Going Organic Can Kill You (Blossom Valley Mysteries)

by McLaughlin, Staci

  “I asked who you are,” she said.

  “I come in peace.” What the heck made me say that? I wasn’t Buzz Lightyear.

  The shotgun didn’t waver. “What do you want?”

  Frankly, I wanted to turn around and run. “Esther sent me to buy honey for the spa,” I said, tilting my head toward the trees that marked the property line. “You’re Queenie, right?”

  She pursed her lips. “How do you know that? Did the devil tell you?”

  “No, Esther did.”

  Queenie lowered the shotgun an inch or two.

  In return, I dropped my right arm and reached in my back pocket. Queenie watched me, the shotgun still aimed in my general direction but without her finger on the trigger. I pulled out the folded money and held it toward her. Licking her lips, she snatched the money from my hand and reached down her shirt to stuff the bills in her bra. I could see where the strap was frayed, almost ready to snap, much like Queenie had apparently snapped.

  I must have smirked because she immediately glared.

  “Don’t be looking all smug, honey. I use this money for God’s work.”

  “Good for you.” The honey money might be better spent at the hairdresser. Up close, I could see bits of leaves and grass clinging to her matted mane.

  “If it weren’t for donating my money to buy harnesses for those one-legged puppies, I wouldn’t even accept a penny from that spa.”

  I got caught up on the vision of a one-legged puppy and it took me a second to process her comment. “What’s wrong with the spa?”

  “Let’s just say that ‘Whoever sheds man’s blood, by man his blood shall be shed.’ That feller might want to keep that in mind.”

  “What feller, I mean fellow, are you talking about?” And what about shedding blood? An image of Maxwell popped into my head. Had Queenie seen something related to his murder?

  “I don’t know what he was up to, but that place is a modern day Gomorrah, if you ask me,” Queenie said, not answering my question.

  Now I was really confused. The spa had only been open three days. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  Queenie leaned in close and smiled, exposing brown teeth, one canine missing. “The wanton enjoyment of flesh right out here in front of all His little creatures.”

  Looking at her muddy bare feet and snarled hair, I couldn’t help but wonder if Queenie’d been sipping a little fermented honey. Of course, I had found a pair of underwear under the bench, so perhaps she wasn’t as delusional as I’d like to think. “What exactly did you see?”

  “A golden-haired temptress writhing and moaning in ecstasy.”

  Yikes. I resisted the urge to fan myself, wondering why Queenie felt compelled to tell me these dirty details. “Did you recognize her?” If someone had really been on the bench and not just in Queenie’s imagination.

  Queenie scowled at me. “I will speak no more of such evil. It is not for me to judge, but rather our Maker.”

  “Wondering if it’s anyone I know.” The only woman I’d met at the spa who could be described as a golden-haired temptress was Tiffany, with her blond hair and short skirts.

  “‘For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ, so that each one may receive what is due for what he has done in the body, whether good or evil,’ as it says in 2 Corinthians 5:10.”

  Guess she wasn’t coughing up any more information. I glanced at my watch. Lunchtime was fast approaching and I didn’t have time for a Sunday school lesson. “Could I get the honey now, please?”

  I expected Queenie to throw a bit more scripture my way but she said, “Wait here.”

  She disappeared inside the trailer, a decent-sized Prowler with orange and brown stripes on the side, the paint on the aluminum siding peeling in patches. Two metal poles ran up each end of the side with the door, holding a rolled-up awning in place. In this heat, I’d have that puppy unrolled, but she might like the sunshine.

  The trailer door swung back open and Queenie tramped down the metal steps, a mason jar of thick amber liquid in place of the shotgun. The jar carried no label. A long trail of honey ran down one side. Definitely a home business.

  I accepted the jar, adjusting my grip so I didn’t end up with honey all over my hands. “Thanks.” For the honey and for not shooting me.

  I walked back across the field, then turned around when I reached the tree. Queenie stood in her trailer doorway, watching me.

