Going Organic Can Kill You (Blossom Valley Mysteries)

by McLaughlin, Staci

  “What a zoo,” I said to Gordon.

  He kept writing as if I hadn’t spoken.

  Stick my tongue out at him or try for maturity? If I was going to work with the guy, I might as well extend the proverbial olive branch.

  “Having the media camped out front will sure help draw attention to the spa,” I said.

  He looked up, pen poised over paper. “Great publicity. We probably don’t even need your brochures at this point.”

  Should have extended a rose bush branch instead, nailed him with a few thorns.

  “Still,” I said, “once the rubberneckers check out, those brochures will be crucial for attracting new customers.”

  “We’ll see,” Gordon said. “The townspeople are already using the extra media attention to their benefit. Mitchell at the Get the Scoop ice cream parlor has bumped up prices by a good fifty cents per cone. And Clyde, over at the kitchen store, has all knife sets at half off.”

  “That’s horrible! Maxwell only died yesterday.”

  “Savvy business people jump at any opportunity.”

  “When did murder become an opportunity?” I said.

  Gordon shook his head, as if he pitied my lack of cutthroat instincts.

  “Have you seen Heather?” I asked. “I was going to help her with the rooms this afternoon.”

  “Not for a while.” He scribbled on the top-most paper. “I never did understand why you were taking care of towels yesterday instead of her.”

  Was it any of his business? “She’d cleaned the rooms but the towels weren’t dry, so she asked me to finish up.”

  “Why didn’t she do it herself?”

  The very question I planned to ask Heather when I found her. To Gordon, I said, “She mentioned other obligations.”

  Gordon put down his pen. “What obligations? I saw her smoking out back right before the police arrived.”

  “You sure?” Why on earth was I doing her job while she took a cigarette break?

  “I’ve told her a million times not to smoke on the grounds. This is supposed to be a health spa, for Christ’s sake. I was about to speak to her when I heard the sirens.”

  “Odd,” was my only comment. Why couldn’t she finish the towels and then step out back? Or if her craving was so strong, she could have smoked a quick cigarette, then done the towels. Why pawn the job off on me? Unless, of course, she’d wanted me to find Maxwell’s body. Right where she’d left it when she’d killed him. Heather had only started work on Friday. I knew almost nothing about her.

  Gordon picked up his pen and flipped through the pages. I hurried outside, careful to use the dining room exit and avoid the drooling, snarling pack of paparazzi.

  Heather was nowhere near the pool area, and I quickened my pace, even more intent on asking what she’d been up to yesterday afternoon.

  I rounded the corner of the closest cabin and ran smack dab into Tiffany. She was wearing a piece of shiny silver material that appeared to be a dress, though it was cut too low on the top and much too high on the bottom.

  “Sorry, Tiffany. Guess I need to watch where I’m going.”

  Behind her, I could see a woman in shorts and a tank top taking pictures of Maxwell’s closed door, the crime scene tape still plastered on the outside. A man in a tie-dyed T-shirt and cargo pants sat on the ground nearby, unlacing his shoes.

  “No worries,” she said, bringing my focus back to her micro dress. “I’m taking a little walk.”

  I glanced at her four-inch red stiletto heels. “Get a lot of walking done in those shoes?”

  She blushed. “I needed some fresh air. The cabin smells funny, like old people.”

  “You could open a window.”

  She tugged at the bottom of her dress without replying.

  “I figured you’d be packing up and heading back to L.A. like the rest of the film crew,” I said.

  “Why would I do that?”

  I glanced again at Maxwell’s cabin. The man who’d been unlacing his shoes now lay prone on the ground in front of the door, arms crossed over his chest. The woman snapped several pictures. Talk about tasteless.

  “Aren’t you with the group that was scouting locations for the new movie?” I asked Tiffany after I could force my gaze away from the ridiculous scene behind her.

  Tiffany put a hand over her heart. “Don’t I wish. I came up on my own to celebrate that movie role I landed. Remember? I’m in Octogiant Meets King Crab.”

