All Natural Murder

by McLaughlin, Staci

  I nodded slowly, wondering where this was going.

  “We’ve picked our project, and you’re just the person for this little job.”

  I bit back a groan. The last time I’d helped the committee I’d set up chairs for the cricket-chirping contest. Not exactly a bullet point to add to my résumé. “What’s the project?”

  She clasped her hands together. “Window painting at local businesses.”

  Sometimes I wondered if the committee members were drunk when they thought up these plans. “Where do I fit in?”

  “You’ll be doing the painting, silly. Several of the downtown shops have signed up. They figure cute little window paintings will draw in the tourists. Get people to stop and come in their stores.”

  I held up my hand like I was under oath. “I’m not an artist. I can barely paint over scuff marks on the walls.”

  Esther waved her hand as though my concerns held no more weight than a helium balloon. “We have stencils. You don’t need talent.”

  Good thing. “Did George or Bethany consider doing the painting?” I knew Esther’s arthritis bothered her, but the other two committee members were fit and able the last time I’d seen them.

  “You know what a fusspot George is. He can’t possibly leave that teenage helper of his to run the tire shop, and Bethany works by herself. She can’t afford to close the flower shop for even one day with business so slow already.”

  I sighed in resignation.

  Esther took that as consent and beamed. “I knew you’d do it. I’ve left the supplies in the toolshed. We really should have done this before the holiday weekend, but that egg’s already hatched.” She toddled off, humming.

  So much for my relaxing workday. Oh well. I wasn’t getting paid to be lazy.

  I looked down at my work shirt, wondering if Esther had included a smock in the supplies, then rose to my feet. I stopped in the kitchen long enough to let Zennia know I wouldn’t be helping with the lunch service, and went out the back door to the toolshed. As promised, a large cardboard box containing several paint cans, brushes, and other odds and ends sat on the floor of the shed, wedged between the lawn mower and the edger.

  I dragged the box across the floor until it was free of its neighbors, then hefted it up, the cans clanking against each other. With back arched and knees slightly bent, I staggered down the path to my car and dropped the box on the pavement near the trunk.

  My clothes already felt sticky, and I hadn’t even made it out of the parking lot yet. I swiped my arm across my forehead before I popped the trunk and loaded the box. A sheet of paper tucked to the side of the paint cans caught my eye, and I pulled it out. Five downtown businesses were the lucky recipients of my stenciling skills today. Get the Scoop would be my first stop. How hard could it be to draw ice cream cones, with or without stencils?

  I drove into town and down Main Street. As I approached the ice cream parlor, a man backed his Oldsmobile from a spot in front of the shop, and I swooped in, studying the storefront as I shut off the engine.

  GET THE SCOOP arched across the top half of the large plate-glass window, the empty bottom half beckoning me to fill it with bright colors and yummy treats.

  I spread the drop cloth on the pavement before the window, set the paint cans on top, and grabbed the stencils. A dog. A horse. A unisex person. Not the widest selection, but I’d have to make it work.

  Armed with only a vague idea of what to paint, I stared at the blank windowpane that was no longer beckoning me. Now it was blatantly mocking me. Stupid window. The list of businesses didn’t mention what I was supposed to paint for each, but an ice cream sundae should be easy enough. I used a screwdriver I’d found at the bottom of the box to pop the top off the paint can marked “Pink.”

  With a shaky breath and even shakier hand, I dipped in a brush and stuck the paint on the window, smearing it into a circular shape. One strawberry scoop down. As I worked, people walked in and out of the shop. Business was brisk on such a hot day, even before lunch.

  I wiped my brush clean, dipped it in the white paint, and painted a circle shape with it next to the pink one, then stepped back.

  Not the best scoops. But they’d be more recognizable after I painted the dish underneath and the cherry on top. I crouched down to add the finishing touches.

  Down the block, a bell tinkled as someone opened a door. I glanced over and saw Kimmie emerge from For Richer, Not Poorer, the high-end boutique that had opened two weeks ago in the space once occupied by a video store. The handle of a sky-blue shopping bag hung over one forearm as she pushed a stroller before her. As far as I knew, Kimmie didn’t have children. Maybe she was babysitting. I wouldn’t trust her with small children, but others might.

