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Authors: Janis Harrison

BOOK: Roots of Murder
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After acknowledging Rosalie and Cleome with a brief nod, he ignored me and turned to Hodges. “We thank you for your visit, but we look after our own. Isaac's Rosalie will not want for anything.”
In his Amish dialect he spoke softly to Cleome and Rosalie. They each nodded once and, without a word, walked to the house.
Hodges called, “Hey! Wait. We're not done yet. I want to know …” Their answer was to pick up their pace. By the time they got to the house, they were almost running.
Hodges spun on the old man. “Why'd you do that? What right do you have poking your nose in this private conversation?”
I didn't know this Amish man either, and at this point, I was interested, too.
He drew himself up to his full height. “I am Eli Detweiler, bishop of this district.”
“Bishop?” scoffed Hodges. “That don't cut no butter with me. All my dealings were with Isaac. You never had any say before, and by damn, I don't see where you get off horning in now.”
“As bishop, it's my job to look after everyone. Our lives are simple. We want for nothing. Isaac's flowers will die with him.”
Once again, I couldn't stay quiet. “Die?” I said. “What do you mean, they'll die?” I thought perhaps he was speaking metaphorically. Apparently, this wasn't the case.
Detweiler looked at me, then he looked at Hodges. I didn't want the bishop to assume Hodges and I were together, so I quickly introduced myself.
“A florist?” he said. “I see. Then I'm sure you won't understand. Our children are a gift from God. This is the way we are to view flowers. They bring joy, peace, and reverence to our lives.” His voice deepened. “But we
do not
profit by them. God has given us this bountiful
land to raise grain to nourish our bodies, not grow flowers for sale.”
Compared to this man, Hodges was a pesky gnat. “What will become of Isaac's hard work?” I asked, though I had a pretty good idea.
“The land will be returned to God.”
Waste not … want not. Was that in the Bible? I was out of my depth here. Still, I couldn't let it go. “Isn't it wrong to just throw away all of Isaac's work?”
“We don't look to you for approval. The Lord sanctions our deeds, and misusing the soil is a sin.”
I knew that as bishop, Detweiler didn't rule alone. “Was this the council's decision?”
He seemed surprised at my knowledge of their community. He pursed his lips and nodded once.
“When did you last have a conversation with Isaac?”
Detweiler's disapproval of me was growing. “That's not important.”
When I visit with Evan, I try to curb my tongue because I value his friendship and I don't want to overstep any boundaries. With Detweiler, that wasn't the case. I felt uneasy about him. “Did you see Isaac the evening he died?”
Had we been alone, I'm not sure how Detweiler might have answered or if he'd have answered me at all. Hodges had been fidgeting like an impatient child waiting for his turn to speak. He picked that moment to butt in.
“Look,” he grumbled, “I want to know if I'm out of a job.”
“Yes,” said Detweiler without hesitation.
“That decision hasn't been made,” countered Evan as he came across the yard.
It would have taken a chain saw to cut all the tension in the air. Evan kept his eyes on the bishop but directed his words to Hodges.
“Leray, I'll have Isaac's crop ready for you to pick up at the usual time.”
Detweiler had watched Evan's approach without comment. Not once did he contradict Evan's words. They faced each other, their faces immobile. Wordlessly, Detweiler turned. He detoured around Isaac's flower field, acknowledged the deputy with a brisk nod, and walked across the mowed pasture.
“Where's he going?” I asked Evan.
“He's taking a shortcut to his house over on the gravel road.”
Hodges tipped back his cap and said, “That old codger is one mean son of a …” His words trailed off. He jerked his head in the direction Detweiler had taken. “You gonna let Isaac's posies die?”
I was sure Hodges didn't give a rat's ass about the flowers. All he was worried about was losing out on what he considered a profitable venture.
Evan sighed wearily. “I don't know.”
“Well, if you ask me,” began Hodges.
“He didn't.” I'd had all I could stomach of this odious man. “He said he'd have the flowers ready for you. You got what you came for.”
