All Natural Murder

by McLaughlin, Staci

  Zennia leaned toward me, the smell of vinegar following her. “You didn’t hear this from me, and I didn’t hear this from my nephew, but Todd’s alibi is shaky.”

  I gave the knife an extra twist and spattered my shirt with tomato juice as I lost focus. “Get out of here.” I snatched up the dish towel and wiped off my shirt.

  Zennia nodded, then put a finger to her lips.

  I gave her a two-fingered salute back, then scooped out the insides of the tomato, my mind whirring.

  Todd had claimed he was with Maria the night Bobby Joe was murdered. But if the police doubted his alibi, they might focus on Todd and forget about Ashlee. He had as much motive as she did if he knew about the affair, maybe even more. After all, he and Maria were married, and Ashlee and Bobby Joe were only dating. And judging by how hard Todd had shoved me against the wall, he was easily strong enough to crush Bobby Joe’s skull. I practically hummed aloud as these thoughts ran through my head.

  My euphoria lasted until I started coring the third tomato. If the police really had evidence linking Todd to the murder, they would have arrested him by now. Was there no evidence because Todd was too careful or because he wasn’t guilty? Could I afford to stop poking around while I waited for the police to make an arrest? They might arrest Ashlee instead, while I sat back and did nothing. I shook my head at this thought.

  “Something troubling you?” Zennia asked.

  “Only thinking.” I couldn’t stop poking around now. I’d be letting Ashlee down. And Mom. After what Horace and Darlene had told me, I wanted to find out if Tara was really sleeping with Bobby Joe and if Donald knew. I also didn’t know if Bobby Joe was really dealing drugs. Another visit to Stump might be in order. After I stopped by the gas station, of course.

  I finished the last tomato, then watched Zennia fill each one. I tried not to wrinkle my nose at the piles of bulgur wheat that spilled onto the plates.

  With everything ready, I made sure guests were seated in the dining room, then took the first two plates in. I set them before a brunette in her mid-forties and a silver-haired man two decades older. A few other tables were occupied.

  I retrieved two more plates and delivered one to a woman in her thirties whose lunch companion was a steamy romance novel, based on the cover with a long-haired, bare-chested man and a maiden in a corset. The woman was so engrossed in her book that she barely acknowledged me. I took the other plate to Crusher.

  “Check that schedule of yours yet?” he asked, draping one arm over his chair and stretching out his long legs.

  I hadn’t decided about the date, so I took the easy way out. “Looks like I have to work.”

  Crusher crossed one ankle over the other. “All night?”

  Okay, maybe that wasn’t the easy way.

  “We could always meet for coffee after your shift ends,” Crusher said, offering me that slow smile of his.

  Coffee sounded harmless. You never saw long tapered candles and white linen tablecloths at a coffeehouse. And he couldn’t exactly whisper sweet nothings in my ear while the espresso maker hissed and shrieked.

  I felt like smacking my forehead as a thought popped up. I shouldn’t be looking at this as a date. I should be looking at this as an opportunity to find out more about how well Crusher knew Bobby Joe and where he was the night Bobby Joe was killed.

  “That might work,” I said. “I should be done here by seven.”

  “Great. I’ll meet you in the lobby then. We’ll grab some coffee and maybe watch the fireworks later.”

  Without answering, I went to retrieve more plates. The guy was smooth, I had to admit. He’d downplayed the evening by switching from dinner to coffee, then managed to ratchet it back up by throwing in the fireworks. I’d already imagined watching the fireworks with Jason, snuggling up on a picnic blanket, but I needed to adjust that picture, considering we weren’t getting along right now. And stretching out the evening would give me extra time to ask about Bobby Joe.

  I delivered the rest of the meals, then helped myself to a plain tomato in the kitchen, wishing I had some tuna salad or seasoned bread crumbs to stuff it with. I kept trying to build up the courage to sample more of Zennia’s creations, but that bulgur wheat salad could stay right where it was in that Tupperware bowl.

  Once the guests finished their meals, I cleared the tables and stopped in the office to update my time sheet before I took my lunch break.

