All Natural Murder

by McLaughlin, Staci

  “Bobby Joe’s brother in Texas is arranging the funeral,” Stump said. “He’s having it back there as soon as he can ship the body out.”

  “I’m glad someone made arrangements,” I said.

  Stump pointed toward Bobby Joe’s bedroom. “I packed up his stuff last night and found a couple things that belong to Ashlee. Hang on a second.” He disappeared down the hall.

  As soon as he was out of sight, Mrs. Davenport grabbed my hand. Her touch was cool and sent a shiver up my back. “I’m sorry Bobby Joe is dead, but thank heavens he doesn’t live here anymore,” she said in a low voice. “That boy was nothing but trouble, such a bad influence on my Andrew.”

  So much for not speaking ill of the dead.

  “In what way?” I asked.

  “He was a druggie, the little sinner,” she whispered fiercely. I could almost see the fire and brimstone light up her eyes.

  “You don’t say?” I was guessing that Mrs. Davenport didn’t know about her own son’s extracurricular activities.

  She nodded. “Why, we popped in for a surprise visit one time, and there was an actual bong sitting right there on that coffee table. Of course, I didn’t know what it was, but Mr. Davenport recognized it.”

  “I watch Cops,” Mr. Davenport said, puffing up his chest as if that made him an honorary deputy. “And you can bet I mentioned that bong to that detective who was here.”

  “We tried to get Andrew to move out right then, but he said rents are too high everywhere else, and he couldn’t afford it. We offered to pay the difference, but Andrew always was too proud to let his parents help him.”

  Or maybe all of Stump’s customers knew exactly where to find him, and he didn’t want to inconvenience anyone by moving.

  A rustling sound came from the hallway, and Stump walked out, a plastic bag in one hand. “Here are those things I mentioned.” He held the bag out to me.

  Before I could step forward and retrieve it, Mr. Davenport reached over and grabbed the bag. “What have we here?”

  He dipped into the bag and held up a cherry red bra, the same color as Ashlee’s Camaro. He let out a whistle. “Don’t see this every day.”

  Mr. Davenport smiled at me. I looked over and found Mrs. Davenport’s mouth agape, her skin once more reddening.

  “Uh, well, uh,” I stammered. I grabbed the undergarment and stuffed it back in the bag. “How did that get over here?” I turned toward Mrs. Davenport. “It must be from that time Ashlee fell in the pool over here, needed a change of clothes.” Did this dump even have a pool?

  I backed toward the door, clutching the plastic bag to my chest. “Nice meeting you both. Thanks for the stuff, Stump, I mean Andrew. ’Bye now.” I groped behind me for the doorknob, yanked the door open, and stepped out backward, almost falling. Then I pulled the door shut.

  That had been a colossal waste of time. And a huge embarrassment to boot.

  I stared at the door. Now what?

  19

  I opened the plastic bag I’d grabbed from Stump and saw a tube of lip gloss, a pack of gum, and, of course, the flaming red bra. He shouldn’t have bothered. I squashed the bag in my hand and headed for my car. As I reached the curb, I heard a “psst.” Yolanda stood in the doorway to her apartment, holding up one finger.

  She trotted down the walk, clutching her housedress closed at the throat, her bunny slippers scraping the sidewalk. Her hair was up in curlers, and she smelled vaguely of Ponds cold cream, a smell my brain had trouble dealing with in the middle of the day.

  “What are you doing back so soon? You an undercover cop?” she asked, breathless.

  “Not a cop. I just needed to check on something,” I said vaguely. Who knew if her gossip grapevine was comprised of a single plant or an entire vineyard. I didn’t need my business spilled like wine from a tipped-over bottle.

  She glanced over her shoulder in the general direction of Bobby Joe’s apartment. “Did you see those two druggies while you were there? Awful old to be smoking dope, but maybe they were flower children.”

  “Actually, they’re Stump’s parents.”

  Yolanda raised her hands toward the sky, causing her housedress to fall open and reveal a whole lot of wrinkled flesh. I averted my eyes.

