Going Organic Can Kill You (Blossom Valley Mysteries)

by McLaughlin, Staci

  A plunger, of all things. Not a good time for someone to be so happy to see me.

  “A guest’s toilet backed up this morning. I tried to fix it myself, and now water’s coming up in the bathtub. And that handyman I usually call isn’t home. Why that man doesn’t get a cell phone is beyond me. Makes me madder than a momma cat when you take her kittens away.”

  I looked at the plunger, wondering where I fit in. “How can I help?” I felt obligated to ask.

  “I’ve been so busy with the plumbing that I haven’t had a chance to collect the eggs from the coop. Berta gets mighty cranky when I don’t gather her offering first thing in the morning.”

  Visions of clucking and pecking hens filled my mind. Unclogging the toilet might be the better choice. If only I had plumbing skills.

  “Um, any tips on the best way to retrieve the eggs?” Like how not to lose an eye.

  “Oh, most of the hens won’t bother you.”

  Most was not the same as all. “What about the hens that will?”

  Esther switched the plunger to her other hand and glanced at the rooster clock. “I usually scatter some feed out in the yard to keep them busy. The basket’s by the door to the coop,” she called out as she walked away.

  Well, great. Now I could add pig catcher, towel folder, and egg collector to my résumé. Everything but marketing maven. At least I had the daily blog and web updates. My skills wouldn’t completely rust.

  I left my purse in the office and headed back out the door and down the path. The sound of clucking chickens greeted me as I approached the coop, the volume increasing with each step. Two chickens pecked at the dirt outside the coop. One stopped to cluck at me as I made my way to the side of the building. I unlatched the wooden slatted door and opened it, wrinkling my nose at the stench of chicken poop in the dim quarters. As soon as I stepped inside, the chickens ran around the coop, flapping their wings and squawking.

  I threw myself back out the door and slammed it shut, breathing hard. Not a good start. Looking around, I spotted the burlap bag full of feed, a scoop resting on top. I shoveled a pile out. Careful not to spill too much food, I carried the full scoop around to the front and flung the contents into the yard. Several hens emerged from their nests among a flurry of feathers and clucks. I returned to the coop and let myself back in, careful to shut the door behind me. No sense spending the day trying to catch a chicken. Unlike a pig, chickens could fly.

  Two chickens waited on their nests, eyeing me and opening and closing their beaks. Their sharp, pointed beaks.

  I removed the basket from the hook and stuck my hand in the first empty nest, connecting with a slimy substance. I yanked my hand back, my fingers now covered with yolk. Ick. I moved to the next nest, standing on tiptoe to peek inside. A single egg lay among the straw and loose feathers. I gently laid it in the basket, then moved down the line, listening for the clucks of any chickens returning from the yard.

  After I collected a dozen eggs from the empty nests, I studied the two chickens still watching me. Did I need to gather every last egg? I had a lovely basketful. Why not let these poor chickens keep their eggs for one day?

  But Esther had mentioned a cranky chicken if her egg didn’t get picked up. I wasn’t sure how you could tell whether a chicken was cranky or happy, but Esther had definitely seemed worried about it.

  I approached the first chicken. “Hi, little hen. I’ve come for your egg.”

  She clucked. It was fairly dark in the coop, but I swear I saw a mean glint in her eye.

  I tried to slip a hand under her breast. She jerked her head forward and pecked my wrist.

  “Ow!” A red dot swelled on my arm.

  The chicken blinked at me. Was that a smile?

  I stretched my arm out and reached around to slide my hand under the back of the chicken, trying not to acknowledge that my new job involved touching chicken butt. How degrading.

  This time, the chicken stood and flapped down from her perch. I would, too, if a stranger was touching my nether regions. I retrieved the egg and faced the last chicken. She stared back, not flinching. The back approach had worked so well, I decided to try again. As I touched her tail feathers, the bird craned her head around and pecked my hand. I gave her my best “don’t mess with me” glare, but the chicken didn’t even blink.

