Read Going Organic Can Kill You Online
Authors: Staci McLaughlin
Going Organic Can Kill You (12 page)
If a deputy had been at the coffee shop, he’d no doubt passed the information on to Detective Caffrey. I didn’t feel like driving back to the farm tonight. And I wanted to give Heather a chance to tell the police about the necklace before I did.
“Like I said, I’m sure the kid’s the one who stabbed him.” George squeezed past me and out the door, Bethany trailing behind.
Logan didn’t seem like the killer type, but then neither did anyone else at the farm, including Sheila. And unless a stranger had snuck onto the property in the middle of the day with no one noticing, someone at that farm had stabbed Maxwell. And I needed to help the police figure out who.
12
Even with George’s retelling of the argument between Logan and Maxwell, I was back in my car by half past four. A bit early to call it a day, but by the time I drove to the farm, it’d be time to turn around and go home. No sense wasting the gas. And if a deputy was in the coffee shop during the argument, then the info about the necklace could wait until tomorrow.
I nosed out of the parking lot and drove the few blocks home. The street was empty of cars, the yards devoid of late-afternoon gardeners. In San Jose, the traffic never stopped, people milled about the sidewalks at all hours. Here, a pedestrian was a novelty.
At home, Mom dusted photos on the mantel. I recognized her red blouse with the tiny white flowers as one she had sewn herself years ago. When she saw me, she carefully set the photo of Dad back and checked the clock.
“Dana, you’re home early. Don’t tell me Esther had to let you go?”
I dropped my purse on the couch. “No, my role has been redefined. I now maintain the Web site and do odd jobs around the farm, help everyone else when they need me.”
Mom squeezed the dust rag. “That sounds iffy. She’s not keeping you on as a favor to me, is she?”
That better not be the case. Talk about humiliating. “No. She likes my work. And Esther will let me go if she runs out of chores. But I’ll pay rent as long as I can.”
At the mention of money, Mom diverted her eyes to Dad’s picture. “Oh, heavens, I’m not worried about that.”
Mom couldn’t downplay her money problems forever. I’d noticed she’d replaced all her favorite brand-name soups and yogurts with generic store brands. This from the woman who’d once declared Campbell’s was the only can worth opening. But she believed the parent’s job was to care for the child, not the other way around. We’d argued for an hour over whether or not I’d pay rent when I moved home. Mom backed down only after I insisted I needed to pay my way as a sign of my independence.
“If you’re helping with meals and cleaning rooms, at least you’ll be around the guests more,” Mom said. “You can find out who knew Maxwell.”
“Right. I just need to be careful I don’t ask too many questions, or they’ll get suspicious.”
“Do your best. Esther needs us. With her husband gone and no children, she has no one else.” She folded the dust rag into a square and stowed it in the hall closet. “Now, I’m going to gather some flowers from the yard, make a nice bouquet for the dinner table.”
“I’ll help,” I said.
I followed Mom into the backyard and donned a pair of gloves, while she grabbed two pairs of gardening shears. I squinted in the sunlight, surprised at the brightness so late in the day.
Mom handed me a set of shears. “How is Esther’s business? Did everyone pack up and go home?”
“The film crew did, everyone except Maxwell’s assistant. And a few of the other guests went home as well.”
“Too bad the film people left. I’m sure they all knew Maxwell to some extent.”
“Like I said, Logan’s staying.”
Mom snipped a rose off the bush. “If most of the guests left, how will Esther’s spa survive?”
I moved to the flowerbed. “We’ve already rented out the vacated rooms.”
“I’ll be darned. People want to stay where a man was murdered?”
“It helps that Maxwell was a famous Hollywood producer, though I’m not sure he’s as big as his assistant claims.”
“I heard that he made those terrible horror movies. Why anyone would want to watch someone get hacked to death is beyond me.”
I loved the suspense and silliness of a good horror film, but it wasn’t everyone’s cup of tomato juice. I cut a large purple flower, watching the blade slice through the green flesh, and handed it to Mom.
“Here’s a pretty one.”
Mom accepted the flower. “An allium.”
I readjusted the gloves, my fingers suffocating in the heat from the late afternoon sun. “Where did you hear about Maxwell’s horror films?”
