A Healthy Homicide

by Staci McLaughlin

  Behind me, one of them cleared her throat. I snuck a peek over my shoulder.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” the blonde said. “I don’t think you’re the type that gets murdered.”

  “What type is that?” her companion asked.

  I hastily refilled the water glasses at the next table and then shifted back over to hear the answer.

  “I heard she had a boyfriend.” Again, she cleared her throat. Maybe she should drink some of the water I was offering. I dared a glance in her direction, noting a smirk on her heavily made-up face. She tossed the remains of her bread slice on her plate. “And guess what? He’s married.”

  Chapter 8

  I almost dropped my water pitcher. Carla not only had a boyfriend, but a married one?

  The brunette gasped. “No. You don’t say.”

  The blonde with the painted nails leaned back, looking pleased with herself. “That’s just what I heard. Don’t quote me on it.”

  “Do you know his name?” the other woman asked. She shoved her bowl away, causing a few drops of the lentil soup to slosh over the side. She ignored it. “Is he from here in town?”

  “I have no idea. All I heard is he’s some older guy and a total knockout. On a scale of one to ten, we’re talking an eleven. I know if I was going to deal with all the hassle of sneaking around with a married man, he’d have to be worth it.”

  The brunette ran her hands through her hair, exposing her gray roots. “I agree. Otherwise, why bother?”

  The two women fell silent. I weaved among the rest of the tables, filling water glasses here, checking bread baskets there, my mind far away from the dining room, busy concentrating on Carla and her love life. Jason had mentioned that one of the neighbors had spotted the same guy visiting Carla multiple times. Was that the boyfriend in question? If so, was he actually married, or was the Blossom Valley gossip factory working overtime in the fabrication department?

  I went back into the kitchen and set the half-full water pitcher on the table. I flexed my fingers to work out the cramps from clutching the handle so tightly.

  “How’s the lunch crowd?” Zennia asked as she layered mango slices atop dishes of yogurt lined up on the counter.

  “Good. Everyone seems to be enjoying your soup.”

  “Wait until they try my mango parfait.”

  I went back to the dining room to clear the tables and see which diners wanted dessert. In the corner, the brunette had pulled her soup bowl back and was spooning up the soup, while her companion nibbled on a chunk of bread and looked out the window. By the time I’d cleared the dishes from the other tables and delivered the desserts, they’d finished eating, but they weren’t talking. I guessed they didn’t have anything new to say about Carla and her boyfriend. Just as well. They’d given me enough to chew on for now.

  After the guests had vacated the dining room, I helped Zennia with the dishes, my mind still on Carla. When I’d dried the last glass, I went into the dining room and pulled the tablecloths and napkins from the tables, then dumped them into the industrial-size washer in the laundry room. I started the cycle and went to the office to call Jason, hitting three wrong keys in my haste to dial the number. I finally hit the right buttons and pressed the phone to my ear.

  He answered on the first ring. “Hey, babe. How’s it going?”

  I skipped the usual niceties, too absorbed in my news. “I used my vast connections of underworld spies and informers to uncover top secret information about Carla.” That sounded more impressive than admitting I’d been eavesdropping while serving lunch.

  “Seriously?” His voice took on an urgent tone. “I know you wouldn’t tease me about info for a news story.”

  “Of course not.” I paced around the office, the excitement in Jason’s voice compelling me to move. “There’s a rumor that Carla was dating a married man.”

  I heard typing on the other end of the line. “Did you get a name?”

  “Afraid not. But I thought you could ask around. I heard he’s older and really good-looking. Maybe it’s that guy the neighbor kept seeing over at Carla’s house.”

  Jason murmured agreement. “Makes sense. I’ll ask the neighbor again, but maybe this connection of yours already knows. I could use any other information they have, too.”

  I had figured Jason would be so distracted by Carla’s boyfriend that he wouldn’t even consider my imaginary informant. I tried to think up a name for her, but all I came up with was Jane Doe, which was not the best choice. “Oh, all right, I don’t have any connections. I overheard a couple of women in the dining room.”

