Free Roots of Murder by Janis Harrison

I saw a group of teenagers standing among the sheared-off trees and brush.
    I didn’t want to intrude on their grief, but this was too good a chance to pass up. I parked my car at the head of the line, left my sunglasses on the dashboard, and climbed out. The young people turned at my approach. There were fifteen in all. I saw tears. Red eyes. Several yellow roses. And the wreath.
    Two boys were tying a black ribbon around the massive tree trunk, hiding the nasty gash. In silence, we watched them climb up the deep ravine, their sneakers slipping on the dewy grass as they clutched at mangled saplings to haul themselves to the top.
    I waited until they were with the others before I spoke. “I’m sorry about your loss.” I pointed to the wreath. “I own the flower shop where that was purchased.”
    â€œWho’s it from?” asked a girl with long hair. “It doesn’t have a card.”
    â€œThat’s why I stopped.” Briefly, I explained about the note under the shop door.
    A tall boy, older than the others, stepped forward. “I’m Josh Baxter. Ned was my little brother.” Tears clogged his throat, making his words quavery. “He was behind the wheel. I taught him how to drive.” His voice broke. “I thought I taught him well.”

    A couple of the kids touched Josh’s arm. He nodded, took a deep breath, and pointed around the group. “That’s Mike’s brother, Steve. That’s Eric’s girlfriend, Heather. The rest are friends. Classmates of the guys.”
    â€œWhat do you think?” I asked softly. “Who do you think might have sent the wreath?” I studied their young faces. All shook their heads. Grief had left them vulnerable. Not one, but three important people had been taken savagely from their lives. I knew how death worked. This group would never be the same. It was sad. It was also damned unfair.
    â€œPerhaps your parents sent it?” I offered.
    Steve answered, “Never happened. The house reeks of flowers. Mom says she doesn’t want to see another one ever again.”
    Josh said, “If my parents wanted something like this, they’d have discussed it with me.”
    Heads waggled agreement. I gave Josh one of my flower shop cards and asked, “If you should hear anything, would you get in touch with me?”
    As I drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror. The group was huddled in a circle, their arms wrapped around each other’s waists. For some people, this is the best way to deal with grief. To share it; to take solace in being with others who understand. It was a heart-wrenching scene. My throat tightened.
    When Carl died, I’d suffered alone. Dad had sent a sympathy card. Carl’s mother and brother live in Nashville. Irene is blind and lives in a nursing home; the trip
to Missouri would have been too difficult for her to make. Darold, Carl’s brother, was too stingy to fork out the cash for the trip.
    There were friends, but nothing like this. I was touched by the depth of compassion in these young people. I envied their close relationship. It took a couple of tries before I could swallow the lump in my throat.
    After Carl’s death, I’d been numb. It had been months before the full realization of my loss had sunk in. Hard work and long hours helped, but often my lack of a family still seems overwhelming. I miss having someone to love. I’d give ten years of my life if I could pick up Carl’s dirty clothes a few more times.
    My destination didn’t help my frame of mind. Woodgrove Funeral Chapel was two blocks off the main drag in a residential area. I parked on the street. Since I was early, I took my time walking to the front door.
    The funeral home looked like the other houses on the block, except for the discreet sign posted near the driveway. In this part of the country, nearly all the funeral homes were initially family dwellings. Most are rambling