  I waved to Gordon on my way through the lobby, and he scowled in return. You had to love the guy’s consistency.

  But he could scowl all he wanted. I had things to do.

  18

  As soon as I opened the lobby door, a wave of heat washed over me, sucking the air out of my lungs. The temperature must have increased at least ten degrees since I’d collected the tomatoes.

  I’d rather have gone back inside and avoided the heat, but the argument between Donald and Tara that the Steddelbeckers had overheard sounded too important to ignore. It couldn’t hurt to see if either one was willing to talk, even if Donald had basically kicked me off his property the last time I’d been out there. Maybe the man had a bad memory and would have forgotten by now.

  As I made my way down the walk, I shooed two ducklings back toward the pond, then crossed the sweltering parking lot. I started the car and drove down the highway, bypassing Blossom Valley and taking the off-ramp for the gas station. A pickup truck was pulling away from the gas pumps as I entered the driveway. I parked and walked into the store. The bell chimed overhead.

  As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I heard the cash register door slam shut. Tara stood behind the counter. She grimaced when she saw me.

  “You again,” she said.

  Wow, that welcome was about as warm and cozy as a cactus blanket. “Yep, it’s me.”

  Tara stepped away from the register and crossed her arms. I noticed again how defined her biceps were. Was she strong enough to beat a man to death with a tailpipe?

  “Donald won’t like it if he sees me talking to you,” she said.

  Guess I wouldn’t be getting a discount on gas anytime soon. “I’ll make it fast. I heard you and Donald had quite the blowup this morning.”

  Tara smirked. “You friends with Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum? You should have seen those two running out of here. Donald thought they were stealing the store. Never mind that they’re both so skinny they couldn’t hide a Slim Jim under their shirts.”

  “They ran because they overheard you accuse Donald of killing Bobby Joe after he said you two were fooling around.” I waited for a volatile reaction, maybe shrieking, maybe slapping, but all I got was an amused look.

  “Donald didn’t kill Bobby Joe.”

  “That’s easy to say, but is it true? Maybe Donald found out that you were sleeping with Bobby Joe and slugged him with that tailpipe out of jealousy.”

  Tara brushed a strand of brown hair away from her face. “But I wasn’t.”

  “Wasn’t what?”

  “Sleeping with Bobby Joe.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Then what was Donald so mad about?”

  Tara peered around the store like she thought more customers might be hiding in the aisles. “Donald and I knew each other for only a month before we got hitched. I was waitressing at this dive down in Bakersfield when Donald came in one day and asked me out. He’s about twenty years too old and a thousand hairs too bald, but I wasn’t making it on my own, and I was tired of trying.” She drummed her fingernails on the countertop. “So I went out with him, and when he asked me to marry him, I said yes.”

  I studied her nonchalant attitude, wondering if it was a front. “That’s all well and good, but that still doesn’t mean you weren’t sleeping with Bobby Joe. I’m not saying you’re the kind to cheat, but I know Bobby Joe was.”

  Tara gave me a world-weary smile. “I know which side my bread’s buttered on. I’m not gonna risk what I have here for a quick roll in the hay, even for a guy as cute as Bobby Joe.”

  “So D
onald is just insecure?” I suggested.

  “You got it. I mean, I’m way closer to Bobby Joe’s age than Donald’s, and Bobby Joe did flirt with me. He’d try to be sneaky about it, but I’m sure Donald noticed.”

  I felt like slapping my forehead. Why had Ashlee dated Bobby Joe as long as she had? The guy was a total player.

  “If you’re really hell-bent on finding out who killed Bobby Joe,” Tara said, “I’d look at all the boyfriends and husbands of the women Bobby Joe slept with. But trust me, I wasn’t one of them.”

  Tara stretched her arms over her head, her boobs squeezing together and almost spilling out of her V-necked T-shirt. She tugged at the seams along the shoulder to pull up the front and gave me a defiant look. “Donald likes it when I dress this way. Now, you need to get out of here before he sees you.”

  The door to the back room swung open, and Donald barreled through. Too late.

