A Healthy Homicide

by Staci McLaughlin

  “Great idea. Let me give you my card.” She stepped behind the counter and extracted a business card from a shelf underneath. I tore a blank page off a pad of paper that sat near the phone and jotted down my number.

  We traded, and I stuck the business card in the back pocket of my khakis, along with the brochure I still carried. I nodded to both Carla and Jessica, who gave me a wave and a smile, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The air outside the spa felt especially cool on my skin compared to the warmth of the mud room. I hurried back to the diner, worried that my BLT would be ice cold after all this time, but Betty was only now wrapping up my sandwich. She stuffed it into a paper bag with a napkin and set it on the counter with my drink before ringing me up at the nearby register. I paid for the food and trotted to my car, eager to eat my lunch before the hour was up.

  Back at the farm, I followed the path along the vegetable garden, turned at the row of guest cabins, and crossed the patio area to the back door. The kitchen was empty, and I sat down at the oak table, pulling my sandwich out of the bag. The bacon was still warm, and I was savoring the salty crunch of the first bite when Gretchen walked in. She must have been in between spa clients.

  As I watched, she went straight to the sink and turned on the tap. Her shoulders drooped noticeably as she scrubbed her hands and dried them roughly with the hand towel. When she turned around, her gaze dropped to the floor. Her mouth was set in a grim line.

  Alarmed, I swallowed hastily. The half-chewed bacon scraped its way down my throat. “Is everything all right, Gretchen?”

  She threw the towel on the counter. “No. I ran into Esther this morning, and she told me how amazing the new spa is. Then I called one of my friends to see what she knew, and she said her mom couldn’t even get an appointment, it’s so busy. What will happen to my job when everyone stops coming here and goes there?”

  I drank some iced tea to encourage the bacon the rest of the way down. Between Esther and Gretchen, I was starting to feel like a therapist. “You’re great with the customers. They won’t abandon you.”

  Gretchen sank into a chair on the other side of the table and ran a hand through her short dark hair. “I hope you’re right. I drive past the place all the time, but I haven’t worked up the courage to go inside yet. What if we can’t compete?”

  “We’ll be fine. In fact, I stopped there while getting lunch, and you have nothing to worry about.” I thought of the Brazilian waxes and manicure stations and then banished the images from my mind.

  Gretchen reached across the table and gripped my free hand. Her icy fingers sent a shiver up my back. “What’s it like? Is it as nice as everyone says?”

  I removed my fingers from her grasp. “Well, it is trendy. Massages, mud baths—”

  She gasped. “So it’s true. They have mud baths.”

  I set down my sandwich, then stuffed an errant tomato slice back into place. “The Pampered Life will attract a different clientele. Our regulars won’t desert us.”

  Gretchen’s eyes, accented by heavy black eyeliner, never left mine. “I’ve already noticed a drop-off in bookings.” Concern was etched on her face.

  “For now, because it’s new,” I said firmly, holding her gaze. “But then they’ll come back.”

  “This job is too important for me to lose. I’ve worked too hard.”

  “No one’s losing their job. Esther wouldn’t allow it.”

  Shaking her head, she slapped her hands on the table and rose. “You better be right.” She strode out of the kitchen.

  I stared at the empty doorway for a moment, wondering about her change in behavior. She’d sounded so angry. I returned to my sandwich, though my appetite had shrunk considerably. The bacon tasted too salty; the mayonnaise seemed less creamy. Would people sour on Esther’s place, like I’d soured on my sandwich?

  After I’d swallowed the last bite, I crumpled up the paper before dropping it in the trash with my drink cup. I walked down the hall and settled into the office chair, glancing around at Esther’s photos of the farm and of her deceased husband. He’d passed away before he and Esther could realize their dream of turning their former farm into a bed-and-breakfast, but Esther had assured me that he was watching from heaven and nodding his approval. I’d never met her husband, but she’d worked hard to get this place running, and I suspected she was right.

  I took a few minutes to answer blog comments from today’s post. Then I focused on the new marketing materials I was developing. I soon found myself immersed in work, forgetting all about the Pampered Life as the afternoon sped by. When five o’clock rolled around, I powered down the computer, pulled on my sweatshirt, and gathered my belongings.

