Eat, Pray, Die Mystery Box Set

by Chelsea Field

  I tried to imagine being in love with him. It was one thing to fake it with a client who knew I was faking (and I was doing a pretty poor job of that). It was quite another to do it well enough to trick the subject himself.

  “Are you ready?” The question was asked without the usual condescension. That made me even more nervous.

  I remembered all the poison-free takeout espressos Dana had snuck in for me when I was having a particularly rough time, and my mind flashed again to the image I’d conjured of her lying wan and alone with a dozen tubes sticking out of her.

  Breakfast sat heavily in my stomach, so I lightened my tone to compensate. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Good.” We returned to the car and climbed in. “I have intel that Alstrom will be at the Santa Monica Farmers Market in about half an hour. You can run into him there and try to get a date.” He handed me a ladies’ watch. “This is your wire. It’ll be more of a formality today than anything else. You won’t be asking any leading questions, and you shouldn’t get into trouble, but choose a safe word just in case.”

  I strapped on the watch and squelched down my disbelief at me wearing a wire and choosing a safe word. Considering I’d joined a secret, ancient, and powerful organization so I could play a deadly game with the rich and famous and those who wanted to kill them, the wire should’ve been no big deal.

  Still, I was nervous. Not so much about Albert deciding I was a threat and trying to take me out. The larger risk was he’d find me unappealing amidst all the surgically enhanced, would-be actresses of LA and ignore me.

  Connor pulled to a stop. “Your safe word?”

  “Squishy.”

  His lips twitched, but I thought I’d done well. It wouldn’t be too hard to avoid using in natural conversation, and I could use it to describe food, a seat, or even my stomach if the need arose.

  “Alstrom should arrive in about twenty minutes. In the meantime, wander around, do some shopping, then find a place where you can observe Sal’s Stall. According to our source, Alstrom stops there whenever he comes to the market.”

  I left Connor in the car and joined the throng of people milling around the produce stalls lining the street. Rummaging around in my bag for my sunglasses, I considered whether it was worth applying sunscreen too. Unlikely. Albert would probably walk away laughing, if he deigned to talk to me at all. I wouldn’t be here long.

  To prevent the exercise from being a total waste of time, I purchased ingredients for a vegetable lasagna for Oliver while I looked around. Halfway down the street, I found Sal’s Stall, and after that, limited my shopping to nearby stands, resisting my urge to bargain hunt. It was a good thing Oliver had left me some cash for his share of the groceries.

  I only had garlic left to buy when I spotted my target. Glancing down at my top, I undid two more buttons and rearranged things so they were more to my advantage. Then I grabbed the nearest weird-looking vegetable and sidled up to Albert where he was inspecting a selection of black truffles. Even a quick glimpse told me the nerd vibe was stronger in person than his photo shoots portrayed. He could’ve been a geeky kid hunched over a magician’s kit.

  “Excuse me,” I said, keeping my eyes on the vegetable. “Do you know what this thing is?”

  The voice beside me was amused. “It’s a Romanesco.”

  I knew that, but what man doesn’t like to share his expertise? Another fun fact taught to me by my salesman father. “What do people do with it?” I asked, trying to sound confounded.

  “It’s generally considered similar to broccoli and cauliflower, with an earthy, nutty flavor.”

  I rolled the spiky green vegetable in my hands and made a show of sniffing it. “Yeah, I can see that now.” I looked up at him at last. “Thank you so mu—” I widened my eyes in faux recognition. “Albert? Albert Alstrom? I don’t believe it!” I lifted my sunglasses up onto my head and purred, “I am such a fan.”

  Unfortunately, I slid my sunnies too far and they started slipping backward. I caught them by slapping myself in the back of the head.

  Fortunately, at that point Albert’s eyes had moved down to my cleavage, so he didn’t notice.

  I waited until his eyes returned to my face. They were even more pale in the bright sunlight. “I can’t believe it’s actually you.”

  He gave me a goofy smile, and I relaxed a little. “And who might you be?”

