The Flower Shop in River City, MO, is Bretta Solomon's whole life. Widowed more than a year ago when her cop husband had a heart attack, Bretta has thrown herself into her florist's business and her place in this small rural Midwestern community. And her diet--she's lost a lot of weight in the intervening year. If only she could shed her grief in the same way.
When Bretta reads in the newspaper that Isaac Miller, an Amish farmer who supplied some of her most beautiful flowers, has died under mysterious circumstances, she's shocked and saddened. But her shock turns to curiosity when Isaac's brother, Evan, a friend of hers since his family bought her parents' farm in neighboring Woodgrove, calls and asks her to help him find out more about his brother's death.
What Bretta finds when she begins looking into Isaac's murder--for that's what it was--is a complicated web of mistrust and suspicion both inside and around the Amish community. The sheriff suspects Evan, Evan suspects the neighbors, and Bretta finds her florist competitors unnaturally interested in Isaac's garden.
Bretta's talent for digging around is both her blessing and her curse. Roots of Murder is the first novel in Janis Harrison's Bretta Solomon Gardening Mysteries--a charming cozy mystery and an atmospheric story about small-town life.
Release date:
April 1, 2011
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
240
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Chapter One
"Death times flowers equals big bucks," murmured Lois. To emphasize her point, she fanned a bundle of greenbacks on the counter next to me.
I stared at the cash but didn't touch it. The phrase "blood money" needled my conscience. Four days ago, on Monday evening, three sixteen-year-old boys drove away from the busy streets of River City for a ride in the country. They'd been killed when their car veered off a curve. Compassion for the surviving families had opened wallets, and my floral business had reaped the benefits.
It was after 7:00 P.M. on Friday. Our part in the preparations for the multiple funeral services was done, but the day had been grueling. Any creative juices flowing through my veins had dried up hours ago. My shop was in a shambles, the coolers stripped bare. In the workroom, festive tails of satin ribbon spiraled from the slotted racks. Cabinet doors hung open. The floor was littered with petals, stem ends, and leaf debris.
I'd waited on each family when they came in to order their floral tributes. I didn't personally know these people,but during those heart-wrenching meetings I'd been privy to melancholy memories, copious weeping, and one full-blown bout of hysteria. Not my own, though I'd come close several times. I was emotionally drained and physically exhausted, especially when I looked at the money. It was a blatant reminder of the day we'd put in, and the bereaved people in River City, Missouri.
Twenty miles northwest of the interstate that links St. Louis to Springfield, River City sprawls across craggy, limestone bluffs on the south bank of the Osage River. With a population of thirty thousand, faces and names often become an impersonal blur of humanity. It takes a tragedy like the deaths of these boys to give citizens a quick reality check. Hearts had been touched, mine included. But then, I was well acquainted with the pain that follows the loss of someone I love.
In a flash of frustration and anger, I grabbed the cash, crammed it into a bank bag, zipped it shut, and flung it in the direction of my office. The bag hit the wall and bounced off a shelf. Four design books and a mug of pens toppled to the floor.
Lois's finely arched eyebrows zoomed up before they settled into a frown. "Bretta Solomon, one. Lois Duncan, zero," she drawled. "Tell me the rules so I can play."
That mad burst of energy had sapped the last of my strength. I slumped in a chair and heaved a sigh. "Being a florist is a helluva career. To earn a living from someone dying makes me think I'm laundering tainted money."
Lois pulled up a chair. In one fluid motion, she sat and crossed her long, youthful legs. Somewhere between forty and sixty, Lois doesn't give away her age by word or deed. Her manner of dress is as flamboyant as her floral designs.
We'd been on our feet for twelve hours straight, yet her makeup was flawless, every dark hair in place. I didn't need a mirror to know I looked as if I'd been dragged through a rat hole backwards.
Lois toyed with the gold chain that circled her neck. "I admit funeral work is our bread and butter, but what about the weddings, anniversaries, and hospital orders? Correct me if I'm wrong, but you didn't mind taking Mrs. Hanover's money when she splurged on a Hawaiian theme for her husband's eightieth birthday."
"That's different ..." I began.
Lois interrupted. "I don't see how. Ethel Hanover was riding high on emotion." She grinned. "What a party. No one on the guest list was under seventy. Brightly flowered muumuus on wizened bodies. Hair so sparse you couldn't pin a hibiscus blossom in it. I heard old Mrs. Hanover ask three different men if they'd like a good 'lei,' then cackle like a hen in heat as she put the garlands around their necks."