  On my way out the door, I ran into Gretchen in the hall. She barely raised her eyes to acknowledge me, and I automatically placed a hand on her shoulder. “Everything will work itself out, Gretchen. Don’t worry.”

  She sighed. “I hope so, but I’m not leaving it up to fate. I have a plan.” Before I could ask what she meant, she slipped past me and into the kitchen.

  I gave her retreating back a long look. She and Esther were both convinced that the Pampered Life would put an end to the spa here. Were they right?

  And what exactly was Gretchen’s plan?

  Chapter 3

  After dealing with Blossom Valley’s rush-hour traffic, such as it was, I pulled into my designated parking spot at the Orchard Village Apartments and shut off the engine. A salsa-red Camaro sat in the space next to me, which meant Ashlee had beaten me home again. I looked up at our apartment for signs of activity, but the front door was closed and the curtains in the nearby window were drawn. Knowing Ashlee, she was happily ensconced on the couch, watching a reality show.

  I locked my car and headed up the outside stairs to the apartment. When I opened the door, the sounds of shouting and breaking furniture greeted me. Ashlee turned from her place on the couch, looking comfy in pink-and-white-striped pajama shorts and a pink T-shirt. She pointed at the TV. “Check it out. Catfight!”

  I dropped my purse on a kitchen chair and shrugged out of my sweatshirt. “I’d rather watch the real cats that hang out by the Dumpster downstairs. It’d be more interesting.”

  Ashlee waved the remote at me. “You don’t know what good TV is.”

  “I know bad TV when I see it.”

  “Whatever.” She concentrated on the screen as the two women continued sparring. After one ended up with her skirt bunched around her hips, a couple of guys from the sidelines stepped in and pulled the women apart. I shook my head and went to my bedroom to change, stepping over Ashlee’s jacket where it lay on the floor. Her flip-flops blocked my doorway, and I gave one a good kick, sending it bouncing off the nearby wall.

  I switched into a long-sleeved T-shirt and lounge pants, washed my face, and brushed my shoulder-length dishwater-blond hair, then wandered into the kitchen to see what was for dinner. Up until a couple of months ago, Ashlee and I had been living with our mom, who had insisted on serving a healthy meal every night after our dad died of a heart attack almost two years ago. Between her dinners and Zennia’s dishes at the farm, which were both healthy and organic, I thought I’d never get to eat lip-smacking, mouthwatering foods again.

  Now that I was in charge of my own meals, I tended to gravitate toward processed snacks and frozen en-trées. Every now and again when I was leafing through a magazine, I’d eye a picture of a green salad with longing, but the feeling went away as soon as I ate a doughnut.

  I inspected the handful of items in the refrigerator and pantry before grabbing a package of Top Ramen and tossing it on the counter. While I waited for my pot of water to boil, I glanced over the counter into the living room and saw that Ashlee’s show was on a commercial break.

  “Hey, Ashlee,” I called to her, “have any of your friends tried that new spa in town, the Pampered Life?”

  Ashlee muted the volume and twisted around to face me. “You remember my friend Brittany? She got a job there. Which is super awe
some, ’cause she can get a huge discount for all her friends, and that means me. Julia already went there for a manicure. The manicurist put a little skull and crossbones on every nail.”

  “So everyone’s pretty excited about it?”

  Ashlee tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sure. It’s the hot new place in town.”

  Great. Just what I didn’t want to hear. The water started to boil, and I yanked open the pack of Top Ramen, sending little curls of noodles skittering across the counter. I dumped the rectangle of glued-together pasta into the pot, then tore the top off the seasoning packet and watched the roiling water suck up the powder. “Think it’ll affect Esther’s place?” I called over my shoulder.

  “Naw. All the cool chicks will hit up the new spa, but where you work gets all those fuddy-duddies with the giant purses and support hose. They wouldn’t set foot in a place so hip.”

  No one matching Ashlee’s description had ever come to our spa, but at least she was confirming my earlier comment to Gretchen that the two spas would simply attract different types of people.

