Roots of Murder (17 page)

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Authors: Janis Harrison

BOOK: Roots of Murder
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Cleome pursed her lips and pulled a lethal-looking butcher knife from a drawer. My eyes widened. But she only went to a dishpan where a chicken carcass soaked.
She attacked the bird with the knife, pierced the meat, and exposed the bone. I watched, mesmerized by her nimble fingers. They always seemed to be in danger of a painful nick, but she'd move them out of the way. The chicken pieces would separate and fall into the bloody water.
I waited until she'd finished and had put down the knife. I wanted another go-around with Cleome, but not while she held that dagger in her hands.
Before I could speak, the door opened and Katie came in with a basket of sun-dried clothes. On her way through the kitchen, she said, “Bretta is to stay for supper.” Her chin trembled when Cleome turned, but Katie didn't yield ground. However, she did switch from English to their dialect.
It didn't take an Einstein to figure out what was said. The words weren't familiar, but I know a butt-chewing when I hear it, in any language.
Katie's eyes filled with tears. I winked at her and said, “After we eat, I'd like to take a walk. Maybe go down to the creek.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cleome frown. Recklessly, I added, “I'm sure your father won't care. I'll fix it with him.”
Cleome waited until Katie had left the room, then whispered fiercely, “Take your walk. Enjoy your
last
evening here. It's all behind us now.”
“Behind you?” I exclaimed.
“Evan plowed up Isaac's flowers today. He'll sow wheat tomorrow. Hodges is dead. He won't be bothering Rosalie or any of us again.”
“He was murdered, Cleome, so it isn't finished. It's your right not to see me again, but don't you want the guilty person punished?”
“Our Lord will take care of that.”
“What if the reason for Isaac's murder still exists? What if the killer comes back? He has to be found.”
Cleome's lips spread into a pious smile. “It doesn't matter. In our Lord's words, ‘When he knoweth of it,
then shall he be guilty.' We don't know anything. None of this concerns us. We are not involved. We are not answerable to you, either.”
Her calm, condescending attitude was like tossed gas on a smoldering fire. My temper flared. “Soon,” I prophesied, “regardless of what you want, the outside world will come knocking on your door.”
I'd just finished delivering my bit of prognostication when tires crunched on the drive. Cleome stared at me, then out the window. A burgundy van labeled RIVER CITY WHOLESALE FLORAL CO. had parked behind my car. The van door opened, and J. W. Moth stepped out.
“Company,” I murmured. “Not who I'd have predicted.”
“Who is that?” demanded Cleome uneasily.
“The buyer of Isaac's flowers.”
She relaxed. “Oh. He's too late. They're all gone.” With a contented smile, Cleome went back to the stove.
I watched from the kitchen window. Moth surveyed his surroundings. He glanced at my car, looked at the house. The wind ruffled his thinning hair. He tugged at the waistband of his jeans. Jeans? Moth? I snorted. Moth had dressed down for his visit to an Amish farm.
Some men wear denim with ease; it fits their form naturally. I grinned when Moth dug at the seam that rode in his crack. I chuckled softly at his annoyed scowl. He rubbed his hands down his pants legs, tugging at the material bunched at his crotch.
Moth's adjustments came to a halt when he saw Evan
crossing the yard. With mincing steps, he hurried over and said, “Mr. Miller, I had some free time and thought I'd pay you a call.”
Evan's voice was low. I didn't catch what he said. Moth's answering voice squeaked. “I know, but I hoped I might get you to change your mind.”
Evan shook his head. Behind me, Cleome tittered. The two men had walked out of my line of vision. Moth's voice was muffled. I decided I'd have to go out and hear their conversation firsthand, perhaps interject a comment or two.
I stepped onto the porch and Moth turned. His expression wasn't filled with delight at the sight of me. He nodded curtly, then concentrated again on Evan.
Moth's high-pitched voice deepened with emotion. “This is a tragic situation, Mr. Miller. You've lost a brother, and I've lost a good friend.”
