Ashlee played with a pom-pom on the fringe of the afghan. “She must have been some hussy who got him drunk and took advantage of him, that’s all I can come up with.”
“Does this hussy have a name?”
“Melissa, Martha, Maria. Yeah, Maria sounds right. Bobby Joe said he met her at the Breaking Bread Diner. She waitresses there.”
I jotted down the name, not hiding my smirk. “The diner doesn’t serve alcohol.”
Ashlee stopped fiddling with the pom-pom. “What?”
“You said she must have gotten Bobby Joe drunk for him to cheat on you. The diner doesn’t serve alcohol, remember?” I really shouldn’t tease my sister at a time like this, but sometimes these opportunities jumped out, and I couldn’t stop myself.
Ashlee tried to stamp her foot on the floor, but it got caught in the afghan, and she almost fell off the couch. “Maybe she got him all hopped up on too much caffeine. Bobby Joe wouldn’t cheat on me without a good reason.”
She looked genuinely hurt, and I felt a pang of guilt for picking on her. “You must be right. In fact, I was thinking this girl might have killed Bobby Joe in a rage if he refused to see her again because he cared so much about you.”
Ashlee nodded eagerly. “I bet that’s it. Anyone who would cheat with a taken man is the kind who would kill him.”
I didn’t really think this other woman killed Bobby Joe, but she might be able to provide a few more details about someone who would. All Ashlee would give me were wonderful memories and a glorious, unrealized future. She seemed to have forgotten all of Bobby Joe’s shortcomings now that he was dead. His other friends might remember him differently.
Tomorrow, before I headed to work to finish all the Fourth of July preparations, I’d wake up early and stop for a breakfast of fluffy pancakes with golden syrup and fatty butter.
At the Breaking Bread Diner, of course.
The diner was packed at six-thirty the next morning. The people who lined the counter acted like they’d been up for hours, all cheerful and alert. I waited at the wooden hostess stand while the waitress led the couple in front of me to a table.
The inside of the diner sported a tractor theme, with photographs of John Deeres and wheat fields filling the walls. Criss-crossed sheaves of dried wheat hung on the wall over the pie display. Toy tractors lined the shelves positioned high on the walls, and a giant tractor wheel sat on a wooden platform in the back corner.
The waitress returned and grabbed a plastic menu from the holder on the side of the stand. “Just you?”
Wasn’t I enough? I wanted to ask. Man, I needed coffee.
I nodded.
“Booth or counter?”
“Actually, I was hoping to sit in Maria’s section.” I crossed my fingers and silently prayed that Ashlee had remembered the correct name.
The waitress scanned the dining area.
“Looks like we have one table free. Follow me.” She wound her way past several diners slurping up their eggs, buttering their toast, and salting their hash browns.
I suppressed the urge to skip as I trailed after her, astounded by my good luck—Ashlee had not only remembered the name, but this was Maria’s shift. Surely that was a good sign.
When the waitress stopped at the only vacant booth along the back wall, I plopped myself down on the Naugahyde seat, wincing as my bottom smacked the hard surface, and looked around. Which waitress was the evil temptress who had lured my sister’s boyfriend over to the dark side?
I could rule out the woman who had seated me since she would have admitted her name when I asked to sit in Maria’s section. While the plump woman in her late sixties handing off a plate of waffles to another customer was attractive enough, Bobby Joe didn’t strike me as the type to woo the geriatric crowd.
Then I noticed a petite, trim Hispanic girl about Ashlee’s age, with a curly mass of hair piled on her head and gold hoop earrings dangling from her lobes. My first thought was that she was almost too short to retrieve the dishes from the pass-thru counter, so this job must be ridiculously awkward for her. My second thought was that she was much too tiny to beat Bobby Joe to death with a tailpipe. Unless she’d kicked him in the shins first and knocked him down.
She stood near the swinging kitchen door, deep in conversation with a man with short brown hair and glasses. I couldn’t be sure, but I’d guess the two were arguing as they leaned in close to talk. Every few seconds, one or the other would look around to see if anyone was watching.
