Green Living Can Be Deadly (A Blossom Valley Mystery)

by McLaughlin, Staci

A man appeared at the door, eliminating that possibility. He wasn’t much older than I was, but he already had a receding hairline, with an unshaved face. I hadn’t seen Kurt since middle school when Wendy and I used to trail after him on his way to the store for candy. If it wasn’t for the same upturned nose that Wendy had, I couldn’t have picked him out of a lineup.

  Looking past him, I glimpsed a cement floor with a battered and worn plaid couch, a lawn chair, and an upside-down wine barrel, with a can of Budweiser on it. Not exactly the Ritz-Carlton.

  “I know you?” he asked.

  My palms suddenly felt clammy. “You probably don’t remember me after all these years. I’m, I mean was, a friend of your sister’s. Wendy,” I added, which seemed unnecessary, since he probably knew his own sister’s name. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your loss.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t need your sympathy.” His face closed up. “Wendy’s death was no loss to me.”

  I gaped at him. Did he really believe his sister’s death was no big deal? What exactly had happened between those two?

  8

  My face must have broadcast my shock at his statement, because Kurt immediately said, “Hey, don’t get me wrong. She was my sister and all, but I can guarantee she brought it on herself.”

  Handling death wasn’t my forte to begin with, and I struggled to think of an appropriate response. “I’m sure news of her death is hard to process under these circumstances.”

  He shook his head. “God knows I’ve wished Wendy dead a hundred times, but someone actually went and did it.” I couldn’t tell if he was disgusted or impressed.

  I hoped Ashlee would be more upset than this if I died. Then again, she’d probably be delighted to plan my funeral. I pictured ice sculptures, wreaths of black roses, and a chocolate fountain.

  Kurt placed a hand on the inside doorknob as though he was getting ready to pull the door shut.

  “When was the last time you talked to Wendy?” I blurted out before he could slam it in my face.

  He glared at me. “What’s it to you?”

  Ack. This conversation is not going the way I envisioned.

  Despite their estrangement, I’d expected a weeping, distraught guy who would want to talk about his murdered sister and provide details about who might want her dead. Instead, Kurt looked about as open to talking as a seasoned Mob boss waiting for his lawyer to show up during a police interrogation.

  “I thought if you’d seen each other recently, it would provide you with more closure than if it had been a long time.”

  Kurt smirked. “Wendy’s dead. That’s all the closure I need.” He crossed his arms. At least he’d taken his hand off the knob. “I don’t know why you women are always talking about needing closure. It’s exactly what my wife said when she left me.”

  Time to backtrack. I didn’t want him getting bogged down by his ex-wife.

  “Sorry to hear about that.” I scratched my arm. My skin was itching with anxiety. “Anyway, I at least wanted to stop by and offer you my sympathy. I actually saw poor Wendy this morning at the green-living festival. I hadn’t seen her in years, and right when we get the chance to reunite, this tragedy happens.”

  He snorted. “Advertising that company of hers? Selling her carbon-footprint garbage to a bunch of rich folks who want to feel better about their private jets and wild-animal fur rugs? All a bunch of hooey if you ask me, but then Wendy’s specialty always was conning people into giving her their money.”

  The bitterness in his words made my stomach turn. “What do you mean?”

  “You were friends with her. You must remember how she could sweet-talk anyone into doing anything for her. How do you think she graduated high school? Talked all the nerds into doing her homework.”

  My school memories had been somewhat hazy before. Now that he mentioned it, I recalled that Wendy always had a knack for getting people to help her on science fair projects, class reports, and homework, especially math homework. Wendy stank at math. And when she’d won the student class president election by a landslide, there’d been murmurs of ballot tampering.

  “Still, starting your own company at such a young age is pretty impressive,” I said.

  “Not really.” He shrugged dismissively. “Anyone can throw up a PowerPoint presentation, promise all sorts of ways to make money, and someone’ll help you out. I’m sure her little house of cards would have come crashing down soon enough when those people didn’t get any of their money back.”

