.” He rattled it off. I wrote it down. “Call him after eight in the evening,” advised Dan. “That's your best bet in reaching him.”
“How much would a mutation be worth?”
“Depends on how unusual. How true the strain is.”
This was getting into a sticky area. But if I didn't ask the question, I wouldn't know if I was on to something. “What if it's red?” I inquired softly.
“Red as in burgundy?”
“No,” I said. I thought of Isaac's murder. Of the death blow to his skull. I gulped and whispered, “Red, Dan, red, as in … blood red.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lois's head swivel toward me. In my ear, Dan was skeptical. “If you've found a red chrysanthemum, Bretta, you won't ever have to work again. But I find it hard to believe. Breeders have tried for years to develop a mum with a Christmas red blossom. The closest they've come is a strain called Bravo, but even then it's more of a deep, dark ruby than the clear red—blood red—you've described.” He paused a moment, then asked, “Have you seen it?”
“Almost.”
“What's that mean?”
“It's in bud stage, not full bloom. But there was enough color so I'm almost sure.”
Casually, Dan asked, “Who has it? Where is this red mutation?”
A note in his voice alerted me. The hairs on my arms stood at attention. At the base of my throat, my pulse beat an erratic rhythm. Dan was trying to suppress his excitement, but I heard it. Too late I realized that if this red chrysanthemum was the motive for Isaac's murder, maybe I shouldn't be blabbing about it.
I tried to be cagey. “I can't say. Right now it isn't mine to show.”
“Isn't yours?” He paused, and the businessman in him came across loud and clear. “Are you buying it?”
I'd given him the wrong impression. I opened my mouth to clarify, then stopped. Dan dealt with all the florists and with Moth. If I left Dan wondering, he might try to gain information. His questions asked of the right party might prod someone into action.
Fervently, because my life could depend on the outcome, I said, “I'm investing everything I've got in this deal.” I handed the phone to Lois, who took it with a stunned expression.
“It's me, Dan,” she said. “I have the plant list. No. I don't know anything about what Bretta said. No, I don't know where it is. No. No. No.” She listened for a minute, then snapped, “Do you want this order or not?”
I left her to handle Dan, went to the back, and grabbed the nippers. All day my mind had been engaged in a bunch of what-ifs. Like a favorite song, I replayed them again and again. Only this time I added three more heart-stopping choruses.
What if … the killer found out I knew about the red mutation?
What if … the killer struck again?
What if … the next victim was me?
In between the telephone orders, customers, and Lew's comings and goings, Lois and I talked over the murders and my theories. By the time five o'clock rolled around, the shop was neat and clean, I'd made a dent in the paperwork on my desk, and Lois had decided I was certifiably insane.
Not bad for a day that had included doing research at the library, finding a corpse, and being interrogated by a sheriff.
I locked up the shop, stopped at the grocery store to stock up on diet munchies, and went home. I put a small steak in a nonstick skillet and added slices of onion, celery, and green pepper to simmer in the natural juices. While a potato baked, I went out on the porch for my paper. It wasn't there.
“Hide-and-seek,” I murmured, scanning the yard. “Just what I wanted to do this evening.”
I walked down the steps. My gaze circled the ground, the roof of the house, to the ground again, and finally settled on a decorative tree I'd bought with money I'd received from Carl's memorial fund.
Instead of standing tall, the young tree looked ready to topple over from the weight of the newspaper wedged in its branches. “Damn it,” I muttered, my heels stabbing the grass as I stomped across the yard.
The tree was only as big around as a nickel, and tonight it was a pitiful sight. It looked like a peasant curtsying before royalty.
Carefully, I worked the paper free. Without the added weight, the sapling sprang upright, but the tender bark had been skinned.
In the house, I tossed the paper on the table, turned the heat down under my steak, and looked up Jamie Fenton's number. I dialed and tried to bring my temper under control.
A man answered.
“Is this the home of Jamie Fenton?” I asked crisply.
“Yes, it is.”
“I'd like to speak to him.”
“Uh, ma'am. There must be some mistake. Jamie—”
I quickly interrupted. “Are you his father?”
“Well … I am Jamie's father, but you see Jamie is—”
“Look. This is Bretta Solomon over on Market Drive. He delivers my papers and, well … I'd like to have a word with him.”
