A Healthy Homicide

by Staci McLaughlin

“Hi, guys!” she sang.

  “Hey, how was work?” I asked.

  She kicked off her mules and shoved them under the coffee table. I gave her points for sticking them somewhere where I wouldn’t trip over them. “Awesome. Somebody left a box full of puppies at the vet office, so I got to spend the day playing with them.” She glanced around the room. “We should keep one. We could put his bed by the TV.”

  “No pets allowed, remember?”

  Ashlee stuck out her lower lip. “Couldn’t we lie and say it was a therapy dog?”

  “Then I’d need actual therapy from the guilt of lying.”

  She flopped down on the couch next to me, and I gripped my plate to keep from dropping it. “You’re no fun.”

  “So you’ve been telling me all my life.” I scraped the last of the chili off my plate and set the plate on the coffee table. “I met your friend Brittany today.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “Outside Carla’s spa. She and one of her coworkers were hanging around.” I dropped my crumpled napkin on the dinner plate. “Does she always giggle like that?”

  Ashlee gave me a questioning look. “Like what? I’ve never heard her giggle.”

  I stared at her. Maybe the sound was the type you could tune out after a while, like a leaf blower or background music. “She giggles after every sentence.”

  “Bullpucky.”

  Jason leaned forward so he could see around me. “It’s true. I interviewed her for the paper, and she laughed the whole time.”

  “She must have been nervous,” Ashlee said. “She’s totally worn out from the murder. She swears she was talking to the cops all day. They kept asking her when she left work last night, if the back door was locked when she left, if she saw anyone hanging out where they shouldn’t have been.”

  “And what did she say?” I asked. Beside me, I felt Jason tense up, no doubt wondering if he’d find out anything useful for his next article.

  “She left at five, when her shift ended. Said Carla was busy typing in her office.”

  I hadn’t seen an office during my earlier visit, but it had to be one of the rooms Carla didn’t show me. I turned to Jason. “What time was she killed?”

  “They’re waiting for the report, but probably not more than an hour or so after that.”

  I returned my attention to Ashlee. “Was the door locked?”

  She didn’t answer, as she was too busy staring at the television. I looked at the screen, where a glammed-up couple was heading down a red carpet, flashbulbs from dozens of cameras blinding them.

  “Ashlee,” I said more loudly. “Was the door locked?”

  She dragged her gaze from the screen. “What? Oh, sure. Brittany locked the front door on her way out.”

  “What about the back door?” Jason asked. He leaned toward her to hear the answer. I muted the volume on the TV.

  She frowned at me and then looked at Jason. “How should I know if she locked it?”

  “Maybe Brittany said something,” he said.

  “I think the cops asked her that, but she couldn’t remember. She almost never used that door.” Ashlee grabbed the remote from my hand and turned the volume back up.

  I ignored the show and turned to Jason. “Do the police think the killer got in through the back door?” Gretchen had told me the door was unlocked when she stopped by, but I was looking for confirmation.

  “They don’t know, but it’s the obvious choice if Brittany is sure that she locked the front door. If someone knew Carla kept the back door unlocked, they could take advantage of that information.”

  “So you think the murder was planned?” The chili dog in my stomach ran around in circles, chasing its tail.

  “Too soon to tell.” Jason stood and stretched, then grabbed both plates and carried them to the kitchen. I heard him running water and then two clinks as he set the plates in the dishwasher.

  When he returned to the living room and sat back down, I patted his leg. “Thanks.”

  “Thanks for dinner.”

  Ashlee made a gagging noise.

  “Don’t you have a date tonight?” I asked her sweetly.

  “Chip’s having dinner with his cousin. He’s visiting from out of town.”

  I put a finger to my lips. “Hmm . . . first a visit to his grandmother, now dinner with a cousin. I think you’re losing your touch.”

  “I am not,” Ashlee snapped. She touched her blond hair, three shades lighter than mine, like it was a magic talisman. “Am I?”

