Going Organic Can Kill You (Blossom Valley Mysteries)

by McLaughlin, Staci

  “I’m here for this one meeting. I won’t embarrass your committee.” I checked the wall clock and saw it was a few minutes past four. Perhaps the rest of the members would arrive any moment and take the attention off me.

  “How many others are you expecting?” I asked.

  “Oh, we’re it,” Bethany said. “Roses in a town of weeds. No one else cares enough about this place to dedicate the time and energy we do.”

  I looked from Bethany to George and back. “The entire Blossom Valley Rejuvenation Committee is three people? And you’re hassling me about my lack of experience? You should be thrilled I even volunteered to fill in for Esther.”

  George glowered. “Sending an extra body doesn’t help much.”

  I could be nice up to a point, but I had limits, and George had reached them. I stood. “Fine. Then I’ll leave.”

  Bethany thrust her arm across the table in an attempt to stop me. “Wait.” She turned to George. “She’s like the trellis for a bougainvillea. We’ll need her support at the contest.”

  George rubbed the stubble on his head. “Didn’t mean to get you all riled up. Go on and stay.”

  I sat back down, though I wasn’t exactly ecstatic. But Esther had made it clear that this committee was dear to her heart.

  “Let’s try this again,” I said.

  Bethany leaned forward. “Thank you. We do need your help. Imagine poor George and me putting on the cricket-chirping contest alone. It’d be like repotting a hundred petunias with a baby spoon.”

  Good Lord, make this woman stop with the flower metaphors.

  “Esther mentioned the cricket contest,” I said. “Something about twenty contestants already lined up.”

  “That’s actually less people than last year,” Bethany said. “’Course, we did have that little mishap.”

  “Mishap?” Couldn’t be worse than birds eating the contestants in the worm races.

  Bethany lowered her eyes. “The winner accidentally set the trophy down on his pet cricket. Squashed the poor little thing.”

  “What a mess,” George said.

  An awkward silence filled the room. I could have heard a cricket chirp, had one been hiding in the corner.

  “Tell me what needs to be done for the festival,” I said.

  George uncapped his pen. “The contest is on Tuesday, down at the fairgrounds. I’ll need you there by one to set up the tables and chairs.”

  Wait, what was happening here? I’d only volunteered to attend the meeting. “I’ll tell Esther. I’m sure she’ll want to help herself.”

  “Either way, make sure someone is there at one,” George said. “I’ll be judging the event. Bethany, you’re in charge of manning the door and showing contestants where to set up at the tables.” He turned to Bethany. “Did you want to say anything?”

  Bethany swept her daisy petals into a pile. “You covered it all.”

  George stood up and stuffed his papers back in his briefcase. “Great. Meeting adjourned. I’ll type up the notes.”

  He hadn’t taken any notes, but considering the actual meeting was about three minutes long, I guess he could remember the details.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “We pride ourselves on getting in and getting out,” George said.

  Bethany rose from the table as well, so I stood up.

  “Nice meeting you both,” I said. Nice wasn’t the correct word. Mildly unpleasant was more accurate, but Mom had raised me to be polite, even if I had to lie.

  George snapped the clasp on his case. “I hope the police clear up the murder, for Esther’s sake. I don’t want to boot her off the committee.”

  “I’m sure the cops will make an arrest soon.” I stepped away from the table, ahead of George and Bethany.

  “In my book, that guy’s assistant did it,” George added.

  I was almost out the door but stopped and turned back. “What did you say?”

  “His assistant, that skinny kid.”

  “Logan?”

  George shrugged. “Dunno. But he needs a haircut.”

  That was Logan. “What makes you think he’s responsible for Maxwell’s death?”

  “You know how kids are these days. That sense of entitlement, the idea they can do no wrong. And Maxwell was sure insulting him down at the Daily Grind, right in front of the other customers. I bet the kid got so mad that he killed his boss.”

  Words failed me for a moment. When I had spoken with Logan at lunch, he hadn’t mentioned any fight with Maxwell. Was that because he was worried about being implicated in the murder or because he wasn’t nearly as upset as George believed him to be?

