I nudged Brittany and nodded in his direction. “Do you know who that is?”
Brittany peered at him. “I saw him drop by the spa once or twice around closing, but Carla never told us his name. He sure is hot.”
Interesting. Was this the mystery boyfriend? I’d considered Stan as a likely option, but this guy was way better looking. Definitely an eleven out of ten, like the woman at lunch had said.
I finished eating my brownie and dusted off my hands. I left Brittany hovering over the cookies and muttering, “I guess a couple more would be okay,” and made my way over to the man in the corner.
He watched my approach with a small smile playing on his lips.
“Nice turnout,” I said, failing to come up with a more original icebreaker.
“Yes, Carla would be pleased.”
I stuck out my hand, hoping I’d gotten all the brownie crumbs off. “I’m Dana.”
He brought his own hand up. “Miguel.”
“Did you know Carla well?” I asked.
He gave me that indulgent smile again, and I realized he thought I was one of those gossipmongers who liked to meddle in other people’s business. Actually, he wasn’t too far off the mark in this case.
“Well enough.” He took another sip of punch, and I looked at his ring finger as he raised the cup to his lips. Was that a faint tan line I detected or merely a shadow? “Were you and Carla friends?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, I met her only that day . . . the day she, uh, died. Terrible what happened to her.”
“Yes. I still can’t believe it. But the police will catch her killer.”
“I hope so.” And I did, for Gretchen’s sake as much as Carla’s. “Any idea who would want to harm Carla?”
Miguel inspected his punch. “You’d know the scuttlebutt more than I.”
I found myself slightly offended by the accusatory tone in his voice. “I’m afraid I’m out of the loop these days.”
He seemed to relax with that answer. “Me too. Sorry if I offended you. I feel like everyone in the room is staring at me. Guess it’s making me paranoid.”
“Oh, they’re staring at you, all right, but it’s because you’re the only guy here.”
He looked around and laughed. “You’re right. I hadn’t noticed that.”
Patricia materialized at my elbow and laid a hand on Miguel’s arm. “Oh, Miguel, I was hoping you’d come tonight. How have you been dealing with everything?”
From the way she spoke, it sounded like Miguel had known Carla quite well. Looked like my assumption that he was the boyfriend was correct.
He shifted uncomfortably under Patricia’s questioning gaze. “I’m coping. Thank you for asking.”
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.
“Kind of you to offer, but I’ll be fine.”
Patricia would not be deterred. “Still, come with me. Talk to Stan. He lost his mother last year, so I’m sure he can offer some insight into dealing with your grief.”
Miguel held up a hand. “I really don’t think—”
“Nonsense,” Patricia said. “I insist.”
Miguel turned his head so that only I could see him roll his eyes and allowed himself to be dragged away.
A moment later Jason took the place recently vacated by Miguel. The light from the curio cabinet lit up the gold highlights in his reddish-brown hair. “Who was that?”
I looked around to make sure we were fairly isolated in our corner. “I’m almost positive that’s Carla’s boyfriend.”
“Mind waiting here a minute?” Jason asked. Without staying to hear my answer, he went in the direction Miguel and Patricia had gone.
I walked over to the buffet table and helped myself to another brownie. I hadn’t even finished it before Jason returned. “That was fast,” I said.
“He didn’t feel like talking. Shut down like the lights when the power goes out. I’ll try again another time.” He grabbed a cookie off the table. “I did talk to Stan, but he wasn’t much help. He mentioned working late with his assistant, Alonzo, the night Carla died, but he didn’t know anything about Miguel.”
So Erin was in class, and Stan was working late. I wondered who else had an alibi for that night. I glanced around the room. The crowd was thinning out. Even Brittany had disappeared, taking her giggles with her. “Get what you need for your next article?”
“Enough. Patricia gave me more personal background, such as what Carla was like growing up, how they dreamed of rooming together in college, that sort of thing. It’ll make a nice personal angle for a story.”
