Green Living Can Be Deadly (A Blossom Valley Mystery)

by McLaughlin, Staci

  The man behind the table beamed at me, exposing crooked teeth. One of his front ones was the same color as the cappuccino I’d purchased on my way to work this morning. “Good morning, ma’am. I appreciate you stopping by today. Are you interested in installing solar panels on your roof?” He spoke so fast, his words tripped over one another.

  Do I sound this desperate? No wonder the woman left.

  “Sorry, I run the booth two down. I was wondering how business is this morning for you.”

  His smile winked out, replaced by a scowl. “Not great. This damn murder has everyone distracted. No one can talk about anything else.”

  “It’s big news. Were you working yesterday when it happened?”

  “No, I must have been on my lunch break. But I was here all morning before that.” He watched a couple making their way down the street, and I leaned in to draw his attention back to me.

  “Then you must have heard the argument between Wendy and that man.”

  “Sure, anyone within fifty feet couldn’t help but hear,” he said.

  “I heard part of it myself, but couldn’t figure out what they were fighting about. Any ideas?”

  He straightened up and looked me over. “Hold up now. Did you say you were part of the festival or part of the police department?”

  I really need to be more subtle with my questions. People are so darn suspicious these days. I put a hand to my heart to prove how trustworthy I was. “Festival. In fact, I helped organize this event, and I hate to see all that effort go to waste.” My answer didn’t really explain why I was asking questions, but he immediately nodded.

  “Boy, I hear you on that.” He held up a pot, with the flower merrily bobbing. “I spent a ton on these knickknacks, and now no one wants them.”

  “We’re in the same boat, except I’m stuck with pens that oink.”

  He gave me a funny look, but I didn’t bother to explain.

  “So, did you hear what they were arguing about?” I asked again.

  “Some. The guy who was yelling kept asking where the money had gone.”

  My skin prickled. “Money? What money?”

  “How should I know? He asked what the lady running the booth had done with it. That’s about all I heard.”

  This information certainly held promise and once more supported Kurt’s comments. He’d said Wendy had a knack for deceiving people into giving her their money. Had this guy been a customer of Invisible Prints who felt swindled, or had this been a personal matter?

  “Guess I’d better get back to my booth,” I said. “Thanks for the info.”

  “You betcha. And if you get any customers, send ’em my way when you’re done.”

  I offered my hand and he shook it. “Deal,” I said. His mention of customers added a little speed to my step, but I was wasting the effort. No one waited at the table, and no brochures or pens were gone.

  With no customers in sight, I walked across the street to the mushroom-dyeing booth. Clotheslines were strung across three sides of the booth. Sweaters and T-shirts colored various shades of yellow, green, and red hung from the lines. Price tags were pinned to their fronts. The table held more shirts, folded, and a basket full of scarves, along with stacks of flyers and coupons.

  I’d briefly met Jim during the initial planning stages for the festival. In his thirties, he was tan and buff. Right now, he looked about as bored as I felt as he sat on a stool near the silent cash register.

  He raised a flyswatter. “Want to borrow this to beat the crowd back? I see you’re about as swamped as I am.”

  I shook my head. “This has to get better before the day’s over. Right?”

  Jim ran a hand through his blond hair. “That’s why I haven’t packed up yet.”

  I gestured toward a T-shirt covered in rusty red and orange swirls. “Beautiful colors on that shirt. How does this mushroom dyeing work?”

  He practically bounced off the stool, clearly glad to have an audience. “Different types of mushrooms create different colors. The woods near Mendocino have a variety of species that I collect. I toss each one into a pot with a few other ingredients, add the shirt, and—voila—the colors leach out of the mushrooms and dye the cloth.”

  “That’s so creative. I’ve never seen anything like that before.” I picked up a coupon for a mushroom-foraging class and stuffed it into my back pocket. Might be an unusual way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

  Jim adjusted the scarves. “Most people haven’t.” He glanced around as if afraid of eavesdroppers, but the closest person was over at Wendy’s booth. “You get questioned by the police yet?”

