Authors: Staci McLaughlin

Going Organic Can Kill You (11 page)

BOOK: Going Organic Can Kill You

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I left Heather arranging the magazines and stepped outside, inhaling a lungful of late spring air. Should I mention to the police what Heather had told me about the necklace? Or would that get her into trouble she didn’t deserve? My idea that Sheila had killed Maxwell and stolen the necklace was speculation at best and lunacy at worst. I’d see what else I could discover before I decided.

I dug my cell phone from my pocket and glanced at the time. If I left now, I could stop for a quick bite at McDonald’s before the committee meeting at four. The stuffed squash blossom had temporarily sated my empty stomach, but I could sense the rumblings. And after all this healthy eating, nothing sounded better than an artery-clogging, sugar-laden treat.

Back in the house, I grabbed my purse from the office desk, filled in my time sheet, and then peeked out the front door to recon the media situation. In a corner of the lot, a group stood in a semicircle, their backs to me. In between their shoulders and hips, I could see Tiffany speaking into a cluster of microphones, her silver micro dress making her glow like a spirit in the afternoon sunlight. At least she hadn’t risked a sprained ankle in her four-inch stilettos for nothing.

I slipped out the door and sidled down the sidewalk toward my car, glad I’d worn my silent Keds as I stepped across the concrete. All eyes stayed on Tiffany. She twirled a lock of hair and pouted her lips as she spoke. I slid into my car and pulled out of the lot without interruption.

I motored to town and swung into the McDonald’s parking lot, where I had the pick of parking spaces at three thirty in the afternoon. After wolfing down some Chicken McNuggets and a chocolate shake, I drove to the town hall.

On this end of town, business was faring no better than the main strip. Father Time Antiques had folded, along with the Here’s to Your Health natural foods store. Zennia had probably wept over that closure. At least the Going Back for Seconds clothing store was still open.

Growing up, I’d been accustomed to all the cute store names the town council insisted on. Now, hearing the names as an adult, they were starting to sound downright silly. And creative names brought in no additional business, as far as I could see.

On a Sunday, the town hall parking lot was about as busy as McDonald’s and I parked in front. A blue jay squawked at me from a twisted pine as I walked up the path to the entrance. I pulled open one of the double glass doors and stepped inside. The door swished shut behind me, effectively blocking out the small amount of street noise.

The town hall was Blossom Valley’s pride and joy. Marble flooring shone in the overhead lights. A double staircase rose up on either side of me. A plaque atop an oak stand in the middle of the lobby announced that the town had been founded in 1857 by William Kendall, who named it after the acres of flowers he first spotted upon cresting the nearby hills and discovering the valley.

I took the stairs on the left and found myself in a dimly lit hallway. At the end, a doorway glowed, as if welcoming my approach. Inside the room, two long folding tables ran down the center, surrounded by metal chairs. The thin carpet under my feet was splotched with coffee stains and occasional rips and tears. Apparently the adoring public was only supposed to see the lobby. The town hadn’t bothered to dress up the conference rooms.

In one of the chairs at the end of the table, an older woman doodled on a tablet. Her graying hair was swept up in a bun, a garland of daisies encircling the base. An orchid sat behind her ear.

The woman caught me studying her flora. “Hi, I’m Bethany. I own the Don’t Dilly-Dahlia flower shop.”

I held out a hand and we shook. “I’m Dana Lewis. I’m filling in for Esther today.”

She tilted her head to study me, the orchid dipping toward the table. “Esther and I have been friends since grade school, you know. How is she holding up with this dreadful murder?”

If they’d really been friends since school, shouldn’t Bethany have called Esther by now to ask how she was feeling?

“As well as can be expected,” I said.

“For Esther, that’s not drowning in a puddle of tears every five minutes. She reminds me of how tulips droop when you don’t water them. Don’t know how that woman plans to run an entire spa on her own.”

Maybe Bethany not calling Esther was a good thing. Might depress her dear childhood friend.

A rustling behind me drew my attention away from Bethany. I turned to see a man with a gray crew cut enter the room, dressed in a brown suit you could only find in a retro store nowadays and carrying a battered briefcase.

The man stuck his hand out. “George Sturgeon. I’ve got the Spinning Your Wheels tire shop at the edge of town.”

Those names just sounded sillier and sillier. I shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Dana, Esther’s sub for today.”

“Esther must be all tore up with this murder on opening weekend. The whole town was counting on her to bring in tourists,” George said. “’Course we’ll have to review her membership here.”

“But Esther didn’t kill the man,” I said. “In fact, Maxwell’s death has increased the number of tourists and newspeople spending money around town.”

“That won’t last. Once the news crews go home, people will only remember a man died at that spa. Can’t have the bad energy run over into the committee.”

He sat next to Bethany, who had pulled the daisy chain out of her hair and was ripping off petals one by one.

I sat down across from them, wincing as the seat’s torn vinyl poked my thigh. “I’m sure people won’t blame the committee for what happened.”

Bethany dropped the petals on the tabletop. “Don’t bet on it. George is right. We may need to cut her loose.”

With friends like these ...

George set his briefcase on the floor by his chair and extracted a sheaf of papers and a pen. “Dana, tell me what other committees you’ve been on.”

“When I was ten, my best friend and I formed the Kids against Green Vegetables committee.” We’d managed to raise fifty cents but then Mom grounded me when I refused to eat my broccoli, and we’d disbanded the committee shortly thereafter. “Does that count?” I asked.

Bethany tugged a petal so hard, the daisy head popped off the stem. “Not really.”

“Nothing else?” George asked.

“Um, no. But remember, I’m only attending this one meeting.”