  She sounded so worried that I couldn’t keep torturing her. “No. I’m sure he’d rather be with you tonight.”

  Ashlee flipped her hair back. “You’re right. But I think I’ll text him, anyway.” She disappeared into her bedroom and closed the door.

  Jason pulled out his phone. “That late already? I’d love to hang out, but I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

  I sighed. “Me too.”

  I rose from the couch, and Jason followed, placing an arm around my waist. At the door, we engaged in some heavy lip locking until I heard Ashlee come out of her room, muttering to herself.

  I broke free from our embrace. “Good night.”

  Jason ran a finger along my cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I watched him go down the stairs and to his car before I closed the door.

  I drifted into my bedroom, savoring the warmth that lingered on my lips, and stretched out on the bed. As I lay there, dark thoughts about Carla’s death crept in from the corners of my mind and smothered the contented feeling from my evening with Jason.

  Carla was alive and well when Brittany had left work at five. She was dead by the time Brittany returned the next morning. What had happened during the hours in between?

  Chapter 7

  Light rain pattered against the window when I awoke the next morning. After a quick shower, I donned my long-sleeved work polo and khaki pants and went into the kitchen to zap a frozen breakfast burrito in the microwave. I watched the news while I ate, keeping the volume low so I wouldn’t wake Ashlee. By the time I finished eating, it was time to get to work.

  Thanks to the steady drizzle, traffic was slower than usual through downtown. As I passed the Pampered Life, I saw that the memorial for Carla had grown. I watched a middle-aged woman in a poncho move the bouquets and stuffed animals around, placing some under the redwood bench and others against the building, beneath the green-and-white-striped awning, where they were somewhat protected from the rain.

  A car horn blared, and I whipped my head forward, my eyes back on the road. I’d hate to get in an accident on my way to work. Jason might write an article about me.

  At the farm I parked near the entrance. The rainfall had increased, and I dashed across the parking lot, purse held over my head. As I sprinted up the walk, I caught a glimpse of the ducks splashing in the nearby pond. A few quacked hello.

  When I reached the office, I hung my jacket on the back of the chair to dry and settled into my seat, thinking about the workday ahead of me. With no pressing deadlines, I had time to focus on new material. A few days ago Gretchen had mentioned an advanced waxing method she was considering for the spa. Now might be a good time to ask her for more details. If we were adding new services, I definitely wanted to update our marketing materials.

  On my way to the kitchen, I could hear the clatter of silverware and murmurs of conversation coming from the dining room. I retrieved the spare umbrella we kept in an old milk can near the back door, nodded to Zennia, who was up to her elbows in a sink full of dishes, and stepped out into the rain. The drops drummed a steady beat as I sidestepped puddles and worms. I followed the path past the cabins and wiped my feet on the welcome mat before entering the spa tent.

  When Esther had first agreed to add a spa to the farm’s property, she’d envisioned a sprawling redwood building with plate-glass windows to let in the natural light and hardwood floors to complete the look. After she and Gordon had studied the contracting quotes and permit req
uirements, they’d settled on something that was more akin to a large tent. The exterior was comprised of large vinyl panels set in metal frames, complete with exterior windows and doors. The inside included a heating and cooling system and was partitioned into several areas with those cloth cubicle walls you’d find in an office building. Not quite as elaborate as Esther had originally planned, but still functional and a whole lot cheaper.

  The lobby area, with its brown rattan chairs and small mosaic-tiled table, was empty, so I continued on to the back. Gretchen was lying on the massage table in the last cubicle. Her hands were crossed over her stomach as she stared at the ceiling.

  “Gretchen?”

  She jerked her head around. When she saw me, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the table. “Dana, I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “No customers this morning?” I asked, although clearly we were alone in the tent.

  Gretchen jumped down from the table and brushed her hands on her tan pants. “I have a client in half an hour.”

  “Perfect. I wanted to know more about this waxing service you told me about. Have you decided if you’ll add it to our services?”