  That settled, I poured my ramen into a bowl, grabbed a spoon from the silverware drawer, and sat down at the kitchen table to read a cooking magazine. I couldn’t live on instant soup and frozen meals of fried chicken and mashed potatoes forever. I marked a page for an easy macaroni and cheese with bacon recipe while I slurped up my noodles.

  Dinner done, I dashed off a text to Jason to see if he wanted to hang out tonight. Before I had time to finish wiping down the table, he replied that he was tied up with a traffic accident on Main Street. As the lead reporter for Blossom Valley’s only newspaper, he covered everything from fender benders to burglaries to serial jaywalkers.

  I set my phone on the counter and joined Ashlee on the couch, where she’d switched the channel from the battling women to a man trying to pawn a Revolutionary War–era musket. When the shop owner lowballed an offer, I thought the man might test out the musket right then and there, but he grabbed his gun and stalked out instead.

  I slumped down in the cushions and put my feet on the coffee table. “No date tonight?”

  Ashlee tore her gaze from the TV. “Chip had to go see his grandma, poor guy.”

  “Why poor guy?”

  “She’s ninety-six and thinks he’s George Clooney. It can get awkward when your grandma keeps hitting on you every time you visit.”

  Yeesh. “You’ve been seeing Chip awhile now. You guys getting serious?”

  Ashlee snorted. “God, no. The last thing I want is to end up like you and Jason, watching TV every night like an old married couple.”

  I put my feet down. “Old married couples are usually pretty happy, like Jason and me. You could learn a lot from us.”

  “How to die of boredom, maybe.”

  “Or how to enjoy a stable, long-term, fulfilling relationship.” Jason and I had been dating for less than a year, but that was a lifetime commitment by Ashlee’s definition.

  I hopped off the couch to retrieve a bag of chocolate chip cookies and end the argument, then flopped back down and munched a cookie. While Ashlee flipped through the channels, I picked up a farming magazine I’d borrowed from Esther, and started reading. Within minutes, I was absorbed in an article about the local food movement. The next time I looked at the clock, it was time for bed.

  I marked my page and said good night to Ashlee before going to my room, feeling one last nagging worry about the new spa as I closed the bedroom door.

  The next morning, I felt someone shaking my shoulder. Still half asleep, I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to roll over, but a hand grabbed me and halted my movement. Then Ashlee spoke right in my ear, her grip on my shoulder firm. “Dana, get up. Hurry.”

  I slapped her hand off me and inched over to my nightstand to check the clock. Not even six yet. Ashlee was never up this early. A jolt of panic brought me to a sitting position. “What’s wrong? Is Mom okay?”

  “Mom’s fine, but Brittany called.”

  I rubbed my eyes, trying to get my brain working. “Why is she calling so early? Did she get fired for giving out discounts to too many friends?”

  “No, smarty, but she did call about the Pampered Life.” Ashlee grabbed my shoulder again. “That boss of hers there? She’s dead.”

  Chapter 4

  At Ashlee’s words, all remnants of sleep vanished. “What? Are you talking about Carla?”

  Ashlee settled onto the edge of the bed. “I guess that’s her name. It’s whoever runs the place.”

  “How? When?” I couldn’t quite grasp what Ashlee was saying. I’d met Carla only yesterday. She’d looked ridiculously healthy and seemed so happy. How could she be dead now?

  “Brittany found her in one of the mud baths, her feet sticking straight up. She swears there were all sorts of weird symbols painted in mud on her feet, like maybe someone killed her as a gang ritual or something.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t be silly. Blossom Valley doesn’t have any gangs. Sure Brittany’s not looking for a little drama?” I shoved Ashlee off my bed, and she squawked in protest. “Never mind. I’ll find out myself.” I threw back the covers and rushed into the kitchen to retrieve my phone. If anyone knew the details of what had happened, Jason would. I called his number and got voice mail. Without leaving a message, I texted him to see if he’d heard anything from the police about Carla dying last night.

  I waited to see if he’d reply right away, but gave up after a minute and grabbed the bag of ground coffee out of the cabinet, frowning at how light the bag felt. Now was not the time to run out of coffee. The way this day had started, I might need more than one pot.