  Hmm. Definitely an angle worth pursuing. Maybe I should tell Detective Palmer about this.

  A ringtone sounded from the pocket of Kurt’s pants. He pulled out a cell phone and glanced at the screen.

  “I gotta get that.”

  “Sure. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  He shut the door without a good-bye.

  I walked down the driveway and back to my car. As I slid behind the wheel, I looked back at the main house and saw an old man shuffle out and stoop to pick up the newspaper off the porch. I considered getting out and talking to him, but then thought better of it. Kurt wasn’t the most open guy in the world, so it was unlikely he regularly shared personal details with his landlord, if that’s who the man was. Time to call it a day.

  I drove home in a funk. How sad that Kurt wasn’t even sorry his sister was dead. What rift was so severe that he’d react to Wendy’s death in such a callous manner? Was it somehow related to money? Was that why he’d mentioned Wendy conning people? Maybe Kimmie could fill me in, since she and Wendy had stayed in touch, just so long as she didn’t ask for a status report in exchange.

  At home, I parked on the street in front of the single-story house where I’d grown up. Every few years, Mom would pay to have the house painted, but always the same light blue with white trim. I passed the brick planter full of African daisies and entered the house, where the scent of spices and tomato sauce greeted me in the front hall. I went straight to the kitchen. Mom stood before the clean white stove, stirring the contents of a large pot. The green-and-white-striped kitchen towel was tucked into the waistband of her half apron.

  “What smells so good?” I asked. Mom had been on a brown-rice-and-chicken kick ever since my father had died of a heart attack two years earlier. Because of her years of serving chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes, and macaroni and cheese, too, she’d felt partly responsible for his death. She had vowed to improve her own eating so she’d be around for us girls a lot longer. Her healthy cooking, along with Zennia’s concoctions, left me craving fast-food burgers and sugary snacks on an almost hourly basis.

  She ran a hand through her gray curls, then patted a few back into place. “I found a recipe for fish stew in one of my magazines and decided to give it a try. Other than having too much salt, the dish is quite healthy.”

  “I’m glad to see you’re trying new things.” And, thank goodness, we get a night off from chicken!

  Mom lowered the heat on the burner, popped a lid on the pot, and washed her hands at the sink. “Sue Ellen called a while ago,” she said over her shoulder. “She said someone had an accident at the festival. Did you hear anything about that?”

  Sue Ellen was Blossom Valley’s central hub for all things gossip related. I was surprised she hadn’t heard yet that Wendy had been murdered. I took a deep breath and waited until Mom had turned off the water. “Worse than an accident, I’m afraid. The woman in the booth next to me was murdered.”

  Mom whirled around, gripping a hand towel. “Oh no! How awful. Do the police know who did it?”

  “I don’t think so. The victim was Wendy Hartford. Do you remember Wendy? Her maiden name was Clark. She used to come over here after school all the time.”

  Mom set down the towel and came over to pull me close. “Of course I remember her. Such a sweet girl. How are you handling it?”

  I relaxed into Mom’s hug. She smelled of spices and Dove soap. “I’m all right. But poor Wendy.”

  Giving me one last pat, sh
e went back to the stove and lifted the lid to stir the stew. “Is that the end of the festival, then?”

  “They closed early for the afternoon, but it’ll start up again in the morning. Who knows if anyone will show up once the early-bird vultures get done gawking at the crime scene?”

  “I know you put a lot of effort into this festival. I’m sorry this happened.”

  “Thanks. We’ll see if the rest of the weekend can be salvaged.”

  I heard the front door open. Mom pulled a loaf of French bread out of a bag on the counter. “That must be your sister. I’d better get the bread warmed up.”

  Ashlee bounced into the kitchen. Her ponytail was swinging behind her. Clumps of white fur were clearly visible on her navy blue vet smock.

  “Dana, tell me everything that happened after I left the festival.”

  I gave her a questioning look. “You were there when George announced we were closing early. I packed up and left.”