“I ran into Daphne at the grocery store.” She plucked a snail from under a leaf and chucked it over the fence. Bet the neighbors loved that. “She was telling me how Maxwell’s ex was staying at the spa, too. Talk about a coincidence.”
“Right, Sheila Davenport. I don’t know much about her.” Except that she might have stolen an expensive necklace from Maxwell after she killed him. Maybe those two staying at the spa opening weekend wasn’t such a coincidence. But I’d wait to share that accusation with Mom until after I’d spoken with Detective Caffrey or at least had more information.
Mom set the flowers on the patio table, then moved to her lilac bush. “Sheila Davenport? Well, doesn’t that beat all. I never made the connection.”
“You know her?”
“She rented from my friend Wilma over in Mendocino for a while after her divorce. My goodness, but she was mad when Maxwell abandoned her. She was his starter wife, you know.”
“His what?”
“Starter wife. The woman a guy marries when he’s up and coming then dumps for some young floozy the minute he turns into a success. Oprah did a whole show on the topic.”
Ugh. I hated when my mom was hipper than me. “So you’ve met Sheila?”
Mom pulled a few brown petals from the clump. “Oh, sure, though I haven’t seen her in ages. But every time I visited Wilma, Sheila would be moping in the sitting room. No matter what topic you brought up, she’d launch into a tirade about her ex. Got so Wilma and I started meeting at a cafe in Fort Bragg to avoid her.”
“How long ago was this?”
Mom thought for a minute. “Let’s see, Wilma took in boarders right around the time her son needed money for his vehicular manslaughter trial. I’m sure you remember me telling you about that. Wasn’t it five or six years ago?”
Wilma’s son had gotten into trouble as long as I could remember. I couldn’t possibly keep track of all his arrests. But if Mom’s time frame was correct, would Sheila have held a grudge that long? Sounded like Sheila was plenty upset about the failure of her marriage. Had she discovered Maxwell would be staying at the spa and saw it as her chance for revenge? She’d told Kimmie that she was ultimately happy about the divorce, but she could be hiding her pain.
“How’s her jewelry business?” I asked.
“Fine, far as I know. I could ask Wilma if you’d like.”
“No, that’s okay.” Whether or not her business was a success wasn’t really related to how she felt about Maxwell, especially with the millions she’d inherited from her grandfather. And having a successful business or a truckload of money didn’t necessarily lessen the sting of being dumped.
Mom set the pruning shears on the table and laid out the flowers, trimming each stem. I hadn’t helped much with the flower cutting, but at least I’d gotten some dirt from Mom.
The screen door opened and Ashlee stuck her head out, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. “I’m starved. When’s dinner?”
“I’ll get going right now,” Mom said.
“Good. I might faint if I don’t eat soon.”
She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, not exactly the picture of someone suffering from starvation.
“How was work?” I asked, gathering up the loose stems. I tossed them onto the lilac bush, where they disappeared among the tiny branches.
Ashlee plopped into a patio chair and flapped her shirt hem to fan herself. “The usual. Except all the talk about the murder. I got to tell everyone how my own sister found the body. Britney was so jealous. All her sister’s ever done was be a guest on
Jerry Springer
.”
Jerry Springer
.”
Maybe next week I could discover who really killed Anna Nicole Smith. That’d give her something to talk about.
I tossed the pruning shears into the plastic gardening bucket and the shears clanked against the bottom. “You make it sound like finding a dead guy is as fun as winning a trip to Disneyland.”
Ashlee studied her hands. “I’m sorry. You must have been horrified.”
An apology from Ashlee was so rare that I actually felt guilty for making her feel bad enough to offer one. How silly was that?
“What else did you guys talk about?” I asked.
“Everyone who works at the farm. How Gordon yells at his gardener when the guy doesn’t trim the grass close enough.”
Sounded like Gordon all right.
“What a ladies’ man Christian is with his slick yoga moves. He especially likes the rich, older ladies,” Ashlee said, wiggling her eyebrows.
I’d only seen Christian eye Tiffany, who I’d classify more as a girl than a woman, and definitely not a rich girl. But Christian might ogle all available eye candy, not just the geriatric crowd.
Ashlee removed a tube of lip gloss from her vet frock and applied a coat while she talked. “How bad we all feel that Heather has to leave her kids with her drunk mom all day so she can scrub other people’s toilets. The troubles of a single mother.”