“Good for you. I think newspaper articles should center more on the victims and less on the killers.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not what sells copy.” Jason picked up a plate from the end of the buffet line. “What’s good here?”
I pretended to survey the spread. “The Tater Tot casserole is pretty terrific.”
Jason picked up the serving spoon and poked at the contents of the casserole. “Are you sure?” he asked uncertainly. He studied Patricia’s watermelon basket. “That fruit bowl looks good.”
I picked up a fork and speared a chunk of cantaloupe to hold up. “It’s fruit. Plain, boring fruit. The casserole is a compilation of sweet and savory, with a warm, gooey filling that’s perfect for such a somber event.”
“You made the casserole, didn’t you?” He scooped up a large mouthful and took a bite. As he chewed, he gave me an appraising look. “Between the chili dogs and this dish, you’re becoming quite the cook.”
I stepped closer to Jason until our toes were practically touching. “Keep sweet-talking me, and you may get dessert.”
Jason glanced back at the table. “You brought dessert, too?”
“Nope, it’s a special dessert. Just for you.” I winked at him. “When we’re alone.”
Jason laughed a deep, throaty laugh. “Can’t wait.”
We chatted while he ate his plate of food. By the time he was finished, few people remained in the kitchen, and I didn’t know any of them.
“Ready to go?” I asked.
We left the kitchen together, Jason’s hand on the small of my back. As I walked, I could feel the locket in my pants pocket, a reminder that I needed to return it to Erin.
I wanted to spend more time with that girl. If she’d stab her mother’s boyfriend, who was to say she wouldn’t kill her aunt?
Chapter 12
My trip to see Erin and return her locket would have to wait until my lunch break. Before Jason and I could slip out the front door the previous evening, Patricia had roped us into gathering with the few remaining attendees in the living room to reminisce about Carla, not that I had much to offer. By the time we left, it had been too late to stop by Erin’s place. Instead, I had gone home to bed, questions about Miguel, Erin, and Carla whirling around in my head.
Now, as I drove out to the farm the next morning, I thought about the coming workday. I’d seen Zennia in the garden recently, practically rubbing her hands in anticipation of the peppers, tomatoes, and zucchini that would soon be flourishing. Plenty of other people liked to garden, so I’d focus today’s blog on growing summer vegetables.
I pulled into the mostly empty parking lot and drove past the lobby. The flock of ducks basked in the early morning sunshine, while a trio waddled across the grass. I parked in my usual corner spot and took the long way past the cabins and along the back trail, stopping to say good morning to Wilbur and his pals. They snorted in reply.
In the kitchen Zennia was removing a container of her homemade yogurt from the refrigerator. She had an apron tied around her loose pants and dashiki top, and her long braid swished back and forth as she moved.
“Morning, Zennia. Need any help?” I grabbed a tangerine slice from the fruit tray and popped it in my mouth before she could stop me. I really needed to buy some fruit to eat at the apartment. Those Pop-Tarts had only so much filling, and I wasn’t even sure the goo was real fruit.
She set the container on the counter. “I think I’ve got it covered, but thanks.” She removed the lid from the yogurt and grabbed a spoon.
I sneaked another piece of tangerine as Esther bustled into the kitchen, her red-and-white-checkered blouse reminding me of the fabric that often covered the contents of a picnic basket. Her brown slacks, the same color as a basket, only enhanced the effect.
“Oh, good. You’re both here,” she said when she saw Zennia and me. “Gretchen called, and she won’t be coming to work.”
“Is she sick?” I asked.
“Sick with worry, maybe.” Esther fiddled with the hem of her shirt. “You were out yesterday, so you missed it, but she was acting strange the whole day. Forgetting appointments, mixing the wrong ingredients for the facials. One of the clients even complained Gretchen was too rough during her massage.”
I swallowed the tangerine slice. “That’s not like Gretchen.”
“Don’t I know it,” Esther agreed. “Gretchen is so dedicated to her work, but this spa owner’s murder has got her all worked up.”