  “Did you hear what Maxwell said?” I asked.

  “Guess the kid wrote a screenplay that he’d asked his boss to read. There’s that sense of entitlement I was talking about, thinking you should be first in line just because you work for the guy.” George poked himself in the chest. “Back in my day, you got somewhere through grit and determination.”

  If George got sidetracked with the downfall of today’s youth, we’d be here until dinnertime. “Maxwell didn’t like the screenplay?”

  “Said it was terrible. I believe his exact words were that he’d be saving the pages to housetrain his next puppy.”

  Ouch.

  “And what did Logan say?” I asked, suddenly feeling like I could give Detective Caffrey some competition in the interrogation department.

  “He didn’t say nothing, wimpy little kid. Stood there like a statue and got all pale. Then he grabbed the pages from Maxwell and ran out. Not that he ran far. When I picked up my coffee and left, he was sitting out in that Mercedes, waiting to drive his boss somewhere. No spine in that one.”

  Bethany’s fingers twitched as she stroked the orchid behind her ear, no doubt imagining the phone in her hand as she dialed her friends with this info.

  Between what Heather had told me about the necklace and now George’s description of Logan and Maxwell arguing at the coffee shop, a call to Detective Caffrey might be in order. I’d promised Esther to pass along any info that might help the police. Anything to speed up their investigation and remove this stain from the spa’s reputation. If only I hadn’t left his business card under the keyboard back in the office.

  “Do you think the police know about the fight?” I asked.

  George glanced at the clock and walked toward the door. “One of the deputies and his wife were sitting at a table when all this happened.”

  If a deputy had been at the coffee shop, he’d no doubt passed the information on to Detective Caffrey. I didn’t feel like driving back to the farm tonight. And I wanted to give Heather a chance to tell the police about the necklace before I did.

  “Like I said, I’m sure the kid’s the one who stabbed him.” George squeezed past me and out the door, Bethany trailing behind.

  Logan didn’t seem like the killer type, but then neither did anyone else at the farm, including Sheila. And unless a stranger had snuck onto the property in the middle of the day with no one noticing, someone at that farm had stabbed Maxwell. And I needed to help the police figure out who.

  12

  Even with George’s retelling of the argument between Logan and Maxwell, I was back in my car by half past four. A bit early to call it a day, but by the time I drove to the farm, it’d be time to turn around and go home. No sense wasting the gas. And if a deputy was in the coffee shop during the argument, then the info about the necklace could wait until tomorrow.

  I nosed out of the parking lot and drove the few blocks home. The street was empty of cars, the yards devoid of late-afternoon gardeners. In San Jose, the traffic never stopped, people milled about the sidewalks at all hours. Here, a pedestrian was a novelty.

  At home, Mom dusted photos on the mantel. I recognized her red blouse with the tiny white flowers as one she had sewn herself years ago. When she saw me, she carefully set the photo of Dad back and checked the clock.

  “Dana, you’re home early. Don’t
tell me Esther had to let you go?”

  I dropped my purse on the couch. “No, my role has been redefined. I now maintain the Web site and do odd jobs around the farm, help everyone else when they need me.”

  Mom squeezed the dust rag. “That sounds iffy. She’s not keeping you on as a favor to me, is she?”

  That better not be the case. Talk about humiliating. “No. She likes my work. And Esther will let me go if she runs out of chores. But I’ll pay rent as long as I can.”

  At the mention of money, Mom diverted her eyes to Dad’s picture. “Oh, heavens, I’m not worried about that.”

  Mom couldn’t downplay her money problems forever. I’d noticed she’d replaced all her favorite brand-name soups and yogurts with generic store brands. This from the woman who’d once declared Campbell’s was the only can worth opening. But she believed the parent’s job was to care for the child, not the other way around. We’d argued for an hour over whether or not I’d pay rent when I moved home. Mom backed down only after I insisted I needed to pay my way as a sign of my independence.