  “I’m Izzy. Izzy Avery. Your number one fan.” I hid a cringe when I remembered Connor was listening in.

  “Really?” he asked.

  For a moment, I thought I saw something predatory flicker in his pale gaze, and my legs urged me to run. Instead, I pasted on a bright smile and nodded enthusiastically, wondering if I was looking into the face of a killer.

  The possible killer glanced at my cleavage again. Or maybe it was at the Romanesco I was still holding in my left hand. “Are you going to try cooking that?”

  I looked down at it too. “I think I will. You’ve inspired me.”

  “Glad to hear it.” His goofy smile made another brief appearance, making the light coloring of his eyes appear gentle now, like a soft-blue baby blanket. “Your accent, you’re not from around here are you?”

  “No, I moved here a few months ago from Australia.”

  “Australia, hey? I’ve always wanted to go there.”

  “Really? But our nation’s classic cuisine is pretty much sausage sizzles, pavlovas, and fairy bread!”

  He laughed. “I don’t know what any of that is, but it sounds delicious. Plus, I hear you have some of the best cattle in the world, not to mention pretty much the only source of kangaroo. Don’t be so hard on your country.”

  “It’s true. We have good coffee too, and enough cultural diversity to offer far more dining options than traditional Australian, thank goodness.”

  “And there’s more to a country than its food.”

  “Are you allowed to admit that?”

  He laughed again. “You must have that famous Aussie sense of humor I’ve heard about. How are you finding Los Angeles, anyway?”

  “It’s wonderful. So many attractions”—I hefted the Romanesco again—“and vegetables it turns out, that I’ve never seen. And where else could you run into the most amazing molecular gastronomist in the world at the local market?”

  His glance this time was definitely at my cleavage. “Then perhaps I should introduce you to a few more experiences you won’t get anywhere else. Would you be interested?”

  I tried to squeal, I really did, but I’m more the jaw drop and drool type, so I settled for placing a hand on his arm and gazing adoringly up at him. “I can’t think of anything I’d like more.”

  His eyes flicked toward my hand, and his smile broadened. “My schedule is full today, but what are you doing tomorrow? Lunchtime?”

  “Seeing you, I hope,” I said with another inward cringe at the thought of Connor hearing this drivel.

  “How about I cook you a meal? At my place.”

  I didn’t have to feign my excitement this time. I was touched by his offer. If playing the besotted fan worked this well on all celebrity chefs, I could sample the talents of every gastronomy icon in Los Angeles.

  “That would be incredible!”

  Albert pulled out a business card. “It isn’t my private line of course,” he apologized, “but if you text your address to this number, my personal assistant will have a car pick you up at eleven thirty.” He gave my chest one last peek and turned back to his truffles. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Izzy.”

  I nodded again, hoping he’d put my lack of words down to being star-struck, and stood there for an awkward moment wondering whether I was allowed to go or if I was supposed to gush over him some more. When he started talking to the booth owner about the history of the truffles, I made a judgment call and fled.

  I returned to the previous stall where I’d been lurking and purchased the Romanesco. I could add it to the lasagna, and besides, it would be rude not to buy
it after holding it in my sweaty hand for so long. Then I headed to the car with a bit of a spring in my step. I’d done it. I’d caught the attention of a celebrity, albeit a nerdy one, and won an invite to his home. Even more exciting, I was going to enjoy a meal personally prepared for me by a famous chef.

  Pity about the potential murderer part. My spring turned into a shuffle.

  When I opened the car door, Connor’s eyes dropped straight to my unbuttoned shirt. “Ah. So that’s how you did it.”

  I plonked my groceries on the floor and climbed in after them. “Shut up.”

  “You did well, Avery. Maybe too well.”

  I blushed and did the buttons back up. “What do you mean? I did exactly what you told me to do.”

  His eyes lingered for a moment where my cleavage had been on display before he cleared his throat and looked away. “He invited you to his house. You know what that means, right?”