“Ma'am,” he said sharply, “if you'd let me speak, I'm sure we can get to the bottom of this.”
“I'm at the bottom. There's nothing left but for Jamie and me to have a talk. I could go to the newspaper office, but I won't do that unless I'm forced to.”
His voice was cold. “Name a time.”
“Now. Tonight,” I said.
“Homework comes first around here.”
“This isn't a social call.”
“I understand that from your tone.”
“I want this foolishness to stop.”
“I don't know what you're talking about, but I'll have Jamie call you.”
“No. I want to see him face to face.”
Suddenly, Mr. Fenton laughed. “That might be a problem if you want to see
him.
”
I was so angry, I was shaking. It's parents like him who raise juvenile delinquents. He thought everything was a joke. “You talk to your son,” I replied in a tight voice. “See if he'll explain what he's been doing with my paper. I'll leave this matter in your hands.” My tone implied that I thought this was a foolish gesture on my part. “If the incidents are repeated,” I warned, “I'll be forced to take care of it on my own, and frankly, I don't think you or your son will like the results.”
I hung up before Mr. Fenton could speak. “The nerve,” I exclaimed. “He's probably known all along what his son's been doing.”
I grabbed a bowl out of the cabinet and tore up lettuce for a salad. I snatched and grabbed, rattled pans and silverware. My anger was slow to subside.
That tree was special to me. The money had come from Carl's fellow deputies. I wanted it to live, to thrive. I'd had nurserymen out two or three times to check on
its progress. They'd said I'd planted the tree too close to the old cottonwood. The bigger tree was sapping all the moisture and nutrients out of the soil. I was planning to transplant the tree in the backyard this spring where nothing would interfere with its growth.
The timer went off. The potato was done. I gave the steak a gentle poke. It was tender. I turned off the heat and went to my room to slip out of my clothes. I wanted to eat in comfort. Pantyhose and heels didn't fit the bill.
Wrapped in my robe, I was on my way back to the kitchen when the doorbell rang. I didn't try to stifle my annoyance. I was tired, hungry, and not in the mood for company. Without thinking, I flung open the door. I suppose it's not a very smart thing to do when you're up to your eyeballs in a murder investigation.
I was in luck this time. No killer. Just a man and a girl. After I saw the man's expression, I was ready to revise my first thought regarding my safety. He was handsome, or would have been if his face hadn't been scrunched up in a frown. His eyebrows were drawn together, his full lips pressed in a grim line. I looked from him to the girl. She was cute. Short auburn hair, round chubby face, a few freckles scattered like fairy dust across the bridge of her pert nose.
I grinned at her. “Girl Scout cookies, I bet.” I shrugged. “I shouldn't buy any, but I can take them to work. Give me a couple of boxes. It doesn't matter what kind.”
“No cookies,” snapped the man. “I'm Mr. Fenton.”
“You are?” I murmured, blinking at him in surprise. “That was fast.” I looked past him. “Where's Jamie? I'd rather talk to him.”
“That's impossible,” he said. “I tried to explain that to you on the phone, but you kept interrupting.” He enunciated each word.
“Mrs. Solomon, there is no him.”
He pushed the girl toward me. “Meet Jamie Fenton. My daughter. She delivers your papers.”
“Why … I … uh …” I swallowed and forced myself not to stammer. “Come in,” I invited. “You've taken me totally by surprise. I had no idea that Jamie was—is a girl.”
They stepped into my house, but the man refused to come any further. I closed the door and tried to collect my thoughts. I looked down at Jamie. So she was the plump figure I'd seen riding the bike.
“You're how old?” I asked.
“She's twelve. Will be thirteen next week,” replied her father.
“Do you know what this is about?”
“No. Jamie has been extremely silent on the subject.”
“Does her mother know?”
His lips hardened. “My wife died three years ago.”
“Oh.” I looked back at Jamie, who had yet to meet my eyes. “Almost a teenager, huh? Tough age.”
She didn't move.
Discovering that Jamie was a girl had taken the wind out of my sails, and even had me fairly embarrassed. I'd never dreamed that a girl was responsible for the tricks
played with my newspaper. Briskly, I said, “I was getting ready to eat dinner.”