  “I should have known they were all druggies. The apple never falls far from the tree.”

  I started to correct her, then stopped. What was the point?

  “I need to get back to work now,” I said. “Have a good day.”

  “Come visit me sometime. I’ll make you tea.” She shuffled into her apartment while I got back in my car.

  Once in the driver’s seat, I stared out the windshield for a moment, the patch of dead grass to the side of the path a perfect metaphor for my visit. Not only had I failed to ask Stump about Bobby Joe selling drugs, but now I had to doubt everything Yolanda told me. If she assumed Stump’s parents were users, especially when his mom dressed almost like the Amish, then she might assume anyone was a user. Even me. Maybe Ashlee was right, and Yolanda saw a felon everywhere she looked.

  I drove out of the lot, sweaty and out of sorts. Would I ever figure out who killed Bobby Joe and keep Ashlee from going to jail?

  I thought about this question as I sped to the farm. My conversations at Bobby Joe’s apartment had taken longer than expected, and my lunch hour was long over. I entered the lot and slipped into the first open slot. I’d barely gotten out of the car before I heard, “Dana!”

  Gordon strode toward me, back straight, arms held stiff at his sides. My stomach lowered a notch as I wondered what I’d done now.

  “Where have you been?” Gordon barked as he neared me.

  My internal temperature shot up a few degrees, and not from the heat. “At lunch.”

  “Did you forget about your two o’clock interview for the yoga position?”

  Oh, crap, was that today?

  When I didn’t speak, Gordon moved closer and pointed toward the house. “That woman has been in the lobby for twenty minutes, chanting and standing on her head. We can’t let the guests see that nonsense.”

  “I lost track of the time. I’ll talk to her right now.” I hurried toward the lobby, Gordon puffing behind me.

  “Get your mind on your work, or we’re going to have a problem,” he threatened.

  I didn’t respond, but Gordon was right. First, I’d apparently forgotten about the demographics report, now this yoga interview. I couldn’t afford to lose my job. I’d have to look into Bobby Joe’s murder during non-work hours, even if I was trying to keep my sister from being arrested.

  Inside the lobby, I stared at the woman in the neon green leotard, legs folded into the lotus position at right below eye level, her head on the floor. I could hear her repeating “ohm” over and over.

  Gordon caught up with me and shoved a paper into my hands. “Her résumé, not that we’re going to hire her,” he muttered.

  I scanned the sheet. “Ms. Mansfield?” I said to the upside-down woman.

  The humming stopped. The woman unfolded her legs, swung them to the floor, and stood up. I pegged her age at somewhere in her early sixties. She certainly had good form and muscle control—better than me, in fact, and I was half her age.

  Ms. Mansfield practically glided across the room and grasped my hands, crinkling the résumé that I still held. “My child, we are kindred spirits. I sense it already. Call me Lightsource.”

  Lord, another quack.

  She released my hands and began stroking my hair. “Our chakras are spinning in unison.”

  I nodded, at a loss for words as I tried to feel my chakra spinning, wherever my chakra was.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gordon with his fist covering his mouth, fighting back laughter. The man almost never laughed. At least one of us was having a good time.

  His mirth snapped me back to attention. “Ms. Mansfield, er, Lightsource, why don’t we sit down, and you can tell me how long you’ve been practicing yoga.”

  I led her to
the empty dining room, where I settled in a chair. She moved the chair across from mine aside, spread her feet apart, and stretched to one side until her hands rested on the floor next to one foot.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I think better this way, with all the blood flowing to my brain, fueling my thoughts. Perhaps you’d like to try it.”

  “I’ll pass. Why don’t you tell me about your yoga experience?”

  And she did. For a good ten minutes. Nonstop. I wasn’t sure where to look during her monologue. I couldn’t see her face at all, so I eventually built towers out of the forks and knives on the table, panicking each time the silverware clinked, but I guess Lightsource couldn’t hear me with her ears so close to the floor, because she never stopped talking.

  As I tried to balance a knife atop my fork tepee, I noticed that Lightsource had gone quiet.