  I reached for the egg once more, but she nailed me again. I stepped back, holding my brimming basket. If this was Berta, she could be cranky for one day. I let myself out of the coop, sure I heard Berta cackling, and vowed to eat at KFC next chance I got. I’d show that chicken.

  As I turned to go, sunlight glinted off an object in the dirt, partially covered by leaves. A piece of metal? A fragment of glass? Neither one belonged near animals. I stepped away from the coop to retrieve it and the door swung open. Berta must be plotting to come after me. I relatched the door, checking to verify it was secure, then focused my attention on the patch of dirt again. With my free hand, I bent over and picked up the shiny object. A money clip.

  I started to turn it over when hands shoved me from behind and I fell toward the fencing. I dropped the basket as the clip was snatched from my other hand. I caught myself on the chicken wire but couldn’t stop my momentum. One knee thudded onto the hard-packed dirt.

  I heard footsteps running away and craned my neck around. Branches waved back and forth where my attacker had barreled through, but no one was in sight. I pulled myself to my feet and ran along the still visible path for a few moments, then stopped. The footsteps had ceased. Everything was quiet. Whoever had pushed me was gone.

  I returned to the chicken coop and picked up the basket of eggs. Two had fallen out and broken. Three more in the basket showed cracks. But the eggs weren’t too important right now, considering what had happened.

  Who had shoved me? And why? To retrieve the money clip was the obvious answer. Someone felt the clip was important enough to knock me down. Was it related to the murder? Did the clip belong to Maxwell?

  Now might be the time to notify Detective Caffrey. But what would I tell him? I’d found a money clip on the ground but had no idea who it belonged to. I’d been pushed down by an unknown assailant and gotten nary a glimpse of him or her. Not exactly a breakthrough in the case. And who was to say any of this was connected to Maxwell’s death?

  I’d drop off the eggs and decide what to do after that. As I followed the path to the pool area, voices drifted toward me. I came around the redwood tree and spotted Christian and Sheila talking. Christian saw me, patted Sheila on the shoulder, and walked over. Sheila glanced at me, her normally styled hair uncombed, tears evident in her eyes. Was she crying about Maxwell? Or feeling guilty that she killed him? She turned and hurried toward her cabin, casting a backward glance at me.

  Christian approached me, his tank top stopping just above the groin area of his biker shorts, providing no modesty. I tried not to stare. “My dear, how are you feeling?”

  Was he talking to me? I glanced over my shoulder but no one was behind me.

  He leaned in and gave me a hug. Startled, I automatically hugged him back, almost tipping the basket and spilling the eggs. I could feel his well-defined bicep against my back.

  He released me, but kept one hand on my shoulder. “I’ve been hoping to speak with you.”

  “Why?” Did that sound as rude as I thought it did?

  “Because of your traumatic experience. As someone who has studied with a swami, I can help you move past your grief.”

  Was he talking about what had happened by the chicken coop? But of course not. He must be referring to Maxwell’s death. “Um, actually, I’m fine. Quite a shock to find a dead man, but since I didn’t know Maxwell, I’m not that upset.” And if I were, I wouldn’t confide in some silver-tongued yoga-meister that I barely knew.

  Christian put his other hand on my free shoulder and gazed into my eyes. I remembered what Ashlee had said about his smooth yoga moves and tried not to giggle. I wedged the egg basket between us.

&n
bsp; “You may think you’re fine, but the human spirit often tamps down fear and trouble, only to have it resurface disguised as something else. Are you having trouble sleeping? Are you unusually tense?”

  Only when being hit on at my workplace. “Loose as a goose,” I said.

  Christian squeezed one shoulder. “I suspect you’ll discover that you’re not over this tragedy. When you do, I can help you through the dark patches. Yoga was founded on the belief that we all are but servants who report to a higher being. He has a master plan for all of us.”

  Did he use this trick down at the Watering Hole? I could imagine some drunk and lonely barfly agreeing to go home with Christian as he sweet-talked her with this higher power bit.

  “Thanks for asking,” I said, “but I’m okay.”