Whatever the guy was telling the girl, she wasn’t happy about it. He held up a smartphone and pointed at the screen, but she shook her head, lips pressed together. He swiftly typed on the keypad and raised the screen again, but the girl turned away. The guy slapped his hand on the wall so hard that several diners looked over. When he noticed the attention he’d drawn, he dropped his hand and stalked out of the restaurant.
Interesting.
Even from a distance, I could see the girl’s cheeks grow pink. She moved to the beverage station but didn’t fill a glass, push a button, or wipe down the machine, making me wonder if she was trying to calm her nerves before returning to work.
I glanced back toward the door and saw the man through the window as he crossed the parking lot. He climbed into an olive-green Ford pickup. The truck had a bumper sticker that I couldn’t read from this distance. My gaze went back to the waitress.
She smoothed her uniform with both hands, then pulled an order pad and pen from her apron pocket as she walked to my table.
She stopped before me, head bowed. “What can I get for you?” She didn’t make eye contact.
Up close, I noticed the sallow hue to her skin, the bags under her eyes big enough to hold a week’s worth of clothes, the marks dark like bruises. Someone was having trouble sleeping.
“Are you Maria?” I asked.
Her gaze flitted from my face to the carpet and back several times, ultimately settling on the carpet with its gold and green pattern. Kind of shy for a waitress. “That’s me. Do I know you?”
I opened my mouth and then shut it. I hadn’t thought up anything to say. I’d been so sure that Maria wouldn’t be working today or that Bobby Joe had lied to Ashlee about where he’d met his mistress that my only focus had been to find this mysterious Maria. Now what?
Maria looked up at me, probably wondering what was taking me so long to answer such a simple question.
“Uh, no, uh, one of my friends said you were a super waitress and that I should ask for you next time I ate here.” God, what a lame story.
Her eyes popped open, and she smiled. “That’s sweet. What’s your friend’s name?”
Good question. What was my imaginary friend’s name? “Um, Ashlee?” Oh, right, that wasn’t a friend, that was my sister. The one whose boyfriend supposedly cheated with this wisp of a girl. My bad.
Maria tapped her pen on her lip. She shook her head, the hoop earrings swinging like a trapeze act. “I don’t remember an Ashlee, but we get lots of people in here.” She pointed at the menu with her pen. “Are you ready to order?”
I hadn’t bothered reading the menu, I’d been so busy thinking up lies. I abandoned my plan to order pancakes and went with a smaller breakfast. “Coffee and a bagel with cream cheese.”
“Great.”
She retrieved the plastic menu with her left hand, a flash of color catching my eye. A simple gold band sat on her finger. My mind hummed as I thought of the implications. Was this really the same Maria who was cheating with Bobby Joe? Had her husband found out and killed him? Is that the man she’d been arguing with when I’d sat down?
Maria headed toward the side counter that held the coffee dispensers and extra cups and plates. I watched her go, then straightened my silverware and tried to think of a way to work the conversation around to Bobby Joe. Not the easiest job in the world, considering I barely knew him, didn’t know Maria at all, and had no reason to make chitchat with a waitress at 6:30 AM on a Friday morning. But now that I’d spott
ed a ring, I had to find out if this was indeed the same Maria. Maybe she and her husband were separated. Maybe she was a young widow who was still grieving and that man I’d seen her talking to wasn’t her husband after all.
I sensed movement to my right. The waitress who had originally shown me to my table held up two carafes, separated by the big smile on her face.
“You want your coffee leaded or unleaded, darling?” Her perkiness hurt my ears.
“Leaded.”
She set the orange-topped carafe down, flipped my cup over, and poured coffee from the second carafe, then moved to the next table to offer a refill.
Over by the counter, two waitresses stood near the pass-thru window, chatting, but Maria wasn’t one of them. And she wasn’t waiting on any other tables either. Probably taking a bathroom break. I took a sip of coffee, grimaced, and added a packet of sweetener, still stumped about how to get Maria to open up to me.