“I suggested she try meditating,” Zennia said, “but I don’t know if she listened to me.”
I knew the questions from the police had rattled Gretchen, but I had never expected the interview to impact her work like this. Was there more to the story that I wasn’t aware of?
Esther turned to me, breaking into my thoughts. “Dana, would you be a dear and call all of Gretchen’s appointments for the day and reschedule?”
“Absolutely.” I glanced at the rooster clock on the wall. “Any idea when her first client is due?”
“She said someone has a facial at ten.”
“That gives me plenty of time to notify everyone. I’ll wait a bit to call so I don’t wake anyone up. Will she be back tomorrow, or should I reschedule for later in the week?”
“She seemed to think she’d be all right by the morning.” Esther tugged on her shirt. “I knew you’d take care of things. Heaven knows how I’d get anything done without all of you.” She smiled at Zennia and me.
I followed her out of the kitchen and turned into the office while she continued on toward the lobby. After booting up the computer, I drafted a blog about successful methods for growing tomatoes. By addressing a different vegetable each day, I’d have enough blogs for the next week or two. If those topics grew tiresome, I could move on to flowers.
By the time I finished editing and posting the blog, it was time to start calling Gretchen’s clients. I left the house and passed the pool area, nodding to an older couple playing backgammon at one of the picnic tables. I walked past the row of cabins and entered the spa tent.
Gretchen’s appointment book sat on the little shelf built into the hostess stand. I pulled it out and flipped it open, running my finger down the list of today’s clients. Thank goodness Gretchen was organized. She’d included everyone’s phone number next to their name. I picked up the cordless handset and the appointment book and carried them over to the waiting area to settle into one of the rattan chairs.
I spent the next twenty minutes leaving messages and rescheduling appointments. By the time I was finished, the muscles in my jaw were tight from the unexpected tension. Two of Gretchen’s regulars had asked if she was absent from work because she’d been arrested for Carla’s murder. Another had said, “Made a run for it, has she?” I had had to literally bite my tongue to keep from telling these people to take their business elsewhere. Who wanted them here at the farm with that kind of attitude?
Their thoughtless comments proved that the situation was far more serious than I’d realized. Brittany had mentioned last night that people were wondering about Gretchen’s involvement in Carla’s death, but I figured it was confined to her circle of gossipy, immature friends. I had never imagined others in town shared this belief.
I set the phone back in the cradle, returned the appointment book to the hostess stand, and walked out of the tent, rubbing my forehead. If people were willing to say these things to me, were other clients voicing their concerns directly to Gretchen? No wonder she’d called in sick. I would have, too.
Back at the office, Gordon sat in the desk chair, his head bent over his ever-present clipboard. I suppressed a groan and prayed he’d somehow missed all the chitchat about Gretchen over the past few days.
Just as I considered slipping out the door without speaking to him, he raised his head. “I’ll be done in a minute.” He returned to his clipboard and jotted down more notes.
I took a step backward toward the hall. “I can come back.”
“No, all finished.” He capped his pen and stood, straightening the lapels of his suit jacket. He gave me a long look. “What’s this I hear about Gretchen calling in sick?”
My stomach dropped. “Well, there is that bug going around. She must have caught it from one of her clients.”
He snorted, almost sounding like Wilbur. “Nonsense. She’s hiding out because everyone in town thinks she killed the other spa owner.”
“That’s another possibility,” I said.
He jammed his pen in the breast pocket of his jacket and twisted his pinkie ring. “This is bad for business. People won’t book sessions at the spa if they believe our masseuse is a killer. Our profits will be severely impacted.”
“Look, I rescheduled all of Gretchen’s appointments, and everyone I talked to agreed to come back another day. No one canceled.” Even the women who’d asked if Gretchen had been arrested couldn’t possibly think she’d killed anyone. No way would they let her put her hands so close to their necks during a massage otherwise.
“Mark my words,” Gordon said, “if the police don’t catch the killer soon, our spa is sunk. Perhaps we should take the initiative and think about hiring another masseuse.”
