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Authors: Janis Harrison

BOOK: Roots of Murder
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The shrill ring of the telephone interrupted my thoughts. I picked up the receiver and said, “Hello?”
“Bretta?” came the hesitant male voice.
He sounded familiar. “Yes,” I replied, “This is Bretta Solomon.”
His voice boomed into my ear. “Evan Miller.”
I moved the phone two inches away. The old order Amish don't have phones in their homes, and they
rarely use them. I knew Evan disliked making calls, but I figured he wanted to tell me about Isaac. Hoping to spare him this painful task, I said, “Oh, Evan, I just read about Isaac. I'm so sorry.”
He offered no verbal comment on his emotions or on his brother's death. Instead, he asked, “Can you come to the farm in the morning? Early. Seven, eight o'clock.” A note of caution entered his voice. “I need your … advice.”
“Advice?”
“Yeah. Uh … assistance. Uh … about …” His tone grew strong again. “The flowers. Isaac's flowers.”
“I don't know what kind of assistance I can offer.”
“Will you come?” persisted Evan.
“Of course, but—”
“Have to get back to the house. See you in the morning.” And
click
, he was gone.
Slowly, I returned the receiver to its niche. I could speculate on what Evan wanted, but I still wouldn't be any wiser until tomorrow morning.
As I bathed and got ready for bed, my mind was on Evan. His summons for assistance from a non-Amish might seem odd, except we had a unique friendship. If Evan had questions and no one in his Amish community had answers, he'd call on me.
I turned off the light and stretched out in my bed. My thoughts jumped and jiggled like drops of water in hot grease. I punched the pillow and tried to relax. Eighteen miles from River City, the small town of Woodgrove had seen an influx of Amish families in the
last twenty years. I worked hard at picturing the quaint town, so I could relax and get some sleep, but other images intruded. The most persistent one was Cecil Bellows.
Cecil lives on the gravel road that backs Evan's property. I slugged my pillow again. Thoughts of Cecil were not conducive to a peaceful sleep. He was an obstinate and prejudicial man. I flopped over on my stomach. When I sold my farm to an Amish man, Cecil had been livid.
On the verge of sleep, my mind drew a parallel. The paperboy tossing the newspaper in the shrubs. Wedging it in the porch railing. Leaving it under the downspout during a rainstorm. I'd gotten that same perverse pleasure out of riling Cecil Bellows. I simply didn't like the man.
My eyes popped open. “Well, I'll be damned,” I sputtered. “That kid doesn't like me.” I kicked the wadded covers off my legs. “What the hell isn't there to like?”
It was after six the next morning when I left River City. The sky in the east was a vibrant, lavish display of copper, apricot, and gold. Like a prima donna actor, the sun couldn't resist delivering a preview of the talent it would unleash during its daily performance.
I rolled down my window and let the crisp morning air circulate around me. I loved this time of year, the transition from one season to another. September in the Missouri Ozarks has the appearance of an over-the-hill prostitute trying for one last trick before retiring. The blistering days of summer have sapped the freshness of spring. Fall brings rejuvenating showers and another bawdy attempt at youth. The rains hadn't arrived yet, so the landscape was shopworn, tattered around the edges.
These days I rarely make it outside the city limits, so I was eager for the familiar sight of hills rolling into valleys and the tree-covered mountains standing guard in the distance. There's an old maxim about time, smelling, and flowers. Considering my line of work, I, more than most, should have taken it to heart.
The passing of my car rustled drying cornstalks and made them whisper restlessly. Milo was turning from green to bronze. Soybean fields were gaining maturity, the pods plump with seed, tantalizing some hopeful farmer with their promise of a good crop.
The first steering wheel I'd ever held in my hands had been that of a tractor. I'd smelled the muskiness of freshly turned earth. I'd walked barefoot in fields, breaking clods with my toes.
A thickening in my throat told me I was ripe for that twist in the gut nostalgia can bring. I swallowed, then carefully peeled away the bandage that covered a tender area of my childhood.
My father had packed up and moved out when I was eight years old. I'd been young enough to miss him but not old enough to understand why he'd left me. He hadn't liked farming. Hadn't liked the hard work with the small payoff in the end. He'd gone to Texas, where he'd perfected some gizmo that brands cattle without any fuss or muss. As I was growing up, it hadn't helped my self-esteem to know that my father preferred easing the pain of a bunch of cows over me.
