Green Living Can Be Deadly (A Blossom Valley Mystery)

by McLaughlin, Staci

  I passed the pool, where a handful of pine needles floated on the water’s surface. Two guests sat at the big picnic table on the patio, poking at their yogurt and making faces at each other. I already knew the yogurt was made from tofu rather than milk. Perhaps the guests had realized it, too.

  Seeing them reminded me that other people might be eating in the dining room. I didn’t want to interrupt their meal, so I detoured through the herb garden. I detected the scent of cilantro and the fainter smell of parsley as my shoes crunched across the pea gravel. I entered the back door to the kitchen, where Zennia was washing dishes.

  “Morning,” I said, popping the lid off the Tupperware container on the counter and spooning out a handful of granola. I tossed a cluster into my mouth, savoring the honey and cinnamon flavors.

  Zennia dried a bowl with the dish towel. “Are you back to your regular schedule, now that the festival is over?”

  “For the most part. After I post today’s blog, I was going to sample the new spa services we offer. Do a little research so my descriptions will be accurate in the ads and write-ups.”

  “Oh, lovely. I’ve been meaning to try the cactus massage myself.”

  I took more granola. “What is that?” And why did it sound so scary?

  Zennia rinsed off a plate and began drying it. “You get a massage with cactus paddles.”

  Sounded like a form of torture, not a relaxing spa treatment. “I was going to start with a facial.”

  “I’ve heard the massage will remove toxins from your body, and you know a healthy body leads to a healthy mind.”

  “Then I should save it. Give myself something to look forward to.”

  Zennia laughed. I went down the hall to the office and sat before the computer. The machine was slow to boot up, and my mind wandered while I waited. My gaze fell on the Invisible Prints brochure I’d left on the desk, and I thought about Wendy’s death and what I could accomplish at the memorial service tomorrow. I didn’t know how many people would be attending or if I’d have a chance to talk to Preston and Kurt again. Was it even appropriate to talk to either one at the service? Or should I leave them to their grief? Not that Kurt was exactly grieving.

  I also wondered if Detective Palmer would be there. On television, the detectives always attended funerals to see if the killer was watching from a hidden vantage point or standing among the crowd. If the detective showed up, I needed to tell him what I’d learned about Kurt and the missing money at Invisible Prints without broadcasting the fact that I was snooping in his investigation.

  The computer finished booting, and I checked Facebook and my e-mail account before I typed up the day’s blog. I’d been pushing the green-living festival all week. Now that the weekend was over, I needed to return to healthy-living advice. Today’s topic covered sodium intake and foods to avoid, such as bacon and canned soups. I posted the blog and took a few minutes to answer comments from a previous post.

  That done, I headed toward the new spa area back past the cabins. When Esther and Gordon had first decided to expand the farm’s spa services, Esther had pictured a state-of-the-art facility with mud rooms and redwood saunas. But once she and Gordon had gone over the budget and list of required permits, she’d settled on a giant tent, like ones I occasionally saw attached to restaurants, along with a much shorter list of services. To promote the spa, I’d started weekly giveaways on the Web site. Every person who left an e-mail address was entered into a drawing to win a free facial or massage. Based on the number of entries, people were definitely interested in everything the farm offered.

  I reached the tent and poked my head in. Most of the sections were partitioned off, but I didn’t want to interrupt anyone’s treatment. The small foyer was empty, and I moved over to the massage area. Gretchen, our latest hire, stood next to a massage table, folding towels and humming. As she moved, the light from a floor lamp bounced off her gold eyebrow ring. Her jet-black pixie cut and dark eyeliner were a sharp contrast to her pale skin.

  Gordon had almost refused to hire Gretchen because of her edgy appearance. As usual, he was worried about the spa’s reputation and didn’t want the townspeople talking about the strange new hires at the spa. But she had valuable experience and impeccable references, so he’d eventually agreed to hire her on a trial basis. Based on all the positive customer feedback, she’d be around awhile.

  Gretchen looked up and smiled at me as she set the towel on the stack. “Hey, Dana, what’s up?”