  “‘Let the sinners be consumed out of the earth, and let the wicked be no more,’ so sayeth the Lord in Psalm 104:35,” she called, the words easily carrying in the open air.

  Wasn’t there something in the Bible about casting the first stone? If she almost beat a man to death over a joke, she should calm down over a little nooky in the woods.

  I held the jar of honey aloft, then turned my body to more easily break through the bushes, the twigs snagging at my hoodie, scratching at my jeans. I took one last look under the bench to make sure the underwear was out of sight, then followed the dirt path back toward the house. The sun felt even hotter on the return trip and I quickened my steps as I passed the pool area.

  On the small patio, Christian led a group of six in yoga, Sheila one of the students. Guess Kimmie convinced her to stay after all. Or she wasn’t as delicate as Kimmie seemed to think.

  I entered the kitchen and set the mason jar on the table, next to an array of filled salad plates. I recognized romaine lettuce and chopped apple pieces, but the other ingredients were a mystery.

  Zennia was frying a large battered object in a skillet, the long sleeves of her shirt rolled up. I inhaled the familiar smell of hot oil, my head filling with visions of fried shrimp and onion rings.

  “Esther had me pick up honey from Queenie.”

  “Perfect. I ran out yesterday and want to make granola for this afternoon’s snack.” She turned back to the stove and used a slotted spatula to break off a piece and lift it out. She held the spatula out to me. “Try this.”

  I eyed the golden concoction, unsure what she was offering me. Unless Zennia’s body had been taken over by aliens in the night, this was bound to be healthy. “What is it?”

  “Stuffed squash blossoms.”

  The giant hole that had opened up in my belly to accommodate a naughty treat shrank a little. “You’re serving flowers for lunch?”

  “Filled with ricotta cheese, herbs, and flaxseed.”

  “I’m surprised you fried them.”

  Zennia looked back at the pan. “Not my first choice, but I used peanut oil, which is high in monounsaturated fat, and I’ll drain them thoroughly before I serve the dish.”

  I accepted the piece, holding it up to the light. The thin batter lightly coated a large orange petal. Flowers. Sheesh. I closed my eyes and popped it into my mouth, chewing quickly. Then I opened my eyes.

  “Delicious. I don’t believe it.”

  Zennia smiled. “I’ll take that as the compliment you intended.” She glanced at the wall clock. “Do you have time to help me serve lunch?”

  Guess Esther had shared the game plan with Zennia about my new role as a Jill-of-all-trades. “You bet.” I grabbed the first two salad plates.

  The dining room was bustling, people chatting and plucking raspberries from the bowls on the tables. Zennia had swapped out yesterday’s daisies in the center vases with violets, the purple complementing the red of the fruit. I dropped off the salads and headed back for more. When I’d served everyone, I stood to one side, waiting for people to finish before bringing out the main course.

  In the far corner of the room, Logan, Maxwell’s assistant, sat alone at a table, texting with one hand and eating his salad with the other. Now was my chance to question him. I wandered over, noting where salad dressing had dripped on his white dress shirt.

  “Logan, I wasn’t sure you’d be staying.”

  He glanced up in surprise, his fingers convulsing on his BlackBerry. That should make for an interesting text. He flipped his smartphone upside dow
n on the table to block the screen, and I had an impulse to snatch it up and see what he was hiding.

  “The room was paid in advance for the full week, so I figured I’d take a little vacation. I deserve it after all the work I’ve put in the last few months.”

  “But your boss was murdered. Aren’t you upset?”

  Logan shrugged. “Upset that I’m out of a job. But Maxwell was a slave driver. Calling me at two in the morning for a glass of warm milk, demanding I pick up jewelry he ordered, expecting me to iron his clothes every Sunday for his Monday morning meetings. No one should put up with that.”

  “Then why did you?” I blurted. I’d read stories about how Hollywood assistants worked grueling hours for little pay and no respect and always wondered why someone would tolerate such conditions. Had Maxwell’s demands pushed Logan over the edge?

