Esther mopped her face with a fresh towel, then added it to the bag of dirty linens. “Thanks. That’ll give me a chance to see those giant green worms Gordon was complaining about. I can’t imagine they’re as awful as he says.”
A shudder ran through my shoulders as I remembered the plump, horned worm. “They’re pretty bad. One look was enough for me.”
Esther patted my arm. “You lived in the city too long. You’ll get used to all these creepy crawlies now that you’re outside so much of the day.”
“No, thanks. If you need me, I’ll be in the nice, air-conditioned house.”
I attached the vacuum to the front of the cart and pushed the whole thing down the path as Crusher came around the corner.
My heart did a double-beat. Did he know I’d returned to his room to finish cleaning? Would he accuse me of snooping again? But rather than grill me like a hot dog, he scrubbed at his hair with the towel as he walked by, pretending not to see me. Either he was embarrassed by his earlier behavior or he felt guilty about eavesdropping on my phone call to Ashlee. I really wanted to know which one it was.
I wheeled the cart past the pool and patio, the picnic tables still empty, and entered the kitchen. I nodded at Zennia as she hovered over a large plastic bowl at the counter, then pushed the cart down the hall and wedged it in a corner of the laundry room.
Back in the kitchen, I peeked in the bowl and saw that Zennia was cleaning an octopus. I didn’t even want to know where she’d found such a thing to feed the poor guests. After more than two months of helping prep and serve meals, my stomach still shrank when I saw most of Zennia’s cooking. Why couldn’t she use normal ingredients, like something without so many legs? But I knew Zennia prided herself on opening people’s minds to unusual foods.
She thrust her knife into the octopus body, creating a squishy tearing sound that made my stomach roil.
“Need any help with lunch?” Please say no, please say no, please say no.
“I’m sure I can find you something to do.” She set the knife down and wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “This octopus has almost gotten the best of me. I’ve hacked it up so much that I’m worried I won’t have enough for the guests. So unfortunate. I really wanted you to try this recipe.”
My spirits lifted as the threat of octopus for lunch vanished, but I managed not to smile. “Maybe next time.” Guess I’d have to stop in town for some yummy, fat-filled fast food.
“Good thing I saved that natto from yesterday,” Zennia said.
Oh, right, that. “Good thing,” I muttered. I scanned the kitchen, wanting to change the subject before she suggested I try the natto right now. “How about I whip up a salad for everyone?”
“Great idea. I picked the tomatoes and cucumbers this morning.” She placed the octopus parts in a large pot boiling on the stove.
I grabbed a head of lettuce out of the crisper drawer and a chef’s knife from the wood block. “Where do you buy octopus anyway? I used to see it all the time at the grocery stores in the Bay Area, but never up here.”
“I buy all my seafood from Eduardo. He catches everything fresh, then drives his truck over the hill and sells it at the junction.”
The knife almost sliced my thumb, rather than the lettuce, as I thought about what she had said. “You buy your fish from the back of a truck? In this heat?”
Zennia laughed as she placed a new bowl on the counter and poured olive oil in it. “You make it sound so seedy. Eduardo is licensed, and I like buying local food to help the local economy. Plus, I don’t have to feel guilty about buying from large companies who are depleting our ocean’s fish supply.”
No, instead she could feel guilty when she accidentally poisoned a guest with overheated, tentacled sea life.
“If you say so. Do we still have just the three guests?”
Zennia added a splash of red-wine vinegar to the bowl. “For now, but every cabin is reserved this weekend.”
I opened the cabinet door over the counter and removed three salad bowls. After some slicing and dicing, I assembled the salads and set them on the kitchen table to await delivery to the dining room. Guests knew that lunch was served anytime after twelve, and people generally showed up right on time, probably to get the meal out of the way so they could enjoy their afternoon.
The rooster clock on the wall showed one minute to twelve, so I stepped into the hall and poked my head into the dining room. Sure enough, Crusher sat at one table while the Bickersons occupied another. As usual, the two sat in silence, each staring at the wall over the other’s shoulder. I wondered which one had slept on the couch. I sure hoped they weren’t here to reconcile their marriage. If so, the plan had failed.