  “I was hoping you had time this morning to help me out. I’ll be promoting the spa services in upcoming blogs and ads, and I wanted to try some of the offerings myself.”

  “How about the cactus massage? Most places don’t have that.”

  I shuddered. Why are Gretchen and Zennia trying to cause me pain? “I thought I’d start with a facial. Everyone expects that at a spa.”

  Gretchen placed the towels on a side table. “Good enough.” She tapped the now-empty massage table. “Go ahead and take off your shoes and lie down.”

  I sat on the table, untied and removed my Vans, and lay back, watching as Gretchen pushed a button on a CD player in the corner. Soothing instrumental sounds filled the space.

  “Now, then, let’s take a look.” She peered at my face, reminding me of a trip to the dentist. “Do you have a regular cleansing routine?”

  We chatted for a moment about what products I used. Then she grabbed a nearby bottle.

  “First I’m going to remove any makeup you’re currently wearing, along with residual oils and dirt,” she said as she squeezed cream into her hand and smeared it on my face. After a moment, she wiped the cream off with a warm, wet towel and then shook a clear liquid onto a cotton ball. She swiped that across my face while I stared at the white canvas ceiling.

  Gretchen scrutinized my face again and frowned. Not a good sign. “Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”

  Are you telling me I look old and tired? “A bit. I don’t know if you heard about the woman killed at the festival, but she was an old classmate of mine. I’m going to her memorial service tomorrow.”

  “Oh yes, that poor woman. I’m sorry about your friend.” She twisted around and lifted the lid of a container. She pulled out a towel and wrapped it around my face, leaving the space around my nose open. Her voice was somewhat muffled by the hot, damp terry cloth that was partially covering my ears, but I could still hear her next words. “It’s tragic how she was killed while she and her husband were making such wonderful plans.”

  My hands flew up to the towel and I tugged at the cloth until my mouth and eyes were exposed. “What are you talking about?”

  “My friend who works at an adoption agency in Santa Rosa mentioned that the woman’s husband had recently filled out the paperwork.”

  I pulled the towel lower. “Wendy and her husband were going to adopt?”

  Gretchen pressed her lips together and rearranged the towel on my face. I willed myself not to yank it off. “Please, Gretchen, I need to know.”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. They have rules about confidentiality.”

  Which her friend apparently ignored. “I promise not to say anything. Just tell me if the Hartfords were trying to adopt a child.”

  “That’s what my friend said.”

  Poor Wendy, slain before she could start a family. Preston hadn’t mentioned that they’d even been trying. Had Wendy chosen to adopt because pregnancy and recovery would take her away from her job for too long? “How sad. I can’t imagine Preston will still try to adopt, now that Wendy’s gone.”

  Gretchen lifted the towel off my face and dropped it into a basket. I blinked at the sudden exposure to the cool air.

  “I don’t know about that,” she said. “My friend said the husband was the one who was so gung ho about adopting. She hadn’t actually met the wife yet, but she recognized her name in the papers. Said it was the first time in her ten years of working at the agency that she’d only dealt with the husband. Usual
ly the women are the ones pushing it.”

  “Well, Preston didn’t work, so perhaps he had more time to take care of the initial forms and interviews.” I lay still as Gretchen squeezed cream from a different bottle into her hand before slathering a layer on my face. The faint scent of lavender filled my nostrils as she worked the cream in, giving my face a mini massage and limiting further conversation.

  When she was finished, she wiped her hands on a new towel. I wondered how many she went through in an average day. “That’s the basic facial,” she said. “We also offer more thorough deep cleanings, and you can request a shoulder massage while your face is steaming.”

  “I’ll be sure to mention that in my blog.” I sat up and hopped off the table. “Thanks for the trial. I’ll probably be back in a day or two for something else.”

  “Don’t forget the cactus massage.”

  “Who would forget that?” I slipped on my shoes while Gretchen tidied up her work space. I left the spa tent and followed the path past the chicken coop. Berta, the largest and loudest hen, clucked at me as I went by. I wondered if she noticed my newly smooth and relaxed face.

