by Patrice Lyle
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KILLER KALE CHIPS
by
PATRICE LYLE
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Copyright © 2016 by Patrice Lyle
Cover design by Janet Holmes
Gemma Halliday Publishing
http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
A huge merci to the Usual Fabulous Suspects:
Dan, for everything but especially the endless hours of editing pages and sampling different kale chips!
My mom, for always reading my books!
My dad, for being my living and breathing PI encyclopedia!
My sister, for always loving a good brainstorm session!
My stepmother, for being a fan of Mystic Ming!
My mother-in-law, for teaching me about holistic health!
Kat, for being the most awesome beta reader in the world!
Viola and Holly, for being ultra fabulous brainstormers and CPs!
Boo and Snook, for being such wonderful feline friends!
And to Gemma Halliday Publishing, for being such an amazing publisher!
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CHAPTER ONE
Gag Me with a Tuning Fork
I should have known there was trouble ahead when a size-zero redhead dressed in a skintight metallic gold dress offered me a bag of killer kale chips.
"You should add Ken's Killer Kale Chips to your diet plan. They totally kill the fat in unwanted places." She narrowed her snake-slit eyes and shot a snarky look at my hips.
Holy chocolate babka! How rude.
I glanced down at my hot-pink, flared skirt, which was seriously cute yet rather voluminous. "It's the fabric. This skirt's got like a whole bolt cinched around my waist."
"Honey, your fabric," she said, making air quotes with her toothpick-esque fingers, "won't ever need to diet again if you substitute kale chips for your breakfast, lunch, and dinner."
I gasped and dug through my silver, sequined purse for my only source of solace. Dark-chocolate-covered almonds. "That wasn't very nice," I said, my voice edged with annoyance. "I'm actually not a huge fan of kale anyway. Too many goitrogens."
There. That ought to stump her. I popped a couple of chocolates in my mouth and waited for her questions. As a naturopathic doctor, I was familiar with the substance found in cruciferous vegetables, but most people weren't. Including this insensitive woman, I bet.
"If you're referring to the ridiculous notion that goitrogens compromise thyroid function, you should use this conference to educate yourself on natural health." Her cold tone matched the reptilian glint in her eyes.
Oh, for the love of dark chocolate mousse.
I should have figured someone here would know. Earlier that morning, my ninety-one-year-old auntie, fiancé Tattoo Tex, potbellied pig Brownie, and I had checked into the Big Apple Hotel and Convention Center in Manhattan for a natural products expo. Many health practitioners were at large, but I hadn't pegged her for one. Her vegan-sausage-casing spandex dress seemed more aligned with the attire of the people attending the other conference.
Viva La King, an annual gathering of senior citizen Elvis impersonators, had booked the adjacent conference hall. I'd been surprised to check into the hotel behind a trio of Elvis doppelgängers. One of them had commented on my silver, sequined sandals, and one of them had given Brownie a good snout rub.
"I'm plenty educated on natural health," I fired back. "I'm a naturopathic doctor."
Size Zero opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by a seventy-something Elvis impersonator built like a sumo wrestler who joined us at the Ken's Killer Kale Chip display.
"You's one of them natural doctors? Cool." Elvis wiped a loose jewel from his fitted polyester jumpsuit and plucked up a sample bag of kale chips from the table. "Will these here kale chips improve my pelvic gyration?"
I nearly choked on my dark chocolate almonds.
"Dr. Piper, ND," Elvis said as he pointed at my nametag. "I always wanted to meet me a natural doctor 'cause there ain't none where I live. So what about my gyratin' question?"
Apparently he was serious.
I was surprised that a good ole boy—given his Southern accent—knew about my profession. I decided to be honest. "Kale's high in goitrogens, which—"
"Don't listen to her." Size Zero cut me off.
Elvis's gaze swung between the two of us. "Goy-tro what?"
I shot Size Zero an excuse-me look and turned back to Elvis. "Goitrogens can suppress thyroid activity and cause challenges like dry, brittle hair—"
"Is that what happened to your bleached mop?" Size Zero's interruption and subsequent smug mug really annoyed me.
But what annoyed me more was the fact that her crimson locks were obviously the work of a stylist. Wasn't that the Snickers bar calling the Butterfinger too sugary?
Elvis eyed me appreciatively. "Dr. Piper's blonde hair's hotter than my favorite four-alarm barbeque sauce." Then he looked at Size Zero. "You's is the color of Red Vines, and them things give me the runs somethin' fierce."
I laughed and enjoyed the taut look that settled on Size Zero's face. "Thank you, Elvis."
"No problem. Watch me, Doc." He gave his hips a little swing side to side, which caused his gold chains to entangle in the multitude of gray hair tufts that covered his chest. He shot me an Elvis half-smile. "Do I look just like the King or what?"
The or what option seemed the most appropriate response, but that would have been mean. Size Zero didn't seem to care, however.
She shot a disgusted look at his protruding stomach. "You'd get rid of that unsightly gut if you'd switch from potato chips to kale chips."