  Here I was wondering how to circle around to the murder, but he’d done all the work for me. “Right after it happened. Were you here? I don’t remember seeing you.”

  Jim refolded a T-shirt, which had looked a little crooked. “The crowd was so small, I went and sat in my truck to make some business calls. By the time I got back, the cops had already shown up.”

  “So you didn’t see anything?” I asked. Wendy’s booth had been surrounded by people, yet we’d all stepped away at that crucial time. Part of the killer’s plan, or was it a lucky coincidence?

  “Earlier I saw a man stop by and get into it with Wendy. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but you could tell he was yelling. Too bad they were inside that tent—I couldn’t see much.” He slapped his hand on a stack of coupons as a gust of wind blew through.

  I handed him a thermos, which sat on the table, so he could weigh down the coupons. “What happened next?”

  “Some good-looking lady in a leopard-print shirt showed up, and the guy left.”

  He must have been admiring Kimmie. I’d known it was a long shot that Jim would have heard anything all the way across the street, but I still felt a sigh of disappointment escape my lips. “Too bad you couldn’t hear. That argument might be tied to her murder.”

  He flashed a row of perfectly white teeth at a woman walking by, but she didn’t stop. He focused on me again. “That’s what the cops said, too. I told them they need to talk to that lady who was standing right outside Wendy’s booth while those two were yelling. She must have heard the entire thing.”

  I felt like I’d swallowed a shot of espresso as my pulse sped up. Had someone else overheard the argument? “Can you describe her?”

  “Real pretty. Like a cowgirl, with those boots.”

  My initial excitement died away. This wasn’t a new witness after all. “That must be Lily, one of Invisible Prints’ customers. She really wanted to meet Wendy yesterday.”

  “She looked awful upset when she ran off. Whatever she overheard, it wasn’t pretty.”

  I needed to talk to Lily again. Maybe she’d come back to the festival today, although I couldn’t imagine why. Her one reason for visiting was now lying in the morgue. I shivered at the image.

  Jim noticed. “That wind is chilly, isn’t it? One of my mushroom sweaters would keep you warm.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got my jacket in my booth. Speaking of which, guess I’d better get back, in case someone shows up.”

  I walked across the street, feeling the stirrings of resentment at the group of spectators. If they weren’t interested in the festival, they should clear out, instead of offering up false hope. I had better things to do than try to lure over people who only wanted to tell their friends they’d seen a real-live murder site. I slapped my hand on the table when I reached it. The action created a loud pop.

  A couple of people looked over, and I snatched up a brochure.

  “Have you heard about all the new features at the spa?” I asked.

  They both shook their heads and moved away. Maybe that’s how I can get rid of all the looky-loos. Pester them with brochures. I’d get the space cleared in ten minutes.

  Up the street, a woman carrying a bouquet of flowers headed toward Wendy’s booth. Finally there was someone who cared about Wendy, not just a busybody who wanted to see where she’d died.

  As she wa
lked closer, I got a better look at her face, partly obscured by the sprig of baby’s breath. The woman was Lily, Wendy’s devoted customer.

  My gloom instantly lifted.

  Now we are getting somewhere.

  10

  Feeling slightly guilty that I hadn’t brought flowers myself, I paced the small confines of the booth as I waited for Lily to make her way down the street. With her long, billowing skirt and bouquet of flowers, she was a throwback to the sixties.

  She approached the tent and laid the bouquet on the pavement next to the open flap. Conversation ceased as people watched. I’d swear a few had the good grace to look guilty for standing around and staring at where Wendy had been killed. Two or three even drifted away. Lily extracted a handkerchief from within her long sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. I waited until she turned around to leave before darting out of my booth to intercept her.

  “Lily. What a lovely gesture to bring flowers.”

  She held the handkerchief to her chest, and I noticed she’d torn one of her fingernails. “Wendy touched my life at an important time, and I want the world to know that she’ll be missed.”