What a crock, I thought in disgust. This man's acting abilities were being wasted in Missouri. He should have been onstage somewhere, anywhere but here. I was moved by his performance, moved to the point I wanted to kick his scrawny little butt off Evan's property.
“Would it be possible for me to see Isaac's greenhouse?” Moth asked. “We had some marvelous plans.” He sighed forlornly. “Now, I'm at a loss. I assume, as his brother, you'll honor my agreement.”
“Agreement?” repeated Evan. “I don't know anything about an agreement.” His eyes shifted to me. “Bretta, do you know what he's talking about?”
I pasted a smile on my face. I couldn't tell Moth to
take a flying leap. After all, I did depend on him for the bulk of my cut flowers. I had other options, but Moth was in River City when I needed supplies in a hurry.
“This isn't a good time,” I explained. “As for the agreement, that will depend on Isaac's widow. I don't believe she's seeing anyone yet.”
It was amusing to watch Moth's face. The total of my monthly flower statement must have flashed before his eyes. He struggled to be gracious, though his first instinct must have been the same as mine regarding him. He swallowed his ill humor and nodded agreeably. “Perhaps in a day or two, I can come back and see the glasshouse. I'll make an offer for its contents.”
“Do you have a price in mind?” I asked innocently.
“No” was his short reply. To Evan, he was more congenial. “When I make an offer for Isaac's plants, the sum will be fair.” Casually, he asked, “Are they in the greenhouse? Are they being taken care of?”
Evan darted a swift look at me. I met that look and felt a rock settle in my stomach. Oh, boy. Something was wrong. Until I knew the problem, I didn't want Moth privy to any information. Evan started to speak, but I loudly overrode him. I assured Moth that I'd seen the plants and they were in excellent condition.
This news didn't set well. He sniveled, “If she's seen them, why can't I, especially if I'm buying them?”
“I'm a friend of the family. I'm staying for supper. Since you haven't bought anything yet …” My voice trailed away.
Moth clamped his lips together and walked to his van. He climbed up on the seat and started the engine. “I'll be back in a few days,” he called in parting.
Evan and I watched Moth maneuver the van out of the driveway and onto the blacktop. Once he was on his way, Evan asked, “What agreement? Isaac never said anything about any agreement.”
I gave him a quick rundown on what I'd learned and what I suspected. Someone knew the value of Isaac's red mums, and lots of greedy people had hopes for making money.
“Not anymore,” said Evan. “Come see Isaac's plants.”
I didn't wait for Evan. I ran across the yard. At the greenhouse door, I paused to look at Isaac's field. The flowers were gone. Plowed under. Here and there were bits of green stems, and a few ragged flower heads waved dejectedly above the freshly turned earth.
I smelled rain in the air. The clouds were closing in on the sun. Tears filled my eyes. It was a sad, desolate picture.
At my side Evan murmured, “I did that today. It was like burying Isaac all over again.”
There was nothing to say. I turned to the greenhouse and went down the steps. Shock took my breath away. I stared in amazement. All the plants were dying: shriveled stems; dried-up leaves; buds limp and black.
“What happened, Evan?” I managed to ask. “What did you do?”
“Nothing. They just started dying.”
“But I saw them Sunday. They were fine.” I walked
down the aisle. “A plant doesn't die this quickly. It doesn't turn black.”
I touched a leaf with a fingertip. It fell, setting off a chain reaction. More leaves fell like shattered dreams. “I don't get it,” I mumbled. “When did you first notice there was a problem?”
“Yesterday, they didn't look right. This morning they were worse.
I sniffed a few times.
Gruffly, Evan said, “It's nothing to cry over, Bretta.”
“I'm not crying. Don't you smell that? What is it?”
He shrugged. “Just greenhouse, I guess.”
“No. That isn't greenhouse.” I frowned, trying to think. “I've smelled it before.” I closed my eyes in concentration. A memory was just at the edge of my mind. I could almost see it, but it didn't look right. It didn't fit my scenario of events. I opened my eyes and found Evan staring at me. He must have thought I'd lost my mind. I asked him, “Did you fertilize the plants?”