  While I listened to the machine gurgle, I heard the sound of a train horn, which meant I had a text. I snatched up my phone and read the display. Jason’s reply confirmed my fears. Carla was dead. I looked away from the words on the screen, caught off guard by the incredible pressure that had settled in my chest. I’d barely known the woman, so why did I feel like crying?

  I absentmindedly scanned the rest of the text. Jason promised to call when he had a break, but I knew not to wait around. Major crimes didn’t happen often here, and he’d be busy hunting down every witness to interview and every extra detail to write about.

  My hand trembling, I set the phone on the counter. The coffee machine beeped, and I automatically went over and poured myself a cup. I took a sip and winced as the hot liquid scalded my tongue. I needed to shake off this gloom. What had happened to Carla was terrible, but Esther still expected me at work this morning.

  With the coffee cup feeling unnaturally heavy in my hand, I went into the bathroom to get ready. On my way out of the apartment, I grabbed a packet of Pop-Tarts for breakfast, vowing to toast the things one of these days. My car started with only minor grumbling, and I backed out of my parking space.

  My route to work brought me down Main Street, and I slowed the car as I neared the Pampered Life. Three cop cars were parked at the curb, the only sign that anything out of the ordinary had happened. Still, three cars seemed like two too many, and I had to wonder how Carla had died.

  According to Ashlee, Brittany had discovered Carla in one of the mud baths. Had she fallen asleep while taking a soak and somehow drowned? Slipped on the tile floor and hit her head before falling into the muck? Or had she been helped along by someone? While I knew nothing about Carla, I had a hard time envisioning anyone shoving that happy, smiling face into a trough full of mud and holding her down until she suffocated. I shuddered at the image and brought my attention back to the spa.

  Several people stood at the back corner of the building, Jason included. At over six feet tall, he was easy to notice. I debated pulling over and talking to him, then thought better of it. The cops must be in the middle of their investigation, and I really had no reason to talk to him, other than pure nosiness. I kept driving.

  At the farm I parked in my usual spot and followed the path toward the house. Heavy gray clouds hung low in the sky, suppressing
the usually vibrant reds and yellows of the flowers lining the walk and silencing the warbles of the songbirds I knew were perched in the nearby trees. I spotted a guest in the distance jogging toward the Henhouse Trail, which cut through the trees and brush toward the back of the property, providing solitude for early risers. I was tempted to take a walk back there myself after everything that had happened this morning, but work beckoned, and I turned toward the main house.

  When I reached the kitchen, I found Zennia breaking eggs into a ceramic bowl. On one hand, a large red mark glowed brightly against the soft, pale flesh near her thumb.

  “Berta mad at you again?” I asked as I snagged a bunch of grapes out of the fruit bowl. The perfect complement to my strawberry Pop-Tarts, I reasoned.

  “That hen is so cantankerous,” she said.

  “I don’t know why. She has plenty of room to run around in. We feed her that all-natural grain. She should be the happiest chicken on earth.”

  “No kidding. I’ve tried singing to her when I collect the eggs, reciting poetry, anything to improve her mood, but nothing works.”

  I popped a grape in my mouth. “We could always stop stealing her eggs.”

  Zennia rubbed the spot on her hand. “Trust me, I’ve considered it.”

  I thought about telling Zennia that Carla had died, but I didn’t feel much like sharing the news yet, especially since I knew so little. Instead, I cradled the grapes in one hand and took a napkin off the stack on the table. “I’ll be writing my blog, if you need any help serving breakfast.”

  “I should be able to handle it, but I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

  Once in the office, I set my grapes and the napkin on the desk and slipped off my jacket. I was placing my purse in the bottom desk drawer when the door opened and Gordon entered.

  With his three-piece suits and greased-back hair, he always reminded me of a pit boss in a Las Vegas casino, rather than Esther’s right-hand man. He’d once owned his own bed-and-breakfast over in Mendocino, but it had folded a few years ago. I suspected he saw the farm and spa as his chance for redemption, and I had to admit that his business experience and tight control of the budget were the reasons this place was still afloat.