“What? You can’t get rid of Gretchen.”
“I don’t want to. Gretchen has been a real asset, but I have to think of the farm.” He held up his phone and touched the screen. “Look, I’d love to discuss this, but I have a meeting in town. A friend and I are setting up a business club for some of the high school students. I figure that not only will I be molding the minds of future businessmen, but it’s also a good way to get the farm’s name out there.”
While I liked the idea, I couldn’t allow myself to be distracted. “At least give Gretchen more time. She hasn’t done anything wrong,” I said.
“I’ll think about it. That’s all I can promise.” He brushed past me and walked out of the office.
I watched him go. Gordon often worried unnecessarily about the state of Esther’s place, but a tiny part of me, that part in the dark recesses of my mind that kept me awake at odd hours of the night, wondered if he was right this time. Would people stop coming to the spa if the police didn’t catch Carla’s killer?
All of a sudden, I was looking forward to my lunchtime errand. Maybe Erin knew more about her aunt’s death than she was letting on. Maybe a tidbit or two would slip out while we talked, information I could pass along to the police or at least to Jason.
Then we could get this whole thing wrapped up.
And Gretchen could stop looking over her shoulder.
Chapter 13
I drove toward town, Erin’s locket on the passenger seat. Jason had given me Erin’s address the previous night, after only a little begging on my part. I recognized the street name and found Erin’s, or rather Carla’s, house in minutes. Painted white, with dark green eaves, it was a modest single-story house not unlike my mom’s place. The yard sported a small lawn and three rosebushes planted close to the house.
After parking at the curb, I locked the car door and stepped onto the sidewalk. A chain-link fence surrounded the yard, but I didn’t see any signs of a dog. I let myself in the gate and walked up the cement path to the front of the house. After a quick knock, I tried to peek through the diamond-shaped beveled glass set into the door while I waited for someone to answer. Behind me, birds chirped in the nearby trees, and I could hear the drone of a far-
off lawn mower. After a minute I knocked again. There was no car in the driveway. Maybe she wasn’t home. I was about to give up when I saw a shadowy figure approaching through the glass.
The door flew open, and Erin squinted out at me. She wore a T-shirt and shorts. Her hair was hanging loose, and her face was bare of makeup. She rubbed her upper arms in the cool air.
“I’m Dana—,” I began, but she cut me off.
“Right. I remember you from last night. Come on back.”
“I’m just returning . . . ,” I said, trailing off when she disappeared down the hall. I hesitated before reminding myself I was on a fact-finding mission while I was here.
I went in the direction Erin had gone, noting the single nature print on the wall in the dimly lit hallway. At the end, I stepped into a large but sparsely furnished kitchen. A small wooden table sat in a breakfast nook, four chairs parked around it. The shelves of a hutch against one wall were empty, and a stack of boxes waited in the nearby corner. Jason had said that Carla bought the house about four months ago. Maybe she’d been so engrossed in opening her new spa that she hadn’t taken the time to unpack. Seeing this bit of unfinished business was another reminder that Carla would never complete a project again.
Erin stood at the island, in front of the sink. I sucked in my breath when I saw the large chef ’s knife she held in her hand. Light from an overhead bulb bounced off the blade as she moved around, and I felt myself swallow convulsively as I thought about Erin stabbing her mother’s boyfriend. What had possessed me to stop by alone after Patricia told me that story? Why hadn’t I taken up Jason’s offer to return the locket?
“Come over here,” Erin said, gesturing for me to join her. “We can’t talk with you standing all the way over by the door.”
I crossed the room slowly and stepped up to the island, making sure to stay on the opposite side of the tiled countertop. That would give me precious seconds to run if things turned ugly.
Erin grabbed a large red and green mango from the hanging fruit basket and set it on the cutting board. She used the knife to cut through the mango as easily as if she were cutting through melting ice cream. I jumped as the blade made a loud thwack against the wood.
A Healthy Homicide Page 9