I pulled my head back and returned to the kitchen, where I drizzled Zennia’s tofu-based ranch dressing on each salad before taking two bowls to the Bickersons. They nodded their thanks while managing to not look at each other, and I slipped out to grab the last salad bowl.
As I approached Crusher’s table, I tried to think of some way to talk to him after the incident in his cabin, but he saved me the trouble.
“Hey, there, gorgeous,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face.
I almost checked behind me to see if a supermodel had shown up, but apparently he was talking to me. Guess he’d forgotten I was a potential spy.
He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his Grave Digger T-shirt, and lifted one boot-clad foot onto the neighboring chair. “Hope I didn’t scare you back in my cabin. In my kind of business, you can’t be too careful. Everyone knows I’m making a name for myself, and they want to know how I’m doing it.”
I set the salad bowl on the table and wiped my hands on my shorts, my palms suddenly clammy as I saw an opportunity to question him. “And how are you doing it?” By killing off the competition?
“Hard work and talent.”
“Did Bobby Joe have a lot of talent?” I asked, tensing. Would he freak out again at the name?
But if he was angered by my question, he hid it well. “I guess,” was all he said. He slid his foot off the chair and stabbed a piece of lettuce with his fork. “Now, I gotta eat. I’ve got practice later.” He thrust the greenery into his mouth and stared at the dish while he chewed.
The couple at the other table was intent on their own salads, but I lowered my voice anyway. “I heard you and Bobby Joe were big rivals.”
Crusher smacked his lips. “This dressing’s great. Homemade?”
Guess that was his not-so-subtle way of telling me he wouldn’t be talking about Bobby Joe. “Specialty of the kitchen. I’ll let the chef know you like it.”
I retreated from the room. In the kitchen, Zennia was slicing the octopus into bite-size pieces.
“Dana, thanks for dropping off those salads. I can handle the entrée if you want your lunch now.” She glanced at the fridge, where the natto waited. I still hadn’t quite worked myself up to trying the fermented soybeans with probiotics, whatever the heck those were.
“Gee, um, I really need to run an errand first.” I stared at the tentacle hanging off the cutting board as I tried to think of a believable errand. I rarely had dry-cleaning. I still had plenty of cash from my last trip to the bank. The bills were in the mail. My gas tank was half full.
Well, half full wasn’t completely full, now was it?
“Gas, I need gas. You know how busy it gets in the evenings, especially during the summer.” And if I happened to grab a burger while I was in town, who could blame me?
Zennia gave me a funny look, knowing full well the local gas stations were never busy, but didn’t challenge my claim. “Don’t worry, it’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”
Yes, of course it would.
I stopped by the office for my purse, then climbed into my car, turning on the air conditioner before I tuned in to the radio. I roared out of the parking lot and down the lane.
I’d told Zennia I was buying gas, and that was exactly what I was goin
g to do. And what better place than Running on Fumes, the place Bobby Joe worked right up until he was killed?
8
Running on Fumes was located on the opposite side of town. I hopped onto the freeway and bypassed Blossom Valley altogether, much like the tourists hurrying to reach Mendocino and its adorable bed-and-breakfasts, boutique shops, and upscale eateries.
The gas station, painted a shiny white with dark blue trim and red lettering, was located off the last exit before the highway vanished among the redwood trees. According to Mom, the owner, Donald something or other, had opened the place back in the eighties when I was still in diapers. The property included a two-story house behind the station, where I assumed Donald lived.
During the lean times, he’d managed to keep the business afloat by operating a souvenir shop attached to the main mini-mart. I still had the clamshell keepsake box I’d bought with my allowance back when I was ten, tucked away on a bookshelf gathering dust.
I exited the freeway, swung a left onto the side road, and pulled into the driveway. A guy in his mid-twenties came out of the store and approached a beat-up Pontiac, the only car in the lot.