  “That he’s going to cook for me?”

  “That he’s expecting sex.”

  I felt like an elephant sat on my chest. “Crap.”

  Trust me to miss the obvious implication because I was distracted by food.

  Connor noticed my pale face. “It’s okay. You can play the no-sex-on-the-first-date card, and in case that doesn’t work, I’ll give you something to slip in his drink that’ll ruin any bedroom plans he might have.”

  I started breathing again.

  “Plus, I’ll be right outside, ready to rescue you if you say the safe word.”

  That sounded pretty safe. I was just starting to feel better when I remembered. “Dammit!”

  “What?”

  “I forgot the garlic.”

  8

  Connor shook his head and started the car. I didn’t want to risk running into Albert again at the market, so I resigned myself to shopping later.

  “What’s next?” I asked.

  “Our researchers haven’t dug up anything so far to implicate Wholesome Foods or anyone there, and going into a corporation of that size blind would only waste time.” He handed me the two manila folders that had been on his lap. “For now, let’s focus on the people we know were in Josh’s house.”

  I flicked the first one open. Juan Castillo was a fifty-seven-year-old silver-haired emigrant from Mexico. He’d worked for Green with Envy, a landscape maintenance and improvement service, for the last eighteen years. He was married with two adult children and lived in a modest home in one of the safer suburbs of East LA. The house was almost paid off, but the savings in the Castillos’ joint bank account were minimal. Could Juan have been convinced to participate in a celebrity murder for the promise of a comfortable retirement or to set his kids up for an easier life than he’d had?

  He didn’t have a key to Josh’s mansion, but Josh had written that he’d invited Juan to come in and help himself to a soda from the fridge anytime the door was unlocked. That meant he’d had ample opportunity to put Ambience in the blackberries.

  I closed his folder and turned to the next one. Josh’s maid was not what I expected: Colette Merle, a twenty-six-year-old Frenchwoman. The photo showed a pretty and sophisticated-looking blonde in an expensive suit. Her glowing references had been double-checked and were all authentic. She held a degree in cultural studies from a French university. Her credit rating made me envious and she had no police record. She appeared to be the perfect employee. What I couldn’t figure out was why she was a maid. And why she was doing so much better at life than me.

  I raised my eyes from the folders to find we were in El Sereno. Juan’s home was tucked in amongst the commercial buildings on Alhambra Avenue, a block back from the railroad tracks. A van with the Green with Envy logo on it was parked out front. We got out and knocked. A freight train rumbled past, rattling the windows, before the door was opened by Juan’s wife, Francisca. She was comfortably plump and wore her silver-streaked black hair in a thick braid over her left shoulder. Her eyes narrowed when she saw we were strangers, but her generous mouth and the lines around it suggested she was just as quick to smile.

  “What you want?”

  “I’m Connor, a private investigator looking into a matter for one of Mr. Castillo’s customers, and this is my girlfriend, Isobel. We were hoping Mr. Castillo might be able to help us.”

  “You have proof?”

  Connor handed her his PI photo ID card. She gazed at it a moment then stepped back to allow us inside. “Juan is home for lunch now. You talk to him, you see he know nothing.”

  The interior was colorful, cozy, and cramped. We sat down at the tiny wooden dining table where Juan was shoveling down a spicy bean concoction that made my mouth water. He was looking dapper in a mint green, open-necked shirt, with dark charcoal pants, and brown leather lace-up boots poking out from under the table. If you wanted to work on a celebrity’s garden, you better look good while doing it.

  “You want food?” Francisca asked.

  “Thank you, but we just ate,” Connor told her.

  I bit my tongue to keep from calling him a liar and sat on my hands so they wouldn’t gravitate to Juan’s bowl during the conversation. I have a thing for authentic Mexican food.

  “Mr. Castillo, do you remember working in Josh Summers’s garden last Tuesday?” Connor asked.