Maybe I should have said Bobby Joe was the friend who recommended Maria as a waitress, but that would have set off all kinds of warning bells. Then again, if I asked her about her affair with Bobby Joe, the bells would be clanging pretty loud.
The same waitress who had poured my coffee appeared again, this time carrying my bagel and a sealed packet of cream cheese. She plopped the plate on the table with a clank.
“You need anything else, hon?”
I stared at the slightly burned bagel, wondering if my plans had gone up in smoke. “What happened to Maria?”
The waitress shrugged. “Not sure. All of a sudden she wasn’t feeling so hot and asked me to cover her shift.”
She’d definitely appeared tired when talking to me, but not sick. What had sent her hightailing it out of here so fast?
Was it something I said?
Or something the man arguing with her had said?
5
I scraped the burned edges off my bagel, slathered on the cream cheese, and gobbled up my breakfast, anxious to get to work. I’d already wasted enough time at the restaurant, especially since I’d found out absolutely nothing. Except that Maria had apparently been struck by a spontaneous case of stomach flu.
With a last gulp of coffee, I tossed a couple dollars on the table, paid my tab at the door, and hopped in my Civic. The morning heat was stifling. I flipped on the air conditioner as I eased out of the parking lot. Summers in Blossom Valley often reached ice-cream-for-dinner temperatures, but this latest heat wave was almost unbearable.
At the farm, I parked on the side closest to the pond and made sure all the little ducklings were paddling in the water. At least I wouldn’t be on duck roundup this morning.
The lobby was empty, the rustle of the potted ficus leaves the only movement as warm air drifted in the door with me. The blue-and-white checkered love seat and matching blue wing chairs patiently waited for guests to sit and browse through the activity brochures spread out on the side table.
I went down the hall and hung a left into the office. While I waited for the computer to boot up, I read the book spines in the bookcase by the door. Esther was always adding new titles to her eclectic collection. I spotted Learn Mandarin in Minutes, the latest purchase, and wondered how long it would be until she was speaking Chinese. Of course, she’d purchased a book on learning hip-hop a while back, and I had yet to hear her rap a single verse.
After checking e-mail, I typed up the spa’s daily blog. When the farm had first opened and I’d started the blog, I’d heard nary a peep in reply, leading me to believe that no one ever read the thing. But then a few comments started to trickle in, and now I had a steady group of readers, some former guests, others random people. I tried to put in extra effort now that I knew my posts weren’t merely disappearing into cyberspace.
With the hot weather, I’d focused the week’s topics on staying cool, keeping pets comfortable, and eating rehydrating foods. I’d use today’s entry to describe how to read sunblock labels, verifying both UVA and UVB information.
I worked steadily for twenty minutes, while occasional sounds drifted in the open door. Based on the clink of silverware on dishes, Zennia was prepping breakfast, the one meal of the day when the food she prepared was what most folks would consider normal. Homemade granola, yogurt parfaits, and omelets from eggs produced by the farm’s chickens were all part of her repertoire.
I read through my blog one last time, posted it to the spa site, and headed down the hall to see if Zennia needed help.
Today, she wore a yellow tank sundress, the light cotton material brushing the floor, the tips of her Birkenstocks peeking out as she moved.
She was slicing peaches on a cutting board and paused to wave the knife at me. “There you are. You know, you sped out of here so fast yesterday that you didn’t get to try my new recipe for natto.”
“What’s natto?” I asked a little fearfully. I never knew what to expect from Zennia’s cooking.
“It’s made from soybeans that have been fermented with special bacteria that provide lots of healthy probiotics for your digestive system.”
Finally, a benefit to Ashlee being taken downtown for questioning. I’d avoided natto. “Gee, Zennia, sorry about that. Family emergency and all.”
She pointed over her shoulder at the fridge. “Don’t worry. I saved you a bowl. It’s there whenever you’re hungry.”
With a bowl of natto waiting for me, I might never be hungry again.
Zennia set the knife on the cutting board and wiped her hands on a dish towel. “I heard about Ashlee being involved in that man’s murder. How is she holding up?”