  “She would have loved knowing she made such a difference.” I remembered how in high school, Wendy had basked in all the attention and accolades of being head cheerleader and student class president.

  “I can’t believe I got so close to her yesterday, yet we never spoke.”

  I inched toward my own booth, hoping to draw Lily away from the remaining bystanders. “Say, I know I already asked you this, but I could really use your help. I need to know what Wendy and that man were fighting about, in case it will help find Wendy’s killer. Someone mentioned they saw you standing right outside the tent during the argument, so you must have heard at least part of the conversation.”

  Lily twisted the handkerchief in her hands until her knuckles turned white. Something had definitely affected her. “I don’t feel it’s my place to say.”

  “You of all people must want to bring Wendy’s killer to justice. You can’t keep valuable information to yourself. Think of Wendy.” I felt a smidge guilty for using such cheap tactics, but only a smidge. She could be a key witness.

  Color sprang into her cheeks. “Of course I’ll help any way I can. But that fight was a big misunderstanding.”

  “What kind of misunderstanding?”

  She opened her mouth, then pressed the handkerchief to her lips, reminding me of a damsel in an old Western film who’d just seen the town preacher kissing a dance hall girl. “I couldn’t possibly repeat all those terrible things. Wendy would have cleared everything up—I know she would have. And now she’ll never get the chance.” She burst into tears, and everyone turned to stare.

  I gave brief consideration to crawling under my table, but there was no tablecloth to hide me from the accusing glares, so I dismissed the idea. Instead, I took her hand in mine. “Look, Lily, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  She sniffled. “It’s not your fault. I still can’t believe she’s gone.” She pulled her hand away. The tears were already welling up again, so she ran her handkerchief under her nose. She looked ready to collapse.

  I checked around for a chair, but I saw none. “Do you need to sit down?” I gestured toward the parking lot. “My car is right over there in the parking lot. It’s the red Honda.”

  She glanced at my car, but she shook her head. “I need to be alone for a while.”

  “But you still haven’t told me what you heard yesterday,” I said.

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she walked off down the street, shoulders slumped. I wanted to follow her, but I had a spa to promote. I returned to the booth and noticed the crowd next door had continued to thin. A few minutes later, the last of the spectators in front of Wendy’s booth departed. The space was empty, much like the rest of the street. I could see a handful of people milling about way at the other end, but who knew if they’d ever make it down my way?

  While I waited for more people, I studied the shops across the way behind the tables and canopies. The going-out-of-business sales weren’t as frequent as they had been in past months, but most of the stores were still struggling. Now that autumn had arrived, the Get the Scoop ice cream parlor had started offering hot coffee drinks and cookies to entice customers. The Raining Cats and Dogs pet supply store seemed to have their dog food half off at least every other week.

  Looking down the street again, I could see that this festival wouldn’t be bringing in extra business, considering there were still no people. I restacked the brochures and then fanned them back out again. I tested each pig pen to make sure they were oinking correctly. I nudged each table leg with my Vans to make sure I’d set the table up properly. When I spotted Zennia heading my way, I almost cheered. “Zennia, you’re here. It’s so nice to have some company.”

  She heaved a Crock-Pot onto the table. “I’m afraid I can’t stay. I have to get back and finish preparing lunch for the guests. But I was hoping you’d have time to set up these samples for the attendees. The cups and spoons are in my backpack.” She set the pack on the ground.

  “More corn salad?”

  “No. I wanted a power pack of vitamins and minerals, so I’m trying a new recipe with cabbage, broccoli, and tofu, with a little calamari thrown in to remind people how close we are to the ocean.”

  I felt my nose scrunch up in an automatic reflex. “Did you say cabbage and broccoli?”

  “Try not to make that face when people ask about it,” Zennia said.

  “Sorry. I’ll smile as though I won the lottery.”

  “Good, now I’ve got to run.”

  She retrieved her keys from the backpack on the ground, gave me a quick hug, and hurried to her car.

