Authors: Staci McLaughlin

Going Organic Can Kill You (3 page)

BOOK: Going Organic Can Kill You

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“I don’t know the first thing about housekeeping. I can barely keep my own room straightened.”

Heather touched her jeans pocket; the outline of the object inside reminded me of a cigarette lighter. “You wouldn’t need to clean anything. I did all the rooms this morning, but I was having trouble with the dryer and couldn’t finish the towels in time. You’d only need to pick up the dirty towels and drop off the clean ones.”

Didn’t sound too hard. “And what will you be doing?”

Heather’s face went blank. “Sorry?”

“You said you were too busy, and I was wondering what you’ll be doing while I replace the towels.”

Heather fingered the hole in her shirt. “Well, I, um, have so much, lots of different, um, things.”

Well that was nice and specific. I looked at the computer screen and half-finished document.

“You could change the towels when you get back,” I said.

“I wouldn’t want to risk having a guest get mad about dirty towels. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” She tossed the passkey at me and I automatically caught it.

Before I could protest, she’d backed out the door and disappeared.

I stared at the empty doorway, wondering what she was hiding. A secret rendezvous with a boyfriend? A sudden aversion to dryer fluff?

I heaved myself out of the desk chair and headed for the laundry room. I studied the old washer and dryer, relics from the seventies. If Esther was going to make this farm a success, she’d have to upgrade her laundry unit. The dryer alone was a huge energy hog. But I knew she’d sunk her entire savings into building the cabins and renovating the public portion of the house. After a few booked weekends and the revenue that would come with them, she could focus on the behind-the-scenes maintenance.

The clean white towels were stacked neatly on a shelf, a maid’s cart with a rolling hamper parked nearby. I placed the towels on the cart and pushed the cart out the door. When the wheels hit the sash, the cart wobbled and threatened to topple. The bright white towels cascaded to the floor. I muttered under my breath, refolded and restacked the towels, then placed one hand on top to avoid a repeat performance.

I wheeled the cart out the door and down the path toward the cabins. I passed the pool area where Tiffany lounged in a deck chair in the world’s tiniest red bikini, a butterfly tattoo appearing to flutter on her right thigh as she rocked her leg back and forth. Christian was now leading two guests in Pilates, but he glanced at Tiffany every few seconds. Esther had mentioned a “No Fraternizing with Guests” policy, but the sight of Tiffany’s tattoo had apparently erased that discussion from Christian’s memory.

Oh, well, not my problem.

Past the pool, the cabins waited. The walls of each cabin touched its neighbor, giving the appearance of one long building, the rough-hewn wood giving the place a rustic air. Each cabin had a square window that faced the pool, the water reflected in the panes.

I slowed the cart and stopped at the first cabin. What exactly was the procedure here? While I’d received plenty of clean towels in my time, I’d never delivered them. Should I knock? Listen at the door for any sounds?

I knocked, waited thirty seconds, then yelled, “Hello? I have towels.” No response. I let myself in with the passkey.

The room was devoid of personal items, making me wonder for a moment if the cabin was vacant. I was sure Esther had sold out for the big weekend. I spotted a zipped-up suitcase in the corner and decided this client must be one of those people who didn’t unpack when they went on vacation.

I looked at the towels in my hand, then at the lonely room. I couldn’t leave it so empty. Spreading out a bath towel on the bed, I rolled up both sides, then curved one end to create a neck, recalling the trick I’d learned when my parents dragged me to a towel origami class on our one and only cruise a few summers ago. I quickly made a matching shape and set them on the bed, two swans facing one another, their necks and heads forming a heart. Let’s hope the occupant wasn’t on a solo retreat to recover from a failed relationship. That could be awkward.

I headed for the next room. Again, no one was home, but this time it was evident someone was staying here. Stockings and shoes were strewn across the floor. A Hollywood rag I didn’t recognize was spread over the coffee table, Brangelina staring back at me from the page. The bathroom counter was covered in make-up jars and tubes. I wasn’t even sure what some of the products were for. Based on the shiny gold minidress laid out on the bed, I guessed this was Tiffany’s room. If she wore the dress to dinner, it would at least distract everyone from whatever invention Zennia was whipping up. I changed the towels and left.