  Juan waved his spoon in the air. “Yes, of course! I go once a week. Keep it in top condition. Have you seen it? It’s a beautiful garden, yes? Mr. Summers very happy.” He beamed at us like he’d given us a present and was waiting for us to open it. “And I am Juan—not Mr. Castillo.”

  “Do you like your work, Juan?”

  He nodded and swallowed another mouthful of beans. “Yes. It is good work.”

  “Did you see anyone when you were at Mr. Summers’s house?”

  He nodded again. “Mr. Summers came to talk about growing some new herbs.”

  “And did you see anyone else?”

  “Only plants.” He laughed at his own joke.

  Connor didn’t. “How are your daughters doing?”

  Juan raised his head at the change of topic, but humor quickly returned to his eyes. “Oh they good, good girls. We very lucky aren’t we, Francisca?” Francisca gave him a fond, tired smile and nodded.

  “Any financial troubles?”

  “No. They good girls. Very smart. Francisca teach them to be good with money. Like this, huh?” He balled his hand into a tight fist and laughed again. Another train rattled past.

  “And your health, Juan?”

  Juan looked at Francisca, who hissed something in Spanish.

  “My health good too.” He scraped the last food from his bowl and stood up. “All is good. Very good, but I must go back to work. People need beautiful gardens, yes?”

  We shook hands, thanked them for their time, and followed Juan out the door. As we stepped outside, a red Toyota Corolla pulled up behind the Green with Envy van, and the driver—a middle-aged Caucasian woman in blue nursing scrubs—helped an older Latino woman out of the passenger seat.

  Juan ducked his head back inside and called, “Francisca, Rosa and Caroline are here,” before jogging over to help. “Caroline, you didn’t have to bring her home! Francisca was coming to pick her up.”

  The nurse waved his protests away. “She was ready to check out just as my shift ended, and it’s hardly out of my way. Besides, no one should have to spend any more time in that place than they need to, right, Rosa?”

  Rosa clasped Caroline’s hand and nodded. The color of her face was washed out, like fabric soaked in bleach too long, and she took each step as if it pained her. As they made their slow progress toward us, I saw what her head scarf and penciled eyebrows had hidden from a distance—the telltale hair loss of chemotherapy.

  Francisca came out the front door and brushed past us, but not before muttering, “Why you still here?”

  I looked to Connor, who inclined his head, and we headed for the SUV. Behind us, I could hear Francisca echoing Juan’s scolding and thanks to Caroline, and asking Rosa h
ow she was feeling. The car door shut out the rest of their conversation.

  “Well, there’s a motive,” Connor said, turning the key in the ignition. “Chemotherapy is expensive.”

  “They could have health insurance couldn’t they?”

  “It’s possible.”

  I thought glumly of their cozy home, Rosa’s fond smile, and Juan’s easy laugh. “I like him,” I told Connor.

  “For the poisoner?”

  “What? No, I meant he seems nice.”

  Connor looked at me. “Any other insights you want to share with me?”

  I turned the conversation over in my mind. “Well, I don’t speak Spanish, but I guess it’s possible Francisca was trying to hide Rosa’s health problems from us when she hurried Juan on his way.” I chewed my lip. “She might have just been reminding him of the time, maybe?” I added hopefully.

  Connor shook his head. “Avery, you can’t rule someone out just because you like them.”

  “I know! But there was a clock on the wall she could’ve checked. The time thing is possible.”

  “I’ll get the research team to look into Rosa’s health and who’s paying for it, but medical records are almost impossible to access.” He shook his head. “Normally, I’d just put surveillance on them, but I don’t know if it will turn up anything within our time frame.”

  “Is there anyone else we could ask, then? Someone who might not know to hide the payment information from us?”

  “Good thinking.” He called the research team on the car’s Bluetooth and told them to get someone fluent in Spanish to call a few members of the Castillo family. As soon as possible. He also told them to pretend to be from a cancer charity so the Castillos would be more forthcoming about Rosa’s financial situation.

  “You can’t pose as a cancer charity!”

  “It was your idea.”

  “I never said to offer them false hope—”