  I lifted the Crock-Pot lid, caught a whiff, and slammed the lid back down, afraid one of the calamari might crawl out.

  I unzipped the backpack to pull out the cups Zennia had mentioned, not that anyone would try a sample. As I straightened up, I found Kimmie standing on the other side of the table. In a tailored, knee-length sheath dress, with her hair pulled back in a sleek bun, she could be a top-notch fashionista.

  “Dana,” she said in a tone that told me I’d probably prefer to eat the cabbage concoction than hear whatever she was about to say, “I have been waiting and waiting for your status report, but it hasn’t arrived. Didn’t you get my e-mail with the form attached?”

  “Yes, I got it, but I don’t think a status report is going to work for me.” Especially since I wasn’t her employee, though she seemed to be confused on that point.

  Kimmie put a hand to her throat and tapped her foot. I got the idea not many people refused her demands.

  “But why not? We need to be organized. We need to keep track of everything you’re doing.”

  “First of all, I’m not doing much, simply talking to people. I think I can keep that straight.”

  Kimmie tilted her head at me. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” I lifted the top off the Crock-Pot, swinging the lid in an upward motion to make sure the stench would blow in Kimmie’s direction. “Calamari casserole?”

  She wrinkled her nose and stepped back. “Oh, yuck, stop.” She fanned a hand in front of her face. “I’m on my way to see my mother right now, so I can’t stay, but let’s get together tomorrow to talk about everything you’ve been doing.”

  “With all my work here at the festival, I’m not sure I can squeeze in a meeting.”

  “Can’t you please make time? I really want to know what you’ve found out about Wendy. You could stop by the restaurant at nine, before I open for brunch, and then be on your way.”

  I’d never had the chance to try Le Poêlon, Kimmie’s upscale restaurant. Besides being out of my price range, reservations were booked out months at a time. Would I actually get to try all that fantastic food Kimmie was always bragging about? My head filled with visions of eggs Benedict, with Dungeness crab, and crêpes stuffed with mascarpone cheese and topped with strawberries.
That alone would make the drive over to the coast worth the effort.

  “I suppose I could make that work,” I said, trying to imply I was doing her the favor. “I was already scheduled to take tomorrow morning off.”

  “Perfect. See you then. And don’t be late. I have things to do and can’t waste time waiting for you.”

  With that, Kimmie spun around on her spiky heels and strode away.

  I watched her go and wondered why I’d agreed to help her. Tomorrow’s breakfast had better be the best meal of my life.

  11

  Maybe it was the warmer weather once noon rolled around, maybe it was because Saturday TV was usually so bad, but the afternoon brought a steady stream of attendees to the festival. These were real attendees, too, not just people wanting to see where Wendy was murdered. I spent two hours spouting the virtues of the farm and spa and the benefits of all that fresh air. I couldn’t get anyone to try Zennia’s cabbage-and-broccoli creation, but who could blame them?

  Eventually interest in the farm waned as fewer people stopped. I wondered how I could draw in more folks.

  “I’ll give a free, state-of-the-art oinking pen to anyone brave enough to try this delicious secret recipe,” I said on impulse to a clump of people walking past.

  The group slowed as one. “Aren’t the pens free, anyway?” a man in a bowling-style shirt asked.

  I cupped my fingers around the dozen or so remaining pens and dragged them closer to me. “Nope. Only the most courageous of souls shall have the honor of a pig pen bestowed upon them.”

  “What’s in it?” he asked.

  “All sorts of nutritious goodies. A little cabbage, a little tofu . . .” I stopped before I listed the broccoli and calamari.

  The man grimaced. For a moment, I thought my ploy had failed. Then his friend piped up, “I’m game.”

  I hastily popped the lid off the Crock-Pot and scooped a spoonful into a cup before he could chicken out. The man stared at the contents as though he was about to eat a live scorpion. I could see him take a deep breath before putting the cup to his lips and throwing his head back. He chewed for a moment and swallowed. The group watched his every move, me included.