  “Connections. Maxwell knew a lot of people in Hollywood, and whenever he had meetings with the bigwigs, I was right there in the background. In fact, Nathaniel Wilcox of Tiger Shark Studios has contacted me about working for him.”

  Boy, the film industry didn’t waste any time. “What would these connections do?”

  Logan rested his hand on his BlackBerry and leaned toward me. A lock of his brown hair broke free of its gel prison and fell across his forehead. “I’m a scriptwriter. Once I’ve built up enough trust, I can pitch my story to Wilcox, and he might option it. If I can write one blockbuster, I’ll have my pick of the projects.”

  A man cleared his throat behind me, but I stayed focused on Logan.

  “Any idea what happened to Maxwell yesterday?”

  Logan picked up his BlackBerry, checked the screen, and laid it back on the table, face down. I was dying to know what was more interesting than the topic of his murdered boss.

  “Not a clue,” he said. “Like I told the police, I barely saw Maxwell that morning. But when I stopped by his cabin before his yoga class, he was all wound up about something.”

  I leaned forward and rested my hand on the cream tablecloth. “Did he tell you what?”

  Logan’s hand twitched toward his BlackBerry but he managed to drag his gaze away from the device. “No, but he was ranting and raving about how someone would pay, and how he was going to be there to collect.”

  “You don’t know who he was talking about?”

  “Nope.” He picked up his PDA once more and began texting, careful to keep the screen turned so I couldn’t read it.

  The throat clearing came again. “Uh, miss?”

  I turned around to find a tableful of people looking at me.

  The man pointed to his empty salad plate. “Could we have our entrees now?”

  Oops. “Right away.” I stacked up their plates and fled to the kitchen where a row of fried squash blossoms waited.

  “Better hurry before these get cold.” Zennia said, sliding a blossom onto a vacant plate.

  I hustled back out, making several trips until everyone was served. I positioned myself by the door while people ate their flowers.

  Who had Maxwell been talking about when he said someone would pay? Did it have anything to do with his murder? Maybe another producer stole a project. Or an actor had dropped out of his latest movie. But if that were the case, he’d have mentioned the details to Logan.

  As I was musing, the dining room emptied out and I began schlepping plates to the kitchen. When all the guests were gone, I cleared the rest of the tables, set the dishes by the sink, and prayed that “dishwasher” wasn’t part of my new job description.

  One squash blossom remained in the skillet and I gestured to it.

  “Mind if I eat that?” I asked Zennia.

  She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “I’d love it. I thought you weren’t too fond of my culinary creations.”

  I felt my face heat up. Guess I needed to work on my acting skills. “You cook with a lot of unfamiliar foods, but all your meals are delicious.” Let’s hope Zennia didn’t strap me to a lie detector machine and make me repeat that last statement. I sat down at the table with the blossom and took a bite. Zennia filled the sink with water, added a few drops of dish soap, and scrubbed the first plate.

  As I was scraping up the last of the cheese, I heard voices in the hall, increasing in volume as they approached the kitchen.

  I recognized Gordon’s voice. “You know that committee is absolutely worthless. Why you insist on belonging is beyond me.”

  Gordon and Esther entered the kitchen, both red in the face. Gordon had removed his vest sometime during the day and now looked rather plain with just a white dress shirt under his jacket.

  “Nonsense. Arnold and I helped found that committee. It’s been a tremendous benefit to Blossom Valley. But I’m not sure I can attend the meetings right now with the murder. All this hoopla might make people forget our group’s mission.”

  I washed down my fried flower with a sip of water. “What committee are you talking about?”

  “The Blossom Valley Rejuvenation Committee,” Esther said, patting her gray curls in obvious pride. “We organize local events to draw in tourists or raise money for worthy causes.”

  Gordon snorted. “The whole thing’s a crock.”

  “Stop that,” Esther said. I’d never seen her so worked up before. I expected beads of sweat to literally pop out on her forehead. “Our little group does a lot of good for the town. Mostly, anyway. The earthworm races didn’t really pan out.”

  I raised my eyebrows at her.

