Reap a Wicked Harvest Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  chapter Four

  chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  chapter Eleven

  chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Also by Janis Harrison

  Copyright Page

  A special thanks to

  Chief Deputy Steve Catron of the Henry County Sheriff’s Department.

  Steve Parks of the Clinton Fire Department.

  My agent, Lori Pope.

  And my editor, Kelley Ragland, who helps make each book special.

  chapter One

  “Death plays havoc with my social life,” I said. “It’s after five o’clock. We’ve missed all the scheduled events.” I peered through the windshield, searching for passing landmarks that would show we were getting closer to Parker Wholesale Greenhouse. “We might as well have stayed home.”

  “Where’s your compassion, Bretta?” said my father from the passenger seat of my SUV. “I’m sure Mr. Tyler would prefer a few hours’ festivities over his present location.”

  Since Mr. Tyler was stretched out in his casket prepared for burial, I knew my father was right. But neither fact kept me from being grumpy. My flower shop closes at noon on Saturday, but just because the doors are locked doesn’t mean the work ceases. Lois, my second in command, had a sinus infection. I’d had no choice but to design and deliver the sympathy bouquets for Mr. Tyler’s funeral service. I’d put in seven straight days at my flower shop business and looked forward to having this day off. I’d hurried every chance I could, but we were still late for Dan and Natalie’s Customer Appreciation Day Celebration.

  We were headed south of River City, smack dab in the middle of the Missouri Ozarks. The road twined and clung to the hillsides like a serpentine trumpet vine. Fleeting breaks in the wall of foliage revealed the Osage River flowing at a leisurely pace in the valley. It was a peaceful, relaxing ride through the sun-drenched August countryside, and one I’d anticipated for weeks.

  “There’s the sign,” Dad said. “See it? Up ahead on your left.”

  “Got it,” I said, flipping the turn-signal lever. We rolled off the highway onto the private road and through an elaborate gateway made of wrought-iron curlicues. On each side of the entry a natural outcropping of limestone rock was landscaped with bright spots of sun-loving annuals tucked into soil-filled crevices. Purple verbena trailed over rugged stones. Hot pink periwinkle, portulaca, and the rich autumn tones of the rud-beckia gave a domesticated feel to the untamed tract of land.

  Dad tilted his head so he could look up the bluff. “I see a flash of sunlight on glass. Is the house up there?”

  I nodded. “The lodge where Natalie and Dan live and the commercial greenhouses, too. It’s another mile to the top of the bluff where the ground levels out.”

  “Will there be parking?” Dad touched his walking stick that was propped against the SUV’s console. “My arthritis is bothering me. I’m not up to hiking long distances.”

  “Natalie promised she’d reserve a place for us close to the lodge,” I said and tried not to roll my eyes. Arthritis might be the excuse, but knowing him, he was more concerned for the condition of his clothes.

  My father, Albert McGinness, was a natty dresser. Before we left home, I’d explained a white suit might not be the best choice for an outing to a greenhouse. jeans or shorts and a T-shirt would be the order of the day. But he’d gone ahead and decked himself out like Colonel Sanders.

  I glanced at him. He was a handsome man in his seventies. His hair was thick and gray, his eyes blue. In his younger days he’d been lean and wiry, but age and good living had added a paunch to his middle. He’d only recently come back into my life—when I was eight years old, he walked out on my mother and me. My feelings toward him were complicated. I cared about him, but I wasn’t always sure I liked him. I was making an effort, but sometimes he irritated the living daylights out of me.

  We topped the bluff and saw cars, vans, and trucks parked everywhere. “Do all these vehicles belong to florists?” asked Dad.

  “No, though I’m sure many of them do.” The lane was shady. I turned down the AC and lowered my window. “The greenhouse delivers potted plants in a radius of two hundred miles to garden centers and retail outlets as well as flower shops.”

  Dad nodded. “What’s in store for us this afternoon?”

  I reached into the side pocket of my purse and pulled out a folded paper. “Here’s the invitation, but as I said, we’ve missed all the tours.”

  Dad took the paper and smoothed the wrinkles. With gusto he read: “‘Come join the fun! Meet our growers. Tour the Parker facilities. Whole hog roast with fireworks to end the day’s gala.”’ Turning the paper over, he squinted at the smaller print used for listing the schedule. “You’re right about the tours, but we can still wander through the gardens.”

  “And,” I said, “we can eat.”

  Dad chuckled. “What about your diet?”

  I’d lost one hundred pounds after my husband, Carl, had died two years ago. Since then I’d lost and gained the same ten pounds over and over. My struggle with food was a war with daily skirmishes against my foes—ice cream, potato chips, and chocolate.

  I grimaced. “It’s August. It’s hot. I’ll be walking and sweating. I can get by with a few extra calories.”

  Dad stuffed the paper back into my purse. He made a sweeping gesture toward our surroundings. “When you said we were going to a greenhouse, I pictured some glass huts filled with plants. I had no idea it would be so big or so beautiful.”

  I slowed the SUV to a crawl, partly because of the parked cars that lined the roadway, but mostly because we were ogling. A long building that served as loading area, potting rooms, and offices fronted the fifteen greenhouses. To our left were the gardens and around the curve of the driveway would be the lodge.

  Dad touched my arm. “I hope your friends won’t mind that I’ve tagged along.”

  “They’ll be happy to meet you. You’ll like Natalie. She’s funloving and outgoing. Dan is the typical absentminded professor. He’s developing his own hybrid orchid and would rather be with his plants than socialize. Natalie says he’s so involved in his work, she can hardly get him to the house to eat or sleep.”