  Jason laughed. “Hey, I’ll take the information any way you can get it. Continue to keep your ears open.”

  “You bet.”

  “Let me get on this, and I’ll give you a call later.”

  We said our good-byes and hung up. I stuck my phone in my pocket and turned to the computer.

  The rest of the day flew by as I contacted local publications about ad pricing, struggled with a formatting issue in one of my documents, and thought up new promotional ideas. I considered all the extra services Carla’s place had offered, and wondered how much it would cost to train Gretchen to administer Botox injections. Then I shook my head. Carla hadn’t been dead two days, and I was already trying to profit from her. Shame on me. That was more Gordon’s style.

  Around five, I wrapped up my work. After a quick good-bye to Zennia and Esther, and a wave to Gordon, I stepped outside. Ahead of me, Gretchen was walking to her car, an older-model Nissan with a missing hubcap. With her head down and her back hunched, she looked as if the weight of a thousand massage stones rested on her shoulders.

  Did the police know about Carla’s possible married boyfriend? That might ease some of Gretchen’s worries that the police were targeting her. The boyfriend or his jilted wife was a more likely suspect than a masseuse at a competing spa.

  Gretchen pulled out of the lot, and I got into my own car, started it, then cranked up the heat. The light rain that had followed me around all day had dissipated, but clouds still cast a blanket over the sky. The weatherman had hinted at a warm front moving in, which I would be happy to see.

  As I exited the highway and made my way down Main Street, I noticed that the same woman who’d been moving the flowers and stuffed animals out of the rain at the Pampered Life this morning was now taping a flyer to the spa’s window. I squinted as I slowed, but I couldn’t read the flyer’s words from the street.

  Curiosity got the better of me, as usual, and I pulled to the curb. The woman set the stack of flyers on the bench and looked up as I stepped onto the sidewalk. In her forties, she was fairly attractive in a plain way, with a friendly smile and large blue eyes. My mom would have described her figure as pleasantly plump, whereas Ashlee would have handed her a card for Weight Watchers.

  As I got closer, she took a flyer from the stack, marched over, and thrust the paper at me. It advertised a Celebration of Life for Carla tomorrow evening at an address here in town. According to the flyer, everyone was welcome, and all attendees were encouraged to “bring a dish to share.”

  I looked up to find the woman staring at me. “I’m glad someone is arranging a service,” I said. “I’m Dana, by the way.”

  “Patricia Porter. She has cousins in Colorado who are preparing a funeral, but I thought the locals might like to pay their respects. Did you know her?” she asked, sounding borderline suspicious. “I don’t remember ever seeing you before.”

  “I met her only a few days ago. Did you know her long?”

  Patricia nodded. “I probably knew her better than anyone. We grew up together in Denver. After I got married, I came out here, while she finished college and settled in San Francisco, but we stayed in touch. When she started talking a few months ago about getting out of the rat race in the city, I talked her into moving up here. She’d been working on opening the spa ever since.”

  “I’m surprised I didn’t hear more about the spa before it opened
. I’m sure you know how excited people get around here when a new business is in the works.” Some locals had even been known to start a betting pool to see who could guess what would open in a vacant spot.

  “Well, of course, I knew all about it,” Patricia said, “but I’d never breathe a word until everything was absolutely ready. She and I both knew this spa would be a huge success.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I only wish she’d had a chance to prove it. To be killed so soon after opening the place seems wrong.” She started to cry.

  I struggled for something to say and was relieved when a man in his midfifties joined us. He wore brown slacks, a white dress shirt, and a jacket that almost hid a modest paunch. The way he carried himself implied he’d been an athlete in his younger days. In his hands were two take-out coffee cups from the Breaking Bread Diner.

  He set the cups on the bench and pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket. “There, there, Patricia. Don’t let yourself get upset.” He dabbed ineffectually at Patricia’s cheeks until she took the handkerchief and dried her own tears. He retrieved the coffee and handed one cup to her.