  “Guess I assumed you were with the production group.” Tiffany was an actress, Maxwell was a producer. Seemed like a logical leap. “So, if you weren’t working for Maxwell, then you probably don’t know why anyone would want to kill him.”

  “Must have been some wacko.” She glanced around like a crazy man might be lurking in the bushes as we spoke. “Maxwell was such an awesome producer, you know?”

  I nodded noncommittally, distracted by the man now pretending to fight off an unseen assailant while the woman took more pictures. Maybe we should create a screening process for potential guests.

  “Did you see him after yoga yesterday?” I asked Tiffany. “I saw you two were in the same class.”

  Tiffany took a step back, wobbling on her heels. “What? Me? No. Why would I see him?”

  “No reason. I was just curious if you’d noticed anything strange yesterday. What did you do after yoga?”

  “I went straight to my room. Where else would I be?” She pointed toward the main house and parking area. “Now I need to go. As an actress, I have a duty to tell those news people everything I know about the murder.” She wobbled off down the path, one cheek peeking out the bottom of her hemline, a rash plainly visible. As I watched, she reached down and scratched it.

  I didn’t know what she was hiding, but it wasn’t under that skirt. Obviously she’d gone somewhere else after yoga, and I needed to find out where.

  Turning back, I spotted Heather at the other end of the row. She was stepping out of the last cabin, a basket of cleaning products dangling from one hand.

  I raised an arm. “Heather!”

  She looked in my direction, then darted back inside. I broke into a trot, running right between the woman taking pictures and the man who now posed beside the crime scene tape.

  “Hey,” the woman said, but I ignored her.

  I stopped in the doorway I’d seen Heather enter. She was straightening a couple of magazines on the coffee table, the basket now at her feet.

  “Heather, why did you run like that?”

  She focused on lining up the magazine bindings, her long brown hair hanging in tangles, partially covering her face. “I wasn’t running. I remembered that I hadn’t finished cleaning this room, that’s all.”

  I stepped farther inside and glanced around. The bed was made, the cover smooth, the pillows fluffed. Random bottles and jars sat in a tidy clump on the bathroom counter. The television remote control was perfectly lined up with the nightstand edge.

  “Looks finished to me,” I said.

  Heather’s hand settled on top of the magazines. “I like to double-check my work. I take a lot of pride in my job.”

  “I’ve noticed. That’s why I wanted to ask why you needed me to change the towels yesterday.”

  I’d swear Heather’s skin turned a bit paler under her thin layer of makeup. She continued lining up the magazines. Who knew fixing two magazines could take so long?

  “I told you, I had other things to do.”

  Okay, enough beating around the bush. “That’s what you said, but Gordon saw you smoking out back. Seems if you had time to suck on a nicotine stick, then you had time to change a few towels.”

  Heather knocked the magazines to the floor, providing a flash of anger that belied her usually quiet demeanor. “Why are you checking up on me? You’re not my boss.”

  Good question. Why was I suddenly the work police? Oh, right, a man was murdered. And I’d found him.

  “Heather, you make it sound like I was spying on you. But the polic
e are going to ask me the same question about why I was doing your job, and I’d like to know the reason.”

  At the mention of the police, Heather’s face went from merely pale to ashen and she sank onto the edge of the bed.

  “Oh, God, don’t tell the police. Please.”

  She huddled on the bed, her shoulder blades protruding under her thin cotton T-shirt.

  I sat down next to her. “Why didn’t you want to finish the rooms yesterday?”

  Heather eyed the magazines on the floor.

  She’d better not straighten them again, or there would be two murders at the farm.

  Instead, she pulled on a thread hanging from her frayed denim shorts. “Because of Maxwell.”

  My pulse quickened, and I tried to keep from rushing my words, as I wondered if Heather was about to offer up a clue to Maxwell’s death. “What about him?”

  “He came back from breakfast as I was finishing his room. He caught me looking at some jewelry.”

  “No biggie,” I said.