  He dropped his arms, then scratched his chest through his T-shirt, harder and harder with each passing second. Not used to being rebuffed by the ladies? Perhaps my attitude was making him break out in hives. He was definitely handsome enough for me to swoon, but his intensity gave me the creeps.

  “Hey, you there.” A woman in her early twenties trotted toward us, one hand raised in salutation, her ample bust practically leaping out the top of her low-cut tank. I didn’t know her name but I recognized her as one of the guests who had snagged a room after Maxwell’s death.

  “You’re the yoga guy, right?” she asked Christian.

  “Yes, miss. How may I be of service?”

  She smoothed her long red hair. “I wanted to know about these things called chakras that a cute guy at my gym was talking about. I think he might ask me out and I don’t want to look like an idiot.”

  Christian took her arm and led her to a nearby mat. “Chakras are too complex to explain to one who has not yet embraced the yoga lifestyle. Let me tell you about the classes I offer here at the spa. We can then map out your spiritual journey.”

  Classes were included in the price of a guest’s stay, so I didn’t know why Christian was pushing the classes instead of answering her question. Job security? I left them by the mats and carried the eggs toward the house, the incident from the coop already fading. Really, I wasn’t hurt when I got pushed. No need to blow everything out of proportion.

  In the kitchen, Esther sat with Jason at the table. Esther had changed from her denim shirt into a calico print blouse. At the sight of Jason in his navy blue button-up shirt, my heart did a little pitter-patter.

  “Esther, sorry to interrupt. Didn’t know you had company. My apologies. Here are the eggs,” I rambled, setting the basket on the counter. What the hell was wrong with me?

  “Dana, you’ve met Jason, right?” Esther said.

  “Briefly.” Then I’d run away. Twice. But newspapermen are notoriously untrustworthy.

  “With Maxwell’s death being such big news in town, Jason is dedicating most of next week’s Blossom Valley Herald issue to Maxwell and our little farm and spa here.”

  Jason stood. “Esther and I are done, and I’d like to interview you next, if you have the time. She mentioned you recently moved back to town after growing up here originally. I’d like to know what brought you back, and if you’re planning to stay.”

  If Jason had a good relationship with the cops, now might be my chance to find out what they’d uncovered about Maxwell’s death. But would I be able to trick Jason into answering my questions without being too obvious?

  Jason was watching me, waiting for my response.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t ask you about the murder. I’m strictly interested in you as a person.”

  Why did the way he phrased that give me such a thrill?

  “Esther, did you have any more work for me first?” I asked.

  “I’d much rather you speak to Jason for his article. Free publicity is better than that basket of eggs you got there.”

  “I guess you can interview me,” I said to Jason, careful not to appear too eager, but my insides were as scrambled as these eggs would be at tomorrow’s breakfast. Jason might be able to help me with the murder. I took a moment to wash up and steady my nerves. As I dried my hands on a dish towel, I caught a wisp of chicken odor. Great.

  Jason picked up his notebook and stuffed it into his shirt pocket with his pen. “How about I buy you lunch? Then it won’t seem as formal as an interview.”

  I glanced at the wall clock. Ten-thirty. “Bit early for lunch.”

  “Coffee then. I know where to get the best coffee in town, without the usual locals hanging around.”

  A secret coffee shop? Where I wouldn’t run into my dentist, the mailman, or my high school teacher?

  “Sign me up.” I didn’t know where he was taking me, or what questions he’d ask, but I’d use the drive to think up a few questions of my own.

  And I wouldn’t be telling him about getting shoved at the chicken coop either. At least until I knew I could trust him.

  14

  The moment Jason and I stepped out the front door, the six media people straightened up, cameras and microphones at the ready.

  Jason held up a hand. “I’m interviewing her for local interest stuff. No break in the murder case.”

  Everyone lowered their equipment and resumed their conversations. As we passed by, I heard one blond reporter mumble, “What a waste. I can’t wait to get out of this Podunk town.”

  I fought the urge to stop and yell at the reporter for dissing Blossom Valley. Sure, I felt the way she did most of the time, but I was born and raised here, so I was allowed to insult my hometown.

