Free Roots of Murder by Janis Harrison Page B

windows, but in this part of the chapel, they were covered with heavy draperies.
    â€œI love flowers,” said Margaret, her voice floating back to me in the dusky light. “My mother always had a garden. We had fresh-picked flowers on the table all summer. In the winter, when the flowers were gone, she’d use cut branches of cedar to give the house a special aroma.”
    She flipped on the office light, then sighed. “All these years later, I can’t smell cedar without thinking of home.”
    I stood in the hall with the pumpkins. She stirred herself-and apologized. “Here I am going on and on, and those pumpkins are cumbersome.” She motioned with her chin to the far side of the room. “We’ll put them in that closet. I’ll arrange them later.” She hurried around her desk and wrestled the door open. We set everything on the floor.

    With her arms unburdened, Margaret gestured selfconsciously to her clothes. “If you can stand to look at me, I’ll wait to shower and change after you leave. In the meantime, I need a cup of coffee. Would you care for one?”
    â€œI’d love it,” I said. “I didn’t sleep well, either.”
    Margaret stepped into a small room off her office. I followed and saw a kitchenette. I stood in the doorway and watched as she filled a percolator with water. I like my coffee strong, but I raised my eyebrows at the double measure she used.
    While she took cups down from a cabinet, I found myself telling her about my trip to Moth’s office and his decor, Her tongue clicked a few times—“tsk, tsk”—when I described the stuffed animals and Harvey, the snake. She frowned when I mentioned questioning Moth about Isaac’s murder.
    â€œWhy are you getting involved?” she asked, leading the way back to her office. She nodded to a chair beside her desk.
    I sat down and sighed. “I’m not sure. Evan wanted me to see why an autopsy was conducted when Isaac died. But the sheriff has answered that question.” I sighed again. “I can’t get Isaac’s death out of my mind.”
    â€œDidn’t your husband just pass away?”
    â€œA little over a year ago.”
    â€œSounds to me like you’re lonesome. You have too much time on your hands.”
    Pop psychology from a funeral director. Humph. Instead of analyzing me, she could take a look at her own
life. I knew her story. She’d been trained as a nurse but had traded occupations when her husband, Leon, was diagnosed with cancer. Before he’d become too ill to work, she’d gone to mortuary school. Once licensed, she’d taken over the funeral home when he passed away. In other words, she’d switched from saving lives to preserving death. Surely that deserved a couple of visits to a therapist.
    â€œThe flower shop keeps me busy,” I said, “but I miss helping Carl with his investigations.”
    â€œYou helped him? How?”
    â€œMostly, I listened. I was his sounding board. He’d tell me what was going on, who the suspects were, and I’d ask questions, poke holes in his theories. I liked it.”
    â€œBut he was a trained policeman, my dear. You’re”—she softened her words with a smile—“merely a florist.”
    I shrugged. “Mysteries fascinate me. However, it isn’t just Isaac’s death. The Amish are intriguing. I could never live like they do, and I’m not talking about the lack of phones, electricity, or automobiles. I’m too verbal. I’m always ready to question everything. To have one man tell me how to live would be frustrating.”
    â€œYou’re thinking of Bishop Detweiler?” When I nodded, she said, “He isn’t telling them how to live, Bretta.”
    â€œIt sounds like it.”
    â€œHe’s only telling his people how the Bible says they should live. Those aren’t his rules. He doesn’t make