  “If you’re helping with meals and cleaning rooms, at least you’ll be around the guests more,” Mom said. “You can find out who knew Maxwell.”

  “Right. I just need to be careful I don’t ask too many questions, or they’ll get suspicious.”

  “Do your best. Esther needs us. With her husband gone and no children, she has no one else.” She folded the dust rag into a square and stowed it in the hall closet. “Now, I’m going to gather some flowers from the yard, make a nice bouquet for the dinner table.”

  “I’ll help,” I said.

  I followed Mom into the backyard and donned a pair of gloves, while she grabbed two pairs of gardening shears. I squinted in the sunlight, surprised at the brightness so late in the day.

  Mom handed me a set of shears. “How is Esther’s business? Did everyone pack up and go home?”

  “The film crew did, everyone except Maxwell’s assistant. And a few of the other guests went home as well.”

  “Too bad the film people left. I’m sure they all knew Maxwell to some extent.”

  “Like I said, Logan’s staying.”

  Mom snipped a rose off the bush. “If most of the guests left, how will Esther’s spa survive?”

  I moved to the flowerbed. “We’ve already rented out the vacated rooms.”

  “I’ll be darned. People want to stay where a man was murdered?”

  “It helps that Maxwell was a famous Hollywood producer, though I’m not sure he’s as big as his assistant claims.”

  “I heard that he made those terrible horror movies. Why anyone would want to watch someone get hacked to death is beyond me.”

  I loved the suspense and silliness of a good horror film, but it wasn’t everyone’s cup of tomato juice. I cut a large purple flower, watching the blade slice through the green flesh, and handed it to Mom.

  “Here’s a pretty one.”

  Mom accepted the flower. “An allium.”

  I readjusted the gloves, my fingers suffocating in the heat from the late afternoon sun. “Where did you hear about Maxwell’s horror films?”

  “I ran into Daphne at the grocery store.” She plucked a snail from under a leaf and chucked it over the fence. Bet the neighbors loved that. “She was telling me how Maxwell’s ex was staying at the spa, too. Talk about a coincidence.”

  “Right, Sheila Davenport. I don’t know much about her.” Except that she might have stolen an expensive necklace from Maxwell after she killed him. Maybe those two staying at the spa opening weekend wasn’t such a coincidence. But I’d wait to share that accusation with Mom until after I’d spoken with Detective Caffrey or at least had more information.

  Mom set the flowers on the patio table, then moved to her lilac bush. “Sheila Davenport? Well, doesn’t that beat all. I never made the connection.”

  “You know her?”

  “She rented from my friend Wilma over in Mendocino for a while after her divorce. My goodness, but she was mad when Maxwell abandoned her. She was his starter wife, you know.”

  “His what?”

  “Starter wife. The woman a guy marries when he’s up and coming then dumps for some young floozy the minute he turns into a success. Oprah did a whole show on the topic.”

  Ugh. I hated when my mom was hipper than me. “So you’ve met Sheila?”

  Mom pulled a few brown petals from the clump. “Oh, sure, though I haven’t seen her in ages. But every time I visited Wilma, Sheila would be moping in the sitting room. No matter what topic you brought up, she’d launch into a tirade about her ex. Got so Wilma and I started meeting at a cafe in Fort Bragg to avoid her.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  Mom thought for a minute. “Let’s see, Wilma took in boarders right around the time her son needed money for his vehicular manslaughter trial. I’m sure you remember me telling you about that. Wasn’t it five or six years ago?”

  Wilma’s son had gotten into trouble as long as I could remember. I couldn’t possibly keep track of all his arrests. But if Mom’s time frame was correct, would Sheila have held a grudge that long? Sounded like Sheila was plenty upset about the failure of her marriage. Had she discovered Maxwell would be staying at the spa and saw it as her chance for revenge? She’d told Kimmie that she was ultimately happy about the divorce, but she could be hiding her pain.

  “How’s her jewelry business?” I asked.

  “Fine, far as I know. I could ask Wilma if you’d like.”