“God,” he muttered. “First this murder, now Esther sends you in her place.”

No wonder Esther hadn’t wanted to face the committee. What a couple of twerps.

“I’m here for this one meeting. I won’t embarrass your committee.” I checked the wall clock and saw it was a few minutes past four. Perhaps the rest of the members would arrive any moment and take the attention off me.

“How many others are you expecting?” I asked.

“Oh, we’re it,” Bethany said. “Roses in a town of weeds. No one else cares enough about this place to dedicate the time and energy we do.”

I looked from Bethany to George and back. “The entire Blossom Valley Rejuvenation Committee is three people? And you’re hassling me about my lack of experience? You should be thrilled I even volunteered to fill in for Esther.”

George glowered. “Sending an extra body doesn’t help much.”

I could be nice up to a point, but I had limits, and George had reached them. I stood. “Fine. Then I’ll leave.”

Bethany thrust her arm across the table in an attempt to stop me. “Wait.” She turned to George. “She’s like the trellis for a bougainvillea. We’ll need her support at the contest.”

George rubbed the stubble on his head. “Didn’t mean to get you all riled up. Go on and stay.”

I sat back down, though I wasn’t exactly ecstatic. But Esther had made it clear that this committee was dear to her heart.

“Let’s try this again,” I said.

Bethany leaned forward. “Thank you. We do need your help. Imagine poor George and me putting on the cricket-chirping contest alone. It’d be like repotting a hundred petunias with a baby spoon.”

Good Lord, make this woman stop with the flower metaphors.

“Esther mentioned the cricket contest,” I said. “Something about twenty contestants already lined up.”

“That’s actually less people than last year,” Bethany said. “’Course, we did have that little mishap.”

“Mishap?” Couldn’t be worse than birds eating the contestants in the worm races.

Bethany lowered her eyes. “The winner accidentally set the trophy down on his pet cricket. Squashed the poor little thing.”

“What a mess,” George said.

An awkward silence filled the room. I could have heard a cricket chirp, had one been hiding in the corner.

“Tell me what needs to be done for the festival,” I said.

George uncapped his pen. “The contest is on Tuesday, down at the fairgrounds. I’ll need you there by one to set up the tables and chairs.”

Wait, what was happening here? I’d only volunteered to attend the meeting. “I’ll tell Esther. I’m sure she’ll want to help herself.”

“Either way, make sure someone is there at one,” George said. “I’ll be judging the event. Bethany, you’re in charge of manning the door and showing contestants where to set up at the tables.” He turned to Bethany. “Did you want to say anything?”

Bethany swept her daisy petals into a pile. “You covered it all.”

George stood up and stuffed his papers back in his briefcase. “Great. Meeting adjourned. I’ll type up the notes.”

He hadn’t taken any notes, but considering the actual meeting was about three minutes long, I guess he could remember the details.

“That’s it?” I asked.

“We pride ourselves on getting in and getting out,” George said.

Bethany rose from the table as well, so I stood up.

“Nice meeting you both,” I said.
Nice
wasn’t the correct word.
Mildly unpleasant
was more accurate, but Mom had raised me to be polite, even if I had to lie.

George snapped the clasp on his case. “I hope the police clear up the murder, for Esther’s sake. I don’t want to boot her off the committee.”

“I’m sure the cops will make an arrest soon.” I stepped away from the table, ahead of George and Bethany.

“In my book, that guy’s assistant did it,” George added.

I was almost out the door but stopped and turned back. “What did you say?”

“His assistant, that skinny kid.”

“Logan?”

George shrugged. “Dunno. But he needs a haircut.”

That was Logan. “What makes you think he’s responsible for Maxwell’s death?”

“You know how kids are these days. That sense of entitlement, the idea they can do no wrong. And Maxwell was sure insulting him down at the Daily Grind, right in front of the other customers. I bet the kid got so mad that he killed his boss.”

Words failed me for a moment. When I had spoken with Logan at lunch, he hadn’t mentioned any fight with Maxwell. Was that because he was worried about being implicated in the murder or because he wasn’t nearly as upset as George believed him to be?

“Did you hear what Maxwell said?” I asked.

“Guess the kid wrote a screenplay that he’d asked his boss to read. There’s that sense of entitlement I was talking about, thinking you should be first in line just because you work for the guy.” George poked himself in the chest. “Back in my day, you got somewhere through grit and determination.”

If George got sidetracked with the downfall of today’s youth, we’d be here until dinnertime. “Maxwell didn’t like the screenplay?”

“Said it was terrible. I believe his exact words were that he’d be saving the pages to housetrain his next puppy.”

Ouch.

“And what did Logan say?” I asked, suddenly feeling like I could give Detective Caffrey some competition in the interrogation department.

“He didn’t say nothing, wimpy little kid. Stood there like a statue and got all pale. Then he grabbed the pages from Maxwell and ran out. Not that he ran far. When I picked up my coffee and left, he was sitting out in that Mercedes, waiting to drive his boss somewhere. No spine in that one.”

Bethany’s fingers twitched as she stroked the orchid behind her ear, no doubt imagining the phone in her hand as she dialed her friends with this info.

Between what Heather had told me about the necklace and now George’s description of Logan and Maxwell arguing at the coffee shop, a call to Detective Caffrey might be in order. I’d promised Esther to pass along any info that might help the police. Anything to speed up their investigation and remove this stain from the spa’s reputation. If only I hadn’t left his business card under the keyboard back in the office.

“Do you think the police know about the fight?” I asked.

George glanced at the clock and walked toward the door. “One of the deputies and his wife were sitting at a table when all this happened.”

BOOK: Going Organic Can Kill You

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