  I slowed as I approached Wilbur and his pals in their sty and stopped to lean on the rail. The pigs were snuffling around, looking for any remnants they might have missed from their breakfast hours earlier.

  “I get it now,” I said to Wilbur.

  He stopped sniffing and stared at me, with his nostrils flaring.

  “That facial was great. And I’ll bet a mud bath feels even better. No wonder you spend so much time lying in it.”

  Wilbur snorted and went back to rooting. I returned to the house. The kitchen was empty, and I headed straight to the office to write about my spa experience before I forgot any details. I spent the rest of the day helping Zennia with lunch service, fine-tuning an ad, and drafting tomorrow’s blog. By the time five o’clock rolled around, I was more than ready to finish the day.

  I needed to get home and dig through my closet for some black clothes. First thing in the morning, I had a memorial service to attend. With any luck, I’d get some details about this adoption.

  17

  The next morning, I was finishing my last bite of whole wheat toast, with natural peanut butter, when Ashlee entered the kitchen, dressed in pajama shorts and a T-shirt.

  “I’m not used to seeing you in the mornings,” I said.

  “I heard you farting around out here and it woke me up.” Ashlee was such a lady in the morning.

  “I didn’t realize my chewing was so loud.”

  She plopped herself into a chair and stretched out her legs. “Before you took off for work, I wanted to tell you about the apartments I found online. I’ve narrowed our choices down to two.”

  “It’s only been a day,” I said. “What’s the rush?”

  Ashlee glanced down the hall toward Mom’s bedroom, but the door was closed. “You haven’t been living here as long as I have. You worked in the Bay Area all those years, with your own apartment, doing whatever you wanted.”

  Snatching a napkin from the holder, I wiped my mouth. “You could have gotten your own place, too.”

  “I was going to. I’d even saved up enough for the deposit.”

  My eyebrows rose. I’d never heard a word about Ashlee planning to move out. “When was this?”

  She paused. “Right before Dad died. Once he was gone, I didn’t know what was going on anymore, so I decided not to move. I couldn’t leave Mom all alone.”

  I felt the familiar guilt rise up. While Ashlee had stood by Mom, I’d stayed in San Jose, grieving on my own, too shaken up to handle anyone else’s needs. Tears clouded my vision. I blinked to clear them away. I’d come home eventually, and now Mom was better. That’s what mattered.

  “Once I moved back home, you could have taken off,” I said. “Surely, one of your girlfriends would share an apartment with you.”

  Ashlee picked at a nail. “Living with you is better. All my girlfriends are hot. We’d always be fighting over some guy. I don’t have to worry about that with you.”

  “Gee, thanks. Good to know I’m completely unattractive to men.”

  “That’s not what I meant. But you have Jason. And even if you didn’t, you’re not the type to steal someone else’s guy.”

  Wow, my sister is complimenting my character! It was almost too much to comprehend so early in the morning. “Thanks” was all I could think to say.

  Ashlee straightened up in the chair. “So let me tell you about the first place.”

  I rose from the table. “It’ll have to wait. I have to drive to Mendocino for Wendy’s memorial service.”

  “That explains why you’re still here. And the outfit.”

  I’d donned a simple black dress and blazer for the service, though I was already itching to get out of my nylons.

  “We’ll talk tonight,” I said. I carried my plate to the sink, rinsed off the crumbs, and set it in the dishwasher. After brushing my hair one last time, I got into the car. I hadn’t attended a funeral since my father passed away. My peanut butter breakfast sat heavy in my stomach. I vowed to focus on Wendy’s death, and not my dad’s.

  The drive over the hill was a repeat of the trip on Sunday, full of towering trees and dark roads. When the ocean came into view, the dreary weather made the sky and water appear to be one solid gray mass. I exited the highway and parked in the small lot for the Presbyterian church. A handful of cars occupied spaces. I had expected a bigger crowd, but maybe people were running late.