  “No, that’s okay.” Whether or not her business was a success wasn’t really related to how she felt about Maxwell, especially with the millions she’d inherited from her grandfather. And having a successful business or a truckload of money didn’t necessarily lessen the sting of being dumped.

  Mom set the pruning shears on the table and laid out the flowers, trimming each stem. I hadn’t helped much with the flower cutting, but at least I’d gotten some dirt from Mom.

  The screen door opened and Ashlee stuck her head out, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. “I’m starved. When’s dinner?”

  “I’ll get going right now,” Mom said.

  “Good. I might faint if I don’t eat soon.”

  She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, not exactly the picture of someone suffering from starvation.

  “How was work?” I asked, gathering up the loose stems. I tossed them onto the lilac bush, where they disappeared among the tiny branches.

  Ashlee plopped into a patio chair and flapped her shirt hem to fan herself. “The usual. Except all the talk about the murder. I got to tell everyone how my own sister found the body. Britney was so jealous. All her sister’s ever done was be a guest on Jerry Springer.”

  Maybe next week I could discover who really killed Anna Nicole Smith. That’d give her something to talk about.

  I tossed the pruning shears into the plastic gardening bucket and the shears clanked against the bottom. “You make it sound like finding a dead guy is as fun as winning a trip to Disneyland.”

  Ashlee studied her hands. “I’m sorry. You must have been horrified.”

  An apology from Ashlee was so rare that I actually felt guilty for making her feel bad enough to offer one. How silly was that?

  “What else did you guys talk about?” I asked.

  “Everyone who works at the farm. How Gordon yells at his gardener when the guy doesn’t trim the grass close enough.”

  Sounded like Gordon all right.

  “What a ladies’ man Christian is with his slick yoga moves. He especially likes the rich, older ladies,” Ashlee said, wiggling her eyebrows.

  I’d only seen Christian eye Tiffany, who I’d classify more as a girl than a woman, and definitely not a rich girl. But Christian might ogle all available eye candy, not just the geriatric crowd.

  Ashlee removed a tube of lip gloss from her vet frock and applied a coat while she talked. “How bad we all feel that Heather has to leave her kids wi
th her drunk mom all day so she can scrub other people’s toilets. The troubles of a single mother.”

  This observation was so profound for Ashlee that I was momentarily speechless.

  “And how loopy Zennia is. What a nutbar.”

  Ah, there was the Ashlee I loved and sometimes wanted to strangle.

  We followed Mom into the house, where she deposited the flowers on the kitchen counter and pulled down a vase from the cupboard.

  “Zennia’s not crazy,” I said as Ashlee and I sat down at the table. “She likes to eat healthy, which is a good thing.”

  “I’m so glad you agree,” Mom called from the kitchen. “I know you girls are going to love this buckwheat-coated salmon with spaghetti squash.”

  Ashlee and I wrinkled our noses at each other as we both reached for the fruit bowl. I selected an apple while she took a banana.

  Mom leaned over the counter that divided the kitchen from the dining area. “Dinner in twenty. Don’t even think about a snack.”

  I put the apple back while Ashlee slipped the banana under the table. I could see her arm move as she presumably peeled it. She glanced into the kitchen to make sure Mom was facing the stove, then popped a banana piece into her mouth. The story of my life: Ashlee does what she wants without getting caught while I obey the rules and go hungry.

  I should be more of a rebel. I picked up the apple again from the bowl, then sensed danger. Mom frowned at me from the kitchen. She pointed a spatula at me and I put the apple back.

  Guess I’d be a rebel tomorrow. Maybe I’d get to try out my new attitude at the spa.

  13

  The next morning, I parked in the lot and ran the gauntlet of reporters lobbing questions at me. The crowd was noticeably smaller today. Guess Maxwell’s death was old news, even if he’d only been killed two days ago.

  I hurried down the back path, glancing over my shoulder to make sure Jason wasn’t following me this morning, and entered through the kitchen.

  Esther stood near the door with a plunger in one hand and the phone receiver in the other, wet spots obvious on her denim shirt. She hung the receiver back on the wall.

  “Dana, thank goodness.”