When the father started to speak, I gave him a cutting look. He retaliated with a frown. I ignored him and took Jamie's arm and said, “Come into the kitchen and have a seat. We can talk there.”
She spoke for the first time. “I'm not eating.”
“But you can keep me company while I eat.” I firmly increased the pressure on her arm.
Sullen, she dragged her feet across the room, then slumped in a kitchen chair. Mr. Fenton stood in the doorway. I mulled over the situation while I poured three glasses of iced tea. I handed them around, then dished up my supper.
For the first time, I saw interest on Jamie's face. She watched every move I made. I put the steak on my plate and arranged the bits of steamed vegetables across the top. While I was splitting the potato, a thought occurred. Out of the corner of my eye, I studied her thick arms and double chin, her pudgy body dressed in jogging pants and oversized T-shirt.
Matter-of-factly, I explained, “I don't keep butter in the house. I eat my baked potato with salsa or fat-free ranch dressing.” I shrugged. “At first, I missed the buttery flavor, but now, I don't think about it.” It was a stretched point that should have twanged like a rubber band. But in this case, I thought it necessary.
I waited. Jamie didn't say anything. Her father, however, was ready with a comment. Before he could speak,
I turned my back to Jamie and jerked a finger across my neck. He got my point and reared back like I'd taken a punch at him. So he'd know I wasn't completely without manners, I tacked on a silent “please” and nodded toward the living room.
He got my message, but he wasn't happy. He mumbled something about waiting in the other room. I took the lid off the salsa jar.
“Hot and spicy. It gives a simple baked potato a Mexican tang.” I put half the potato on a saucer, topped it with salsa, added a fork, and slid it across the table to Jamie. “Try it. I lost a hundred pounds eating that.”
When she didn't pick up the fork, I turned my attention to the steak. I cut off a bite and put it in my mouth. “Mmm,” I said. “Not bad.”
She looked at me with wide blue eyes. “Don't you get hungry?”
“Sometimes, but there's always something I can eat. Losing weight has to do with making the right choices.”
Jamie picked up the fork and speared a bite of potato. She stared at it. “You're old,” she mumbled, then ducked her head. “I mean, it's different for you. I'm with kids who eat cheeseburgers, pizza, and fries all the time. Why don't they get fat? Why just me?”
“I used to feel that way, too. When I was your age, I was the biggest girl in my class. When I got older, I was usually the biggest woman in the room. But my life went on. It was tough. Sometimes I'd cry. Most of the time I just kept eating.”
She sighed. “Me, too.” She put the bite of potato in
her mouth and chewed. Glancing at the door, she swallowed and lowered her voice. “Dad doesn't help. He works all day, then stops at a fast-food place and picks up dinner. I'm starved when I get off my paper route, and I eat everything.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It's a bad deal.”
We ate and chewed in silence. After a while, I asked, “So, why do you keep putting my paper everywhere but on the porch?”
Jamie directed her explanation to her glass of iced tea. “When I took over this route, you were just like Mrs. Sherman down the street.”
My fork clattered on my plate. “But Mrs. Sherman, is huge.”
Jamie shrugged. “You used to be. Now your clothes are loose.” Her tone turned accusing. “I've even seen you with your blouse tucked into your slacks. It's not fair,” she said. “Every time I see you, you're getting littler and littler, and I'm getting bigger and bigger.” She scooped the rest of the potato onto her fork and crammed it in her mouth.
I pushed my plate aside and leaned my elbows against the table. “Let me get this straight. Because I've lost weight and you haven't, you've been doing a number on me with the newspaper?”
She squirmed. “Sounds dumb when you put it that way.
“It
is
dumb.”
Jamie eyed my steak. “Are you gonna eat that?”
“Have you had supper?”
“No … well, yeah. Dad brought home pizza. But I only had three slices. Then you called.”
I rolled my eyes. “Listen, kid, we've got to talk.”
“About the paper?”
“Among other things.” I raised my voice and called, “Mr. Fenton, could you come in here?”
Jamie's eyes widened in protest. Her young mouth formed a round O of horror. “Not my dad,” she whispered fiercely.
“Yes. Your father is part of your problem.”
I motioned for Mr. Fenton to have a chair, then I started a pot of coffee brewing. From a shelf in the living room, I pulled a number of books into my arms. Carefully, I stacked them on the kitchen table.

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