  I pointed to where my Honda sat nearby. “We can take my car.”

  “I asked; I’ll drive.” Jason led the way across the lot. In the modest parking area, he’d managed to find a space with no surrounding cars, his silver Volvo gleaming in solitude.

  With a flourish, Jason swung open the passenger side door. “After you.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time a guy opened the door for me. “Thanks.” I slid into the seat, nestling into the leather like a mother hen, and clicked my seat belt in place.

  “Nice car,” I said, noting the immaculate interior. Not even a straw wrapper on the floor.

  “Thanks. Volvo is consistently rated one of the safest cars out there.”

  Oh, my, a guy who bought cars based on safety ratings. Not exactly sexy.

  Jason got in the driver’s side, a whiff of lavender and spice tickling my nose. I inhaled the intoxicating aroma as he backed out of the lot and onto the freeway. We motored down the highway in silence and he took the exit for the older part of town.

  The now-vacant lumber mill loomed over the surrounding auto shops and storage facility, the smokestack casting a cylinder-shaped shadow over the immediate area. Beyond the used-car lot, Jason pulled into the parking lot of a run-down diner, the battered sign out front announcing the Eat Your Heart Out cafe. The windows were smeared with dirt, the awning sagged, and the asphalt in the lot had long since turned to chunks.

  “Best coffee in town,” Jason commented.

  “Didn’t this used to be a biker hangout?” I recalled my parents talking about more than one bar fight, not that Mom would ever let us eat here ourselves.

  “New owners,” Jason said.

  I stepped over the missing plank in the wood walkway and followed Jason inside. The interior was the exact opposite of its outer shell. Bright bulbs inside Tiffany-style lamps illuminated wood tables with cloth-covered booth seats. Light jazz played in the background from a jukebox in the corner.

  At the counter, a heavy-set older man sipped a cup of coffee, a half-eaten Danish on the plate in front of him.

  “Writing about the murder?” he asked Jason.

  “Side story.”

  The man squinted at me, one rheumatic eye half-closed. “Say, aren’t you Dorothy and Roger’s oldest?”

  “Yes, I’m Dana.”

  “Heard you was back in town working at that spa. I had high hopes that place would bring in more people, but don’t know what’s gonna happ
en after that murder.”

  Jason tilted his head toward the man. “Bill here carves animals out of old telephone poles. Sells them from his yard.”

  An image of his house on the edge of town, lawn filled with wooden bears, owls, and meerkats, popped into my head. “I remember you.”

  “Your daddy used to bring you around years ago. Weren’t much bigger than those penguins I carve.”

  “Sorry to cut this short,” Jason said. “But I have a lot of people to talk to today.”

  “Give your momma my best,” Bill said to me.

  As we walked away from Bill, a woman at a nearby table waved to Jason.

  Her companion wiped his mouth. “Hey, Jason. Working on the big story?”

  “You bet,” Jason said as we continued to a booth in the back.

  We passed another occupied table where two women ate breakfast. They watched us go by, then I heard rapid whisperings.

  I slid into one side of the booth, facing the two women at their table.

  Jason leaned forward. “We’ll need to keep our voices down. Those two ladies we just passed will tell the whole town your background before I get a chance to print it, only half their information will be wrong.”

  As he said this, they picked up their plates and moved to the booth next to ours, avoiding eye contact with me. Subtle.

  “Don’t look now,” I whispered, “but we have company.”

  Jason glanced over his shoulder. “We’ll have to move this interview outside as soon as we get our order.”

  I smirked. “Looks like the locals have discovered your super-secret restaurant.”

  “This place used to only attract out-of-towners and truck drivers. I don’t know what happened.”

  “Guess everyone wants to see Blossom Valley’s biggest reporter interview people.”

  Jason blushed.

  A teenager strolled over, clearly in no hurry, her low-waisted jeans sagging atop her hips, her too-short T-shirt exposing a muffin top. She pulled an ear bud out, the faint strains of Lady Gaga reaching me through the tiny speakers.

  “You ready to order?”

  “Just coffee,” I said.