Free Roots of Murder by Janis Harrison Page A

two-story structures, with plenty of room on the ground floor for seating guests attending a service.
    Margaret had an apartment upstairs, but not a separate outside entrance. I wondered what it would be like to live above a funeral home. Did she ever have guests over? Did she have to watch what she cooked, so the aroma of bacon or cabbage wouldn’t linger in the slumber room?
    I tried the door. It was locked. I walked around to
the side door, where flowers were delivered. It, too, was locked. I cupped my hands to the glass and peeked in. Dark. With time to kill, I decided to take a stroll to the rear of the property.
    The day was as good as it gets in September—warm, a few clouds, and a breeze that was better than any mood-altering drug. The grounds were in tiptop shape. The hedges were neatly trimmed, the grass freshly mowed. Red geraniums in mammoth terra-cotta pots provided cheerful but tasteful dots of color.
    A vegetable garden was well tended, the rows straight and weed-free. I recognized cucumber, squash, pumpkin, and okra plants. There were other rows, but I ignored them when I spied a ripe tomato gleaming like a ruby sitting on green velvet. I picked it, polished it on my sleeve, and took a bite. The succulent juices ran down my chin. Absently, I wiped them away and looked over the rest of the property.
    The lot wasn’t deep. There were no outbuildings. The garage was located under the house. The cement drive sloped down to two big doors. I checked the small windows. Only the black hearse. Margaret’s car was gone.
    Had she changed her mind about attending church? Had she forgotten I was coming?
    I finished my snack and tossed the stem in a trash bin near the garage. I was feeling a bit miffed when the sharp toot of a horn called my attention to the street. I looked down the drive and saw Margaret arrive in a dusty black Cadillac.

    She had the car door open before she’d turned off the engine. “Am I late?” she called.
    â€œI’m early,” I admitted.
    She shut off the car, picked up her purse, and climbed out. I’d never seen Margaret in anything but a navy dress. Sometimes she pinned a brooch at her shoulder, but most of the time she was unadorned. Today, she was dressed in ratty black slacks, a black pullover, and soiled white tennis shoes. Her hair straggled from its customary neat style. The cuffs of her pants had collected hordes of tiny burrs.
    She gave a self-conscious laugh. “Excuse how I look,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep and didn’t feel like working, so I went scavenging.”
    What did an undertaker scavenge?
    Margaret accurately read the question on my face and said, “Come. See for yourself.” She went to the trunk of her car and popped up the lid.
    I was more than curious. I peeked in and chuckled. Inside were three small pumpkins, some oddly shaped gourds, and a basket of assorted weeds. Their shapes, textures, and intense colors would make an aesthetic bouquet.
    â€œHow about giving me a hand?” she asked.
    I nodded and picked up the pumpkins. Margaret grabbed the rest of the load, and we headed for the door. She continued a rapid-fire conversation. I didn’t mind. I’d come to hear her talk. Later I’d steer the topic around to Isaac and the council. Until then, I was content to listen.

    â€œ … something special in the front lobby. Once a funeral is over, and the flowers are gone, it seems kind of dreary.” She juggled her burden, so she could fit the key in the lock. “Nothing quite so dominating as a Christmas tree or jack-o’-lanterns, but something that will soothe the families and friends when they come by to pay their respects.”
    â€œI’m surprised. Most funeral directors get their fill of flowers.”
    Margaret grunted success with the lock and pushed the door open. We stepped into the dark. On familiar ground, she rushed ahead. I followed more carefully. There were