  She tugged a little harder on the loose thread. “All right, I wasn’t just looking. I was holding the necklace up to my throat and admiring myself in the mirror.”

  Uh-oh. “And Maxwell caught you?”

  Heather yanked the thread off. “I’ve never owned anything as pretty as that necklace in my life. I’m sure those diamonds and rubies were real. But I would never steal it.”

  “I didn’t say you would.”

  “But Maxwell did. Called me a thief and threatened to report me to Esther.”

  Typical jerk response.

  Heather sniffed. “I didn’t know what to do, so I ran out. When I remembered that I hadn’t finished with the towels, I asked for your help. I couldn’t go back in his room and risk seeing him again.”

  Her story sounded plausible. But now I had something else to consider. What were the odds two diamond and ruby necklaces were floating around the spa? If Heather found the necklace in Maxwell’s room, how did I see it in Sheila’s room only a couple of hours later?

  “Oh, Dana, you wouldn’t believe how freaked out I was yesterday when you came back from replacing the towels and said you had to report something to Esther. I figured Maxwell had complained to you and you were going to rat me out.”

  She really thought I was the ratting-out type? “So that’s what you meant when you said there were two sides to a story.”

  Heather nodded.

  I patted her knee and rose from the bed.

  “You’re not going to tell the police about the necklace, are you?” Heather asked.

  I paced a moment and pulled at my lip. “I don’t know yet.”

  “Dana, please. I can’t afford to lose this job. It’s my first real one.” She stood up. “I’ve got two kids to take care of.”

  She couldn’t be more than twenty-two. And she’d never mentioned a husband. This job was most likely her only means of support. But the necklace might be a factor in Maxwell’s murder. The police needed to know.

  “Heather, you’re the one who should tell the police what happened.”

  Without looking at me, she bent down, picked up the magazines, and set them on the table. Not exactly the confirmation I was hoping for. Could I count on her to be honest? Her fear of the police seemed a little irrational. Was she hiding something else?

  But more importantly, what exactly was Sheila hiding? Sheila could have killed Maxwell as payback for when he walked out of their marriage, and then stolen the necklace as a souvenir.

  If I didn’t tell the cops about seeing the necklace in Sheila’s cabin, they might not discover the information on their own. And Sheila might get away with murder.

  11

  I left Heather arranging the magazines and stepped outside, inhaling a lungful of late spring air. Should I mention to the police what Heather had told me about the necklace? Or would that get her into trouble she didn’t deserve? My idea that Sheila had killed Maxwell and stolen the necklace was speculation at best and lunacy at worst. I’d see what else I could discover before I decided.

  I dug my cell phone from my pocket and glanced at the time. If I left now, I could stop for a quick bite at McDonald’s before the committee meeting at four. The stuffed squash blossom had temporarily sated my empty stomach, but I could sense the rumblings. And after all this healthy eating, nothing sounded better than an artery-clogging, sugar-laden treat.

  Back in the house, I grabbed my purse from the office desk, filled in my time sheet, and then peeked out the front door to recon the media situation. In a corner of the lot, a group stood in a semicircle, their backs to me. In between their shoulders and hips, I could see Tiffany speaking into a cluster of microphones, her silver micro dress making her glow like a spirit in the afternoon sunlight. At least she hadn’t risked a sprained ankle in her four-inch stilettos for nothing.

  I slipped out the door and sidled down the sidewalk toward my car, glad I’d worn my silent Keds as I stepped across the concrete. All eyes stayed on Tiffany. She twirled a lock of hair and pouted her lips as she spoke. I slid into my car and pulled out of the lot without interruption.

  I motored to town and swung into the McDonald’s parking lot, where I had the pick of parking spaces at three thirty in the afternoon. After wolfing down some Chicken McNuggets and a chocolate shake, I drove to the town hall.

  On this end of town, business was faring no better than the main strip. Father Time Antiques had folded, along with the Here’s to Your Health natural foods store. Zennia had probably wept over that closure. At least the Going Back for Seconds clothing store was still open.