“Not really,” said Hodges. “Like I was telling Isaac's widow, I think we should—”
“Now isn't the time,” said Evan firmly. “The subject is closed.”
Hodges wanted to argue, but Evan looked formidable. With a quirky salute, Hodges lumbered to the van. Once he had the engine going, he backed out, leaving a cloud of dust behind and a bad taste in my mouth.
“I don't trust that man,” I said. I softened my tone as I added, “I'm not sure about Bishop Detweiler, either.” When Evan didn't volunteer a comment, I asked, “Is he new to your community?”
Evan hesitated. For the first time, I got the feeling he might be sorry he'd called me. It was one thing for me to question my own people. It was another for me to question his.
Finally he answered, “Last fall, Eli was chosen to lead our community when Bishop Seth Fisher was called home to God. Seth's views were more liberal, and he accepted Isaac's plan to grow flowers.” Evan rubbed a hand wearily across his face. “Bretta, our people don't make hasty decisions. Once a bishop is chosen, he's bishop for life, and his beliefs are carried from one district to another.”
I turned and looked at Isaac's flowers. I sighed, trying to understand Detweiler's way of thinking. Wasn't any creative gift from God? Still looking at the flowers, I apologized. “I'm sorry, Evan, I just don't see the problem. Raising flowers seems so harmless. Who can it hurt?”
“Isaac,” murmured Evan softly.
Were the flowers the motive for Isaac's murder? I turned around to ask him if that was what he meant. But Evan was striding toward the house, and it wasn't flowers on his mind.
A hearse had pulled into the driveway. Isaac was home. That was what Evan was talking about. My heart sank. The sheriffs car had pulled in, too.
A somber scene unfolded as Evan received his brother's body. Margaret Jenkins slid from behind the steering wheel of the hearse. She's in her sixties, her hair gray. Judging from the thickness of the braids that wrapped her head like a coronet, it's very long. Her lantern jaw gave her face a gaunt, stern expression. Her eyes could be kind, her voice resolute and strong.
While I wouldn't classify Margaret as a close friend, we were well acquainted. It's always in a florist's best interest to be on good terms with the local funeral director.
I'd never been to an Amish funeral. I didn't plan to attend Isaac's. A few months ago, when I'd taken an after-hours delivery to the Woodgrove Funeral Chapel, Margaret arid I'd gotten into a discussion about the Amish. She'd been free with her knowledge, and I'd sat longer than I'd planned, listening to her talk.
She had told me that she embalms the body and dresses it in a simple cotton shift, then delivers the deceased to his family. They dress him in clothes usually reserved for Sunday worship or other special occasions.
Today, Margaret acknowledged me with a conservative smile. She shook Evan's hand before she moved to the rear of the hearse and opened the door. A stout, take-charge woman, she grabbed hold of the stretcher and rolled it out. The wheels dropped into place with a clatter. The sheriff motioned for a deputy to take the lead. With Evan's help, they rolled Isaac across the yard. Cleome held the door open.
Suddenly, Rosalie burst from the house and ran past Cleome. I was surprised to see Margaret, who remains dignified at any given moment, leave her end of the stretcher. On the uneven ground, the stretcher tipped. I heard Sid say, “What the hell?” as the men scrambled to keep the body in place. My attention moved to Margaret and Rosalie. They embraced with fondness.
Margaret put her lips close to Rosalie's ear. Whatever she said made the younger woman nod her head twice and wipe at her tears. I glanced at Cleome and saw her frowning at this open display of grief from Rosalie.
The men carried Isaac up the steps. Margaret, her arm wrapped firmly around Rosalie's thick waist, disappeared after them. Cleome closed the door.
I figured the sheriff would stay inside with Evan and the family for more questioning. Margaret would be coming out, since her part in Isaac's homecoming was finished. I waited impatiently. I wanted to ask her about Eli Detweiler before Sid made an appearance. I wanted to know who was on the council. I was caught off guard when Sid stepped outside and headed straight for me.
I licked my lips uneasily. It wouldn't do to show my
nervousness to Sid. My chin came up a notch. Good. Don't be on the defensive.
