Roots of Murder by Janis Harrison Read Free Book Online

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.
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œA coalition is needed.”
    â€œCoalition?” 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