  As Kimmie headed in my direction, a battered brown Nissan Altima with that boxy style from the eighties pulled into a parking space and sputtered to a stop. Maria stepped out of the car, dressed in her waitress uniform, the pink matching the color of my ice cream scoop.

  I sucked in my breath. The moment I’d been waiting for had arrived. Maria might abandon her work in the middle of a shift or pull a disappearing act in a bathroom, but she couldn’t escape me this time.

  Maria was going to answer my questions.

  Right now.

  22

  Before I could drop my paintbrush and tackle Maria to question her about Bobby Joe, Kimmie let out a sound that was half squeal, half cry. Maria stepped back so fast, she almost stumbled off the curb. She swayed a little as she regained her balance.

  “Maria, you poor dear,” Kimmie said, abandoning the stroller and grabbing Maria’s elbows before she could escape. “You must be so upset.”

  “What do you mean?” Maria asked in a high-pitched voice that bordered on hysteria.

  They stood only a few feet away, and I leaned my ear toward the two, my body partially blocked by the ice cream shop’s sandwich board.

  “You know, with Bobby Joe dead. And you being the other woman.” Kimmie stage-whispered the last part, adding to the drama she was creating.

  Guess Kimmie would be questioning Maria for me. I dipped the brush into the white again, pretending to work while I listened to the two women.

  “I had nothing to do with Bobby Joe’s death,” Maria squeaked. I risked a peek in her direction. She reminded me of a kitten trying to avoid a bath, twisting side to side while Kimmie kept a solid grip.

  “Well, not directly. No one thinks you killed him yourself, but everyone knows about your husband’s temper.”

  At the truck rally, Kimmie had implied that everyone thought Ashlee had killed Bobby Joe. Either she’d changed her mind, or she just liked to say things to upset people.

  “Todd doesn’t have a temper,” Maria protested. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your mom told me about how he . . . I don’t even want to mention it.” I assumed Kimmie was referring to Todd’s abuse.

  Maria went from a distressed kitten to an enraged tiger. She gave a rather vicious twist and managed to free one arm. “My mother needs to mind her own business,” she snapped.

  Kimmie let go of the other arm, her blue bag rustling. “She cares about you, like any good mother. If Todd killed Bobby Joe, he’ll go to prison, and he won’t be able to harm you anymore. You can get away from him.”

  Maria’s face paled, and her demeanor shrank back to kitten status. “Todd didn’t kill anyone. He was home, with me. That’s what I told the police, and you can’t prove any different.”

  My ears perked up at the uncertainty in her voice. Was Maria lying to protect her husband? I leaned farther into the sandwich board and loosened my grip on the paintbrush. It slapped against my leg. I let out a grunt as I jumped to my feet, grabbing a corner of the drop cloth to swipe at the white smear on my bare calf.

  I noticed the voices had gone silent and looked up to find both women staring at me, Kimmie’s lips forming a smirk, Maria’s mouth agape.

  “Dana,” Kimmie said, “I didn’t see you hiding
there behind the sign.” The delight in her voice was obvious.

  I straightened up, trying to muster a hint of dignity. “I wasn’t hiding. I was painting. Volunteer work for the Blossom Valley Rejuvenation Committee.” I gestured to the window.

  Kimmie squinted at my drawings. “Are those butt cheeks? Why are they two different colors?”

  What was wrong with Kimmie? Why would I be drawing butt cheeks on a window? “They’re ice cream scoops.”

  Kimmie scoffed. “If you say so.”

  Maria had remained silent during our little exchange. Now she backed off the sidewalk, felt behind her for her car door handle, and wrenched the door open. “I gotta go.” She slipped into the car, started the motor, and backed into the street before she even shut the car door.

  Was she trying to escape Kimmie’s clutches or avoid me? She sped down the street, once more managing to get away before I could ask her a single thing.

  I turned to Kimmie, who was now my only option for finding out anything. “I couldn’t help but overhear what you two were saying.”

  There went that smirk again.