  Tara swallowed hard, then pointed a finger at me. “I was telling her to get out of here. We don’t have anything to say.”

  Donald put his hands on his hips, his toupee slightly off-kilter. “Aren’t you that troublemaker? What are you doing back here?”

  Interviewing your wife about her extramarital affairs? Wondering if you killed a man in a jealous rage? “I saw a seashell magnet in your store the other day that I thought would be perfect for my aunt’s birthday. She loves seashells, and that bright pink and yellow one is right up her alley.” My aunt’s birthday wasn’t coming up and even if it was, no way would I buy her such an unattractive trinket, but the shell was so ugly it was the first thing that popped into my head.

  Donald still frowned at me. “We’re all out.” Apparently the idea of a four-dollar sale wasn’t enticing enough for him to forget his anger.

  “Really? ’Cause I’d swear there were a good dozen on that back shelf.” I craned my neck to peek around the corner. “I see a whole basket right there.” Why was I harping on a seashell that I didn’t even want?

  “They’ve been recalled. Lead in the paint.”

  His attitude was making me ornery. I felt like grabbing that dead animal on his head and yanking it off. “Then perhaps I can find something else. A seashell night-light. Or a bottle-cap opener.”

  “I don’t know what you’re after, but I’m closing the store for a lunch break.”

  All I was after was answers, but clearly I wouldn’t be getting any from him. Why didn’t he want me poking around?

  Donald stalked across the floor, Tara watching him. I thought he was going to ram right into me, but he sidestepped me at the last minute. He went to the door and flipped the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.

  “See. You need to leave.”

  From the obstinate look on Donald’s face, he wouldn’t be talking to me now. I nodded to each of them and went out to my car. I hopped in and turned on the air-conditioning, thinking. If Tara and Donald were arguing this morning, they might start up again now that I’d angered Donald. Perhaps I shouldn’t be in such a hurry to leave. My lunch hour wasn’t over for a while.

  I sat for a few minutes, waiting for Donald to step away from the door. Instead, he stood there, immobile. With a sigh, I backed out of the space and drove across the lot, keeping an eye on the storefront in my rearview mirror. When I reached the surface road, I flipped a U and drove back past the station. Donald still waited at the door, arms crossed. So much for that plan. My little trip out here had netted me a little bit of information and a whole lot of anger. At least it had saved me from another spa lunch.

  Maybe I’d have better luck with Bobby Joe’s roommate. If Yolanda was right that Bobby Joe and Stump had been arguing, it might have turned physical. Pot smokers were rumored to be exceptionally mellow, but what happened when a smoker ran out of pot? Maybe he’d snapped once he’d sobered up.

  The glow of the evening sun on my first visit to Bobby Joe’s apartment complex must have blinded me to its many faults, because the place looked one broken window away from being condemned now that I saw it in broad daylight. Paint peeled from the buildings, the fences were faded from years in the sun, and cracks ran through the sidewalk.

  All the shaded parking spots were taken, so I pulled into the same slot as on my earlier visit and parked next to a dark blue Crown Victoria. As I passed Yolanda’s back patio, I saw movement through a gap in the fence planks and wondered if she was spying on me. I waved in her direction, but she didn’t pop her head over the fence and wave back. Just as well.

  As I neared Stump’s apartment, the door opened and Detective Palmer walked out. Crap. I thought about running back to my car, but before I could, he caught sight of me. He nodded good-bye to some clean-cut guy in the doorway and walked over to me.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he said by way of greeting, giving me a cop stare that probably made suspects weep in fear. Lucky for me, I wasn’t a suspect. At least, not yet.

  “Um, yeah, I didn’t expect to see you, either.” The little hamster wheel I liked to call my brain spun around and around as I tried to think up a reason for my appearance. “I wanted to ask Bobby Joe’s roommate about a possible service,” I finally blurted out.

  Detective Palmer continued to stare, and I felt my heart rate pick up.

  “You couldn’t call him?” he asked.

  “Didn’t have his number.”

  “Wouldn’t your sister have it?”