“No. I just watered them from the holding tank.” Evan pointed. “The tank is buried underground. We use a small pump to push the water through the hose.”
“Where do you fill the tank?”
“The spout is outside. The water comes from our main well.”
“Pump me some water, Evan. I want to see it.”
His shoulders slumped. “Aw, Bretta, that pump is old and needs fixing. Most of the time I have to carry water from the house to prime it.”
My jaw was set. Evan sighed. “All right. But can I just dip out a bucket?”
“I don't care how you do it. I want to see the water that's in the storage tank.”
“It'll take me a few minutes.”
He moved a small potting bench, then slid a piece of sheet metal to one side to reveal a trap door that was two feet square. He flipped it up. I leaned over to look in, but it was too dark to see. He found a piece of rope and tied it to a bucket. Slowly, he lowered it into the hole. We heard the
kerplunk
as it hit bottom.
The odor was stronger over the trap door. It made my nose tingle. “How much water does this storage tank hold?” I asked.
“About three hundred gallons, but there's not that much in here now. I haven't gotten around to filling it.”
Evan drew the bucket up and set it down. It contained only about three inches of water, but it was enough to see that it was clear.
Something had been added to the storage tank. Something so deadly it had killed the plants in four days. I walked to the far end of the greenhouse and stared at the dying parent plant. Not a sprig of green anywhere, or I'd have hustled it off for Dan Parker to save.
All of Isaac's painstaking work was gone. He might not have wanted the money, but his widow and children deserved to have this plant. It had been part of Isaac's life. Now it was dead. It had been murdered with the same calculated ruthlessness that had killed him.
On the walk back to the house, Evan told me the reason for his spontaneous invitation for me to join them for supper. Jacob, Emily, Matthew, and Mark had gone home with the relatives for a visit. Luke and John were too young to care, but Katie had wanted to go with her older siblings. I was her consolation prize. My words, not Evan's.
Our small group was lost at the big trestle table. The meal began with a silent prayer. I'd eaten Cleome's cooking several times in the past. The menus weren't designed for a calorie- or cholesterol-reduction diet. The recipes didn't come from a “time saver” or a “quickie meal planner” article out of a magazine. This was food to sate a workingman's appetite.
I gazed at the banquet before me. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, and green beans cooked with bits of home-cured ham. There was a plate of biscuits, each crusty, golden sphere more than three inches tall and accompanied by a blue crock of country-churned butter. Dessert was the pies I'd seen earlier.
I gulped. I thought I'd blown my diet eating pizza. What was I going to do now?
As I put some food on my plate, I searched my brain. If my mouth was open talking, I couldn't be shoveling food into it. All I needed was a subject. Something that would be of interest to my Amish listeners.
I looked around me. Mom was gone. An entirely different kind of life was being lived within these walls, but there was the same feeling of love and family here. I smiled as I remembered Mom and me popping corn, then sharing a bowl while we laughed at the antics of Red Skelton on television.
Amish don't have televisions. The farm? Mom and me driving the tractor into the pond. Amish don't use tractors. I looked at the jelly on the counter. I relaxed and talked about something everyone at the table could appreciate.
A kerosene lamp hung from a hook in the ceiling. The glow cast shadows on the planes and hollows of the faces around me. The family's clothes were dark and somber, but their eyes were alight with curiosity.
“My mother was a wonderful woman, but she thought the only reason we had summer was so we could work in the garden. We pickled beets, shucked corn, shelled peas, broke beans.” I took a deep breath and added, “We stemmed strawberries, peeled peaches, crushed grapes.” I grinned. “By fall my fingers were almost stubs, but the cellar was packed with jars full of preserved fruits and vegetables.”
“And you helped?” asked Katie, in awe of this revelation.
I smiled at her. “I think I spent more time in the garden than I did playing at the creek.”
“What did you play?”