Next door, costume jewelry was scattered across the coffee table, large colored beads and plastic crystals lying loose among other pieces. A catalog lay at the end. On the nightstand, a jewelry case sat alone, its velvet exterior proclaiming its value. I glanced over my shoulder, though I knew I was alone in the room, and cracked the case open.

I gasped.

A ruby and diamond necklace was nestled on a satiny pillow. I snapped the box closed and let go of it like the fire in the diamonds was burning my hands. Who would leave such a valuable-looking piece lying around in their room? That necklace belonged in a safe. I swapped out the towels and hurried out, feeling guilty, and all I’d stolen was a peek.

The next room held a case of Evian water, a bag of silverware, three new packages of boxer briefs, and a laptop computer. The open closet door revealed starched white dress shirts and khaki slacks. Logan, Maxwell’s assistant, must be staying here.

Three rooms down, seven to go.

I wheeled the cart down to the next room and stopped. After my usual knock and thirty-second wait, I tried the knob. The door was closed but not latched. Had someone not latched the door on their way in or out? I knocked again, this time a little softer, listening for any sound. Nothing.

I pushed the door open and stuck my head in. Down the short hall, a pair of feet hung off the edge of the bed. I promptly withdrew.

Shoot, someone was napping. Finish the rest of the rooms first and come back in hopes they’d be awake? But with so few rooms, I’d be finished in another ten or fifteen minutes. I’d better sneak in and try not to wake whoever was asleep.

I left the cart outside the door, grabbed a fresh stack of towels, and stepped inside, pausing on the threshold. No response from the feet on the bed. I took a few steps forward, noting a book called
The History of Yoga
sitting on the coffee table, along with a laptop and small printer. Now that I was inside the room, I could see it was a man. Another two steps and I spotted the price tag sticking out of Maxwell’s yoga pants.

Didn’t that tag itch?

I studied his inert form, both hands bent at the elbows and tucked under his body. Odd way to sleep, but at least I hadn’t disturbed him yet. I stepped with a little more confidence now and quickly entered the bathroom. As I picked the bath towel off the floor, I heard a phone ring. My hand flew to my pocket, but I’d left my phone in my purse back at the house. The ringing was coming from the bed.

Shoot, what was Maxwell going to say when he woke up and saw me in his bathroom?

“I’m here to replace your towels,” I called over my shoulder, throwing a clean towel on the rod and turning around.

The phone rang again. Maxwell hadn’t moved. Either he was a sound sleeper or something was wrong.

I stepped over to the bed and looked at Maxwell’s face.

His eyes were wide open but unfocused.

And what was that funny smell?

Holy crap. Maxwell was dead.

I stumbled back, gripping the bathroom doorway behind me to keep from falling. Holding the wood frame, I waited for my breathing to steady, the crackers in my stomach threatening to rise up. After several inhalations, the nausea passed. Throwing up next to a dead guy would not be good.

I looked once more at Maxwell, my stomach doing another flip-flop, then released the doorframe. I didn’t fall over. So far so good. I took a tentative step forward and stopped.

Maxwell’s wide-open eyes seemed to call to me from the bed and I glanced over. Was he truly dead? What if he had a pulse?

I inched to the edge of the bed and held my index and middle fingers near his neck. God, I was about to touch a dead guy. Why, oh why? But if the tiniest of chances existed that he might be alive, I had to know. I squeezed my eyes shut and thrust my fingers forward until they made contact, shuddering at the cool flesh. I held my breath and counted to fifteen, not detecting the slightest flutter. Maxwell was definitely dead. I jerked my hand back.

How had he died? He’d looked healthy at yoga class. But people dropped dead of heart attacks all the time, even those in their mid-fifties, as Maxwell appeared to be. I needed to call the police. And tell Esther.

Poor Esther. A death on opening weekend would completely unravel her. After all the time and effort she’d put into the farm and spa, only to have somebody die. And a Hollywood somebody at that. The press would gobble it up.

A piece of white paper sat on the nightstand, a stark contrast to the brown of the oak. It was the only item on the wood surface. Had Maxwell killed himself? Was this his suicide note?

I glanced at the door, then back at the note. I needed to call the police and I’d left my cell back at the house.

