Roots of Murder (18 page)

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Authors: Janis Harrison

BOOK: Roots of Murder
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Moth's curse filled the air as he tried to wiggle out of my grasp. I'd hoped he'd lost his “weapon” in the scuffle. No such luck. He countered my attack by beating my hands, my back, and my face with the umbrella.
I let go of his ankle, and he struggled to his feet. He picked up the flashlight but aimed it away from my eyes. Holding the umbrella like a sword, he backed toward the steps.
I came slowly to my feet and inched toward him. My aggressive action infuriated him.
“Stay away from me,” he warned.
“You aren't going anywhere,” I declared. “If you do, the sheriff will hunt you down.”
“Hunt me down?” he whined. “I didn't do anything. I only wanted to see the plants.”
“Murder
isn't anything?”
“Murder?” he squeaked. The umbrella wavered. “What are you talking about?”
“Isaac.” The name dropped between us.
The umbrella dipped to the ground. “What does that have to do with me?”
“How did you know to cross the pasture to get here?”
“I saw the road this afternoon when I left the Millers'. I followed it and decided to come back tonight to see the mutation.”
“It wasn't the first time you crossed that pasture,” I accused. “You did it the same night you killed Isaac.”
Moth looked bewildered, but not so addled that he didn't notice I'd worked my way closer. The umbrella came up. He pointed the silver tip at my throat.
“You're crazy,” he shouted. “I'm going back to town, and you can't stop me.”
“But I can,” said Evan. His voice drifted eerily from the shadows. It caught Moth off guard.
Moth swiveled the light in Evan's direction. The Amish man looked impressive in the illumination. Rain had plastered his workshirt to his muscular arms. Moisture dripped from his face and ran in rivulets into his
black beard. When the light flashed in his eyes, Evan stood like stone, never wincing.
“Mr.—uh—Miller,” stammered Moth, “I—uh—well …” Finding an adequate explanation beyond his capabilities, Moth did the only thing he could. He ran. He zipped by Evan and up the steps.
“Why didn't you grab him?” I demanded.
Calmly, Evan stepped farther into the greenhouse. He took a packet of matches from his pocket and lit the lantern in his hand.
I ran up the steps and peered after Moth into the gloom. “Hurry,” I called to Evan. “He's getting away.”
Evan adjusted the flame, then moved at a snail's pace up to where I stood. He held the lantern above his head, and we saw Moth fleeing across the pasture in a drizzle of rain.
“We have to stop him,” I said, and I took a couple of steps. When Evan didn't follow, I turned and asked, “What's wrong?”
“I don't fight.”
My nerves were as fragile as wet tissue paper. “I'm not asking you to fight him, Evan. Just detain him until the sheriff can get here.”
Stubbornly, Evan shook his head.
“Then give me the damned lantern,” I said. “I'll go after him.”
“No.”
“What?” I screeched. I was wet and angry. I hadn't taken a beating from Moth just so he could climb in his car and drive merrily away.
I don't know how long we would have stood there, Evan impassive, me doing an indignant burn. From up the hill came a harsh exclamation. It was followed by a scream of unadulterated terror.
Moth's light had diminished in the distance. Now we saw it come bobbing back. He slipped and slid down the hill. His cry for help echoed in the night.
“Stop him!” he screamed. “It's the devil himself.”
We watched in amazement as Moth sprinted toward us. Beside me, Evan began to chuckle. At first, it was a low, hollow sound deep within his throat. Finally, it burst from his mouth in great belly laughs. I thought he'd gone nuts.
I strained to see the humor. Slowly, a smile of satisfaction spread across my face. Saul, the wayward goat, had come to the Millers' for a bedtime snack. It was Moth's misfortune that he'd crossed paths with the goat: Moth's instinct was to run. Saul's was to give chase.
I wasn't as amused as Evan, but I felt that my beating was about to be vindicated. Moth begged for us to rescue him. When we did nothing, his steps faltered. This was the opening the goat needed.