  Her eyes widened in disbelief. “That’s it? You didn’t talk to all the people who had booths there? You didn’t ask who might have wanted Wendy dead?”

  Mom placed a hot pad on the table, her signal that the stew was almost ready. I removed three bowls from a cupboard and then opened the silverware drawer to grab the spoons.

  “Ashlee,” Mom said, “the police should be handling that. I don’t want Dana involved in another murder. It’s too dangerous.”

  I shivered as I thought about my close call from a few months ago, when I’d been chased by a killer. “Don’t worry. I’m not getting involved in the investigation.” I paused for a beat. “Although Kimmie and I were talking, and we thought it might be nice if we helped the police a tiny bit.”

  “Dana!” Mom snapped. The sheer intensity of her voice forced me back a step. I clutched the spoons to my chest.

  Ashlee gave me a smug look. “I knew you couldn’t keep your nose out of it. You always make fun of me for gossiping, but you’re a total meddler.”

  I raised my right hand, spoons and all. “I swear I’m trying to stay out of it.” I lowered my arm. “Only, Kimmie mentioned that Wendy’s parents are dead and she’s estranged from her brother and her husband might be the one who killed her. It doesn’t seem right that she’s dead and no one’s going to miss her.”

  Mom slammed the pot of fish stew on the table, causing a wave of tomato broth to slosh over the side. “That doesn’t mean you need to help. The police will find the killer.”

  “I’m sure they will,” I said to soothe Mom before she spilled the entire meal. “I just thought people might be more open to talking to me than to the police.” That plan had failed spectacularly with Kurt, but I didn’t mention that.

  Mom grabbed a sponge and dabbed at the table. “Nonsense. I want you to give up this idea right now.”

  The teen rebel in me—the one that still lurked beneath the surface and reared its head anytime Mom tried to tell me what time to be home from a date—popped up once more. “I’ll think about it” was all I said. Not exactly a hard-nosed response, but it was enough to make Mom press her lips together and stop talking.

  She sat down at the table and carefully unfolded her napkin, smoothing it in her lap. I followed her lead, and we all sat in a strained silence until Ashlee mentioned a cute guy who had come into the vet office that day with his sick turtle. That reminded her of her favorite coffee guy at the Daily Grind, the one who always knew her order and got the temperature just right. He reminded her of the guy who was running a green-cleaning booth at the festival and gave Ashlee free samples. Mentioning the festival brought us right back to the murder.

  “The poor guy was so distracted by Wendy’s death that he didn’t even ask for my number,” Ashlee said.

  “Maybe he didn’t want it,” I said, but she swiped that idea away with a wave of her hand.

  “Seriously, Dana. We had something going. You don’t give someone fifteen samples of bamboo dust rags for no reason.”

  I speared a scallop. “He probably couldn’t find anyone else to give the samples to.”

  “Whatever. I’m going to stop by again tomorrow and see if he’s there. Give him another chance.”

  “That’s very generous of you.”

  Ashlee snarled at me.

  Mom cleared her throat, and Ashlee focused on her dinner.

  “I remember when you used to bring Wendy over after school,” Mom said. “Such a smart girl, and so outgoing.”

  “Yeah, she was friends with everyone,” I said. “Always a class leader or president of the clubs she joined.”

  Mom sipped her water. “I’d heard she’d started her own company. It’s really no surprise, since she always had such strong leadership skills.”

  Apparently, Mom had been keeping tabs on Wendy. I wondered what she knew about my other high-school friends. “When she won the class president election, I’m not sure the other guy got a single vote,” I said.

  Ashlee snorted.

  I lowered my spoon. “What?”

  “She didn’t win the election. She rigged it.”

  This time, I set my spoon all the way down in my stew. “How do you know?”

  “Because my friend Brittany helped her do it. Traded that for a spot on the cheerleading squad.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Guess those rumors about ballot tampering had been true.

  “Have you ever watched Brittany walk?” Ashlee asked. “I mean, I love her to death, but she’s a klutz. No way could she make the squad without Wendy’s help, so they made a little deal.”