I waved away Evan's offer of a second helping of chicken. “Well, let's see. I'd take my dolls, Mom would fix me a snack, and I'd have a picnic. You're lucky to have brothers and sisters to play with. When I was your age, it was just me and the birds and frogs. I'd stay as long as Mom would let me.”
Katie gave Cleome a shy look. “But it's never long enough.”
Embarrassed by their rapt attention, I chuckled. “That was many, many years ago, but I'd still like to see that old tree and the creek.” I pushed my plate away and declined Cleome's offer of a piece of pie.
Thunder rumbled. This time it was closer.
“It's going to rain,” said Katie fretfully, eyeing the changing weather.
“I like walking in the rain,” I replied.
Cleome started to shake her head, but Evan said, “We'll save dessert for later. Go on. A little water never hurt anyone.”
We bowed our heads for the silent prayer that ended the meal. Once every head was up, Katie jumped from her chair and hurried to the door.
“Maybe it won't rain until we get back,” she said hopefully and pushed open the door to skip down the steps.
I paused long enough to thank Cleome for the meal. Her eyes met mine. I was surprised to see a gleam of respect. Had she and I finally found common ground? I thought of Mom's blue granite canner sitting unused on a shelf in my garage. Impulsively, I offered it to Cleome.
For a moment, I thought she was going to smile. It was there at the corner of her mouth, but she wouldn't let it free. “I can put it to good use” was all she said.
I nodded to her, then glanced at Evan. He gave me a sly wink before picking up a book.
Outside, the sky was crowded with ominous, roiling clouds. The wind had picked up, bringing a freshness of rain already fallen somewhere close by. I caught up with Katie, whose exuberance was a match for the swirling tempest overhead.
From the house, the land sloped gently to the creek. Past the creek was the back pasture where the ground leveled out to the Millers' property fence. Beyond that was the gravel road and the Bellows' acreage.
Daylight had faded, but trees were visible, their leafy branches black against the navy sky. Lightning streaked occasionally, but it wasn't close enough to cause us concern.
Katie had brought a flashlight, but I assured her I didn't need it. Our destination was marked by the oak tree that stood like a friendly giant patiently watching our approach. It was much taller than its companions, its girth more than Katie and I could've reached around. Years had passed since I'd been this way, but the tree
was as I'd remembered—the roots exposed, creating neat crevices where we could sit.
For a time, we didn't speak. We listened to the water ripple over the rocks in the creekbed. Off to our left, a bird chirped a warning that strangers were about.
“I like it here,” whispered Katie. Her voice was soft and dreamy. “It's a good place to think.”
“When I was your age, I'd lie back and stare up at the stars. I'd wonder all sorts of things.”
“You would?”
“Yeah. Like what keeps an airplane in the air. Or why you can make bread one time, and it's light and tasty, and the next it isn't fit to feed to a dog.”
She laughed. “Or how about, why do the stars just hang? Or what makes clouds so fluffy?”
I pointed. “Those clouds don't look very fluffy to me. We'd better start back. I have to drive home, yet.”
Katie sighed. “I don't know why it had to rain tonight.”
Before I could reply, I heard voices from across the creek. “That sounds like Cleome.”
Katie stirred uneasily. “Yes.”
I strained my ears. “Is that Edna with her?”
“Sometimes after supper they meet to visit.” She glanced at me. “We're not supposed to tell, or Mr. Bellows will be mad.”
I almost snorted. Mad wouldn't begin to describe Cecil's reaction to his wife being friends with an Amish woman.
“Does Evan know?” I asked.
Katie nodded. “We feel sorry for Edna. She doesn't have many friends.”
A word popped into my mind. Without thinking, I said it aloud. “Shunning.”
Beside me, Katie gasped and came nimbly to her feet. My muscles didn't react nearly as quickly, but I scrambled up. “What is it, Katie?”
She stammered, “Why … uh … what … we don't talk about that.”
“It's all right, Katie. I'm sorry, I said—”
“What's wrong with flowers?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Bishop Detweiler said if Isaac went against the council's decision, it would be the same as going against God. Isaac would have to be punished. But I don't understand. All he did was grow flowers.”