This observation was so profound for Ashlee that I was momentarily speechless.
“And how loopy Zennia is. What a nutbar.”
Ah, there was the Ashlee I loved and sometimes wanted to strangle.
We followed Mom into the house, where she deposited the flowers on the kitchen counter and pulled down a vase from the cupboard.
“Zennia’s not crazy,” I said as Ashlee and I sat down at the table. “She likes to eat healthy, which is a good thing.”
“I’m so glad you agree,” Mom called from the kitchen. “I know you girls are going to love this buckwheat-coated salmon with spaghetti squash.”
Ashlee and I wrinkled our noses at each other as we both reached for the fruit bowl. I selected an apple while she took a banana.
Mom leaned over the counter that divided the kitchen from the dining area. “Dinner in twenty. Don’t even think about a snack.”
I put the apple back while Ashlee slipped the banana under the table. I could see her arm move as she presumably peeled it. She glanced into the kitchen to make sure Mom was facing the stove, then popped a banana piece into her mouth. The story of my life: Ashlee does what she wants without getting caught while I obey the rules and go hungry.
I should be more of a rebel. I picked up the apple again from the bowl, then sensed danger. Mom frowned at me from the kitchen. She pointed a spatula at me and I put the apple back.
Guess I’d be a rebel tomorrow. Maybe I’d get to try out my new attitude at the spa.
13
The next morning, I parked in the lot and ran the gauntlet of reporters lobbing questions at me. The crowd was noticeably smaller today. Guess Maxwell’s death was old news, even if he’d only been killed two days ago.
I hurried down the back path, glancing over my shoulder to make sure Jason wasn’t following me this morning, and entered through the kitchen.
Esther stood near the door with a plunger in one hand and the phone receiver in the other, wet spots obvious on her denim shirt. She hung the receiver back on the wall.
“Dana, thank goodness.”
A plunger, of all things. Not a good time for someone to be so happy to see me.
“A guest’s toilet backed up this morning. I tried to fix it myself, and now water’s coming up in the bathtub. And that handyman I usually call isn’t home. Why that man doesn’t get a cell phone is beyond me. Makes me madder than a momma cat when you take her kittens away.”
I looked at the plunger, wondering where I fit in. “How can I help?” I felt obligated to ask.
“I’ve been so busy with the plumbing that I haven’t had a chance to collect the eggs from the coop. Berta gets mighty cranky when I don’t gather her offering first thing in the morning.”
Visions of clucking and pecking hens filled my mind. Unclogging the toilet might be the better choice. If only I had plumbing skills.
“Um, any tips on the best way to retrieve the eggs?” Like how not to lose an eye.
“Oh, most of the hens won’t bother you.”
Most was not the same as all. “What about the hens that will?”
Esther switched the plunger to her other hand and glanced at the rooster clock. “I usually scatter some feed out in the yard to keep them busy. The basket’s by the door to the coop,” she called out as she walked away.
Well, great. Now I could add pig catcher, towel folder, and egg collector to my résumé. Everything but marketing maven. At least I had the daily blog and web updates. My skills wouldn’t completely rust.
I left my purse in the office and headed back out the door and down the path. The sound of clucking chickens greeted me as I approached the coop, the volume increasing with each step. Two chickens pecked at the dirt outside the coop. One stopped to cluck at me as I made my way to the side of the building. I unlatched the wooden slatted door and opened it, wrinkling my nose at the stench of chicken poop in the dim quarters. As soon as I stepped inside, the chickens ran around the coop, flapping their wings and squawking.
I threw myself back out the door and slammed it shut, breathing hard. Not a good start. Looking around, I spotted the burlap bag full of feed, a scoop resting on top. I shoveled a pile out. Careful not to spill too much food, I carried the full scoop around to the front and flung the contents into the yard. Several hens emerged from their nests among a flurry of feathers and clucks. I returned to the coop and let myself back in, careful to shut the door behind me. No sense spending the day trying to catch a chicken. Unlike a pig, chickens could fly.
Two chickens waited on their nests, eyeing me and opening and closing their beaks. Their sharp, pointed beaks.
