Now that was interesting. “Any idea what they were arguing about?”
Yolanda started to say more, but her voice was drowned out by my own car horn beeping as Ashlee barreled into the parking lot and screeched to a halt in front of Yolanda and me.
Yolanda frowned. “There’s one of their customers now. She must have a real problem what with all the times she’s been here.”
“Um, actually, she was dating Bobby Joe. But I’m sure she didn’t know about the drugs.”
Ashlee stuck her head out the driver’s-side window. “Get a move on, Dana,” she shouted. “I don’t have all day.”
Oh. My. God.
I tried to ignore her. “Yolanda, could you hear what Bobby Joe and Stump were yelling?”
Yolanda tugged on her T-shirt and fanned her face. “Afraid not. I got out here right at the tail end. Bobby Joe said something about how this wasn’t over and then got in his truck and drove off.”
“Come on, Dana. Let’s go,” Ashlee shouted behind me.
Man, she could be annoying.
I offered Yolanda a tight smile. “Nice talking to you.” I slunk to the car, sure she’d already tucked me away under the riffraff category in her mental filing cabinet, now that she’d seen me with Ashlee.
I yanked open the passenger door and slid into the seat. My gaze immediately fell on the ice cream cone propped in the cup holder, melted vanilla and chocolate swirl oozing down the sides of the cone and dripping onto my car’s interior.
Ashlee followed my gaze. “You sounded kind of mad, so I bought you a cone. I’ve been blasting it with the AC, but you took so long to get in the car, it’s starting to melt.”
Not wanting my car awash in sticky dairy products, I pulled the cone from the holder and licked the sides.
“See, I knew you’d want it,” Ashlee said.
I checked the cone to make sure I’d gotten most of the drips. “Don’t ever take my car again.”
“It was your own fault,” Ashlee retorted. “You left me in the car like a dog.”
“That’s not true. I’d never leave a dog in the car in this heat.” I stared at the rapidly melting ice cream that I hadn’t wanted. I could throw it out the window, but I wasn’t a fan of littering. I could give it to Ashlee, but she could barely drive with two hands. As I debated, the ice cream continued to melt until I had no choice but to eat it. I didn’t want Ashlee to think I was enjoying the ice cream, but man, it was tasty.
“How about my iPod?” Ashlee asked. “Did you at least get that?” She slammed on the brakes after almost running a stop sign.
I jerked forward in my seat as the belt tightened and held me in place. “Watch it,” I snapped. She pressed the gas as I braced myself for what I had to tell her. “It wasn’t there.”
“What?” she shrieked, jerking the car to the right as she turned to face me. “Are you sure you searched everywhere?”
“Positive. The police must have taken it. Maybe they thought it was Bobby Joe’s and wanted to see all his contacts or e-mails.”
Ashlee shook her head. “The cops would never think it was his. It had a bright pink cover with stickers. You must have missed it.”
I felt my body warm up. “I’ve spent the last two days talking to people, trying to help figure out who killed your stupid boyfriend, and all you can do is whine, complain, and steal my car. Well, I’m done. You want to know who killed Bobby Joe or what happened to your iPod, you can figure it out yourself.”
I banged my fist on the dash for good measure, then patted the spot when I remembered this was my car.
Ashlee was silent, and I sneaked a glance in her direction. She faced straight ahead, tears running down her cheeks. I looked out the window at the passing houses, feeling guilty for making her cry, then angry at myself for feeling guilty. I had every reason to be mad. I was busting my butt to help her, spending all my free time talking to people I didn’t know, inhaling the stench of pot, while she took my car on an ice cream joyride.
Then again, her boyfriend had been murdered. After she’d found out he was cheating. And she’d been interviewed by the cops, even gone to the station for fingerprints. The stress of the last few days was probably making her act even more immature than she usually did.
“Ash . . .” I started to say, right as she said, “Dana.”