This was Evan and Cleome's job to explain. Not mine. “Let's go back to the house,” I suggested. “Keep the light off. We can find our way.”
We stepped from the grove of trees through some tall fescue grass and into the mowed pasture. The rain was fast approaching. I could feel the mist on my face.
We quickened our steps. I was ready to make a dash for cover, when I heard a vehicle on the gravel road. I stopped when it slowed down. Was it Cecil? Had he discovered Edna's secret? I waited for his shout of anger. The car's engine shut off. A door closed.
“Who's that?” asked Katie.
“I don't know. Let's watch.” Afraid our silhouettes
might be seen, I tugged on her arm, and we knelt on the pasture.
It was a man. His low oath carried to us, followed by the sound of cloth tearing. We heard a dull thud, then a figure appeared. He held a flashlight, the beam bright. It pinpointed his limping progress across the open field.
“Is that Mr. Bellows?” worried Katie.
“No,” I said grimly. “Go to the house and get your father. Tell him to meet me at Isaac's greenhouse.”
“If it isn't Mr. Bellows, who is it?”
I had a good idea, but I wanted to catch him in the act. In her ear, I whispered, “Tell Evan to be very quiet and not to have a light on.”
Katie trembled. I put my arm around her slim shoulders. “Do as I say. Keep your light off. Circle the pasture so he doesn't see you.”
“Is it who killed Isaac?”
I gave her a hug of reassurance. “Go get your father. We'll take care of it.”
She hurried off. I trailed the intruder as he loped along. He hunkered close to the ground, but the light remained on. ,
I worked my way to within sixty feet of him. I wanted to close the distance, but I was afraid he'd turn and flash the light behind him. When he topped the hill near Isaac's field, the light went out.
Had he changed his mind? Or had he scurried on? Taking a chance, I assumed the latter and picked up
my pace. When I reached the crest, the clouds split and a deluge of rain bombarded the field. My shirt was soaked in an instant. I stopped long enough to wipe the water from my eyes. Through the plopping of raindrops, I heard the unmistakable sound of an umbrella being swooshed open.
I clenched my teeth and muttered, “Pompous little turd.”
We neared the greenhouse. I rubbed my chilled arms and looked longingly at Evan's house. Was he on his way?
The grass was slick under my feet, and my hair straggled in my eyes. A light flashed on briefly as the man got his bearings. I moved faster now that I knew exactly where he was. The greenhouse door creaked open. His shoes crunched on the gravel steps; then he was inside.
I waited to see if Evan was nearby. But I heard only silence and the
pitter-patter
of rain on the glass roof. Would the intruder turn on his light? I waited. His greed won out over his fear of discovery. The light came on, and he drew a sharp breath.
Carefully, I followed him down the steps. He had his hand over the lens to diffuse the glare. From the crook of his arm dangled the collapsed umbrella. I crept closer.
In the glow, his face was pale. His pointed nose emphasized his weasel appearance. His actions deserved my crude assessment. He was a sneak thief. My lips curled with contempt as he played the light over the dying plants.
“All dead,” I said quietly. “Just like Isaac.”
J. W. Moth whirled. Like a cornered animal, he searched for a means of escape. There was none. I blocked the only exit.
Moth was desperate. He shone the light into my face. Blinded, I instinctively put up a hand. He swung hard and his umbrella slammed into it. I groaned as pain shot up my arm. I couldn't see, but I heard his feet crunch on the gravel as he rushed me. I put both arms up and received another vicious pounding with the damned umbrella. I reached for it but couldn't get a hold.
Moth caught me off balance and pushed me aside. I fell. As he leaped over me, I made a grab for his ankle. I connected, and he sprawled across me. His knee hit my chin, and for a second, I saw stars.
I shook my head to clear my vision and saw the flashlight had fallen on the bench. It was tilted up to the roof. The light reflected on the water-spotted glass overhead, turning the drops into a treasure trove of sparkling gems.

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