But Esther would want to know how Maxwell died, and the note might tell me. I stepped up to the nightstand and leaned over, careful not to touch anything. Police on those cop shows were always lecturing people about not touching evidence. I wasn’t sure the note was evidence, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

A feminine scrawl, full of loops and curls, stated, “You know you want me. Meet me behind the chicken coop at eleven tonight.” The letter was unsigned.

Definitely not a suicide note.

But who had given it to him? Sheila, the woman he was watching at yoga?

I’d have to think about it later. Right now, I needed to get back to the main house, alert the cops, and prepare Esther for the onslaught of reporters. If Maxwell was the hotshot producer that Logan claimed he was, the paparazzi would be camped out as soon as the news hit the Web.

I hurried from the cabin, making sure to lock the door behind me on my way out. No sense having a guest accidently stumble onto a dead body while I was away.

Although I felt like I’d been in the cabin for hours, it must have been only minutes. The sun was still high in the sky, the warmth bouncing up from the cement path. The faint sound of splashing in the pool reached my ears, along with laughter and the occasional shout. The guests wouldn’t be laughing for long. Maxwell’s death was sure to cast a pall over the coming week.

Brushing these thoughts aside, I hastened down the path, past the crowded pool, and into the coolness of the house. The kitchen was empty, Zennia on her afternoon break before dinner preparations. The homey rooster clock and the gingham curtains were at odds with the tragedy I had to report. I hurried through the room to the nearby office, where I picked up the telephone receiver with a trembling hand and punched the nine, followed by two ones.

An operator came on the line at once, asking my emergency.

“I’m at the O’Connell Organic Farm and Spa. One of the guests has died.”

“What is your name?” The voice was smooth and unhurried.

“Dana Lewis. I work here at the spa.”

“Do you know the identity of the deceased?”

Barely. We’d hardly met. Yet ... I suddenly felt close to him. “He’s Maxwell Mendelsohn, a guest at the spa.” My thoughts were jumbled together, piling on top of each other.

“And you’re sure he’s dead?”

I remembered the glassy stare, the odd smell, the lack of pulse. “I’m sure.”

“Are there any signs of injury or trauma?”

“No, none that I could see. I think he had a heart attack.”

“And where are you in relation to the body?”

The body. So impersonal. “He’s back in his cabin and I’m at the main house.”

“All right, paramedics are on the way. They should arrive in a few minutes so you need to be available to meet them.”

I hung up and sat down in the desk chair. How to break the news to Esther? She appeared so fragile at times. Would she be able to handle the death of a guest? While I didn’t always get along with Gordon, I was suddenly glad he was manager of the farm. He’d be able to handle the day-to-day operations if Esther fell apart.

Heather walked past the open door, then popped back. “Dana, any trouble with the towels?” Her tongue ring glinted once more.

I stared at her for a moment, unable to process her question. What towels? Then my mind flashed on an image of a clean white towel on the rack just before I turned around and realized Maxwell was dead. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Heather was watching me, one finger twirling a tendril of hair.

“What’s wrong? You okay?”

I stood up. “Do you know where Esther is? I need to talk to her.” I started for the door.

Heather untwined the hair and clutched my arm. “Can’t you handle it yourself? You know how crazy she’s been about the grand opening.”

“No. It’s important that I find Esther. Now.” I brushed past her and walked out into the hall.

“Please, Dana. There are two sides to every story,” Heather called after me.

What on earth was she talking about? A man was dead. That was the whole story.

In the distance, I could hear the wail of sirens. With the farm several miles from town, I hadn’t expected them so soon. I had to find Esther before the emergency crew arrived.

The lobby was empty so I headed upstairs to Esther’s living area. I’d only been up here on one other occasion, but I knew the basic layout. The first door led to an extra bedroom she’d converted to a sitting room, the next to a bathroom, and the master bedroom was at the end of the hall. I poked my head into the sitting room. A half-knitted green shawl and a basket of matching yarn waited by the wing chair. I continued to the bedroom door and knocked.

“Yes?” a voice called out.

“Esther, it’s Dana. Something’s happened.”

The door flew open. Esther stood with one eyebrow drawn in, the make-up pencil clutched in her hand. Her gray hair was damp from her shower. “Oh, lord, what’s wrong?”

I took Esther’s free hand and guided her to the sitting room, patting the rose-colored divan and sitting down myself. The coils were stiff, the cushion too firm. She must not bring a lot of people up here.