She held up a hand. “You’re right,” she said. “I shouldn’t have taken your car. And I’m glad you’re helping me. My life is usually so awesome. I work, I date, I shop. But I don’t know what’s going on anymore.” She eased up to a red light, not looking at me. “I’m scared.”
I’d never heard her use those words. Maybe her life wasn’t always the beach party I’d pictured. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” I said. “I’m as worried as you are. If only the police could come up with a suspect, I’d be a lot less stressed.”
“You and me both,” she said.
The light cycled to green, and she stomped her foot on the accelerator. The force pushed me back against the seat, and I said a Hail Mary that both my car and I would arrive home in one piece.
After a few more turns, including one where I thought she would swerve into oncoming traffic, Ashlee pulled up to the house. I held out my hand, and she dropped the keys in my palm. I gave the warm metal a kiss.
“Sorry you had to go through that,” I whispered to the keys.
Ashlee rolled her eyes. “You’re so weird.” She hopped out the driver’s side while I stuck my tongue out at her as she walked away, our sisterly love back where it belonged.
Once inside the house, I stopped by the kitchen for a glass of milk while Ashlee headed to the living room. Mom was already in bed, and after a long day of work and talking to Mr. Pothead, that sounded like a brilliant idea. In my room, I booted up my laptop for long enough to check my e-mail and Facebook, then powered down both the computer and myself, realizing that I’d forgotten to ask Ashlee about whether Bobby Joe was really involved in selling pot. If so, had Ashlee been involved, as unlikely as that seemed?
These thoughts plagued me as I drifted off to sleep, leaving me to wonder what I’d be facing tomorrow.
11
While I drove to work the next morning, I thought about what my next step should be as I dug into Bobby Joe’s life. I’d met quite a few people, but wasn’t sure I’d learned much. Maria had vanished the second I tried to talk to her, Crusher had evaded my questions about Bobby Joe, and Tara had almost told me something, but her husband had whisked her back inside before she could. Yolanda had given me some interesting info about Bobby Joe and Stump being drug dealers, but I had to wonder if that was merely the imaginings of a lonely, old woman.
Maybe with a little more digging, I could find out what Tara had been about to tell me. And if I staked out the Breaking Bread Diner long enough, Maria might tell me how serious her relationship with Bobby Joe had been. A long-term relationship would involve feelings, possibly even murderous jealousy, if Bobby Joe had tried to break up with Maria.
I pulled into the spa’s almost full lot and parked in my usual spot. The rest of the weekend guests must have arrived last night, which meant a full dining room for Zennia. Once I typed up the day’s blog, the kitchen would be my next stop. Of course, first, I needed to think up a topic for the blog, not always the easiest of tasks. After only two months, I felt like I’d covered almost every aspect of the spa and farm.
I entered through the front door, figuring no one would be arriving this early. I didn’t feel like chatting with any guests just yet. When I’d lived in San Jose, I’d had a forty-minute commute during which I could drink coffee, listen to talk radio, and generally wake up to the day. My current ten-minute commute wasn’t the same.
As I approached the lobby door, I spotted a fuzzy yellow blob waddling across the sidewalk. Another loose duck. Esther really needed to add that bottom board to the fence. I gently picked up the duck and put it with the others, counting to make sure no one else had made a run for it. That finished,
I went inside.
Both the lobby and the office were empty, and I settled into the desk chair to think up a topic. The last several blogs had covered this heat wave. The ones before that had covered perks of the spa, including the benefits of regular exercise, soaks in the hot springs, and breathing unpolluted air. Maybe I should write about green cleaning products today. Or the old-fashioned method of making your own. People might find that useful.
I did a little research and found recipes for self-made window cleaners, bleach solutions, and sink scrubbers, then typed up and posted the blog.
Gordon walked in as I brought up my Yahoo e-mail account.
“Working hard, I see,” he said. He pushed some papers aside on the desk and picked up his trusty clipboard. The way he carried it around with him all day, I’d assumed he slept with the thing, but apparently not.
He consulted the top sheet. “What are you doing this morning?”