Sid is short, about the same height as my own five feet seven, with round features, light red hair, and freckles so thick on his pale skin they look like a fungus. At forty-six, he insists that he's a confirmed bachelor. After Carl died, Sid had called me a few times to ask how I was, but I'd always been left with the impression that his inquiry had come from his friendship with my husband, not because my well-being was on his mind. He could be charming or rude, depending upon his mood and the circumstances. I was loitering on the fringes of a murder scene, so I had a pretty good idea of my reception.
“Now, Sid, let's not—” I began, but he galloped past me toward the deputy who was guarding the field. I knew the drill when I saw the deputy consult a notebook. He pointed and gestured until he'd filled Sid's ears full.
Sid nodded once before backtracking to me. This time I didn't speak. I folded my arms across my chest and waited.
He stopped three feet from me and said, “My, my, you've had a lively morning, Bretta. Got your afternoon all planned out too, I suppose?”
“Paperwork is waiting for me at the flower shop.”
“Good. Go do it.”
He turned away, but my question stopped him. “How was Isaac murdered?”
Sid glanced at me over his shoulder and ground out, “Neck broke.”
“Oh. Evan didn't tell—”
Sid spun on his heel and faced me. “Your Amish buddy isn't telling much of anything. I bet he also didn't tell you that he carried the victim to the house. That he scrubbed the goddamned body. That it was two hours before my office was notified.”
I swallowed nervously. “What'll that do to your inquiry?”
“Don't you worry about
my
investigation. I'll do fine. Worry about why Evan Miller moved his dead brother from the scene of the crime. What was he trying to get rid of? What does he have to hide?”
“I'm sure Evan—”
“You're sure?” Sid barked a crude laugh. “I don't give a damn if you're sure or not. I'm the one who has to be satisfied.”
I kept my voice even. “What I meant was, I don't think Evan was intentionally destroying evidence. He wouldn't think of the field as a crime scene.”
Sid made a show of wiping a hand across his forehead. “Well,
that
relieves my mind.”
I didn't like the way his mind was working. “You're being unreasonable, Sid.”
“And you're keeping me from my job. Don't presume upon our friendship, Bretta.” He rested his hands on his gun belt and threw back his shoulders. “Dealing with these people would try the patience of Job. It's up to me to find the truth.” He stared at the house. Softly,
so I had to strain my ears, he murmured, “And nothing or nobody is going to keep me from it.”
 
I was so caught up in my thoughts that when I left Evan's house, I turned the wrong way, taking the scenic route back to River City. This time I could have been riding through a trash heap for all the good the beauty did me.
I told myself I didn't for a minute believe Evan was responsible for Isaac's death. But why hadn't he told me up front about moving and washing the body? Was Sid right? Did Evan have something to hide? He hadn't told the sheriff about Katie seeing someone in the field with Isaac. I was in an awkward position. If I told Sid, I'd jeopardize Evan's confidence. If I didn't tell, I'd be screwing with a murder investigation.
I knew the Amish wanted others to respect their right to choose how they lived their lives. Like most of us, they don't want interference or persecution. But thinking of Eli Detweiler made me wonder if persecution was being practiced within their own Amish community.
Automatically, I took my foot off the accelerator as I approached the curve where the three boys had died in the car wreck. Somehow it didn't seem right to speed uncaringly past. I glanced at the spot, then stomped on the brakes.
In the time I'd been at Evan's, someone had placed a wreath at the side of the road. I recognized that oversized wreath. The last time I'd seen it, it had been hanging
in my shop window, the focal point of my fall display. I'd made it myself. Bronze, orange, and gold silk chrysanthemums on a twenty-four-inch circle of grapevine. I'd tucked dried nuts, berries, and bittersweet among the colorful foliage. Pricey at one hundred and twenty-five dollars, I figured it wouldn't sell. Yet here it was, fastened to a wire easel that was pushed into the ground.
A car came up behind me, blared its horn, and swung around me. The driver glared as he passed. As if I needed another reminder this curve wasn't safe to park and gawk. I checked my mirror and pulled away.
