Read Online Roots of Murder by Janis Harrison - Free Book Online Page B

wasn’t in the mood. Glancing down at the front page, today’s headline finished the job on my spiritless meal:

    AMISH MAN MURDERED IN FLOWER FIELD

    I pushed my plate aside and gave full attention to the story. My frustration grew as I read to the end. Nothing I didn’t already know.
    My conversation with Moth had left too many questions unanswered. I took a notebook from a drawer and made a list. When I was finished, I nudged my plate closer and took a bite of tuna. I studied the paper and saw a few loose ends could be tied up, if I could phone Evan. Since that was impossible, I tried another route.
    Allison’s home number isn’t on my frequent caller list. I looked it up, and after taking a deep breath, I dialed. While it rang, I muttered, “I must be desperate.”
    â€œHello,” she trilled.

    â€œThis is Bretta.”
    A moment of stunned silence, then Allison regained her equilibrium. “Tough luck, Bretta. You’re out. We’re in.” She hung up.
    â€œIn what?” I said, slamming down the phone. “Deep shit, if you ask me.” Which she had, and I’d turned her down.
    Hindsight. I should have played her, let her have plenty of line. If she thought I was on her side, I’d have information. As it was, all I had were conflicting statements. How could Allison be in if Moth had an agreement with Isaac? Allison had said the coalition would cut Moth out and have more profit. It couldn’t work both ways.
    Quickly, I gave my fingers more exercise. I found another competitor’s home number. As soon as I identified myself, she hung up. Three more times I made calls to area florists. Each time I was rebuffed, politely but firmly.
    Allison had done her work well. She’d sewed up the coalition with a steel thread. I was shut out. No information, not a clue as to their plans. Hadn’t it occurred to any of them that Isaac’s flowers were annuals? That they might be putting together a package deal that was going nowhere? I tapped my fork against my plate until the racket I was making annoyed me. I was at a dead end.
    There’s a thought. “Dead?” I did another search in the phone book. I found the number and dialed.

    In a deep, somber tone, Margaret answered, “Woodgrove Funeral Chapel.”
    â€œMargaret, this is Bretta Solomon. Got a minute?”
    â€œSorry, Bretta,” she whispered. “A family is here making arrangements. We’ll have to talk another—”
    â€œWait!” I interjected, in case she was going to hang up. I was getting a complex. Besides, there wasn’t anyone else to call. “Can I see you? Tonight?”
    â€œTonight?” echoed Margaret in surprise. “No, I—”
    â€œTomorrow, then? In the morning, unless you’ll be in church.”
    Margaret sighed. “If it’s important, tomorrow morning will have to do. Ten. I can’t get away for church. I … uh … there are things to do here. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to say good-bye.”
    This time when I hung up, I was satisfied. I’d gotten something. I’d even gotten a kind farewell.
    Â 
    Sunday morning dawned bright and cool. I left the River City limits with a pair of sunglasses perched on my nose. I’d spent a lousy night. Saturday’s events had played over and over in my mind without any results, except my eyes were heavy and my head throbbed. Three cups of coffee hadn’t done any good. It was early, at least for me, on a Sunday. Just past eight-thirty. I hoped a leisurely drive to Woodgrove with the car window down would blow the dust off my brain.
    Once again, I passed the turnoff to Woodgrove. I wasn’t as interested in the scenery as I was in seeing if the wreath was still there.

    When I came to the curve in the road, my heart jumped. At first, I thought there’d been another accident. I counted four cars parked along the side of the road. As I slowed,