A Deadly Bouquet (29 page)

The garden was divided into elements within a more general design. I turned a sharp corner and left the formal scheme, entering a Japanese-style landscape. Dan Parker had educated me on the fine points of Japanese design—a combination of green upon green with blooms incidental to the overall theme. The use of stone was essential for the success of the garden. No better example could be found than the area that lay before me.

The Garden of Contemplation was an abstract composition of gravel that gave the impression of an open sea. A special rake had made an undulating pattern on its surface. White Rugosa roses rambled over a craggy stone wall. My inventiveness saw them as sea froth. Ornamental grasses of every height, blade width, and variegation edged the perimeter. The plumes waved gently in the breeze, giving movement to the stoic setting.

“Bretta,” said a voice from behind me. “You missed my tour of the garden.”

I turned and recognized Dan's lab assistant, Marnie Frazier. She'd taken a summer job at the greenhouse before entering college this fall to pursue a degree in finance. She was petite with red hair and large blue-green eyes. The Parker Greenhouse uniform fit her snugly and complimented her vivid coloring.

“Hi, Marnie,” I said. “I'm sure you did a wonderful job.” I smiled at the young man at her side. He appeared to be about eighteen. He was dressed in the regulation green shorts and shirt. He was handsome, clean-cut, and seemed familiar. When our eyes met, he dipped his head in a respectful manner.

“Hello,” I said to him. “Have we met?”

“Yes, but it has been a while,” he said quietly.

His gentle way of speaking triggered my memory, but I couldn't get a handle on it. I felt I knew this young man, but the clothes—shorts, shirt, and sneakers—weren't right. In my mind I saw dark trousers, a light-colored shirt, and suspenders.

Marnie said, “Bretta, this is Jake.”

“Jake?” I repeated. The name didn't help me make a connection.

He shrugged. “That's what I'm called around here, but you know me as Jacob.”

I stared into his face, searching the sharp angles, trying to read the expression in his solemn brown eyes. My knees almost buckled as recognition dawned. “Jacob Miller?” I said. “You're Evan's son?” When he nodded, I said, “I don't understand. You're Amish. What are you doing here?”

Jacob said, “It's complicated, but I'll try to explain.”

Marnie interrupted. “Before you get into that, I wanted to ask you something, Bretta. Jake says you helped solve his uncle's murder. I find that absolutely fascinating. How did you know what questions to ask?”

I couldn't take my eyes off Jacob. Why was he working at Parker Greenhouses? Had something happened at home? Was his family all right?

Impatiently, Marnie said, “Bretta, come on, how do you solve a mystery? Did you read a book on how to conduct an investigation?”

The intensity in Marnie's voice finally broke through my shock at finding Jacob in these surroundings. I focused on her and tried to explain. “Before my husband passed away, he was a deputy with the Spencer County Sheriff's Department. We often speculated on some of his cases, and he coached me on the fine points of detection. Since his death, my amateur sleuthing has put several criminals in jail, but I'm hardly an expert.”

Marnie studied me closely. “How do you know where to start on a case?”

I shrugged. “Why? Are you thinking of investigating something?”

Marnie's smile had a brittle edge. “Nothing in particular,” she said and backed away. “I have to go to the lodge. Dan left some papers in his study for me to look over. I'll see you all later.”

She disappeared down the path. I wondered what was behind Marnie's interest, but was more concerned with Jacob. I turned to him. “So, you're working here? Is something wrong at home? Is your family well?”

“I do work here and have for the last week. My family is fine. Mother will be canning vegetables, and my father will be baling hay, when he's not praying for my return.” Jacob studied the closely cropped grass. “But I cannot go home right away. I have much to think about before I make the decision to spend the rest of my life as an Amish man.”

I was bewildered. “Decision? Aren't you already Amish?”

He looked at me. “It is my right to decide if I want to be baptized into the Amish faith. I was born of Amish parents, but until I take my vow to follow that life, I am merely Jacob Miller, son of Evan and Cleome Miller.”

“Hey, Jake!”

