“I’m ready,” I said, holding up my paddle.
“I won.”
“What?”
“I won the game,” he said again.
I dropped my paddle on the table. “No fair. You distracted me with all this commune nonsense. I couldn’t concentrate on the game.”
“I figured your superior Ping-Pong skills would pull you through,” he said.
“Ha, throw my words back in my face, why don’t you?” But I was only kidding. I walked around the table to shake his hand. “Good game.”
He took my hand in his and pulled me close. “You can do better than that.”
We locked lips, and I felt a sizzle run through my body.
“I’d let you win more often, if I knew that would happen,” I said.
“Who says we need a reason?” He kissed me again.
We headed into the house, and Jason hit the button to close the garage door on the way by.
“Care for a drink?” he asked.
I checked the time on the microwave. “Iced tea would be nice, if you have any. But I’ll have to make it quick. I have to be at the farm early tomorrow to serve those omelets.”
Jason grabbed a bottle of iced tea from the refrigerator and poured the contents into a glass. He got himself a soda, and we both sat on the leather sofa in his living room. He took a swig of his soda and settled back into the cushions with a contented sigh.
I laid a hand on his knee. “You seem pretty relaxed for someone who’s been writing about murder,” I said.
“You know how it goes. Lots of activity at the outset, then a lull if the police don’t make an immediate arrest. My articles can only rehash the crime scene so many times before people lose interest.”
“Do the police have a suspect in mind?” I knew Jason and Detective Palmer had a fairly cordial relationship for a newsman and a cop. The detective would occasionally share extra details under the agreement that the information wouldn’t immediately show up in the Herald.
“Not that they’ve mentioned.”
“Any idea how long Birch was dead?”
Jason leaned forward and set his can on a coaster. “Less than an hour, since we know exactly what time Frank dropped him off and when Zennia found him.”
“Detective Palmer must be happy that they can narrow down the time of death.”
He rubbed his goatee. “Without a suspect to focus on, it doesn’t help all that much.”
“What about the cause of death? Have the police found the murder weapon?”
Jason nodded. “Strangled with his own necklace.”
I shivered, remembering the beaded necklace Birch had been wearing at the farmers market. “The one with all the beads? I made a similar bracelet at Zennia’s house, but I can’t imagine that string is strong enough to strangle anybody with.”
“Birch’s was made from fishing line.”
An image of fishing line cutting into soft flesh sprang to mind. That brought a bigger shiver. I wondered if the beads covering the line lessened the pain any, or if it even mattered since he ended up dead anyway. “Did Frank notice anything out of the ordinary when he dropped Birch off?”
“Nope. Being that early, the neighborhood was quiet. He vaguely remembers a woman walking her dog, but couldn’t provide the police with a good description. The cops are canvassing the area to see if they can locate her.”
“They don’t think a lady with a dog killed Birch, do they?”
“No, but she might have seen something useful.”
“Good point. Maybe a suspicious vehicle or even a person talking to Birch while he waited for Zennia,” I said. “But I’d like to think if she possessed that kind of information, she would have called the police by now.”
“People don’t always like to get involved,” Jason said.
I stood up from the couch. “I should get home. Five o’clock comes awfully early.”
“No kidding,” Jason said. “I try to sleep right through that part of the morning, unless there’s a major story to cover.” He rose from the couch, took my glass from me, and set it on another coaster. “If the omelet causes you problems, give me a call and maybe I can walk you through it. I’d go out there to help, but I have work.”
“You’ve already been a huge help.”
He put his hands on my shoulders and stepped forward for a good night kiss so intense that it would last me the entire drive home, maybe even part of the night. When we pulled apart, he swiped my bottom lip with his thumb. “Drive safe.”
I let out my breath. “With that kiss, I’ll be lucky if I can walk, let alone drive.”
Jason gave me a wink and escorted me to my car. I got in and started the engine.