"Hens don't come into heat," I corrected my citified friend before returning to the main topic. "Mrs. Hanover was fired up with excitement when she spent her money. These families and friends are moved by grief."
"That's my point, Bretta. Whatever the emotion, people say it with flowers. Happy. Sad. We're here to performa service. And if I do say so myself, we do a damned fine job."
"I suppose," I murmured, then asked, "Did I tell you I grew up down the road from where the boys were killed? I thought everyone knew that curve is a bitch. That you have to slow down." Bitterly, I added, "Life bites, but death sucks."
Lois shrugged. "True, but you can't have one without the other." She waved her hands. "Life ... death. That's what it's all about."
"But these boys haven't lived," I persisted. I should have dropped the subject and gone home. But once Lois and I parted ways, I'd be alone. She had her husband, Noah, to hash over the day's events. My husband, Carl, had died fifteen months ago.
I ignored the sharp ache in my chest that always accompanied thoughts of Carl. That ache had throbbed all day until I wondered if I was flirting with a heart attack.
"It's a damned shame," said Lois, "but what's really going on?" She studied me pensively. "Bretta, we've weathered every kind of tragedy known to man in this town. We've done our job, put it behind us, and moved on to the next. Something else is bothering you. What is it?"
How do you explain loneliness to a woman whose house is like a bus depot? Who still has her husband and three of her five children living at home? I didn't have the energy to try. "Forget it," I said, pasting a smile on my lips. "Chalk my mood up to a lack of calories.It's been months since I tasted anything decadent."
Lois slapped her knees. "Is that all it'll take to bring you out of this royal blue funk?"
Before I could answer, she galloped off. I shrugged. Why not? I knew Lois kept a cache of goodies somewhere in the shop. She ate her treats when I was out or otherwise occupied. But I'd seen the Snickers wrappers in the trash. I'd smelled the peanuts on her breath.
Real chocolate, not the fake kind, hadn't crossed my lips in weeks. In the past fifteen months I'd dieted away one hundred pounds of fat, flab, and dimpled flesh.
From the workroom, Lois called, "I don't want to be accused of contributing to the delinquency of a dieter, but if you're serious, come and get it."
Wearily, I dragged my creaky, forty-five-year-old body toward her voice. Before I could say Hershey, Pennsylvania, Lois produced a pile of illicit sweets. A sack of M&M's appeared from behind the stock of hot glue sticks. Snickers, Milky Ways, and chocolate kisses tumbled out of the canister where we kept the satin corsage leaves.
The tightness in my chest eased and laughter bubbled past the knot in my throat. Encouraged, Lois pulled away the rack of satin ribbon and revealed my impending downfall. Two DoveBars in their pristine blue and silver wrappers.
"You're wicked," I said, grabbing up a bar and peeling away the tinfoil. The chocolate candy was on its way to my mouth when I caught my reflection in the glass flower-cooler door. My image was distorted, but itwas a slender image. An image I'd worked damned hard to achieve.
I laid the sweet treat down and put my hands at the indentation of my waist. Never a size six but not a size twenty-six either. Carl had always said there was a slender woman inside of me, and someday I'd let her out. It bothered me that I'd waited till he was dead before proving him right.
I moved closer to the cooler door. Lines of fatigue etched my blue eyes. Short hair showed more gray than brown. Maybe I should color it, go for blond. Try life as a voluptuous redhead. I pressed my hands under my breasts and watched the material of my blouse swell seductively.
Across the room, Lois chuckled. I dropped my boobs and they bounced into their customary place. Glancing over my shoulder, I demanded, "What's so funny?"
"You're like a kid with a new toy. Trouble is, you're hoarding it." She waggled her eyebrows. "Didn't your mama teach you it's better to share?"
I snorted. "Sex doesn't solve everything." I looked at the DoveBar on the table. Losing weight had been a battle. Keeping it off was proving to be a war of wills. I took a deep, soul-cleansing breath and tried to sound confident. "And neither does chocolate."
Lois popped a handful of M&M's into her mouth. She closed her eyes and chewed blissfully. "Maybe not, but it sure does make life more tolerable--and a helluva lot sweeter."
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