  “How interesting,” I said, hoping that fit with what she’d just said. “Do you know anything about Pilates, by any chance? We’d like to offer that to the guests as well.”

  Lightsource’s head popped up, her kinky gray hair springing out in all directions. I laid the silverware down.

  “Do you mean real Pilates, or that Hollywood tripe?” she asked.

  I actually didn’t know the difference, but her question made the correct answer clear. “The real version. We pride ourselves on authenticity here at the spa.”

  She tried to smooth down her hair, but several sections refused to obey. “I felt that prideful aura as soon as I walked in. Some of the townsfolk feel this spa is cursed, but I only sense lightness and joy here.”

  “Cursed?”

  “Blossom Valley was always such a safe place, but the same weekend this spa opened, someone was killed. Now, all these weeks later, another life has been stolen. People blame the O’Connell farm for the murders. Things like that never happened before you opened up.”

  I felt personally insulted that people were gossiping about Esther’s farm. It wasn’t our fault people were being murdered. We weren’t killing anyone.

  “The O’Connell Organic Farm and Spa is not responsible for anyone’s death.”

  Lightsource patted my hand. “I can feel the innocence here. I know I’ll fit in.”

  That was my signal to wrap this interview up. “You certainly know your yoga. Thanks for coming in.” I escorted her out to the lobby, where she hugged me as though we were best friends and she was going away on a spiritual retreat for the next year.

  From behind the counter, Gordon watched Lightsource leave and spoke as soon as the door closed. “Good riddance. Why are only yahoos applying for this job?”

  “Lightsource has a lot of yoga experience. If she wouldn’t spend the entire class standing on her head, she might be a good fit.”

  Gordon grunted. “We’ll keep trying. Someone normal’s bound to apply.”

  “Well, keep her on the potentials list until that happens.” We definitely needed a new yoga instructor, even if she stood on her head. Other than yoga and Pilates, soaking in the hot springs was the only other spa service offered at the O’Connell Organic Farm and Spa. If we didn’t hire someone soon, we’d have to change the name of the place to just the O’Connell Organic Farm.

  I wandered down the hall toward the office and spent the afternoon working on the next morning’s blog, helping with the laundry, and cleaning out the pigsty. After I’d put the rake and shovel back in the toolshed, I washed my hands at the outside faucet, then went into the kitchen and checked the clock. Not quite five.

  Since I’d taken a late lunch and had to meet Crusher here at seven, I’d been planning on helping Zennia with dinner. But I couldn’t go to coffee smelling like a pigsty, even if this wasn’t a date. At least I kept telling myself it wasn’t a date. Who knew what Crusher thought.

  I clocked out, raced home, and jumped in the shower, then ran a brush through my hair and frowned at my reflection. I added lip gloss, mascara, a touch of eye shadow, and a swipe of blush. Not bad.

  Now to figure out what to wear. For a non-date, I was certainly putting effort into my appearance.

  I stood before my closet and examined my options. It was never more apparent how few clothes I owned than when I was going out for the evening. I still owned several business outfits from my marketing days in San Jose, but I hadn’t done much to restock my casual clothes since my return. I reached for one of only a handful of dresses, a light, floral, knee-length number, then drew my hand back. Too fancy for a non-date. Instead, I donned a pair of black leggings and topped them with a flowy baby-doll blouse that dipped in the front. A pair of ballet flats completed my ensemble. That would do fine.

  My alarm clock glowed the time, half past five. Still time for dinner.

  In the kitchen, Mom waved away my offer of help, so I slid onto a bar stool to keep her company. I could hear the faint strains of the television drifting in from the living room and wondered what show Ashlee was watching.

  Mom pulled a package from the refrigerator and set it on the cutting board. We were having chicken. Again. Sometimes I half-expected to cluck instead of speak when I opened my mouth.

  “How are you doing, Mom?” I asked, feeling we hadn’t spent much time together lately. I flipped open the day’s edition of the Herald and scanned it for any new articles on the murder.

  Mom cut open the package. “Can’t complain. I had lunch with my bunco group today.”