  “Thank you, Stan.” She wadded up the handkerchief and gave it back to him.

  He used the square of cloth to mop his neck before stuffing it in his pocket. “I added two sugars just like you like it, dear.”

  “You know everything about me.” Her mouth turned up in a smile, but her tone implied that wasn’t necessarily a compliment. Stan glanced at her nervously.

  I eyed him. Here was a married, older guy who fit the description the woman at lunch had provided when talking about Carla’s boyfriend. I wouldn’t exactly call him a knockout, but maybe the woman had different tastes than me. Either way, it couldn’t hurt to talk to him. I stuck out my hand. “Hi. I’m Dana.”

  He switched his coffee to his other hand, and we shook. “Stan. Pleased to meet you.”

  “We were talking about Carla’s memorial service,” I said. “Are you helping Patricia organize it?”

  Stan opened his mouth to answer, but Patricia jumped in. “Oh, no, my husband is much too busy with work. I’m doing everything myself, from the decorations to drinks to these flyers.” She tapped the one in my hand for emphasis.

  “Now, honey,” Stan said, “if you need my help, all you have to do is ask. I know how much Carla meant to you.” He turned to me. “I’m an accountant. Tax season is our busy time. I’ve been working late every night the past couple of weeks.”

  Patricia laid a hand on my arm. “Please tell me you’ll come to the service. I’d appreciate it so much.”

  I’d been waffling about attending ever since I’d read the flyer. Tomorrow was my day off, and I didn’t have much planned. “I’ll be there,” I decided.

  “Wonderful,” Patricia said. “I’m hoping for a nice turnout for Carla.”

  Stan reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. “Now that that’s settled . . .”

  Patricia tried to put up a hand to block him. “Stan, now’s not the time.”

  “Nonsense, honey. It’s always a good time to talk about taxes.” He handed me his card. “If you don’t already have an accountant, I’d like to offer my services. My rates are reasonable.”

  I studied the card, plain white with his name and CERTIFIED PUBLIC ACCOUNTANT written in black across the middle. The typical info was listed at the bottom. Considering I had no property, no stock portfolio, and no deductions, my taxes took me all of ten minutes to complete. “I’ve got it covered, but I’ll be sure to keep you in mind if I have any problems,” I told him.

  A loud rumble came from behind me on the street, and I turned around. An older-model muscle car, polished to a high sheen and with flames painted on the side, pulled to the curb behind my Honda. The engine continued to thrum as the passenger door opened and a girl in her late teens or early twenties got out, her long brown hair swishing around her shoulders. She looked over at our little group before speaking to the driver of the car, a young-looking guy with an angel tattoo on his right forearm.

  She shut the car door and walked to the entrance of the spa. Without acknowledging us, she pulled a key ring from her pocket, selected a key, and stuck it in the lock.

  “Erin!” The shrillness in Patricia’s voice made me wince. “Did the police say you could go in there?”

  This must be the niece who, Jessica was convinced, had murdered Carla. I took a closer look at Erin. With her petite stature and wispy frame, she looked more like a potential victim than a cold-blooded killer.

  Erin turned toward us and rolled her eyes, drawing attention to her glittery eyelids and blue eyeliner. “Of course, Patricia. I’m not an idiot.”

  Patricia pursed her lips but softened her tone. “I didn’t say you were. Only, I’d hate for you to mess anything up while the police are looking for your aunt’s killer.”

  Erin’s gaze traveled to the flyer on the window. Her face darkened as she read the words. “Nice of you to invite me to my own aunt’s memorial service.”

  Patricia blushed. “I called, but you never answer your phone.”

  “You could have left a voice mail.”

  At the curb, the driver of the muscle car honked. Erin gave him a little wave while Patricia glared at him.

  “I see Ricky drove you over,” Patricia said. She reached for Erin, but Erin shifted away. “What would Carla say?”

  Erin’s head whipped up. “Nothing. She’s dead. Now, let me get my stuff.” She twisted the key in the lock, pushed the door open, and disappeared inside.