  Gretchen let her gaze wander to the floor. “I don’t know. Seems kind of pointless now, but I guess I could tell you about it, if you want me to.” As glum as she looked, she might prefer getting a tooth extracted at the moment.

  “Is this a bad time?”

  Gretchen looked up and offered a weak smile. “No, sorry. I’m just distracted.”

  “Is Gordon still on your case about Detective Palmer’s visit?”

  She pressed her lips together. I waited.

  “Worse,” she finally said. “The detective called again. He had more questions about my visit to Carla’s spa.”

  That didn’t bode well. “What kind of questions?”

  “He wanted to nail down exactly what time I’d been there, and asked me again about anyone walking by or hanging around. I already answered all those questions.”

  I knew from watching TV that the detective wanted to see if Gretchen gave different answers to repeated questions so he could catch her in a lie. For a fleeting second, I wondered if he had.

  Gretchen moved to a table full of lotions and oils and started shuffling them around for no apparent reason other than to give herself something to do. “I think he wanted an excuse to talk to me again.”

  I hoisted myself onto the massage table where Gretchen had been lying a moment ago and swung my legs back and forth. “If he wanted to talk to you, he wouldn’t need an excuse.”

  Gretchen’s voice was low. “He would if he was here for another reason.”

  My legs slowed. “Such as?”

  She didn’t answer, instead moving the jars and bottles back to their original positions.

  “Gretchen, what aren’t you telling me?”

  She turned around slowly, her hands twisting a terrycloth washrag. “I had it rough as a kid.”

  The sudden change in topic threw me. What did this have to do with Carla’s death? I said, “Okay,” in what I hoped was an encouraging tone.

  “My mom died when I was twelve, and my dad had to work three jobs to support us. I pretty much took care of myself.”

  I thought about how lost I’d been when my own dad died a while back, and I’d been a full-fledged adult then. I couldn’t imagine losing my mom at such a young age, right before those teen years. “That must have been tough,” I said, feeling as if my words were completely inadequate.

  She wound the washrag around one hand. “With my dad at work all the time, I started hanging out with other kids who had nowhere to go. Some of them were troublemakers, but I was so happy to be part of the group that I didn’t care. We started shoplifting, pickpocketing a little. I even helped rob a place or two.” She focused on the washrag. “We never planned anything out and didn’t even try to hide what we were doing, so the cops had no trouble catching us. I was arrested five times before I even turned sixteen.”

  I cringed. While I was growing up, I was never even suspended from school. Being arrested that many times seemed incomprehensible to me. “I had no idea.”

  Gretchen threw the washrag in the nearby wicker basket, which we used for soiled linens. “No one does. A teacher helped me get my act together. I finally concentrated on school, and the judge agreed to seal my juvie records.”

  I hopped down from the table and moved next to Gretchen. “Look, you’ve obviously changed. You have a great job now. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “But that detective must have looked into my background and seen my records. He probably thinks I had a relapse and decided to rob the spa. Killed Carla when she caught me.” She started moving bottles and jars around again, knocking one over in the process. The plastic bottle full of peach blossom lotion tumbled to the floor.

  I grabbed the bottle and placed it back with the others. “You’re assuming too much. Did he make a reference to your record when you guys talked?”

  She shook her head. “No, but maybe he was waiting for me to bring it up.”

  “I’m not sure how sealed records work, but maybe even the police can’t see them without special permission. Don’t read more into his visit than there is. Plenty of people could have killed Carla.”

  “Were they spotted at the murder scene, too?” she asked bitterly. She stepped away from the table. “If I were that detective, I would have already arrested me.” She turned on her heel and strode from the room.

  I exhaled loudly through my nose, then grabbed a towel and a bottle of homemade cleaner and wiped down the massage table. Too bad Gretchen couldn’t erase her troubled past as easily as I was cleaning the table. She must be in a constant state of dread that someone would find out about her record, someone like Gordon. The man couldn’t stand to hear even a whisper of a scandal and would have never hired her if he’d known about her past. Even now he might try to force Esther to fire her if he got wind of it. If Detective Palmer knew about the record, he was too much of a professional to release the information, but these kinds of secrets had a way of slipping out, anyway.