  “I didn’t realize you guys socialized outside your games.”

  “We don’t usually, but we wanted to welcome the new members I told you about.”

  Her voice sounded funny, and I glanced up. She held the knife over the chicken but didn’t move.

  “Mom?” I prompted.

  She lowered the knife and laid it on the board. “I don’t want to upset you girls, but I have to tell you something. I might have dinner with one of the new members.”

  “Why would that upset us?”

  “He’s a man.”

  If I hadn’t started gripping the counter so hard, I would have fallen right off the bar stool. “Are you talking about a date?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “I suppose you could call it that.”

  “But what about Dad?”

  Mom came around the counter and rubbed my back, much like whenever I was sick as a child.

  “I loved your father so much,” she said. “I still do. But I miss the companionship of a man. Having someone to dine with, to dance with, to laugh with. It’s not like Lane and I will get married. He’s simply asked me to dinner.”

  “And you said yes?” I couldn’t quite get a handle on what Mom was saying. She was a grieving widow. Right? Why would she accept this man’s dinner invitation?

  Mom rubbed my back faster, sensing my resistance. “Yes, but now I’m wondering if I should go. With everything that’s happening with Ashlee, you girls need me here at home.”

  I let go of the counter edge and faced her. “I’m glad to hear you say that. Ashlee’s really suffering right now.”

  As if on cue, Ashlee let out a loud laugh from the living room.

  “She’s good at hiding her pain,” I said.

  Mom studied my face. “I’ll call Lane after dinner and tell him no.” She went back to preparing the chicken.

  I laid my head on the counter, the tile cool against my forehead. Instead of feeling relieved that Mom would cancel her date, I felt like a big, fat turd. How could I begrudge Mom a little happiness? If she was ready to start dating again, shouldn’t I support her?

  “Dana, are you feeling all right?” Mom asked.

  I lifted my head. “Forget what I said, Mom. You should go to dinner with Lane. Ashlee and I will be fine.”

  Mom raised one eyebrow, her way of saying she suspected I was lying.

  “Seriously, go. You caught me by surprise, is all.”

  “If you’re sure.” But I could tell she was pleased, and I felt a tiny bit better. But only a tiny bit.

  N
ot wanting to talk about Mom dating anymore, I went into the living room and saw that Ashlee was watching a Real Housewives show. I had no idea which one.

  She glanced at me, then did a double take and muted the TV. I’d almost forgotten about my prep work for my non-date and wished I’d stayed in the kitchen. Couldn’t she ignore me like she usually did?

  “Hot date with Jason tonight?”

  I dropped into the recliner and decided to play dumb. “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re wearing makeup. And not only eyeliner or lip gloss.” She made a circular motion around her head with her hand. “You did your whole face.”

  Ashlee couldn’t see a four-foot pothole in the middle of the road when she drove, but she could detect the faintest trace of eye shadow with no problem.

  “I’m going out later, that’s all. Maybe watch the fireworks.”

  Ashlee stared at me, a smile starting to grow.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “You’re going out with somebody, but it’s not Jason.”

  “So?”

  Ashlee giggled. She actually giggled. “You’re always so prim and proper. It’ll do you good to date around, play the field.”

  But I didn’t want to play the field. “Calm down. I’m only going out for coffee.”

  Ashlee leaned over the arm of the couch, her interest in the dueling housewives gone. “With who?”

  “Crusher.”

  Ashlee clapped her hands. “He’s so cute. You should totally go for it.” She reached for my arm. “And don’t worry about me. I’d already decided I didn’t want him.”

  “I wasn’t worried about you. It’s not even a date.”

  “Of course it is.”

  I straightened in the chair, the springs in the worn cushion shifting under me. “For your information, I’m helping you. I’ve tried talking to Crusher before about Bobby Joe, and he’s always changed the subject. This could be my chance to figure out what he’s hiding.”

  “Oh, stop,” Ashlee said. “You’re only pretending to question Crusher because you don’t want to admit you’re on a date.”

  “I am not.”

  “Dinner!” Mom called from the other room.