The sky had turned dark while we’d been sitting on his sofa, and I flipped on my headlights as I pulled away from the curb. My lips still tingled from Jason’s kiss, but my mind mulled over everything from omelets to murder.
* * *
The next morning, my hands were coated with egg yolks, the farm’s kitchen was a mess, and I was cursing my decision to help with the cooking during Zennia’s absence. As planned, I’d arrived early and retrieved the freshly laid eggs from inside the nests of Berta and the other chickens. After collecting a basketful of eggs, I’d squeezed a pitcher of orange juice, then got cocky preparing the omelets and tried to crack the eggs with one hand like I’d seen on TV. Now there were eggshells on the floor, my fingers were covered in slime, and I wasn’t sure there were enough eggs for breakfast.
Gordon walked in as I was wiping up yolk from the floor. He took one look at the goop and stepped back, checking the bottoms of his shiny wingtips to make sure he hadn’t stepped in egg. “I wanted to see how breakfast preparations are going. Should I retrieve Esther to assist you?”
“No need. I’ve had a minor setback, but everything’s under control.” A total lie, but I didn’t want Gordon second-guessing me on my first solo breakfast attempt.
“All right. Well, another guest checked in last night. You should have seven guests for breakfast.”
I glanced at the remaining eggs in the bowl. “No problem.” Maybe I could bulk up the omelets with extra vegetables. That thought reminded me that I needed to cut up the vegetables.
“I’ll leave you to it.” He cast another look at the state of the kitchen and left with a shake of his head.
Once he was gone, I kicked into high gear, grabbing anything produce-related from the refrigerator and stacking it all on the kitchen table for further inspection. After I’d sorted through the pile, I washed and chopped a bunch of baby spinach and cut up a carton of mushrooms and a bell pepper, although the pieces were all different sizes.
When I’d finished the prep work, I peeked around the corner into the dining room and gulped. Diners were sitting at two of the tables. I hastily filled a water pitcher and brought it out to the sideboard with the juice. “Help yourselves,” I called out before rushing back to the kitchen to brew coffee. How had I forgotten to make coffee? Everyone drank coffee.
I ground the beans and added water to the machine. While the coffee percolated, I placed a skillet on the stove and turned on the burner, running through Jason’s steps from last night in my head. After I’d slid the omelet from the skillet to the plate, I stepped back to mentally pat myself on the back. Julia Child couldn’t have done better herself. Well, she probably could have, but the omelet looked pretty decent to me.
While I was on a streak, I decided to do another omelet. I poured more eggs into the skillet, grabbed the now-full coffeepot from the machine, and headed into the dining room. A lone man had taken a seat near the door, and I stopped at his table first.
“Coffee?”
“What kind?” he asked.
“Dark roast, fair trade, and organic,” I said, repeating the words I’d seen on the package. “Fresh brewed.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
I filled his cup and moved to the next table, pouring coffee for whoever requested it. The moment I’d
filled the last cup, I carried the almost-empty carafe out of the dining room.
As I stepped into the hall, I caught an unpleasant whiff and sniffed the air. Uh-oh. I ran back to the kitchen to find that the eggs I’d left cooking in the skillet had dried up and were now a tiny, charred mess.
I plunked the carafe on the counter, switched off the burner, and dumped the eggs in the sink. I should have known better than to leave the kitchen while I was cooking eggs. I took a deep breath, tried to clear my mind, and started over. This time, I stayed right by the stove, but when I tried to fold the omelet, the eggs stuck to the skillet.
I felt panic well up as I stared grimly into the dwindling bowl of eggs. I couldn’t afford to keep making mistakes. I tried to dislodge the omelet from all sides, but the eggs refused to budge. They were dangerously close to overcooking.
In desperation, I stirred the vegetables and eggs into a scrambled pile and dumped the contents on a plate. I looked between the messy heap and the pristine omelet on the other plate. I grabbed a fork and knife and cut up the perfect omelet until it matched the other one. Picking up both plates, I plastered a smile on my face and carried them out.