  “Hey, Bretta!”

  Hearing my name, I stepped on the brake. A young man dressed in the Parker Greenhouse uniform, emerald green shorts and a jade-colored T-shirt, drove up to my window in a golf cart. “Hi, Eugene,” I said. “Looks like a good crowd. Natalie promised she’d save me a parking spot.”

  Eugene was lean and tanned. His teeth, exposed by a wide grin, were white and strong. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it,” he said. “Follow me, and I’ll move the sign I used to save the space.”

  “Who’s he?” asked Dad.

  Since my window was down, I spoke softly. “His name is Eugene Baker. He phones Parker customers and takes their orders. I talk to him every week.”

  I followed Eugene up the drive and waited for him to move the sign. I parked the SUV and hopped out. Eugene said, “I’m glad you’re here. The day wouldn’t have been the same without you.”

  My father snorted
rudely.

  Eugene leaned down so he could see in my window. “You must be Bretta’s father. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. You have a fine time here today, and if there’s anything you need just look me up.” Eugene winked at me and drove off.

  I went around to help my father out. When I opened the door, Dad said, “Eddie Haskell.”

  “No,” I said patiently. “That was Eugene Baker.”

  My father frowned as he got out. “I mean he’s a suck-up like that kid on the Leave It to Beaver show. Remember? Eddie Haskell was Wally’s buddy.”

  “Yeah, well, put Eugene, Eddie, and the Beav out of your mind. Enjoy yourself, just don’t get too hot.”

  Dad smoothed the lapels of his summer suit jacket, then reached for his walking stick. Straightening his shoulders, he gazed around him. “I’m glad I brought my sketch pad. This place is a wonderland of subjects. My fingers are itching to get started, but I think I’ll meander first.”

  “Do you want to meet someplace later?”

  “I’m not here to cramp your style, daughter,” he said as he walked off.

  I gazed after him and shook my head. Since my father had reentered my life he’d taken to calling me daughter every so often. It sounded formal, but I’d decided he used it to remind me that he was the parent. It also helped to verbally establish our kinship—a fact that never slipped my mind.

  Happy that my father was content to be on his own, I scanned the area for my hostess. I spotted Natalie under a shade tree, telling a story to a group of children. Short and chunky, she wore her hair in a Dutch boy’s bob. And she loved color. Today she was dressed in Day-Glo orange shorts, shirt, socks, and sneakers.

  Natalie told her tale with comical facial expressions. She puffed out her cheeks and crossed her eyes. Leaning forward she flapped her arms, then looked around, pretending to be amazed that she hadn’t taken flight. The children responded with wild giggles. Flushed with pleasure Natalie glanced up, saw me, and flashed a happy grin before she beckoned the children closer.

  “She’s in her element,” said Emily Thomas, coming to stand near me.

  I turned and smiled at Natalie’s aunt. A stout woman, Emily usually had a capable air about her, but at the moment, she appeared frazzled. Her dark hair had been pulled back in a bun, but several pins had come loose and the knot had worked itself free. Her white shirt was stained across the pocket, and her blue shorts were wrinkled.

  I shifted my position so I could see Natalie. The picture of her surrounded by children was sweet and cozy, but it made my heart ache. Natalie couldn’t have children, a fact that devastated her. I sighed. “She would have made an excellent mother. I wish they’d adopted a child.”

  “They’ve talked about it, but the red tape involved is invasive to their personal lives. Private adoption would involve less people and paperwork, but the cost is prohibitive.” Emily made a dismissive gesture. “After the last five hours, I’ve decided kids are overrated anyway.” She reached up and anchored a couple of pins in her knot of hair. “I’m exhausted. I was elected medic for the day.”

  “No serious injuries, I hope.”

  “Just the results of a bunch of rambunctious city kids turned loose in the country. I’ve given first aid to three skinned knees, a bumblebee sting, and a little girl who had hysterics when she saw a snake. Turns out a Popsicle is the best medicine.” Emily glanced down at her stained blouse. “Grape is the flavor of the day.”

  “I don’t see Dan or your husband. Where are they?”

  Emily stopped fussing with her hair. “Haven’t you heard?”

  I shook my head. “I just got here.”

  “Dan’s mother in Portland fell and broke her hip. Then in the ambulance on the way to the hospital she had a stroke. Donovan took Dan to Lambert airport in St. Louis so he could catch a flight to Oregon. They arrived early, but the plane was late. My husband’s car was towed—too much time in the wrong zone.” Emily grimaced. “I just got a call from him. He’s finally on his way back from St. Louis, and he’s hopping mad. He was supposed to do rope tricks for the kids. We improvised with Harley giving rides in a wagon hitched to the back of the greenhouse’s all-terrain vehicle.”

  “How’s Dan’s mother?”

  “The news isn’t good. Natalie wanted to go with Dan, but it would have been more trouble to cancel today’s celebration than to go ahead.”

  I glanced back at Natalie. “She seems to be holding up okay.”

  “Yeah. She’s doing great.” A squeal erupted over by the swings. Emily sighed. “Duty calls,” she said and hurried off.

  I made my way slowly across the drive, stopping to visit with people I knew. Once I entered the garden, I strolled along the path, enjoying the sweeping borders of plants, seeking out the hidden seats tucked under rose-covered arbors. Pieces of statuary added focal points to flower beds that were a combination of perennials and annuals.

  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 complemented 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 Greenhouse? 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.