As I eased into a parking space, I noticed the guy had an object clutched in his hand. It was a seashell, painted fluorescent pink and yellow with green polka dots. Man, I hoped that wasn’t for a girlfriend. She might burst into tears when she saw such a hideous shell.
The guy backed his car out as I headed to the store. I smiled at my good fortune. Donald would be much more likely to talk about Bobby Joe without prying ears and curious stares.
I pushed open the glass door, a bell tinkling overhead. The hum of the nearby waist-high freezer, holding an assortment of ice cream treats, reached my ears as I stepped into the mart. The low-wattage overhead bulbs offered feeble light. Several rows of shelves held the usual assortment of chips, candy, and cheap wine. A refrigerated row in the back stocked milk, energy drinks, and beer.
To my right, an open doorway led to the knickknack shop. I could see a display case with arrowheads, wine-bottle stoppers, and necklaces with charms made of abalone shell. On top of the display case, a row of tiny trees in dirt-filled plastic cups sat before a sign that read, GROW YOUR OWN REDWOOD.
Behind the counter, I spotted the ugly shells, marked for three dollars and ninety-nine cents. Even that low price seemed too high. I could see a little magnet on the back, but no one would stick that on their fridge.
“Can I help you, little lady?” a gruff voice called from the back of the store. I squinted into the gloom and saw a man stocking Twinkies at the end of a row. I gasped at what I thought was a dead squirrel on his head but realized the fuzzy pile was his toupee. He was in his late fifties, and as he rose to standing, his knees popped, the sound echoing off the linoleum. His beer gut jiggled under his striped dress shirt.
Better to question him outright, or take the roundabout approach? “I’m picking up a few snacks,” I said. I grabbed two Snickers bars, a bag of M&Ms, and a pack of gum from the closest shelf. As I neared the counter with my treasures, I snatched a bag of Funyuns off the display rack on the end for good measure. I hadn’t had a bag of those salty, onion-flavored rings in years, and I had a sudden craving.
Of course, I’d have to hide everything in my car. If Mom caught sight of all this sugar and saturated fat, she’d toss everything in the trash without a second thought.
I dumped my stash on the smooth beige surface, and the man squeezed into the narrow opening at the end of the counter to stand before the cash register. He shuffled the snacks around.
“Guess you’re not watching your figure like most of the ladies I know.”
I snapped my mouth shut before I could reply. I wanted information from this guy, and smarting off wouldn’t help.
“You the owner here?” I asked instead, trying for a casual tone. He looked like a rounder version of the guy who used to run the place, but it had been a lot of years, and I didn’t remember the guy wearing an ugly toupee back then.
“Donald Popielak. This here’s my store. Owned and operated it for thirty years.”
So it was him. I looked around, nodding my approval. “That’s impressive, especially now with the economy so slow.”
“I’m great with money, got a real head for business. Plus I’m careful about who I hire. I want customers to have a good experience when they shop here. That way they’ll come back.”
Just the opening I wanted. I bowed my head and shook it, going for commiserating. “Sure is a shame what happened to Bobby Joe. I heard he was your best worker.” Then again, this last bit of information was provided by Bobby Joe himself, so it might have been an exaggeration.
“That fool got his head bashed in, from what I heard. Guess he didn’t know jujitsu, like I do. He could have defended himself.” He grabbed my candy bars and ran them over the scanner. “’Course, I don’t know where you heard he was my best employee. My best employee is me.” Donald let out a hearty laugh as he shook out a plastic bag and dropped my purchases inside.
“Still, now you’ll have to replace him. What a hassle.” This wasn’t getting me any closer to finding out about Bobby Joe, but I wanted to keep Donald talking.
Donald let out a growl so deep that for a moment I wondered if he was hiding a pet Rottweiler behind the counter. “Any fool can pump gas. I’ll have a replacement by tomorrow. And any new employee is bound to show up on time more than Bobby Joe ever did.”