When Mom was alive, I'd heard from Dad in the form of a yearly check. After Mom died, Dad's correspondence increased to a card on my birthday and a box of grapefruit at Christmas.
I dashed a hand across my eyes and let the bandage fall back into place. It bothered me that I was still vulnerable to these memories. That after all these years the
wound remained sensitive and couldn't take a gentle probing.
I came to the turnoff for Woodgrove, but since I was early, I bypassed the town, taking the scenic route to Evan's place. A county-maintained road, it wasn't as smooth as the state highway, but it offered breathtaking vistas.
Flat cropland gave way to deep ravines and sharp bends in the road. I drove along a ridge that rimmed the valley below. The sun stole a peek over the horizon to make sure its audience was primed and ready. Mists rose from the floor of the hollow like nervous stagehands. They hovered in the air counting the minutes until showtime. Playful shadows had neglected their duties through the night. With the curtain about to go up, they darted here and there among the trees seeing to final details.
Then, without further ado, the sun materialized in all its glory. Its presence eclipsed the other actors onstage. The wisps of fog vanished. The shadows dissolved, and the countryside was spotlighted with brilliance.
Farmsteads, nestled among the hills, were a backdrop to the drama that was unfolding. The feathery tips of the buffalo grass, growing along the side of the road, nodded in appreciation. Birds chirped their cheery lines. Insects buzzed with excitement at the prospect of a good review. I crossed a bridge and heard the stream gurgle importantly. It was leaving this production and was moving on to bigger and better things.
I sat up straight in my seat. I'd chosen this route for another reason than its beauty. The scene of the boys' car accident was around the next curve. I took my foot off the gas and coasted down the hill.
On my right, trees grew as thick as hairs on a dog's back. Suddenly, I saw a break. This was the place. I pulled as far off the road as I could and gazed in dismay.
The recently sheared-off trees and mangled underbrush were withered. The fatal path was as wide as a car and plunged down an embankment. The car must have flipped over a gully or sailed brazenly across it, landing against a tree on the far side. A permanent gash on the trunk marked the spot.
Across the road from the accident was Sam Kramer's land. A rusty snarl of barbed wire signaled this dilapidated fence as his property. After my father had left Mom and me, Sam had farmed our property on shares. For two years, his slipshod methods had been an aggravation. Mom had gently eased us out of that arrangement, and for the next ten years, Cecil Bellows had farmed our land.
I gave the accident scene one last look, then drove on, taking two more curves before Evan's house came into view. I'd just left the scene of one tragedy. Now, I faced another. Isaac's wife, Rosalie, is pregnant with her second child. Regardless of how Isaac had died, these people were in the early stages of grief. I knew full well what Rosalie was experiencing. Carl's death had produced a range of responses in me. Denial had come first.
I couldn't believe my husband was truly gone. Discord soon followed, as I was forced to move on in a world that seemed apathetic to my pain. And finally, there had been the harsh reality of acceptance. My life was never going to be the same.
I parked my car under a shade tree, then sat quietly for a few moments. I let the familiar surroundings of my childhood soothe my turbulent emotions. The place looked almost like home. The white clapboard house stood two stories high and had a wraparound porch on three sides. The one jarring note was the lack of my mother's white lace curtains. The nine-room house boasted fifteen windows, all glaringly bare.
A host of young faces peeked out at me. I waved, then grinned as they ducked bashfully out of sight. Chuckling, I got out of the car and saw Evan Miller coming toward me from the barn.
He's tall and lean, his muscles honed from hard physical labor. Lois would have described Evan as “a fine figure of a man.” Watching him approach, I had to agree. His Amish clothes were neat and clean, the shirt bright white, the dark trousers held in place by suspenders. A wide-brimmed straw hat sat squarely on his head. A wiry black beard covered his jaws, but his upper lip was shaved clean.
When Cecil farmed our property, he'd acted as if he owned the land. He'd ripped out fences without permission, dug the creekbed deeper, and pastured cows where Mom had distinctly said no livestock. She'd been at her wit's end when Evan came along.
He and Cleome had moved to Woodgrove from Illinois. They'd lived in town, but Evan wanted to farm. He couldn't afford to buy a place of his own, so he'd approached Mom with the hopes of renting her land. She'd liked him, liked the way he carefully explained what he had in mind and which crops he wanted to plant. They'd come to an agreement, and Mom had told Cecil his services were no longer needed.