  “Do you really think her husband was home that night?”

  Kimmie pursed her lips, already savoring the delicious morsel she was about to hand me. “Not according to her mother, Rosa.”

  “Really,” I said, prodding her along. This information jibed with Zennia’s comment that Todd’s alibi might be shaky.

  “Rosa knows that my husband and I hire only the best, and that includes lawyers. She asked my advice on whether Maria needs an attorney since she lied to the police.” Kimmie brushed her long hair away from her face. “Of course, Rosa couldn’t afford our lawyers, not on a paltry maid’s salary.”

  Far be it from me to point out that Kimmie was providing that salary and that she should give Rosa a raise if the money was so paltry.

  “And Rosa said Maria had lied about the alibi?” I asked.

  “Are you still trying to solve the murder? I figured you’d give up by now. Let the police take care of it.”

  I set my brush on the edge of the paint can. “I’m not stopping until the police arrest the killer. Did Maria lie about Todd’s alibi or not?”

  Kimmie patted the baby in the stroller, and it whined, an odd sound for a baby. “Rosa didn’t admit that in so many words, but it was pretty clear.” A large crowd came down the sidewalk and moved inside the ice cream shop. Kimmie eyed them. “I’d better get in there before the next herd of people shows up. I don’t have time to waste in line.”

  She wheeled the stroller past me, and I glanced inside. A miniature poodle peered back at me, bug eyes watering, body trembling. A bonnet was tied under the dog’s chin, like something an actual baby might wear. Leave it to Kimmie to take dog pampering to the next level.

  Through the window, I watched as she tried to sidle up to the front of the line with her stroller, then retreated to the end of the queue when no one let her in.

  I went back to painting. I needed brown for my Neapolitan sundae. I added that scoop, then drew a clumsy dish under the three scoops. Now no one else would mistake my masterpiece for a rear end.

  I grabbed the person stencil out of the box and lined it up so one hand appeared to be holding the dish. While I filled in the arms and legs, I thought about what I’d overheard and what Kimmie had told me. Between Todd’s abuse of Maria and his physical assault on me at the truck rally, he clearly had a bad enough temper to kill someone in a rage. That gave him means. And Bobby Joe’s affair with his wife was a solid motive. If he’d lied about his alibi, that gave him opportunity, too.

  I colored in the stenciled face and cleaned my brush.

  Of course, if Todd hadn’t been with Maria that night, then she didn’t have an alibi either. Maybe Bobby Joe had threatened to expose their affair. Maria might have been afraid that her husband would take his anger out on her, and she killed Bobby Joe to protect herself. But would a victim of abuse be able to murder someone else? Other than when talking about her mom, Maria seemed too meek to attack someone, let alone kill them.

  I added a shirt and shorts to the pale figure on the window as I thought about other possible killers.

  Donald thought Bobby Joe was not only embezzling gas station funds but sleeping with his younger wife, too. That gave Donald a double motive. Tara said they’d both been at the station that night, but if she was watching TV in the house, she couldn’t possibly know if Donald was really manning the store.

  Or maybe Tara was the one with a reason to kill Bobby Joe. She swore they weren’t having an affair, but she might have worried that Bobby Joe would ruin her meal ticket with Donald if Donald became too jealous over the flirting. With him working at the station, Tara could have easily slipped out to the fairgrounds without being missed.

  And then there was Crusher. Ashlee was positive he was Bobby Joe’s biggest competitor. With the dropped sponsors and his fade from the limelight, maybe he’d killed Bobby Joe so he’d have one less person to battle with. But he must have known his big trick would wow the audience and any scouts, so he didn’t need to kill Bobby Joe.

  I was putting jet black paint on top of the head to create hair when Kimmie emerged from the shop, pushing the stroller with one hand and holding a cup of sherbet with the other.

  She stopped and ate a spoonful. “Mmm . . . pineapple. And fat free. We have such upscale clientele in our restaurant, I always watch my figure. If people see a fat restaurant owner, they’ll worry about their own weight.”

  I didn’t buy into her reasoning, so I only offered up a “huh” in response.