  Patricia sighed, and Stan started rubbing her back. “After all Carla’s done for that girl,” she said, shaking her head.

  I couldn’t help asking, “Like what?”

  “Gave her a place to live, for starters, after her no-good drunk of a mother—”

  “Patricia, please,” Stan said. He removed his hand from his wife’s back and drummed his fingers on his coffee cup, the sound inaudible over the noise from the car still idling at the curb.

  I expected Patricia to chastise Stan for interrupting her, but she gave him a little smile. “You’re right. I shouldn’t say bad things about Carla’s sister.” She addressed me. “Carla had such high expectations for Erin, and I’m afraid it will be all for nothing now that Carla’s gone.”

  Erin came back out the door and frowned when she saw us still standing there. She clutched a small bag in her hand, but there was no way to tell what was inside through the opaque plastic. She pulled the spa door shut and locked it.

  “I hope you’ll remember how Carla felt about Ricky,” Patricia said as Erin walked past.

  Erin paused in midstride before continuing on. At the curb she turned back. “He’s the only one I can count on now.” With that, she yanked open the car door and slid onto the passenger seat, slamming the door behind her. The engine revved, and the car roared away from the curb.

  I felt like I’d been caught in the middle of an after-school special in which the young, naive girl was drawn to the bad boy from the wrong side of the tracks, and her family was trying to keep the two lovers apart. I half expected a cheesy sound track to start playing over an invisible sound system.

  Patricia handed her coffee cup to Stan and grabbed the stack of remaining flyers. “I hope those two don’t show up at my house tomorrow night. I put a lot of effort into planning this memorial, and I won’t have it ruined by any of their shenanigans.” She retrieved her tape dispenser, head held high. “Let’s go, Stan.”

  “Yes, dear,” he replied, but she’d already walked away. He trailed after her, carrying her coffee, along with his own.

  I got back in my car and drove home. I couldn’t wait to change out of my grungy work clothes, thaw a meal in the microwave, and call Jason and tell him about what I’d witnessed. Between telling him about Carla’s married boyfriend at lunch and now this information about her niece, he might include me in the byline of one of his articles. Or take me out for a romantic dinner. Considering I’d uncovered at
least two solid suspects in Carla’s murder, we might even need to order some champagne.

  Chapter 9

  At home I parked in my designated spot next to Ashlee’s Camaro, climbed the stairs, and opened the door to a dark apartment. I stopped. Ashlee’s car was here, but where was Ashlee? At the on-site gym? Visiting a friend? I heard slurping noises coming from the direction of the couch and hit the light switch on the wall.

  Ashlee and Chip were sitting on the couch. Well, Chip was sitting on the couch. Ashlee was propped in his lap, with their limbs intertwined and their faces mashed together. The sudden burst of light must have penetrated their consciousness, because they pulled apart. Ashlee then turned and gave me a big grin, while Chip tried to wipe the lip gloss off his face.

  “Hey, sis. Home so soon?”

  “Same time as every day.” I tossed my keys on the kitchen table and slipped off my jacket. “Don’t let me interrupt anything.”

  “Naw, we gotta get going, anyway,” Chip said, still wiping his cheek. “My roommate’s having a party tonight. Hey, you wanna come?”

  I’d been to one of Chip’s roommate’s parties shortly after we’d moved to the complex, hoping to meet some of my new neighbors. The party had involved beer bongs, Ping-Pong shots, and random girls running around looking for their underwear. Thank goodness Ashlee hadn’t been one of them.

  “Maybe next time.”

  “You got it.”

  Ashlee slid off Chip’s lap, her fingers still interlaced with his. “Guess I’ll get ready.”

  Before she could walk away, Chip gave her hand a tug and pulled her back down. “Maybe we got a little more time, after all.”

  Ashlee giggled and leaned in for a kiss. I made a dash for my room, the slurping sounds following me. I’d been planning to eat dinner before calling Jason, but after that little display, I wasn’t hungry anymore. I’d call Jason first. Talking to him always got my appetite revving.