Going Organic Can Kill You

by McLaughlin, Staci

  Okay, a text message like that might be enough proof after all. And Bobby Joe had admitted he cheated. I bent down and gave Ashlee an awkward one-armed hug. “I’m sorry he turned out to be such a jerk. I know you really cared about him.”

  “Yeah, I guess. ’Course, he was starting to be a drag. You can only go four-wheeling so many times.” Ashlee shrugged my arm off her shoulder and attempted to smooth down her hair. “But I’ve never been cheated on before. These things don’t happen to me.”

  I resisted the urge to mention that she dated most men for two weeks or less, not giving them much time to stray, but now didn’t seem like the time. “Anything I can do to help?” I asked instead.

  Ashlee stood, photos falling from her lap like tiles from a roof during an earthquake. “No. I gotta update my Facebook page. Change my status to ‘Single’.” She stomped from the room, leaving a trail of torn photos in her wake.

  I used my hands to sweep the pieces into a pile and dumped them in the wicker garbage can that sat next to the beige and brown floral couch. With my limited number of ex-boyfriends, I had little advice to offer Ashlee. Luckily, her prognosis was most likely a battered ego rather than any actual heartbreak. She’d line up a new boyfriend by tomorrow and forget Bobby Joe’s betrayal in a week.

  I headed to my own bedroom, pushing Ashlee’s troubles from my mind. A smile formed on my lips as I remembered my evening with Jason and stayed there as I drifted off to sleep.

  The alarm screeched at six the next morning. I shot an arm out from under the sheet and slapped at the cheap plastic box until I was rewarded with silence. With a groan, I tossed back the covers and stumbled out of bed. I took a quick shower and donned my summer uniform of khaki walking shorts and a navy blue polo shirt with STAFF stitched on the back that everyone at the O’Connell Organic Farm and Spa wore, a long way from the blouses and skirts of my marketing days at a computer software company.

  I’d moved back home four months ago after a lengthy stint of unemployment down in San Jose, thanks to a layoff where I worked. With my mother still grieving my father’s unexpected death, I’d convinced myself she needed someone around to keep an eye on her health. But since my father had died of a heart attack, Mom now insisted that we abolish all processed and sugary foods and stop frying our dinners, which meant no more kids cereal in the mornings, no more fried chicken for Sunday dinners, and no more giant bowls of ice cream during Scream movie marathons. Now it was whole wheat pasta and poached fish with fresh fruit for dessert. As if adjusting to life back home wasn’t hard enough, I didn’t even have any Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream to ease the transition. At least not without a disapproving glare from my mother.

  Casting aside my musings, I headed for the kitchen to face breakfast. Box and gallon jug in hand, I sat at the oak table under the watchful eyes of the family portraits that lined the wall and swallowed my bran cereal without really tasting it, not that there was anything to taste. Pushing the empty bowl away, I gulped my orange juice and glanced at the clock. Only 6:30. Mom and Ashlee were still asleep. Who knew how long Ashlee had stayed up last night, changing her Facebook status and tweeting about her suffering? She might be in bed for another hour or two, but I preferred to start my day early.

  Besides, Esther might need help with the chickens.

  I grabbed my purse, locked the front door behind me, and slipped behind the wheel of my Honda Civic. Already, the sun beat down on the roof, warming the car like a hothouse, a precursor to another scorching day. The weatherman called for this heat wave to continue through the July Fourth weekend, but I was keeping my fingers crossed that his satellite was broken and a cold snap was imminent. A girl could dream.

  Easing out of the driveway, I waved to Mr. McGowen, who had been tinkering in his yard every day for the last thirty years, and drove the few blocks through the downtown. The owner of the Get the Scoop ice cream parlor was already setting out the patio tables and chairs in front of his plate glass window, business so busy with the current stretch of hot weather that he’d started opening for breakfast. Only a handful of cars were parked in the Breaking Bread Diner lot, though I knew from experience the place would crowd up as the morning wore on. Having the best omelets in town always guaranteed a hungry crowd. With no commuter traffic, I was through Main Street in less than a minute and on the highway, headed for the farm.