Jacob and I turned and saw Jess McFinney striding toward us. Jess was in charge of greenhouse plant production. Though in his fifties, he moved as if he were wired to his own personal generator. The few times I'd been around him, he'd exhausted me with his limitless energy.

“I need help loading some plants,” he said. “Can you lend a hand?”

Eagerly, Jacob said, “Are you using that four-wheeler machine? I'd like to learn how to drive it.”

“This is a greenhouse, not a driving school.”

At Jacob's crestfallen look, Jess grumbled, “One day after work I'll show you, but right now we've got plants to tend.” Belatedly, Jess turned to me. “Hi, Bretta. Good to see you.” Without another word, he spun on his heel and galloped away.

Jacob brushed by me. “I've got to go. See you later.”

“But I want to know why—” I stopped in midsentence. Jacob was gone. I shook my head. He might be new to the Parker payroll, but he'd already learned that when Jess spoke everyone snapped to attention.

I wandered toward the back of the garden where boulders formed the outer boundary. On the far side of them was the road Dad and I'd taken up to the greenhouse. In front of the rocks was a bridge that arched over a stream of water. A man-made pool contained a circulating pump that pushed water uphill, where it cascaded over the limestone boulders. After a tumultuous rush, the water flowed back under the bridge and into the lagoon, where it languished in the sun until its next surge over the falls. Crags and crevices were home to rock-hugging sedum. My gaze traveled over the green leaves of the deciduous trees, touched gently on the blue-green needles of some junipers, but lingered on the lime-colored hosta lilies with their rounded, puckered leaves.

I moved to the center of the bridge and leaned against the railing. Cleome, Jacob's mother, was a staunch Amish woman. She would be frantic with worry over her son. Evan would be upset, too, but he'd keep his concerns to himself. I thought about those gentle people and wondered what they would do if Jacob decided not to take his Amish vow.

I crossed the bridge and walked beside the pool. A school of Japanese koi, a colorful species of carp, swirled the water in hope of a treat. Since I had nothing to feed them, I moved on, following the stepping-stone path. At my leisure, I enjoyed the plants and when a particular specimen caught my eye, I pulled the copper identification tag from the ground so I could accurately copy the botanical as well as the common name of the plant into a small notebook I'd brought with me.

As I pushed the sharp prongs of the marker back into the dirt, I heard voices off to my left. Still on my haunches, I swiveled around and saw Irma Todd wrapped in Harley Sizemore's embrace.

I scuttled over to a patch of shade and watched with unabashed interest. Irma was stoop-shouldered, round-faced, and had a tangle of shoulder-length brown hair. Her bangs had been teased into a crested wave. She was in her late forties and had been the Parkers' bookkeeper for several years. I'd considered her a dull, tedious woman, but there was nothing boring in the way she caressed Harley's brawny back.

Harley was maintenance man for these gardens. He was in his early forties with a classic Fu-Manchu mustache. He'd elected to wear blue jeans instead of shorts, but his jade green T-shirt fit his muscular torso like it had been painted on his skin.

Unobtrusively, I left the garden, wondering if Natalie knew that Irma and Harley had a romance going. Feeling guilty that I'd left my father alone, I went back to the lodge. I found him on the front porch, entertaining a group of people. With a pad of paper on his knee and a pencil in his hand, he was sketching and talking. I couldn't hear what he was saying, so I walked closer. My lips thinned into a grim line at his words.

“From an acorn a mighty oak tree can grow,” he said. “That's the way I feel about investigations. A tiny clue can bring a criminal to justice. The smallest slipup and BAM!” He slapped the paper with the palm of his hand, making his audience jump.

My father smiled. “When a culprit is apprehended he has that reaction—total surprise that his scheme has been exposed. My daughter, Bretta Solomon, has experience rousting worms out of the woodwork, but she's often busy with her flower-shop business. I, on the other hand, am footloose and fancy-free. I have cards with me. Take one and if I can be of service, please give me a call.”