I looked at Esther and her one eyebrow, trying to form the words. “I don’t know how to say this ...”

“Dana! Where are you?” Gordon’s voice roared up the stairs.

Uh-oh. Based on his tone, the police had arrived.

Esther bolted off the sofa. “He sounds so angry. I’d better go, too.” She ran for the stairs.

“Wait.” I sprinted after her, surprised by her sudden speed, and bounded down the steps behind her.

Gordon stood at the foot of the stairs, flanked by two deputies, a duo of paramedics standing behind them. Both paramedics were men in their late twenties, one with blond hair and the other with black. The blond one held a medical kit. Out the window, I could see an ambulance in the lot, a fire truck parked nearby. Esther halted at the bottom and gasped at the group.

“What the hell are the police doing here?” Gordon asked, his arms crossed over his chest, wrinkling his suit jacket lapels.

Esther raised her eyebrows in alarm. “I have no idea. You didn’t call them?”

Gordon stared at me. “Apparently Dana did.”

Everyone turned in my direction. With six sets of eyes staring at me, my mind went blank. “Maxwell’s dead,” I blurted. So much for easing into it and not shocking Esther.

Esther recoiled while Gordon’s mouth dropped open. “What?” he asked, his usual bravado gone.

One of the deputies pulled out a notebook and flipped it open. He was shorter than my five foot five inches and a good hundred pounds heavier, all muscle from the look of his biceps straining against his uniform. His name tag read WILLIAMS.

“Are you the one who called?” he asked me.

I nodded. “I was changing towels in the guest rooms when I found him.”

Gordon stepped forward, blocking the deputy. “And he was dead? Sure he wasn’t napping?”

Deputy Williams placed a hand on Gordon’s arm, and he stepped back. “Please, sir, let me handle this.”

Gordon pressed his lips together and nodded.

“Now, ma’am ...” Deputy Williams said.

I was instantly distracted. Ma’am! I was only twenty-eight, for crying out loud. Hardly
ma’am
territory.
Focus, Dana, a man is dead
. He could call me
sir
or
hey you
for all it mattered. I tuned back in.

“... where the body is,” Deputy Williams was saying.

“I found Maxwell in his cabin.”

The other deputy spoke up. Like a bad cop comedy, he was over six feet and rail thin, the exact opposite of his partner. I wasn’t even sure how he held up his duty belt. “You need to take us there.”

Not something I was looking forward to, but it’d make the cops’ jobs easier. “Follow me.” I led the way out of the house and down the path. My trip past the pool this time was met with silence and curious stares. I spotted Tiffany and Christian but no one met my look. They were all eyeing the cops and paramedics.

I stopped outside Maxwell’s cabin. The towel cart was where I’d parked it. Heather would need to finish the other rooms. No way would I walk into another cabin unannounced.

I gestured to the door and handed Deputy Williams the key. “This is it.” I made no effort to unlock the door myself. I’d seen enough on my first trip. “Esther, let’s wait out here.”

Deputy Williams had opened the door, and now he turned back. “You all need to stay put.”

Gordon tugged on his jacket lapels. “As the manager of the farm, I need to know everything that happens so I can deal with the guests and media appropriately.”

“Sir, until we know what happened, you’ll have to wait out here. This may be a crime scene.”

Crime scene? I swallowed the lump that had suddenly materialized in my throat. Surely Maxwell had died of natural causes. This was Blossom Valley, for crying out loud.

The deputies disappeared into the room, the two paramedics following. Esther clutched my arm, and I patted her hand.

“I’m sure it’s fine. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry.” Gordon snorted. “A man’s died at the spa. I need to tend to the guests. Make sure the sight of these emergency vehicles isn’t upsetting anyone.” He turned and walked back toward the house, his jacket flapping as he moved.

Esther let out a whimper. “If only it wasn’t opening weekend. People won’t stay here when they find out a guest died. I’ll lose the farm.”

I loosened Esther’s hold on my arm and hugged her shoulders, feeling more like a parent than an employee. “People will understand. One man’s death from a heart attack is not going to close the place down.”

As I said this last bit, the paramedics emerged from the room, stripping off their latex gloves.

“Who said anything about a heart attack?” the blond one asked. “This man’s been murdered.”

BOOK: Going Organic Can Kill You

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