I removed the basket from the hook and stuck my hand in the first empty nest, connecting with a slimy substance. I yanked my hand back, my fingers now covered with yolk. Ick. I moved to the next nest, standing on tiptoe to peek inside. A single egg lay among the straw and loose feathers. I gently laid it in the basket, then moved down the line, listening for the clucks of any chickens returning from the yard.
After I collected a dozen eggs from the empty nests, I studied the two chickens still watching me. Did I need to gather every last egg? I had a lovely basketful. Why not let these poor chickens keep their eggs for one day?
But Esther had mentioned a cranky chicken if her egg didn’t get picked up. I wasn’t sure how you could tell whether a chicken was cranky or happy, but Esther had definitely seemed worried about it.
I approached the first chicken. “Hi, little hen. I’ve come for your egg.”
She clucked. It was fairly dark in the coop, but I swear I saw a mean glint in her eye.
I tried to slip a hand under her breast. She jerked her head forward and pecked my wrist.
“Ow!” A red dot swelled on my arm.
The chicken blinked at me. Was that a smile?
I stretched my arm out and reached around to slide my hand under the back of the chicken, trying not to acknowledge that my new job involved touching chicken butt. How degrading.
This time, the chicken stood and flapped down from her perch. I would, too, if a stranger was touching my nether regions. I retrieved the egg and faced the last chicken. She stared back, not flinching. The back approach had worked so well, I decided to try again. As I touched her tail feathers, the bird craned her head around and pecked my hand. I gave her my best “don’t mess with me” glare, but the chicken didn’t even blink.
I reached for the egg once more, but she nailed me again. I stepped back, holding my brimming basket. If this was Berta, she could be cranky for one day. I let myself out of the coop, sure I heard Berta cackling, and vowed to eat at KFC next chance I got. I’d show that chicken.
As I turned to go, sunlight glinted off an object in the dirt, partially covered by leaves. A piece of metal? A fragment of glass? Neither one belonged near animals. I stepped away from the coop to retrieve it and the door swung open. Berta must be plotting to come after me. I relatched the door, checking to verify it was secure, then focused my attention on the patch of dirt again. With my free hand, I bent over and picked up the shiny object. A money clip.
I started to turn it over when hands shoved me from behind and I fell toward the fencing. I dropped the basket as the clip was snatched from my other hand. I caught myself on the chicken wire but couldn’t stop my momentum. One knee thudded onto the hard-packed dirt.
I heard footsteps running away and craned my neck around. Branches waved back and forth where my attacker had barreled through, but no one was in sight. I pulled myself to my feet and ran along the still visible path for a few moments, then stopped. The footsteps had ceased. Everything was quiet. Whoever had pushed me was gone.
I returned to the chicken coop and picked up the basket of eggs. Two had fallen out and broken. Three more in the basket showed cracks. But the eggs weren’t too important right now, considering what had happened.
Who had shoved me? And why? To retrieve the money clip was the obvious answer. Someone felt the clip was important enough to knock me down. Was it related to the murder? Did the clip belong to Maxwell?
Now might be the time to notify Detective Caffrey. But what would I tell him? I’d found a money clip on the ground but had no idea who it belonged to. I’d been pushed down by an unknown assailant and gotten nary a glimpse of him or her. Not exactly a breakthrough in the case. And who was to say any of this was connected to Maxwell’s death?
I’d drop off the eggs and decide what to do after that. As I followed the path to the pool area, voices drifted toward me. I came around the redwood tree and spotted Christian and Sheila talking. Christian saw me, patted Sheila on the shoulder, and walked over. Sheila glanced at me, her normally styled hair uncombed, tears evident in her eyes. Was she crying about Maxwell? Or feeling guilty that she killed him? She turned and hurried toward her cabin, casting a backward glance at me.
Christian approached me, his tank top stopping just above the groin area of his biker shorts, providing no modesty. I tried not to stare. “My dear, how are you feeling?”
Was he talking to me? I glanced over my shoulder but no one was behind me.
He leaned in and gave me a hug. Startled, I automatically hugged him back, almost tipping the basket and spilling the eggs. I could feel his well-defined bicep against my back.
He released me, but kept one hand on my shoulder. “I’ve been hoping to speak with you.”
“Why?” Did that sound as rude as I thought it did?
“Because of your traumatic experience. As someone who has studied with a swami, I can help you move past your grief.”