  When I’d moved home, the Blossom Valley Herald want ads had listed few jobs, exactly zero of which was for marketing. But then Mom had met Esther, owner of the new O’Connell Farm and Spa, at a grieving spouses support group, and Esther had hired me to market the place. With less promotional needs than expected, the job quickly evolved into a Jill-of-all-trades position. When I wasn’t marketing the farm, I helped the maid clean the cabins, the cook serve the meals, and Esther tend to the animals. I was just happy to be employed, something that had been in jeopardy after a guest was murdered on opening weekend back in May and almost closed down the farm.

  Two months later, with the killer behind bars, the farm and spa was finding its footing again. In fact, all ten cabins were booked for the long weekend, ensuring me plenty of work around the property.

  I took the freeway off-ramp for the farm and bounced down the lane. Time for repaving. I slowed as I approached the small lot and parked near the side path that led to the kitchen. A pickup truck with oversized tires and a compact already filled two spaces.

  Sparrows chirped in the nearby pine trees, a melody to accompany the staccato crunch of my sandals on the gravel. I stepped onto the dirt path next to the vegetable garden, admiring the plump Brandywine tomatoes, a deep red against the lush green vines. A cucumber peeked out from beneath a broad leaf. Zennia, the spa’s forty-two-year-old cook, would no doubt snag that cuke for a lunchtime salad. Little did that vegetable know that his fate was already decided and the end was near.

  I wound around the camellia bush, passed the pool and patios, and entered the kitchen by way of the herb garden.

  Zennia stood at the counter, layering homemade granola and Greek yogurt into a parfait glass. She straightened as I entered, her long black braid sliding over her shoulder and hitting the counter, almost dipping into the yogurt container.

  “Dana, morning.” She added a handful of granola to the top of the parfait, then grabbed her honey pot and held the drizzle stick aloft.

  I nodded at her dish. “Looks delicious. Wish I hadn’t wasted all my stomach room on boring old bran cereal.” I grabbed a blackberry from the bowl on the counter and popped the fruit into my mouth.

  “Hope you didn’t fill up too much. We’re having curried lentil burgers for lunch.”

  My stomach seized. Where did Zennia find these recipes? Torture Cuisines R Us? I forced a smile. “Great.” Before my expression faltered, I snatched one last blackberry from the bowl and headed down the hall.

  In the office, I plopped down in the desk chair, punched the power button on the computer, and swiveled idly, studying the room as I waited for Windows to load. The wall closest to the door held an overstuffed bookcase, extra books stacked on the faded green carpet. A metal guest chair sat between the bookcase and the door. The opposite wall held a wood filing cabinet under the window and a floor lamp in the corner. Pictures of the farm in earlier years, along with a handful of family photos, filled the walls.

  When all the icons had appeared on the desktop, I checked my e-mail, then wrote the day’s blog. Today’s topic covered the benefits of watermelon, celery, and other foods that could rehydrate your body during a heat wave.

  After posting the blog to the spa Web site, I logged onto Facebook and read the latest news. Ashlee had changed her status from In a Relationship to Single, and posted, “Cheaters suck! You stink more than your bad breath, Bobby Joe!!” Sheesh. At least she was being mature about the whole thing.

  I closed the Web browser and returned to the kitchen. Four more parfaits had joined the original at the counter. Zennia stood nearby, drying the now-clean blackberry bowl. />
  “Need help serving breakfast this morning?”

  Before she could answer, Esther huffed and puffed her way into the kitchen from the hall, her denim shirt with the embroidered kittens misbuttoned. Her gray curls drooped in the morning heat, and her plump cheeks were flushed.

  “Goodness gracious, those ducklings have escaped,” she gasped.

  “Again?” I said, trying to remember if this was the second or third time this week. The newest additions to the farm, the ducklings weren’t the first animals to escape their pen, but they were definitely the most frequent offenders. “Esther, I know you want the guests to see the ducklings the minute they park so they’ll be in the right mood for their farm stay, but don’t you think those ducks are more trouble than they’re worth?”

  Esther finished catching her breath. “I know they run away a lot, but they’re so darn cute. And the kids love them so.”

  I didn’t point out that we’d had no more than three kids stay with us. Besides, she was right: the ducks were pretty cute.

  Esther patted my arm. “You’re always such a dear, Dana. Would you round them up with me?”

  I looked at Zennia to see if she needed my assistance with breakfast, but she waved her hand in a shooing motion.

  “Call me quackers, but I’ll help,” I said.