  Growing up, I’d been accustomed to all the cute store names the town council insisted on. Now, hearing the names as an adult, they were starting to sound downright silly. And creative names brought in no additional business, as far as I could see.

  On a Sunday, the town hall parking lot was about as busy as McDonald’s and I parked in front. A blue jay squawked at me from a twisted pine as I walked up the path to the entrance. I pulled open one of the double glass doors and stepped inside. The door swished shut behind me, effectively blocking out the small amount of street noise.

  The town hall was Blossom Valley’s pride and joy. Marble flooring shone in the overhead lights. A double staircase rose up on either side of me. A plaque atop an oak stand in the middle of the lobby announced that the town had been founded in 1857 by William Kendall, who named it after the acres of flowers he first spotted upon cresting the nearby hills and discovering the valley.

  I took the stairs on the left and found myself in a dimly lit hallway. At the end, a doorway glowed, as if welcoming my approach. Inside the room, two long folding tables ran down the center, surrounded by metal chairs. The thin carpet under my feet was splotched with coffee stains and occasional rips and tears. Apparently the adoring public was only supposed to see the lobby. The town hadn’t bothered to dress up the conference rooms.

  In one of the chairs at the end of the table, an older woman doodled on a tablet. Her graying hair was swept up in a bun, a garland of daisies encircling the base. An orchid sat behind her ear.

  The woman caught me studying her flora. “Hi, I’m Bethany. I own the Don’t Dilly-Dahlia flower shop.”

  I held out a hand and we shook. “I’m Dana Lewis. I’m filling in for Esther today.”

  She tilted her head to study me, the orchid dipping toward the table. “Esther and I have been friends since grade school, you know. How is she holding up with this dreadful murder?”

  If they’d really been friends since school, shouldn’t Bethany have called Esther by now to ask how she was feeling?

  “As well as can be expected,” I said.

  “For Esther, that’s not drowning in a puddle of tears every five minutes. She reminds me of how tulips droop when you don’t water them. Don’t know how that woman plans to run an entire spa on her own.”

  Maybe Bethany not calling Esther was a good thing. Might depress her dear childhood friend.


  A rustling behind me drew my attention away from Bethany. I turned to see a man with a gray crew cut enter the room, dressed in a brown suit you could only find in a retro store nowadays and carrying a battered briefcase.

  The man stuck his hand out. “George Sturgeon. I’ve got the Spinning Your Wheels tire shop at the edge of town.”

  Those names just sounded sillier and sillier. I shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Dana, Esther’s sub for today.”

  “Esther must be all tore up with this murder on opening weekend. The whole town was counting on her to bring in tourists,” George said. “’Course we’ll have to review her membership here.”

  “But Esther didn’t kill the man,” I said. “In fact, Maxwell’s death has increased the number of tourists and newspeople spending money around town.”

  “That won’t last. Once the news crews go home, people will only remember a man died at that spa. Can’t have the bad energy run over into the committee.”

  He sat next to Bethany, who had pulled the daisy chain out of her hair and was ripping off petals one by one.

  I sat down across from them, wincing as the seat’s torn vinyl poked my thigh. “I’m sure people won’t blame the committee for what happened.”

  Bethany dropped the petals on the tabletop. “Don’t bet on it. George is right. We may need to cut her loose.”

  With friends like these ...

  George set his briefcase on the floor by his chair and extracted a sheaf of papers and a pen. “Dana, tell me what other committees you’ve been on.”

  “When I was ten, my best friend and I formed the Kids against Green Vegetables committee.” We’d managed to raise fifty cents but then Mom grounded me when I refused to eat my broccoli, and we’d disbanded the committee shortly thereafter. “Does that count?” I asked.

  Bethany tugged a petal so hard, the daisy head popped off the stem. “Not really.”

  “Nothing else?” George asked.

  “Um, no. But remember, I’m only attending this one meeting.”

  “God,” he muttered. “First this murder, now Esther sends you in her place.”

  No wonder Esther hadn’t wanted to face the committee. What a couple of twerps.