For a moment, I wondered how Zennia had already heard, but then I remembered her nephew worked for the sheriff’s department. Besides that, in a town of only five thousand residents, everyone had most likely heard about Bobby Joe by now. And everyone knew Ashlee was his girlfriend.
“She’s doing okay,” I said. “But she wasn’t really involved with his death. I mean, she was home long before someone killed him.”
Zennia hung the dish towel back up. “Of course Ashlee had nothing to do with his death. Everyone knows she’s sweet as agave nectar.”
“Thank you, I appreciate you saying that.” At least I could count on Zennia’s support. I could only imagine what the other residents of Blossom Valley were saying.
“If you’re not busy this morning, Esther mentioned that Heather’s home taking care of a sick child, so she might need help with the rooms.”
“Okay, I’ll check with her.” I hadn’t seen Esther in the house this morning, but maybe she was out on the grounds somewhere. The farm had acres of woods and trails, a hot springs, vegetable gardens, and the guest cabins, and I often went hours without seeing my boss. I headed out the back door of the kitchen in search of Esther and any work she needed me to do around the farm, admiring the deep green of the basil as I passed through the herb garden, its scent reminding me of Mom’s spaghetti sauce.
A man, presumably one of the guests, swam laps in the pool. As I walked by, the tattoo of a pelican popped out of the water with each stroke of his arm, making it appear as if the bird was diving for fish. He reached the end of the pool and turned in my direction, catching me in mid-stare. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, and he spent a lot of time outdoors if his tan was any indication. I smiled and nodded hello before hurrying my steps toward the main path.
The ten guest cabins were on my left, but every door was closed, with no maid cart in sight. Esther must not have started cleaning yet. I followed the paved path toward the vegetable garden, wishing I’d worn a hat to block the sun.
In the distance, I spotted Gordon, the manager, dressed in a suit and standing among the tomato plants. As I approached, he scowled at a plant and kicked the dirt. A cloud of dust puffed up, then settled on his shiny leather shoes. His frown deepened. I noticed his clipboard, a constant companion, tucked under one arm. I’d never managed to see what he wrote on those pages, but he always carried it with him.
“What brings you out here thi
s morning?” I asked as I stopped before him. Gordon rarely strayed from the lobby unless he wanted to spy on the employees.
His hair, normally stiffly gelled into uniform rows, drooped in the heat, a lock breaking ranks and falling across his forehead. “That fool, Clarence, called last night to say his wife was in labor and he was taking her to the hospital.”
Clarence was our latest staff addition. After attending several organic farming classes, he’d been hired to tend to the ever-growing vegetable and herb gardens, with the understanding that he could take vacation time once his wife had her baby.
I plucked a deep-red tomato off the nearest plant, sure Zennia would find a use for it. “How exciting. I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl.”
“Makes no difference. He’s going to be out for two weeks either way.” He grabbed a rotten tomato off the ground and chucked it into a nearby zucchini plant. “I thought women spent hours in labor. I bet he could have finished spraying this morning and still made it to the hospital before that kid pops out.”
Gordon, always the sensitive guy. Sometimes I wondered if he’d been raised by robots. “Maybe he didn’t want to risk missing the miracle of life.”
“Whatever. Now I’m stuck figuring out what to use to kill the damn worms on these tomato plants.”
He pointed to a plant, and I leaned in for a closer look. Nestled on one of the leaves was a plump green worm, three inches in length, with protrusions on his head that resembled horns. As I stared, the worm reared up and waved his body at me.
I drew my head back with a shudder. “Yuck. We definitely need to get rid of those.”
“Yeah, but with what? Clarence mixes all his own natural pesticides, and I can’t read his labels. I’ve got half a mind to stop by the hardware store and grab a bottle of bug spray.”
“This is an organic farm. You can’t use chemicals.” If Zennia got wind he’d even suggested such an idea, she’d have to meditate for a week to calm herself down
Gordon grunted, beads of sweat visible on his hairline. “Once wouldn’t hurt anything. I don’t have time to drive all over town searching for that all-natural nonsense.”
All Natural Murder Page 4