“I unearthed a few more Fourth of July decorations that I wanted to put up, plus I noticed the parking lot was full when I arrived, so I figured Zennia could use my help prepping lunch.”
“Zennia’s fine. I spoke with her a moment ago. I’ve got two candidates coming in for the yoga instructor position. You need to interview them.”
Could be an interesting way to spend a Saturday morning. It beat catching loose ducks or cooking octopus. “What time are they scheduled?”
“Nine and ten.” He pulled a stack of sheets off the clipboard and handed them to me. “Here are their résumés. See if you can base some of your questions on what’s in them.”
“Got it. What about salary and benefits?”
“I’ll handle the salary aspect for anyone who makes it past this first round. Remember, we want someone who shows up on time and knows how to follow instructions.”
Well, that’s what Gordon wanted, at any rate. “And someone who knows yoga, right?”
Gordon straightened and reclipped the remaining pages. “That goes without saying.”
“I should have enough time to read over these résumés and do a little yoga research before anyone arrives.”
“Then get to it.”
I gave Gordon a mock salute, but he’d already walked out. Probably for the best. Gordon wasn’t known for his sense of irony.
Travis, the first guy I’d be interviewing, had almost no yoga experience. According to his résumé, he’d earned an associate’s degree from Sonoma State and done a summer stint at a yoga studio. Considering Gordon’s usually high standards, I wasn’t sure why he’d called Travis in, unless he wanted me to interview anyone who submitted an application and weed out all the misfits.
Evan, the ten o’clock appointment, had worked in a yoga studio in San Francisco for three years, plus he had a degree in kinesiology. He definitely had promise.
I had twenty minutes before Travis’s scheduled arrival, so I surfed the Web for trick questions I could ask each applicant and brushed up on my yoga knowledge. If nothing else, I’d taken a few yoga classes down in San Jose and could ask the candidates to demonstrate a pose or two. If I wanted to get really tricky, I could ask about alternate poses for people with back injuries or disabilities.
Nine o’clock arrived. I grabbed the résumés, a tablet, and a pen, and hurried to the lobby to greet the first applicant. Gordon stood at the front desk. The love seat and chairs were vacant.
“No Travis?” I asked.
Gordon consulted his watch. “Two minutes late already? You can send him home when he gets here. I won’t hire him.”
“A bit harsh, don’t you think? Maybe he had car trouble, maybe he’s ill.”
“No, he’s lazy. And lazy people have no place at this spa.”
Good grief. Gordon should work at West Point, not a vacation resort. “All the same, I’ll at least talk to him.”
After another minute, a beat-up faded green Pinto pulled into the lot. Hadn’t all those exploded by now? The car squealed to a stop, and the driver’s door creaked open. A young man emerged, looking slightly unsure whether he was in the right place. He wore a Nirvana T-shirt and faded jeans with a hole in one knee.
Was this my first interviewee? I couldn’t let Gordon see this guy, or he’d kick him out on the spot.
“I think Travis is here. I’ll take him around to the dining room for his interview,” I said to Gordon, who was bending down and peering into one of the cabinets under the check-in counter. I darted out the front door before he could get a look at the applicant and stop me. Sure, first impressions were important, but sometimes decent people hid behind sloppy exteriors. Of course, Bobby Joe had dressed like a slob and cheated on my sister, so what did I know?
The guy reached the sidewalk as I stepped out the door.
“Are you Travis?” I asked.
He hesitated, then nodded. If he wasn’t sure of his own name, this was going to be a short interview.
“I want to be the yoga guy.”
“Let’s talk about that. I’m Dana, the marketing coordinator.” A slight exaggeration, with the small amount of marketing I did these days, but Travis didn’t need to know the details. “We’ll talk in the dining room.”
I led Travis around the hedge that separated the sidewalk from the large, covered patio and entered through the French doors. At this mid-morning hour, the room was deserted, though I could still discern the faint scent of scrambled eggs that Zennia always whipped up for breakfast. I sat down at the closest table, my back to the patio area, and gestured for Travis to sit across from me. He hadn’t said a word since our introductions and now stared at his hands resting on the tablecloth. Not a promising start.