Not exactly singing Bobby Joe’s accolades, was he?
I rested my arms on the counter and leaned forward. “Were you having problems with him?”
Donald cocked his head, making the dead squirrel slip down a notch. I kept my gaze fixed firmly on his face.
“Say now, who are you again?”
Oops, too direct. “Um, a friend of Bobby Joe. I’m trying to figure out what happened. Do you know of anyone who would want to kill him?”
Donald pointed to my total on the register, and I scrambled to pull my wallet out of my purse.
“Can’t think of anyone right off, but that doesn’t mean people weren’t gunning for him, especially considering the way he behaved here at work.”
I handed over two fives. “What do you mean?”
Donald held each bill up to the light. Guess his station got a lot of counterfeit five-dollar bills. “Look here, missy, I won’t speak ill of the dead. But I built this business on honesty and integrity, and I expect the same from my employees. Now here’s your change.” He shoved the ones and loose coins into my hand, squeezed out from behind the counter, and crossed to the back of the store, disappearing behind a swinging door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.
What exactly had Bobby Joe done to bring such wrath from Donald? And why hadn’t Donald fired him?
I grabbed my plastic bag and left the store, listening to the tinkle of the bell as I went. Out front, a woman not much older than my twenty-eight years smoked a cigarette at the corner of the building, glancing at the door every few seconds. My car was still the only one in the lot, and the spaces in front of the gas pumps were empty, so unless she’d walked here from town, she must work here. Maybe she was Bobby Joe’s replacement.
She watched me approach. She wore a too-tight, tiger-striped halter top that accentuated her ample chest and defined biceps. As I got closer, she tugged up the top at the corners.
“You work here?” I asked.
She held her cigarette down near her thigh and waved at me. “Get over here. Don’t let him see you.”
I glanced to my left at the last pane of the storefront window, but I saw only myself in the reflection cast by the noonday sun. I shuffled forward another two feet until I reached the cement wall.
“Donald will tan my hide if he catches me out here smoking again. Says it’s bad for business.”
“Well, it is a gas station. All those flammable fumes and everything.”
The woman scowled at me. “I haven’t blown anything up yet.”
Let’s hope today wasn
’t the day she broke her winning streak. “Are you Bobby Joe’s replacement?”
The woman laughed and exhaled a stream of smoke. “Donald would never let me work. Says he’s the breadwinner, and no wife of his is gonna get her hands dirty with a job. I’m stuck in that house all day.” She jerked her cigarette toward the house behind the station.
I almost dropped my bag when she said the word “wife,” considering she was young enough to be his daughter. How had Donald landed such a young hottie? I tightened my hold on the plastic bag, crushing a Funyun in the process. “You probably knew Bobby Joe, am I right?”
The woman flicked at something on her fingernail. “Bobby Joe was a sweetie. I was real sorry to hear someone killed him.”
“Me, too.” Especially since some people thought my sister did it. “How long did he work here?”
“Lemme think.” She held her cigarette aloft and tapped her toe. “Seems like Donald hired him right before the Christmas season. We get a lot more business that time of year with people passing by on the highway, off to visit folks for the holidays.”
She sounded momentarily wistful, her tone making me imagine a family gathered around a Christmas tree, drinking hot chocolate. I felt a tug at my own heart as I thought of last Christmas, the first year without my dad.
“And did Donald like him?” I asked to drag myself from my memories.
The woman didn’t seem at all curious as to why I was asking these questions, but maybe she got lonely, stuck out here.
“At first. But Bobby Joe was friendly. Maybe a little too friendly, if you know what I mean. Donald didn’t like him flirting with me. And lately he was grumbling about his work, saying he was getting ready to fire Bobby Joe if only he could find the proof.”
I crushed another Funyun as I gripped my snack bag tighter and edged toward her. “Proof about what?”
Behind me, I heard the tinkle of the bell that signaled someone was opening the door. The woman immediately dropped her cigarette on the pavement and ground it out with her wedge heel.
All Natural Murder Page 6