  The inside of the church was silent. I signed the guest book at a small table and took a program from the stack sitting next to the book. The front had a professional shot of Wendy, which I recognized from the Invisible Prints Web site. Underneath, Wendy’s name and the dates of her birth and death were listed. I flipped the program open to read a poem about the life of a butterfly. I stuck the paper in my purse and moved into the main part of the church, where a few people sat in pews.

  The stained-glass windows looked bleak with no sun today, and the muted interior of the church matched the somber mood of the event. I spotted Helen, Drew, and Preston in pews in the first two rows. Drew was busily thumbing on her phone, while Helen and Preston stared straight ahead. I didn’t recognize the two ladies sitting in the next row, but I was glad they’d shown up to pay their respects. I dug my own phone from my pocket and saw that it was two minutes to ten. Was Kurt coming, or was he really going to skip his own sister’s memorial service?

  I slid into a pew near the back and studied the altar. Two large photos of Wendy—one from her high-school graduation and the other from her wedding—sat on easels near the pulpit. A large wreath of red and pink roses, white lilies, and baby’s breath filled the middle space. Wendy’s name was printed on a sash across the front.

  I heard a rustle behind me, and Kimmie joined me in the pew. She wore a tight black business suit with her skirt a good two inches shorter than what was appropriate. Atop her head, a wide-brimmed black hat looked big enough to serve dinner on. A veil hung down to cover the upper portion of her face. People were bound to talk about her outfit, which was probably her intention.

  “Oh, good, you didn’t forget,” she whispered out of the side of her mouth, causing the netting on her hat to billow outward.

  “I think it’s about to start.” I saw that Kurt still hadn’t shown up, but Detective Palmer had arrived. He gave me a slight nod of greeting. I smiled back and turned around as fast as seemed natural before he noticed the flush I felt creeping up my neck. I’d guessed he might be here, but still found myself swallowing convulsively. How was I going to talk to people with him lurking around? And how could I tell him everything I’d learned without admitting I was snooping against his direct orders?

  Jason appeared at the end of the row, and I smiled at him.

  “I wanted to say hi before the service starts,” he said.

  I gestured to the space next to me. “Did you want to sit here?”

 
“Wish I could, but I’m on the clock.”

  I watched as he walked back a couple of rows and sat down next to Detective Palmer, probably trying to squeeze extra info out of him for an article.

  Someone near the front cleared his throat. While I’d been watching Jason, a pastor in a dark gray suit had appeared at the pulpit. I automatically straightened up and placed my hands in my lap. Next to me, Kimmie flipped her veil up onto her hat, took out a compact, and touched up her lipstick.

  “Dear friends,” the pastor said, “thank you for gathering here today to remember a life gone too soon.” He continued speaking at length, talking about Wendy’s childhood and her success as a businesswoman. When he finished, Preston went up and spoke a bit about his wonderful marriage, which seemed the polite thing to do, even if he had been considering a divorce. On the other hand, his speech was a tad hypocritical if he’d been the one who killed Wendy.

  He sat down, and Kimmie tapped my knee. “I’m up,” she said, as though auditioning for American Idol, not speaking at a memorial service. She pushed her skirt down, thank goodness, and sashayed to the front.

  “Everyone here must already know I’m the owner of Le Poêlon, the best restaurant in town, but what you may not know is that I was also one of Wendy’s closest friends.” She pulled a handkerchief from her shirt cuff and dabbed at her dry eyes. “We met back in fourth grade when she was a lonely outcast and I broke away from my own circle of besties to befriend her. That’s the type of person I am.”

  At this point, I tuned her out. Instead, I worked on a mental list of features I wanted an apartment complex to have before I moved in. Low rent was at the top of my list. Even with Ashlee and me both working full-time, we couldn’t afford much. A safe neighborhood was a must, maybe at a complex with some sort of neighborhood watch program or security gate. I was still debating whether the place needed a pool, when I noticed Kimmie had stopped talking. She stood behind the pulpit as if waiting for applause. When none came, she flipped the veil down and returned to her seat.