“Travis, what made you apply for this job?”
He scratched his knee through the hole in his jeans. “I lost my last job a while back, and this one sounded pretty fun.”
Well, I’d give him points for honesty.
“Tell me about the summer you worked at . . .” I glanced at his résumé. “The Yoga Palace.”
A chime sounded from Travis’s direction, and he reached for his back pocket. He pulled out his phone, chuckled at whatever he read on the screen, and set the phone on the table.
Was he kidding me? This interview was going downhill faster than Lindsey Vonn at the winter Olympics.
Travis caught my glare and blushed.
“Sorry. One of my buddies keeps texting me. What were you asking? Right, the Yoga Palace. Yeah, I worked there about three months.”
I expected him to describe his duties, but he stopped talking and leaned back in his chair.
“What did you do there?” I asked.
“Janitorial stuff, mostly. Washed towels, filled water jugs, mopped the floors. I watched a bunch of the classes while I was working. It looked pretty easy.”
Hmm . . . so no actual yoga experience.
Travis saw something over my shoulder, and his eyes widened. I turned and spotted Crusher sitting down at one of the picnic tables on the patio, a magazine in his hand.
“I don’t believe it,” Travis said. “Isn’t that Crusher?”
“He’s a guest here this weekend.”
“I knew he was around for the big rally, but I never thought I’d see him this close.” He jumped from his chair and grabbed his phone. “I’ll be right back.”
“What about our interview?” I asked, but he was already out the door. Who was I kidding anyway? This interview was over the minute it started. I hated when Gordon was right.
I watched as Travis talked to Crusher. Well, talked at him really. He snapped a few pictures with his phone, shook Crusher’s hand, and came back in the dining room as I was preparing to leave.
“Man, I can’t believe it,” he said.
“Big Crusher fan?” I asked.
Travis squeezed his knees together like he was going to wet his pants. “You bet. I’ve followed that guy for years.”
I stacked the papers together on the table. “Sounds like he’s good.”
“The best. He hit a rocky pa
tch the last couple of years. Heard he got dropped by his sponsors, but this event tonight could be his big comeback.”
Travis noticed for the first time that I was holding the papers and walking to the door. “Hey, is the interview over?”
“Oh, it’s over,” I said, not bothering to hide the disdain in my voice.
We crossed the patio with Travis waving at Crusher like a six-year-old would wave at Mickey Mouse. Once we stepped past the hedge and reached the sidewalk, Travis seemed to remember the point of his visit.
“Do I start right away? I mean, I have plans later this afternoon, but I could work until then.”
How accommodating of him. “Look, Travis, thanks for coming in for the interview, but we need someone with experience.” I was going to stop there, but really, someone needed to help the kid out. “And if I could give you a bit of advice, don’t answer your cell phone next time you’re being interviewed. Or run out to photograph a celebrity. It’s not professional.”
“You mean I’m not getting the job?” Based on his raised eyebrows and open mouth, the news came as a surprise.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Geez, my mom’s gonna be pissed. She really wants her scrapbooking room back.”
I held out my hand. His face lit up like maybe I had money hidden in my palm and was offering it to him, then realized I was waiting to shake.
“Good luck to you,” I said.
He stomped across the sidewalk, yanked open the Pinto door, the hinges screaming in protest, and slammed the door shut. Guess that hadn’t gone like he’d expected.
As Travis puttered out of the lot, I reread the papers in my hand, verifying that Evan, the next candidate, had some actual yoga experience. I didn’t want a blank stare when I asked about a Sun Salutation or the Triangle Pose.
Car keys jangled behind me, and I turned to find Crusher coming around the hedge from the patio.
“Hey,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
His tone sounded friendly enough, but I worried for a second that he’d complain about Travis drooling all over him. I hadn’t exactly stopped the kid.
All Natural Murder Page 9