  Mom laid a hand on the table and leaned toward Ashlee. “You didn’t help, did you?”

  “Of course not,” Ashlee said. “She told me about it later when we were sneaking some booze from her dad’s liquor cabinet.”

  Mom looked aghast, while I stifled a smile.

  “Not that I drank any,” Ashlee added quickly.

  Mom opened her mouth as if to say something, then sighed. “Somehow I don’t think any of that is connected to her death.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed. “But it lends credence to her brother’s remark that her company might not be on the up-and-up.”

  “When did you talk to her brother?” Mom asked.

  Oops. Busted. “I stopped by after work to offer my condolences.”

  Mom sighed again, as though her children made her impossibly tired. “I told you. I don’t want you involved in another murder, Dana. I don’t even want you talking about the case with Jason, like you always seem to do.”

  “Don’t worry. Jason’s parents are in town, so he’ll probably be too busy to see me.”

  “Ooh, his parents,” Ashlee said in a singsong voice.

  I pointed at her. “Don’t start. What are your plans this weekend?”

  “I’ve got a date tomorrow night, of course.”

  “And Lane’s supposed to take me to that new restaurant in Santa Rosa,” Mom said.

  I’d initially been troubled when Mom started dating a few months ago, with Dad’s death still a presence in our lives. But Lane had proven to be a decent guy, and I’d grudgingly accepted the situation.

  I finished the rest of my stew and helped with the dishes before settling down to watch TV. All the while, I was wondering how I could possibly look into Wendy’s death without Mom catching on. I didn’t like to deceive her, but I didn’t want to worry her, either.

  Sometimes living at home had its drawbacks, and now was one of those times. I’d just have to be crafty about it and hope I didn’t get caught.

  9

  Early the next morning, I ran out to the farm to retrieve my box of brochures and pig pens and assured Gordon I didn’t need any extra help running the booth. Though I did start to second-guess myself when I arrived at the festival and saw the crowds. It wasn’t even eight yet and swarms of people were already showing up. I hurriedly set up the folding table and awning, but everyone headed straight for Wendy’s booth and clustered around the entrance. The crime scene tape was gone, but no
one stepped inside the tent.

  “So that’s where it happened,” an older woman said.

  “Is that a bloodstain?” a man asked as he pointed to the pavement and what, in all likelihood, was actually an oil stain.

  I tuned them out as I arranged my brochures, popped the photo collage on the easel, and laid out my pens. Then I stood at attention and waited to bestow the benefits of the O’Connell Farm and Spa on any interested attendees, occasionally calling out to the crowd and offering them brochures.

  People wandered past, most ignoring me as they examined the scene of the crime. A handful slowed to scan my brochures, and three even took pens, but no one talked to me.

  When the next woman moved in to grab a pen, I spoke up. “While you’re here, let me tell you about our new spa services,” I said. My voice sounded as perky as those home-shopping network hosts’.

  The woman avoided my gaze as she drew her hand back and eased into the flow of traffic, moving past. She must be under the mistaken impression that pig pens bite. Or else I did. I readied my smile for the next person who came close enough, but no one did. They moved past as though they were at the zoo and the dead person’s booth was the star white-tiger exhibit. I should start charging for each peek. I’d make a fortune for the farm.

  After the next twenty people didn’t as much as glance in my direction, I let my smile droop and dug my cell phone out of my pocket to check the time. Thirty minutes? I’ve only been here thirty minutes? Egads, this day will go on forever!

  Maybe I’d talk to some of the other booth owners, ask if they had seen anything yesterday. If I’d heard that man yelling at Wendy, surely the guy on the other side of her booth had, too.

  I stepped from behind the table, moved around the people at Wendy’s tent, and approached the booth on the other side. Behind a folding table, a solar panel stood on end, propped up on some type of stand. The table itself held glossy postcards and little pots with plastic flowers that waved in the sunlight. A stack of visors with the company’s name printed on top sat to one side.