Was he talking about what had happened by the chicken coop? But of course not. He must be referring to Maxwell’s death. “Um, actually, I’m fine. Quite a shock to find a dead man, but since I didn’t know Maxwell, I’m not that upset.” And if I were, I wouldn’t confide in some silver-tongued yoga-meister that I barely knew.
Christian put his other hand on my free shoulder and gazed into my eyes. I remembered what Ashlee had said about his smooth yoga moves and tried not to giggle. I wedged the egg basket between us.
“You may think you’re fine, but the human spirit often tamps down fear and trouble, only to have it resurface disguised as something else. Are you having trouble sleeping? Are you unusually tense?”
Only when being hit on at my workplace. “Loose as a goose,” I said.
Christian squeezed one shoulder. “I suspect you’ll discover that you’re not over this tragedy. When you do, I can help you through the dark patches. Yoga was founded on the belief that we all are but servants who report to a higher being. He has a master plan for all of us.”
Did he use this trick down at the Watering Hole? I could imagine some drunk and lonely barfly agreeing to go home with Christian as he sweet-talked her with this higher power bit.
“Thanks for asking,” I said, “but I’m okay.”
He dropped his arms, then scratched his chest through his T-shirt, harder and harder with each passing second. Not used to being rebuffed by the ladies? Perhaps my attitude was making him break out in hives. He was definitely handsome enough for me to swoon, but his intensity gave me the creeps.
“Hey, you there.” A woman in her early twenties trotted toward us, one hand raised in salutation, her ample bust practically leaping out the top of her low-cut tank. I didn’t know her name but I recognized her as one of the guests who had snagged a room after Maxwell’s death.
“You’re the yoga guy, right?” she asked Christian.
“Yes, miss. How may I be of service?”
She smoothed her long red hair. “I wanted to know about these things called chakras that a cute guy at my gym was talking about. I think he might ask me out and I don’t want to look like an idiot.”
Christian took her arm and led her to a nearby mat. “Chakras are too complex to explain to one who has not yet embraced the yoga lifestyle. Let me tell you about the classes I offer here at the spa. We can then map out your spiritual journey.”
Classes were included in the price of a guest’s stay, so I didn’t know why Christian was pushing the classes instead of answering her question. Job security? I left them by the mats and carried the eggs toward the house, the incident from the coop already fading. Really, I wasn’t hurt when I got pushed. No need to blow everything out of proportion.
In the kitchen, Esther sat with Jason at the table. Esther had changed from her denim shirt into a calico print blouse. At the sight of Jason in his navy blue button-up shirt, my heart did a little pitter-patter.
“Esther, sorry to interrupt. Didn’t know you had company. My apologies. Here are the eggs,” I rambled, setting the basket on the counter. What the hell was wrong with me?
“Dana, you’ve met Jason, right?” Esther said.
“Briefly.” Then I’d run away. Twice. But newspapermen are notoriously untrustworthy.
“With Maxwell’s death being such big news in town, Jason is dedicating most of next week’s
Blossom Valley Herald
issue to Maxwell and our little farm and spa here.”
Blossom Valley Herald
issue to Maxwell and our little farm and spa here.”
Jason stood. “Esther and I are done, and I’d like to interview you next, if you have the time. She mentioned you recently moved back to town after growing up here originally. I’d like to know what brought you back, and if you’re planning to stay.”
If Jason had a good relationship with the cops, now might be my chance to find out what they’d uncovered about Maxwell’s death. But would I be able to trick Jason into answering my questions without being too obvious?
Jason was watching me, waiting for my response.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t ask you about the murder. I’m strictly interested in you as a person.”
Why did the way he phrased that give me such a thrill?
“Esther, did you have any more work for me first?” I asked.
“I’d much rather you speak to Jason for his article. Free publicity is better than that basket of eggs you got there.”
“I guess you can interview me,” I said to Jason, careful not to appear too eager, but my insides were as scrambled as these eggs would be at tomorrow’s breakfast. Jason might be able to help me with the murder. I took a moment to wash up and steady my nerves. As I dried my hands on a dish towel, I caught a wisp of chicken odor. Great.
Jason picked up his notebook and stuffed it into his shirt pocket with his pen. “How about I buy you lunch? Then it won’t seem as formal as an interview.”
I glanced at the wall clock. Ten-thirty. “Bit early for lunch.”
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