  Ack, I hadn’t thought of that. “She only had Bobby Joe’s cell number.” Based on my ever-increasing heart rate, this lying to the cops business was definitely bad for my health. I didn’t know how criminals did it.

  “Say now,” he said, “you wouldn’t be here to ask questions about Bobby Joe, would you?”

  I let out a nervous giggle. “Me? No, don’t be silly.”

  “Good, because this is an ongoing investigation.”

  “Well, now, that’s the problem. It’s still ongoing, and my sister needs her name cleared. Have you guys made any progress at all?”

  Why did I ask that? I really needed Yolanda to come out and spray me with her hose to shut me up.

  “Why don’t you let me worry about this investigation? I’ve been hearing some rumors that you’re sticking your nose in this whole business. Let me make it clear that the police department does not like people interfering with a homicide case.”

  I didn’t know who was spreading the rumors, but I’d bet it was Donald. He seemed like the type who would whine about my visit. “I would never interfere,” I lied, my heart pounding so hard now that I expected to keel over any second.

  We stood around in the sun for a moment until I broke the silence. “Guess I’d better let you go.”

  He grunted in response, gave me one last hard look, and headed toward the parking lot. I took a moment to let my heart rate slow, then approached Bobby Joe’s apartment. At least I didn’t have to worry about the apartment being full of pot smoke like on my first visit. Otherwise, Detective Palmer would have already hauled Stump off to jail. I rapped on the door.

  The clean-shaven man I’d seen talking to the detective answered, dressed in a polo shirt and khakis. I double-checked the number on the front of the building to make sure I had the right apartment, even though I knew I did.

  “Uh, hi, is Stump here?”

  The guy squinted at me. “You’re Ashlee’s sister, right? We met a couple nights ago.” He stepped to the side and gestured inside the apartment with his arm. “Won’t you come in?”

  I blinked, then blinked again to make sure my vision was clear. Could this possibly be the same pothead that couldn’t even get off the couch when I was here before? Feeling like I’d gotten caught in an episode of Fringe, I moved past him into the apartment and took a sniff. Pine with the underlying scent of cannabis. I wondered if Detective Palmer had picked up on that.

  A woman in a cream-colored silk blouse buttoned to the throat and an ankle-length black skirt stood up from the couch. Her hair was in a bun and a silver cross hung on the chain around her n
eck. She held out her hand, and I stepped forward to shake it.

  “I’m Mrs. Davenport, Andrew’s mother.”

  “I’m Dana.”

  She looked at me expectantly, no doubt waiting for an explanation for my presence.

  “I knew Bobby Joe,” I said. “My sister dated him.”

  Mrs. Davenport sniffed like she had suddenly noticed that pot smell. “I won’t speak ill of the dead,” was all she said.

  Oh, boy.

  “I didn’t realize you had company,” I said to Stump. “I can come back.”

  “Nonsense, little lady,” a loud voice boomed from down the hall. A large man in slacks and a plaid shirt emerged from where I knew the bathroom to be, hitching up his pants as he walked. “We’re not company, we’re family. I’m Andy’s father. Pretend we’re not here.”

  That would be next to impossible since I wanted to ask their son about his drug habits, but I smiled all the same.

  Mrs. Davenport gasped, and I turned back toward her as she covered her mouth with her hand, her pale skin darkening to crimson. She was staring at her husband, and I whipped back around in time to see Mr. Davenport zip his pants.

  “You wouldn’t believe how often I forget that part,” he said to me. “Now what brings you by today?”

  Time to improvise. “I stopped by before to pick up my sister’s iPod, but she’s worried she may have left other things here.” If I could have given myself a trophy for such an outstanding lie, I would have.

  “Why didn’t she come herself?” Mr. Davenport asked.

  The trouble with lying was that sometimes people asked follow-up questions. “Um, this place is full of memories of Bobby Joe, and she didn’t think she could handle it. She’s so heart-broken over his death.” Ha! Not bad. “Say, is a funeral planned?” I asked, to keep Mr. Davenport from asking any more questions. My excuse hadn’t worked so well with Detective Palmer, but maybe the Davenports were a softer touch.