Saul lowered his head. He put on a fresh burst of speed. I saw it coming. I flinched as the horns dug into Moth's soft posterior. Right on target. Moth stumbled, hit a patch of mud, and sprawled at our feet.
“Touchdown,” I said. “Score one for our side.”
My enthusiasm at seeing Moth bested lasted about as long as the storm. The clouds had already shuffled off to reveal a pale, watery moon. Biting my lip, I put my hand out to Moth in a gesture of reconciliation.
He looked at it, then said, “You accused me of murder.”
I retaliated. “You beat me with your umbrella and trespassed on Evan's land.”
Moth nodded once. “So I did.” He put his hand in mine, and I jerked him to his feet. He was a pitiful figure, but he wasn't the killer. Now that I had the chance to think calmly about it, his amazement at my accusation had had the ring of truth. He was only what he appeared to be—a sniveling sneak thief. The fight had gone out of him.
After Evan had grabbed Saul's collar, we headed for the house—a dismal, silent group. Moth's screams for help were loud enough that they should have alerted everyone within a two-mile radius. But our ruckus had been lost in the chaos of another brewing storm.
This one was centered in Evan's yard. Lanterns were
lit. Two trucks sat in the drive with their motors running and their headlights on. But there was no rain to dampen the ill will from this storm. Anger, hurt, distrust, and hostility pelted everyone until we were spotted.
A stillness fell. A fist raised in anger froze in midair. Mouths hung open. Eyes were wide with surprise. It might have been comical, but I'd had my laugh for the evening.
Rosalie was on the porch with the younger children. I looked for Katie but didn't see her. Cleome and Edna faced Cecil. His fist was raised, his face twisted with rage. Sam Kramer and Eli Detweiler were squared off. The old bishop's shoulders were stiff and uncompromising. Sam, his scrawny neck wrapped in a brace, was busy situating his teeth.
My voice was droll. “Having a party and you didn't invite us?”
That broke the spell that held them. The shouting match took up where our interruption had stopped it. Cecil could be heard above everyone else.
He ranted, “Behind my back, Edna. You'd make me a laughingstock.”
“We're friends,” Edna tried to explain.
“Friends?” shouted Cecil. “You have plenty of friends without her.”
“I saw you on my place today,” Sam said to Detweiler.
“I admit to being there,” replied the bishop.
“You're the one who's been letting my goat out,” said
Sam. He crossed the yard to the animal. “Saul had better be okay.” He ran a hand over the animal's wiry hair and glared at Detweiler. “You're trying to cause me trouble.”
“And I'll continue to say, I am not.”
“Then what the hell were you doing on my land?”
I shut out Cecil so I could hear Detweiler's answer.
The bishop said, “I've purchased some trees on the land that connects with your property. Instead of harnessing up the buggy, I walked over there. I've done it before, and you never said anything.”
“That was before
she”
—here Sam dramatically pointed at me—“started coming around asking questions. The sheriff took me in for questioning. Said he found the murder weapon on my land. Then she dang near kilt me, ramming his car with hers, with me sitting locked in the backseat.”
Cecil abandoned his argument with his wife to side with Sam. “Damned right,” he shouted.
“She
came sneaking around my house while I was gone. Asking questions. Trying to get my wife to tell her where I was the night the Amish man died.”
He took a step in my direction. “My business is my business. I thought I'd made that clear. If need be, I'll repeat it for you.”
“Now, Cecil,” began Edna.
He didn't let her finish. He jabbed the air with his finger. “I don't want to hear one word from you. I've seen and heard enough.”
“If you've heard enough,” said Cleome, “then you
know Edna and I were talking about our gardens.”
“I don't give a damn if you were talking about the second coming of Christ. I don't want her talking about it with you.”
Evan had given over the care of Saul to Sam so he was free to go to Cleome. He faced Cecil. “There will be no more meetings between my wife and yours. There will be nothing between us as neighbors. I'm asking you to leaves.”