“Who was here first?” I said to the dining room in general.
A woman at one table raised her hand. “We were, but I don’t eat eggs.”
I swung around to the couple at the other table. “I only want coffee,” the man said.
“Perfect.” I dropped off one plate at one table and the other at the second table. “I’ll be right back with a bagel and fruit cup for you,” I said to the woman.
“And I’ll take more coffee,” said the man.
“I’ll take anything,” the guy dining alone said, holding up his now-empty cup.
“Of course. I’ll be right back.” I rushed back to the kitchen, thankful so few guests were waiting. I had no idea how Zennia handled a full dining room.
After a flurry of activity and serious sweating on my part, I managed to serve food to everyone, including the final two guests who showed up as the earlier diners started to leave. Once the dining room emptied, I cleared the dishes, stripped the linens from the table, threw them in the wash, and sank into a dining room chair. I put my arms on the table, laid my head on top, and closed my eyes.
“Break time already?”
I jolted up in the chair, my heart hammering.
Gordon stood in the dining room doorway, his usual frown firmly in place.
“The diners are fed, the tablecloths are in the washer, and I’m resting for a minute.”
“I suppose you’ve earned it,” he conceded. “Besides, you’ll need your strength for lunch service.”
My insides plummeted. Holy crap, I’d forgotten about lunch.
I forced a chuckle. I didn’t want Gordon to know how panicked I was. “Lunch . . . right, no problem. I’ll have to remember to make enough for me, too.”
“How you handle your own lunch is entirely up to you. You can wait to eat until after the guests have finished dining, or you can take a lunch break before you start cooking.”
“Before,” I blurted out so fast that Gordon raised his eyebrows. “I ate breakfast early this morning, and I’m hungry,” I said. In actuality, I’d be using my break to run into town and find something to serve the guests for lunch, even if I bought the food from another restaurant. But Gordon didn’t need to know that.
“All right, but give yourself plenty of time. We don’t want the diners waiting.”
“I’ll be back in time.”
I went into the kitchen to clean up the mess from breakfast, keeping one eye on the clock while I washed the plates and mopped the floor. When that was finished, I drove into town to figure out what on earth I was going to serve the guests at noon.
Driving down Main Street, I passed Going Back for Seconds, which was the secondhand women’s clothing store where Mom worked. I drove another two blocks, turned at the corner, and pulled into an empty parking space in front of The Health Nut, Blossom Valley’s one and only health food store. I knew Zennia shopped here regularly, and though I’d never been inside the store myself, I thought it might be my best bet for figuring out lunch. Surely someone who worked here could guide me toward the items Zennia usually purchased.
I got out of the car and stepped onto the sidewalk. My head whipped up as a thought struck me.
The health food store.
Hadn’t Frank said the owner was the one who’d given Zennia’s address to Birch? Did she know that Birch had subsequently been murdered?
Or would I be the one to tell her?
Chapter 13
I pushed open the door to The Health Nut. A middle-aged woman with silver-blond hair stood behind the counter. Her cheerful countenance exuded such natural warmth that I felt like I’d known her for years, though I was positive I’d never met her.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
I glanced around the store, and my heart sank. The rows of shelves in the small space held bottles of vitamins and canisters of protein powders, with few jars and cans of actual food. I could also see a line of slightly tilted bins along the back wall filled with nuts, grains, and pasta and a rack of bread in the corner. What I didn’t see was a plethora of fresh produce and meats with which to make lunch.
“I work with Zennia at the O’Connell Farm, and I’m filling in as the cook for a few days.”
“Zennia,” the woman said. Her eyes grew wide, and she closed the ledger she’d been writing in. She stepped out from behind the counter. “Zennia is one of my best customers.” She studied me. “You’re far too young to be Esther, so you must be Gretchen or Dana.”
“Dana,” I said, offering my hand.
“Jan.” We shook. “Is there anything specific you’re looking for?”