If Elvis was offended, however, he didn't look it. He tore open a sample bag and popped a few dark green flakes into his mouth.
Then it was his turn to choke.
He spit out a wad of kale chip goo, which hit one of Size Zero's black patent-leather stilettos on the toe. I laughed while Size Zero shook her foot like a zombie was attacking it.
"Them kale chips are killer, all right," Elvis said. "Killer crappy. Land sakes alive, that tastes worse than week-old fried frog guts."
"You idiot!" Size Zero shrieked. "These shoes cost me five hundred dollars!"
Her outburst attracted the attention of several people in the swarming convention hall, including the two Ken's Killer Kale Chips salespeople. A blond surfer guy with a smile brighter than my sandals and a brunette girl in a tie-dyed skirt stopped their lively conversation with a small crowd that had gathered at the corner of the display. But the lure of natural products quickly drew the onlookers to return to business.
Leaving me to referee Elvis, whose eyes were flashing brighter than his bling belt buckle beneath
the fluorescent lights, and Size Zero, whose face was bunched tighter than Elvis's spandex jumpsuit.
I looked at them both. "Let's calm down, all right? I'm sure Elvis didn't mean to spit on your shoes."
"I can't believe anyone would spend five hundred bucks on them butt-ugly shoes." Elvis shook his head. "Them things are probably made in some sweatshop in China. Probably ain't even real leather. You're none too smart, is ya?"
"Smart?" Size Zero's nostrils flared. "I'm Veronica Forks, the New York Times best-selling author of Stick a Tuning Fork in Me and the keynote speaker at this expo."
If her accomplishments were supposed to impress Elvis, Size Zero was mistaken.
"Tuning forks?" Elvis's pudgy hands went to his pudgier hips. "What in tarnation is that? Some kind of big ole fork to tune a gee-tar?"
A glimmer of disgust settled on Size Zero's face. "Tuning forks are an alternative therapy and the only way to truly heal the body. I healed myself from IBS with tuning forks."
"Speaking of IBS," Elvis said as he glanced around before dropping his voice to a whisper. "I know you's a lady and all, but sometimes I get the runs something fierce after eating me a double cheeseburger."
"Could be the wheat," I said. "It's a notorious cause of those kinds of symptoms. You should try going gluten free."
"No, you should try tuning forks because they're the only path to true wellness." Veronica shot me a look that told me she was ready to spar.
I wasn't one to dismiss any form of alternative medicine, but over the past several years, I thought my patients had benefited the most from improving hydration and nutrition, eating organic, and walking daily. Tuning forks had benefit, I was sure, but they weren't a cure-all.
Nothing was.
Veronica's squinty-eyed, holier-than-thou look told me a debate would be pointless and frustrating. So I let her comment pass.
"I don't appreciate someone as unnatural looking as you knocking my natural kale chip business." Veronica raked a harsh gaze from my sequined sandals to my triple-highlighted, blonde waves and finally settled on my sparkly eye makeup.
Now my eyes narrowed. "Not every naturopath has to look like a hippie."
"They don't have to look like a Barbie with period bloat either."
My jaw dropped. Who did she think she was? I was about to tell her that her skeletal appearance didn't exactly radiate health when the blond kale chip salesman left his conversation and joined ours. Only he didn't look like a peace-loving surfer anymore.
"We never treat customers like this, Veronica." His bronzed jaw tightened as he brushed a lock of wavy blond hair away from his forehead. "When I founded Ken's Killer Kale Chips, customer service was my first priority, and it still is. I won't sell you my business."
"What?" The tie-dyed-skirt salesgirl screeched as she whirled around, her eyebrows arched. "You're selling Ken's Killer Kale Chips?" Her voice swelled with panic.
"Hardly. No worries, Callie." He gave her a reassuring smile and grabbed a bag of kale chips. He lifted them like a trophy. "I'd never let my fans down or Tripod."
"Who's the tripod?" Elvis asked, looking around.
Callie's face lit up. "A baby sea turtle we found in Florida with a bum flipper. So Ken and I named him Tripod. He's the company mascot. He's on every bag."
I picked up a bag, and sure enough, there was a small image in the upper right corner of a cute, three-flippered baby sea turtle.
"Aw. How cute." I was a sucker for any baby animal, but little Tripod tugged on my heartstrings. "Did he make it to the ocean okay? Scooting through the sand with only three flippers must have been hard for the little guy."
Callie and Ken exchanged looks but didn't say anything.
Uh-oh. Had poor Tripod met an untimely demise?
"Where I come from," Elvis boasted, "They woulda fried him up with a mess of taters and eaten 'im."
Callie's eyes launched daggers at Elvis. "What a horrible thing to say. You're obviously not a vegan."
"Heck no. I ain't no vegan, lady. I'm from Mississippi."
Veronica turned toward Elvis. "Veganism would do your Pillsbury Doughboy figure some good, along with tuning fork therapy, but in the meantime, perhaps you could skedaddle?"