Cecil stared at Evan. The Amish man stood his ground. For a brief moment, I thought I saw respect on Cecil's face. But if that unfamiliar emotion had been there at all, it didn't tarry. He scowled. “Let's go, Edna.”
When Edna turned to obey her husband, it was more than I could stand.
“Go,” I shouted, flapping my hands in the air. “Just climb meekly in that truck and toddle on home. I don't understand you people. Can't visit who you want. Can't grow flowers. Can't walk across someone's property.” I shook my head and lowered my voice. “There was a time when neighbors helped neighbors. When ideas were exchanged. I don't expect you, Cecil, to accept Evan's way of life, but common courtesy is supposed to extend beyond all boundaries.”
As I paused in my tirade, Detweiler said, “Them going their way, and us going ours, is right.”
My eyes narrowed. “But neither of you are going anywhere. This is your home. You live within walking distance of each other. In the last few days, I've had the Bible quoted to me more times than I can count, from
all kinds of people. What about ‘love thy neighbor'? Or do you choose to honor only parts of the Bible? The ones that suit your purpose?”
“I don't expect you to understand,” said Detweiler.
I threw up my hands in disgust. “You're right. I don't understand. All I see ahead for you is loneliness and sadness. If Edna and Cleome want to visit, what's the harm? Neither woman is out to convert the other. All they want is to talk.”
“Edna has friends,” said Cecil.
“So does Evan's Cleome,” countered Detweiler.
“This is all very entertaining,” said Moth, “but frankly, I've had enough. If you, sir,” he directed his query to Cecil, “would be so kind as to give me a ride to my car, I'll be on my way to River City.”
“Who the hell are you?” demanded Cecil, his eyes measuring Moth's worth.
The businessman's jeans were covered with mud. A large L-shaped tear in one pants leg revealed a garish white thigh. Part of his shirttail had come untucked and hung half in, half out. Completing his ensemble was the umbrella still dangling from the crook of his arm.
“I'm J. W. Moth, owner of River City Wholesale Floral Company. I'll pay you handsomely if you get me away from this asylum.”
I'd had my say. In fact, I'd had my fill of the entire group. Wearily, I offered, “I'll take you to your car, but first, I want to tell Katie good-bye.” I looked at Cleome. “Where is she?”
Cleome's face was blank. Luke and John were on the
steps. Rosalie was leaning against the railing, her arm around her daughter, Amelia.
The muscles in my throat squeezed shut. I could hardly speak. “Cleome, make sure Katie is all right.”
Cleome looked to Evan. He looked at me, then jerked his head toward the house.
Cleome took a lantern and hurried inside. Breathlessly, I watched the light travel from room to room. My eyes were glued to the back door. I prayed Katie would step out on the porch with that special smile on her face.
But it was Cleome who opened the door. She came to Evan's side and took his arm in a tight grasp. “Katie's not here. She's not in the house.”
“Evan, tell me what happened,” I said firmly. “What did Katie say when she came to get you?”
“She said that you were in danger. That someone was in the field again, just like the night Isaac died.”
“Oh, no,” I breathed. “Who heard her say this? Who else was here?”
Evan frowned. “I don't see what that has to do with Katie being gone.”
Pieces were falling into place. Horrible pieces that were turning my heart into a rough-edged chunk of ice. The killer knew Katie had seen someone the night Isaac was murdered.
The killer feared that Katie might recognize who that someone had been.
The killer had taken Katie.
And I knew who the killer was, but I needed Evan
to say the name aloud. “Who, Evan? Who was here?”
“Cleome wanted more tomatoes to make relish. Ours are just about through bearing—”
I wanted to pull my hair out. “Who was here, Evan?”
He blinked at me. “Don't get upset, Bretta. Since it rained, Katie may have gone down to the creek to—” He stopped when he saw the fire in my eyes. “It was Margaret. Margaret Jenkins. She's always willing to share the vegetables from her garden. She shares with everyone.”

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