I hadn't been around for that conversation, and probably it was just as well. By this time I was happily married to Carl and living in River City. I'd bought the flower shop. My life was full. When Mom died, I didn't hesitate selling the farm to Evan. She would've approved of my decision. Evan had moved his family into the farmhouse, and I'd been relieved to know that my homeplace was in caring, loving hands.
I knew Evan to be forty-two, and that he'd been married to Cleome long enough to have produced seven children. When I first met Evan, he and Cleome had Emily and Jacob. In the intervening years, Matthew, Mark, Katie, Luke, and John had been born. No Sabrina, Aurora, or Britton here.
I closed the distance between us and shook Evan's callused hand. “I'm sorry about Isaac,” I said.
“Bretta?” he asked uncertainly.
I nodded. Last time I'd seen him, I'd brought practical Christmas gifts to his family. That had been many pounds ago. “Yes. It's been a while. I wish we weren't meeting under such sad circumstances.” ,
“I wouldn't have known you if you hadn't been driving the same car.”
“Still me,” I said. “Just not as much.”
He peered worriedly at me. “You aren't … you haven't been sick?”
I assured him I was healthier than ever. “How about you? Are you okay?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I suppose. Thanks for coming.” He grimaced. “To get you here I had to use that phone of Sam's.”
I grinned. “It has its uses.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” he muttered.
Normally, we'd slip into an easy conversation about the weather or the crops. But what followed instead was that uncomfortable silence that comes when two people have something to say and neither knows how to begin. I wanted to ask about Isaac's death, but there's a way to approach Evan, and it isn't to blurt out questions. I had to ease into it gently. I tried to prod him along.
“I'm not sure what help I'll be. About all I can do is arrange Isaac's flowers into a bouquet that would knock your socks off.” I glanced quickly at his boots. I'd never had reason to see Evan's feet. Did Amish men wear socks?
Evan saw where my eyes had traveled and guessed my thoughts. He gave me one of his rare smiles. It showed amusement, but spoiled his looks because he was missing a front tooth. Dentistry isn't high on an Amish man's list of necessities. If it don't hurt, don't fix it.
Embarrassed, I labored on. “If you want to talk to me about growing the flowers—”
“No, no,” he hastened to say. “Not that. No.”
“Then I don't—”
The creak of the back door caused us to turn. Cleome and her daughter, Katie, stepped from the house. “Hi,” I called. When they didn't respond, I thought they didn't recognize me. I added, “It's me, Bretta.”
Cleome hesitated, then dipped her head in a sharp nod. She spoke to Katie. They stepped off the porch and crossed the yard. The Amish woman's spine was as stiff and unyielding as a hickory stick. She disappeared around the corner of the house. Katie, right behind her, looked back at me. Down at her side, her fingers wiggled the tiniest of greetings, then she was gone.
Puzzled, I turned to Evan. “Chilly around here, isn't it?”
He understood what I meant. I'd never seen him disconcerted. His convictions kept him on a path his faith decreed was ordained by God. He shuffled his heavy work boots in the dust, hemmed and hawed, and wouldn't meet my direct gaze.
By now I was totally confused. “Cleome's greeting just missed being a snub,” I said. “Why? You invited me to come here.”
“I want to show you something.” He led the way around the house, where I saw Cleome and Katie working in the garden. At our approach, Katie looked up, but Cleome hoed the ground harder. She said something
in a curt tone, and Katie obediently bent back to her task.
A few steps ahead of me, Evan walked rapidly past the garden. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Cleome had stopped attacking the dirt. Her hands gripped the hoe handle, and her eyes drilled into me.
A strange, difficult woman, Cleome had always been cordial in the past. However, our conversations were often stilted. I didn't have children. She had seven. I wasn't much of a cook. Her meals were executed with precision. I couldn't sew a seam if my life depended on it. She made all her family's clothes. We had nothing in common. Isaac had been like Cleome—a private person, keeping his thoughts to himself. I hadn't been able to talk to him as I could Evan. Evan and I have been known to jabber for hours. Livestock. Market prices. Tilling the south field. Rotating crops. But today Evan was unusually silent on
all
subjects.
He didn't slow as we approached Isaac's house. We breezed by it, another vegetable garden, a clothesline full of towels and sheets, a compost pile, and a shed filled with horse-drawn farm machinery.
None of these buildings had existed when I owned the property. The changes had been made after Isaac and Rosalie moved here from Pennsylvania. But I clearly hadn't been brought out here for a tour, so I tried again. “Look, Evan, I—”

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