My accomplishments as an amateur detective had been played up in our local newspaper, which I'd learned my father had subscribed to during the years he was away. Dad had come back to River City with the idea of us partnering a detective agency. I'd quickly put the kibosh to that idea—or so I'd thought.

Amazed, I watched interested people pick up the cards and tuck them into pockets or wallets. While the others moved on, one woman lingered. I gave her a hard study. It took ten seconds before I recognized Allison Thorpe. She owned a flower shop and was my biggest competitor. But this was a new-and-improved Allison. Her tanned legs were displayed in a pair of white shorts. Her blue T-shirt was neatly tucked under the waistband. Her eyebrows, which were usually as bushy as a squirrel's tail, had been plucked and shaped into gentle arches.

My father offered Allison his arm and the two of them strolled off, gazing into each other's eyes. Not once had he looked in my direction. “There must be something in the air,” I muttered. I stepped to the end of the buffet line and filled my plate. Searching for a place to sit, I saw the size of the crowd had dwindled from when Dad and I'd first arrived. I made myself comfortable at a table with some out-of-town visitors.

Natalie was everywhere, making everyone feel welcome. On one of her trips past me, she stopped and gave me a brief hug. “Emily said she told you about Dan's mother.”

“Are you flying to Oregon?”

“I don't know. I haven't had a chance to call the airlines about a flight.” She gave me a tired smile. “I've got to go, but I'll talk to you tomorrow and tell you my plans.” She hurried off.

The shadows lengthened. Plates were discarded and a sudden quiet fell over the gathering. It had been a nice afternoon, a pleasant change of pace from my structured life. I get so wrapped up in my flower-shop business that I sometimes forget how to relax. I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the sky, waiting for the first burst of pyrotechnics.

It wasn't long until the air was bombarded with sparkling stars, flashes of bright light and loud explosions. Comets streaked across the night sky and detonated into shapes that resembled large allium blossoms. The crowd was appreciative with frequent and enthusiastic applause. When the display came to a loud, riotous conclusion, yard lights were switched on and people headed for their vehicles.

I was ready to leave, too, but I hadn't seen my father. To make myself useful, I folded some chairs and carried them to a storage shed. I was on my way back for another load when Allison Thorpe burst out of the garden entrance. My father tottered after her. Allison rushed for the lodge, but my father came to a standstill, frantically searching the yard. I waved. When he caught sight of me, he limped forward.

I braced myself. His face was pale, his gait unsteady. I figured we were in for a trip to the Emergency Room because he'd eaten something that hadn't agreed with him.

Before I could speak, he grabbed my arm and gasped. “There's a body in the garden, blood everywhere. There's a killer on the loose.”

A
LSO BY
J
ANIS
H
ARRISON

Lilies That Fester

Murder Sets Seed

Roots of Murder

 

A
VAILABLE FROM
S
T.
M
ARTIN'S/
M
INOTAUR
P
APERBACKS

P
RAISE FOR
J
ANIS
H
ARRISON'S
G
ARDENING
M
YSTERIES

Lilies That Fester

“Everything is a mystery in this interesting whodunit.”

—Associated Press

“The fourth Solomon mystery and it is the best by far … The climax is shocking … in her cerebral puzzler that is nothing short of genius.”

—Harriet Klausner

“Harrison displays a talent for capturing the workings of a small community, from the funeral industry to the police department.”

—January Magazine

 

Murder Sets Seed

“Harrison pulls everything together for a satisfying finale, besides sowing seeds for another sequel.”

—Publishers Weekly

“This entertaining tempest in a small-town teapot should be a hit.”

—Library Journal

 

Roots of Murder

“Janis Harrison's
Roots of Murder
has a wonderful sense of place, culture, and horticulture, and is a very good mystery besides.”

—Jill Churchill, author of
The Merchant of Menace

“A nicely composed debut … with a fine lead character … Harrison's friendly voice doesn't falter … [and] she handles Bretta's matter-of-fact, pervasive sorrow with a generally sure hand.”

—Booklist

“This is a first mystery with a number of things going for it … A feisty single female [and] the floral background is interesting, and so is the Midwestern setting.”