Poor Elvis's eyes welled up at the weight jab this time. Turtle fryer or not, he didn't deserve to be ridiculed. Uncomfortable silence spanned between us. Ken inspected his flip-flops while Callie picked at her colorful skirt. Veronica smirked, which really frosted me.
"That wasn't a nice thing to say, especially from someone in the holistic health field." Anger hotter than my ceramic curling iron swelled inside my chest. "Natural health practitioners should build people up, not tear them down."
"It's all right. She don't bother me none." Elvis's watery eyes said otherwise, but he put on a strong front. "All you health nuts are whacked anyway." Then he looked at me. "'Cept maybe you 'cause you seem pretty nice and you's honest about them goy-tro-guns." Elvis waved off the negativity before swaggering away.
Veronica glared at me. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't bad-talk kale at this show. A few goitrogens never hurt anyone."
I had bigger things to educate her on than goitrogens. "You should think about how your words impact others. And these aren't your kale chips." I pointed at the blond surfer dude and noticed his nametag that read Ken. "I believe this is his company."
"You're darn right it's my company." Ken's face darkened for quick second.
"Not for long." Veronica lifted her chin. "You're going to sell it to me, or I'll go public about what happened in Vegas. Your reputation will be destroyed." She paused to inspect her perfect manicure. "Not that you have much of a reputation to protect anyway."
"I'm warning you, Forks. I'll fight to the death to keep my company."
Veronica sneered. "Funny choice of words, but you know me. I'd sooner look death in the face than cower to anyone, especially some dude pretending to be a surfer."
The nosy PI in me—who I had sworn would not rear her blonde head at this expo nor would I consult my PI flash cards—wondered what Veronica meant. Ken looked like a genuine surfer to me. But the worry in his eyes told me the tuning-fork diva might be on to something.
"Leave me alone." Ken's tone was cold, the antithesis of a carefree surfer.
"Veronica Forks gets what Veronica Forks wants." Veronica edged closer to the booth. "And what I want is your profitable business. Don't make me post to my blog about Vegas. You have until midnight tonight."
Ken's lips pressed together, but he remained silent. The tension was thicker than a wedge of sheep cheese, so I decided to skedaddle myself. Negativity and me were like olive oil and spring water.
Did not mix no matter how hard you tried.
"I also expect to get that new kale chip flavor as promised," Veronica announced. "I need to alert my fans. I've told them about the upcoming new flavor I created."
"You're not getting a new flavor because you didn't create one." He glared at her. "I'm the one who creates flavors because it's my company."
"Not for much longer. Soon you'll be working for me." Veronica's snarky tone indicated there would be no further discussion. She spun on her stilettos and strutted across the expo floor.
Ken glared at the retreating rude redhead. "Over my dead body."
Little did I know that Ken's prophecy would soon come true. Only it wasn't going to be his dead body.
It would be Veronica's.
CHAPTER TWO
Triple-A Psychic
I left Ken's booth after he gave me several kale chip samples to make up for the tiff I'd witnessed. I couldn't help but notice how flustered he'd seemed after Veronica's departure. But then again, if someone threatened to take over my Health Nuts Rock wellness center, I'd drown myself in a bag of dark chocolate almonds.
Actually, I'd do that regardless.
Aunt Alfa's booth was on the opposite side of the exhibit hall from Ken's Killer Kale Chips. I was happy to enjoy the expo without my own booth this time
and support my auntie. I strolled past a wonderful array of natural health products. Gluten-free muffins, coconut oil body lotion, and a new flavor of dairy-free milk made from cashews. Yum. I stopped for a sample, which was delish, and let the positive energy wash over me.
Everywhere I looked, expo attendees, including a few Elvis impersonators, smiled and excitedly talked to vendors. I hoped that meant a good show for my auntie. She'd been elated to sell her essential oils, as well as some top-secret, new service she'd been talking about. The new service she planned to unveil here.
I hoped she had her display set up by now. She'd pushed me away so she could arrange things, and I was excited to see what she'd come up with. Some new essential oil? Or a different way to use aromatherapy? Finally, her booth came into view, and Elvis's words came to mind.
What in tarnation?
A purple banner with white letters stood behind my auntie who was sitting at a round table draped in purple velvet and decorated with a crystal ball. The banner said Triple-A Psychic …Alfa Answers All!
To make matters worse, my precious auntie's standard teal velour pantsuit had been replaced with some kind of Halloween gypsy getup. A black satin skirt clung to her size-two frame along with a white silk blouse and green velvet vest. A purple scarf covered her head. Given the lumpiness of the scarf, her foam curlers were probably still there.
At least something familiar remained.
"Aunt Alfa?" I said as I approached her booth. "Where are your essential oils?"
Her face lit up as though nothing were unusual. "Hiya, Pipe. Meet Lola. He's an acupuncturist and a fellow vendor at the show. He's here for one of my psychic readings."
The Triple-A Psychic advertisement had startled me so much I hadn't noticed Aunt Alfa's customer.