  Zennia chuckled as I walked out the kitchen door, Esther shadowing me through the herb garden. No little ducks hiding under the mint leaves. I stopped at the tool shed for an empty cardboard box, then wandered by the pool area.

  The surface of the water was as smooth as the patio tables. I craned my neck to peek under the chaise longues in case the ducks had decided to seek refuge from the summer heat, but the space was empty.

  I suspected the ducklings were entertaining the pigs again, but I held out hope they’d still be waddling down the sidewalk and we could intercept them. No such luck. One glance at the pigsty showed little yellow feathers coated in mud and only God knew what else, although I had a pretty good idea.

  I placed my hand on the top railing. The fence around the sty was the same style as the slat fence around the pond out front. Three rails with large gaps in between. “Ever think of enclosing the ducklings in a more escape-proof fence? Maybe add a bottom board to keep them in?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that to the precious little things,” Esther said. “Then they’d feel like prisoners.”

  “We could give them an hour of yard exercise every day. Isn’t that what they do in real prisons?”

  Esther tittered. “Oh, Dana, you’re a hoot.”

  I hadn’t actually been kidding, but apparently Esther wasn’t keen on fencing in her pets. I scanned the area near the gate for the rubber boots that usually sat there, but the boots were missing. Someone had probably left them at the chicken coop or off in the vegetable garden. Not the first time the boots had walked away.

  With a resigned sigh, I slipped off my sandals, opened the gate to the sty, and placed one bare foot into the muck. Mud and mystery objects, cool and slimy, squeezed between my toes. I shuddered as I added my other foot to the mixture, ready to catch these fuzzy felons and get out of the pen.

  Wilbur, an occasional escapee himself, snorted at me. The four other pigs started a backup chorus of squeals and snuffles. Joy.

  I grabbed the least muddy duckling, careful not to squeeze too hard, and handed it off to Esther, who dipped the duck in a nearby bucket of water and placed it in the cardboard box. I grabbed another duck, and we repeated the process.

  By the fifth bird, my hands and wrists were covered in mud, the brown goo inching toward my elbows. The sixth pooped in my hand, but really, what difference did it make at this point?

  I looked around the pen for the final escapee, not seeing any yellow peeking through the brown. The pigs had quieted down and now huddled in a group at the far side of the pen, watching the day’s entertainment. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear Wilbur was smirking as he watched me play the farm’s version of hide-and-seek.

  Movement caught my attention across the pen. A brown blob crept toward the fence and the freedom beyond the rail. I caught Esther’s eye and jerked my head toward the duckling just as I heard the first strains of my cell’s ringtone coming from my pocket.

  I raised my gunk-covered hands and continued to listen as Coldplay got louder, wondering who was calling at this exact moment. Oh well, if it was important, they’d call back.

  I took two steps toward the moving blob, the pigs shuffling and snorting in nervous anticipation. These pigs really needed more excitement in their lives.

  Chris Martin started singing again. I abandoned the errant duckling and slopped over to the gate, ignoring the sucking sounds from my feet. I snatched a nearby rag from a fence post, rubbed my hands mostly clean, and gingerly slid my phone from my pocket. The display showed my home number. Ashlee should be at work by now, leaving only Mom to call me here. But she was old-school when it came to interrupting someone’s workday. This might be serious after all.

  I pressed the green button and held the phone to my ear, crinkling my nose at a whiff of pig smells.

  “Dana,” Mom said, her voice clearly strained. “I need you home right now. Your sister’s in trouble.”

  “What’s wrong with Ashlee?” I asked, the grip on my phone tightening as I ran down a mental list of possibilities. Had she crashed her car again? Been fired? Gotten in a fistfight down at the Prescription for Joy drugstore over the last tube of Cotton Candy lipstick?

  “It’s Bobby Joe,” Mom said, the words spilling out so fast, I expected them to drip from the receiver.

  I sighed, not hiding my exasperation. “Is she still upset about that? She told me last night that they weren’t even serious. Tell her to find some new guy at work today, and she’ll forget all about Bobby Joe.”

  The pause on the other end made me wonder if my cell service had cut out, something that happened often at the farm.

  Then I heard Mom again, her voice practically a whisper.

  “He’s dead.”

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2012 by Staci McLaughlin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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  ISBN: 978-0-7582-7973-6