“No, but I need to feed roughly half a dozen people at noon today, and I have no idea what to cook for them.”
She tapped her bottom lip as she scanned the contents of the nearest shelves. “That’s a tough one. We deal mostly in vitamins and supplements, with the idea that they’ll enhance your regular diet to create a healthy body. Other than what we carry in the bulk bins, we’re far too small to deal in the food selection you’d find at a supermarket, although we do have a bakery section.”
My gaze was drawn back to the bread rack. I’d already ruled out serving peanut butter and jelly sandwiches two days in a row. What else did Zennia have in the fridge that I could use to make a sandwich? My mind remained stubbornly blank.
Jan snapped her fingers. “We do have a small variety of frozen meals in our freezer case.”
“Where’s that?” I asked, glancing around. I must have missed the freezer section when I came in.
She led me to the far corner of the store and around the display of bread loaves to a small nook that held a single freezer. I stared through the glass. She hadn’t been exaggerating about the selection being small, but with time rapidly vanishing, I couldn’t afford to be fussy.
I yanked open the door, grabbed an individual serving-size box of frozen vegetable lasagna, and flipped it over to read the back. The portion was meager, but I could always make a side salad with lettuce and green onions from the farm’s garden, like I’d done for Zennia so many times. If I threw in a basket of rolls, the guests might not feel too deprived.
As I read the ingredient list, I could sense Jan watching me and looked over. She blinked rapidly and busied herself with a nearby display of wheatgrass powder.
I grabbed the other seven boxes of lasagna, effectively cleaning out her supply, and closed the freezer door. On my way to the front of the store, I grabbed a bag of dinner rolls, carried everything to the counter, and made a pile. Two boxes slid off the top and bumped into a collection of jars that were displayed on the counter. As I straightened them, I saw that the jars contained honey from the Evergreen commune.
I added ajar to my other purchases and saw Jan freeze. She glanced from the jar to me and back, like she wanted to say something. At this po
int, I wished she would.
“Any chance you’ve tried the lasagna?” I asked.
She picked up a box and scanned the bar code. A high-pitched beep sounded. “Sure. This brand is better than most.”
“Good to know.” Maybe lunch wouldn’t be a total disaster.
Jan finished scanning the items and announced the total. I flinched at the giant cost for such tiny boxes. I felt through my pockets until I realized that in my haste to get into town, I’d forgotten to take any petty cash from the office.
Jan gave me another of her sidelong glances as I opened my wallet and pulled out my debit card.
I paused before swiping the card. “Is anything wrong?”
“What? No.” She stepped away from the counter, as if the mere suggestion created enough force to propel her backward. “Well . . .” She moved up to the counter again. “Since you work with Zennia, I thought you might know if Birch died in her yard, like everyone is saying.”
Aha, she had heard about his murder. “Yes, he did,” I said.
Jan placed her hands on the counter like she was propping herself up. Her lips got smaller and smaller, and for a moment, I thought she was going to cry. “Dear Lord, and I’m the one who sent him to her house.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, though I’d already heard the story from Frank.
This time, tears formed along her lower lids. “I can’t help but feel responsible for what happened to Birch. He came in here the day before he was killed, and I’d never seen him so excited. He’d run into Zennia again after all these years and couldn’t believe his good fortune. The absolute delight on that man’s face . . .” She smiled at the memory. “I thought it was the sweetest story I’d ever heard, and I offered him Zennia’s address with the idea that he could show up and surprise her. Now he’s dead.”
“You couldn’t have known what would happen.”
“A mugger must have been hanging around the neighborhood and killed Birch during a robbery. If I hadn’t given him Zennia’s address, Birch never would have been there in the first place, and he’d still be alive.”
I set my wallet on the counter, forgetting all about the groceries. “How do you know Birch wasn’t the intended target all along? Maybe the killer planned his death that day regardless of where Birch was and followed him to Zennia’s house.”
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