  Kimmie scrutinized my latest handiwork. “Why are the ice cream scoops the same size as the guy’s head?”

  I dropped the brush in the bucket, almost spattering black paint on Kimmie’s fancy sandals with the pearl and rhinestone-covered strap. Wouldn’t that be a shame? “Get the Scoop is generous with their portions. I wanted to emphasize that.” I wiped my hands on a rag. “Don’t you have a restaurant to run?”

  Kimmie raised her diamond-encrusted watch. “Goodness, where did the time go? I can’t believe I let you talk to me for so long.”

  It was typical of Kimmie to blame someone else for her tardiness. “Gee, sorry about that.” The sarcasm flew over her head and slapped the window behind her.

  “The staff is probably pilfering from the cash register already,” Kimmie muttered to herself as she trotted to her Mercedes and opened the car’s door while juggling her shopping bag, the stroller, and the sherbet. She carried the dog to the passenger side, placed it on the seat, and strapped it in with what looked like a harness of some type.

  I turned back to my ice cream painting, realizing I should add a dog to the window, mostly because I had the stencil. I used the white for the main body, then added black paint for spots. Instead of a dog, the creature looked like a miniature cow. Oh well, this was farm country. People might bring their cows to get ice cream, not that I’d ever seen that. At least the picture would draw attention to the parlor, which is what the owner wanted.

  Even with the awning covering the sidewalk, the sun’s heat rolled off the nearby blacktop and over me like smoke from a campfire. Rather than pack up all the supplies to move next door to Raining Cats and Dogs, I grabbed two corners of the drop cloth and dragged everything the twenty feet, careful not to let the paint cans tip over.

  Since Raining Cats and Dogs sold pet accessories, a dog was the obvious choice for the window, but I’d already painted one at the ice cream parlor, and I wanted each store to have a different style. A crouched cat, ready to pounce on a toy, sounded easy enough, or maybe this heat was melting my brain. I dipped my brush in the white paint and got to work.

  I was adding the final dabs to the feet when I heard a snort behind me.

  Ashlee stood on the curb, dressed in her work smock and khaki pants, her hair in a French twist. “I didn’t expect to see you downtown this time of day. Is that supposed to be an otter? Why is it white?”

  �
��It’s a cat.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I blew a stream of air off my bottom lip and sent a ripple through my bangs. When had everyone in town turned into art critics? “Slow day at the vet office?”

  Ashlee smiled, knowing she’d rankled me. “We had a break between patients, so I’m taking an early lunch.”

  “And you came to admire my artwork?”

  “As if. I came for one of those mocha shakes they sell next door. If you get it with skim milk, it has less calories than a turkey sandwich.”

  Maybe Ashlee and Kimmie should compare diet notes.

  Ashlee regarded the window again. “You know, if I tilt my head and close one eye, I can almost see a cat. How’d you get stuck with this dopey project anyway? You get a second job when I wasn’t looking?”

  “Esther’s Rejuvenation Committee, making Blossom Valley a better place.” I used the tone of an infomercial host. “With these adorable paintings, tourists can’t help but stop and shop.”

  “They’ll stop all right, trying to figure out what this is. You might even cause an accident out in the street when people slam on their brakes.”

  I refused to let Ashlee annoy me, though it took all my willpower. “As long as people buy something at one of these shops, I’m okay with that.” I squatted down to clean my brush.

  Two women came out of the ice cream parlor and stopped when they saw Ashlee and me. At first, I thought they were checking out my artwork, but then the dark-haired one leaned toward the blonde and loudly whispered, “That’s her, the one who killed Bobby Joe.”

  “She should be in jail,” the other woman whispered.

  Ashlee gasped and whirled on the women. She narrowed her eyes and thrust her hands onto her hips, clearly ready to do battle.

  Before she could speak, I rose to my feet in a flash, pointing the dripping paintbrush at them. “My sister did not kill Bobby Joe. You’d better keep those remarks to yourself.”

  The blonde stepped back and tugged on the other’s sleeve. “I think she’s the one that works at that funny spa. We didn’t have murders in this town before that spa opened. That place is cursed.”