  I left the spa tent without seeing Gretchen again and made my way past the cabins and pool area. I used the French doors to enter the dining room. With breakfast over, the room was silent. Zennia had already removed the silverware and linens from the tables. I cut across the hall and went into the office. I’d been so distracted by Gretchen’s story that I’d forgotten all about the waxing, but I had other projects to work on.

  For the next hour, I tried to concentrate but failed miserably. I felt too restless sitting at the desk. With lunchtime approaching, I called it quits and went into the kitchen to help Zennia, whether she needed it or not.

  She stood at the stove, stirring the contents of a large pot. Her tie-dyed dress reached to the floor, and her usual braid looped around her head like a crown.

  “What’s for lunch?” I asked as I went to the sink to wash my hands. “A plateful of vitamins and minerals?”

  She turned from the pot, still holding the wooden spoon. “More like a bowlful. It’s curried lentil soup with seven-seed bread baked fresh this morning.”

  Not exactly my cup of tea, or, rather, soup, but others might enjoy it. I removed a stack of white ceramic bowls from the cupboard and set them on the counter. “I’d love to help you serve. How many are we expecting?”

  “Twelve or so, depending on whether or not we get anyone from the spa. I heard a couple of the guests discussing whether to drive to Mendocino for the day, but they were worried about the weather, so they may have changed their minds.”

  I thought of the narrow highway that twisted through the towering redwoods, the sun shut out completely by the mammoth trees, the road slick with water. “I know I don’t like driving over there in the rain, even when it’s only a shower.”

  “I agree. No sense tempting fate. Their auras already looked a bit unsettled when I saw them at breakfast, so I hope they stayed here. My soup wi
ll soothe their souls.”

  “How’s my aura today?” I joked, though a tiny part of me worried about her answer.

  Zennia stared at my forehead long enough that I found myself shifting my feet. “Same as most days,” she said. “If you improved your eating habits, it would be brighter.”

  “Maybe I could try a spoonful of your soup.” I heard voices in the hall as people moved into the dining room. “But for now, I’ll serve it.”

  I ladled soup into two bowls and carried them out of the kitchen and next door to the dining room. An older couple sat at a table near the French doors. They nodded their thanks as I placed the steaming bowls before them, and then they resumed talking. I returned to the kitchen for a basket of the multi-seeded bread and dropped that off, as well. More people drifted in, and I shuttled between the kitchen and the dining room until I’d served everyone.

  While people savored their soup, I filled a pitcher with ice water and slowly wandered the outer circuit of the dining room, keeping an eye out for anyone who needed a refill. In one corner two women in their mid-thirties were deep in conversation, the subject apparently more tantalizing than their untouched soup.

  The blonde removed a slice of bread from the basket. Her nails looked freshly polished, and I recognized Gretchen’s handiwork in the fleur-de-lis design on each finger. At least Gretchen’s worries weren’t affecting her work. As the woman talked, she tore the bread into smaller and smaller pieces. I edged closer to find out what had her so worked up.

  “To think she was killed right in her own business,” the woman was saying. “So scary.” She shuddered and tore another piece off the bread slice.

  I realized with a start that she was talking about Carla. I froze next to their table, praying the women wouldn’t notice me.

  The other woman ran her hand through her short brown hair and dusted off the shoulder of her red cardigan. “I know. It makes me nervous to even be out at night now.” She looked up at me expectantly. I guessed my statue impersonation wasn’t as convincing as I’d hoped.

  I held the water pitcher aloft and raised my eyebrows. She studied her already full glass of water for a second and looked back to me. I shrugged and moved to the next table as slowly as possible, waiting for their conversation to resume. I didn’t have to wait long.