I'd told Sid I had paperwork at the shop. Routine stuff, but the thought of seeing who'd spent over one hundred dollars on that wreath made me press harder on the accelerator.
Once I was in River City, I drove down Jefferson Street, turned left on Hawthorn, passed two law offices, an insurance agency, and would have breezed on by the Pick a Posie flower shop, except the owner, Allison Thorpe, was standing outside at her delivery van and saw me coming. She stepped to the edge of the street and flagged me down. Traffic is light on Saturday, since most of the surrounding businesses are closed. I pulled into a vacant slot.
Before I could get the lever into park, Allison pecked on my window. One look at her face told me she was on a mission. For an instant, I was tempted to lock my door and drive away. But I knew Allison. She'd hunt me down and have her say anyway.
Reluctantly, I pushed the button and lowered the window. “Hi, Allison. Working late?”
No polite “How are you?” from this woman. “Where've you been? I called your shop several times but was told you weren't in. I called your house and got that blasted answering machine.”
I smothered a sigh. Allison—the name conjured up adjectives like dainty, wispy, tinkling. Instead, I faced bristly eyebrows that needed trimming with a hedge clipper. Deep-set eyes, a hawkish nose. An attitude that would make the pope throw up his hands in despair.
“I've been running errands,” I said. “What did you want?”
She looked down her nose at me. “I'm calling a meeting of the area florists.”
“Why?”
“A coalition is needed.”
“Coalition?” I said. “What for?”
She thrust her jaw forward. “Isaac's flowers, Bretta. Get with the program. If we make the Millers an offer, we can hire someone to work the field and produce the flowers. We'll cut out Moth, the wholesaler, as the middleman. We'll all come out ahead.”
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. My, my. It seemed that everyone had plans and deals for Isaac's flowers and the poor man was still above ground.
I dropped my gaze to the bouquet Allison held in her hands. Apparently, she'd been on her way to make a delivery when she'd spotted me. The florist in me perused the arrangement. Not bad. Good lines. Too sparse
with the filler and greenery for my taste. The card read
Isabelle Quigley.
If those flowers were from her daughter, I was pissed. I usually got that order.
Allison was known for going to her competitors' customers and asking them outright to give her shop a chance. If they took her up on her offer, she'd add extra flowers the first few times. In the end, her parsimonious ways would take over. The customers became dissatisfied and went back to their original place of doing business.
The name of her shop, “Pick a Posie,” was at the top of the envelope. Posie? You don't hear that word too often. Yet today I'd heard it several times.
A direct attack on Allison would net me nothing. On a whim, I decided to fish for information. I cast my line. “Who would we hire to work the field?”
Preening, she said, “As it happens I have someone in mind.”
“Oh, really?” I jiggled the line. “We're talking quite an investment. Can we trust this person to do the work?”
She ignored the bait to look up and down the street. “This is poor business discussing something so important out here.” She lowered her voice. “I've talked to the other four shop owners. They're interested.”
“Busy, busy,” I muttered.
“We have to jump on this. Measures have to be taken to preserve the quality of the flowers. They'll go downhill if left unattended.”
I wasn't asking the right questions. I reeled in my
line and beefed up the lure. “I
might
be interested if I can be convinced we'll find someone suitable.”
Allison beamed.
Not a pleasant sight. Allison pleased with herself is more annoying than Allison in a snit. “Before I decide anything, I'd want to interview this … uh … person.”
She nearly wiggled with success.
I sank the hook, then watched her flounder as I laid out my conditions. “He'd have to be sharp, personable, have references. A college degree wouldn't hurt.”
Allison struggled helplessly. “Well, now … Bretta,” she began slowly. Her words gathered speed as she tried to slip free. “Keep in mind we're dealing with a man of the soil. He's used to having dirty hands. We can't expect him to do the work in a three-piece suit.”
I put my car in reverse. As I backed away, I landed her, left her gasping for air. “I don't imagine
Leray Hodges
owns a three-piece suit, Allison.”

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