  “We held the race early in the morning this past March and didn’t provide any cover for the worms,” she said. “The robins and blue jays ate most of the contestants.”

  “Well, you know what they say about the early bird and the worm,” I cracked.

  Gordon kept his usual glower, but Zennia chuckled. Esther frowned. Too soon for jokes, apparently.

  “People drove for miles to watch the worm races,” Esther said. “Imagine how horrified the children were when the birds swooped in.”

  “It must have been traumatic,” I said quickly. Where was my trophy for keeping a straight face?

  Esther clutched one hand with the other. “But now our monthly meeting is this afternoon, and I’m not sure I can face all the questions about Maxwell. The committee was so supportive of my decision to open the spa, I couldn’t bear to see their looks of pity. I should skip this one meeting.”

  “For once, you and I agree,” Gordon said. “Attending the meeting is a terrible idea.”

  “But it’s the last meeting before the cricket-chirping festival. They may need my help.”

  I choked back a laugh. “Cricket chirping?”

  Gordon rolled his eyes. “The most asinine idea ever.”

  “Nonsense,” Esther said. “George from the committee thought of it one evening a few years back while listening to the chirping in his backyard. He reckoned he wasn’t the only one who enjoyed crickets. Why not have people bring their pet crickets together and hand out a prize for the loudest chirper?”

  Pet crickets? Did people take them for walks on itty-bitty leashes? Teach them to fetch a grain of rice? “And enough people have pet crickets to organize an entire contest?” I asked.

  “We have twenty entries lined up.”

  Esther eyed me a moment, and I held back a groan, well aware of what she was about to propose.

  “Say, Dana, could you attend the meeting for me?”

  Another random job for this Girl Friday? But Esther looked so darn hopeful. Plus, she was the boss. “Where and when is it?”

  Esther clapped her hands together. “Four o’clock at the town hall.”

  “Doesn’t Dana have marketing work to do?” Gordon asked.

  “I’m almost done, but Esther has asked me to stay on as more of a general helper, serving meals for Zennia, covering you at the desk, running errands ...” My voice trailed off and died away.

  Gordon glared at Esther. “Do you have the extra money for that? If Zennia used her time more efficiently, she could cook as
well as serve.”

  “I’m a hard worker,” Zennia said, gripping the kitchen sponge. “These meals take time.”

  Gordon continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “And we’re not exactly the Holiday Inn Express. We don’t need someone covering the desk at all times.”

  This guy sure had a habit of forgetting who was boss around here.

  “I like knowing we have backup if needed,” Esther said. “And there’s always a hodgepodge of chores that I don’t have time for. Besides, you know we’re booked for the next six weeks, so money isn’t a problem.”

  Gordon grunted in reply, then turned on his heel and strode out. Poor sport. Remind me not to play Monopoly with him. But I felt like hugging Esther. When she decided on something, she didn’t back down, even with Gordon questioning her every decision.

  I glanced at the kitchen clock. With a couple of hours to kill before the meeting, now was my chance to find Heather. Under the pretext of helping her clean rooms, I wanted to ask her about where she’d been yesterday. And her strange comment about two sides to every story.

  If she’d known Maxwell was dead and was using me as her alibi, I was going to find out. I was no one’s patsy.

  10

  I swept open the door to the laundry room, looking for Heather. The maid’s cart was tucked in the corner, the top empty of towels. But the washing machine vibrated and clanked through its spin cycle. Heather had to be on the grounds somewhere.

  I checked the front lobby and earned a glare from Gordon as he filled out paperwork at the counter. Must be smarting over Esther’s refusal to quit the committee or her insistence on keeping me on as a staff member. I stepped out the front door to see if Heather’s car was parked, forgetting my encounter with the press when I’d arrived this morning. Within seconds, four reporters with microphones descended on me.

  “Who are you? Are you staying here? Did you know Maxwell Mendelsohn?” The questions hit me like paint balls at a corporate team-building event.

  I held my hands before my face as flashbulbs blinded me. “I didn’t know him. I only work here.” I darted back inside, the front door whacking me on the behind.