All Natural Murder

by McLaughlin, Staci

  Esther touched my shoulder. “Speaking of Gordon, he was talking about this Tweeter thing some of the kids are doing. Do you think that would be good for business?”

  “Twitter? Not a bad idea.” And one I should have thought of. “Plus, it’s free. I could set up an account.”

  Esther fingered her button again. “I hate to correct you, dear, but I think it’s Tweeter. Gordon was talking about tweeting and it reminded me of Tweety Bird.”

  “Right. You tweet on Twitter.”

  “But Dana, that doesn’t make any sense. Wouldn’t you twit on Twitter and tweet on Tweeter?”

  Oh, boy. This conversation could go on all day. “I’ll double-check when I set up the account.”

  Satisfied, Esther toddled down the hall.

  I placed my hand on the knob to the office door and noticed brown paint specks all along the edges of my fingernails. Shoot. I’d left the paint cans in my trunk. While I didn’t really mind having the paint there, I wasn’t sure what the heat in an enclosed space would do. Did paint cans explode? I definitely didn’t want to find out.

  I exited through the French doors, crossed the vacant patio, and followed the path past the vegetable garden. I spotted Zennia across the way, bending over the zucchini plants, and waved hello. She raised her head, her straw hat giving the impression of a flying saucer taking off, and waved back.

  A black BMW pulled up to the curb in front of the house. Esther hadn’t mentioned any new guests today, and I watched the car out of the corner of my eye while I popped my trunk and tried to cram the drop cloth into the box, eager to carry everything in one trip.

  As I worked, a man emerged from the BMW. With his dark suit and conservative tie, he could have been Gordon’s brother. He glanced around the nearly-empty parking lot, then disappeared inside the lobby.

  Maybe he was a salesman, stopping for the night. But Blossom Valley had a chain hotel to handle business travel, and I couldn’t recall any businessmen ever staying here before.

  I grabbed the box, almost folding under the weight, and closed the trunk with my chin. A slamming door drew my attention back to the house. The man in the suit practically jumped off the curb in his haste to reach his car, red splotches clear on his cheeks. He yanked open the car door, threw himself in, and slammed the door shut.

  Yikes. What had set him off? We had plenty of room at the spa. Had he stopped for another reason?

  My arms ached in protest as I stood there, forcing me to abandon all thoughts of the mystery man as I carried the box toward the lobby. If I cut through the house, I might reach the shed before I dropped the supplies.

  Gordon was staring toward the door when I entered, but his gaze was off in the distance, as though he was thinking.

  “Who was that guy?” I asked. I rested the box on the love seat, my muscles completely useless by now.

  He snapped to attention and shuffled the papers on the counter before him. “Some guy named Vince. A friend of Crusher’s. At least that’s what he said.”

  Why would a guy in a suit visit a California-casual monster truck driver? “Do you think he was lying?”

  “Don’t know. But I wouldn’t want any friends like that. About had a stroke when I told him Crusher had just left. I’ve never seen someone’s face get so red.”

  I shivered, not sure why I found that so concerning. That man had definitely looked angry. Maybe he was another scout, trying to pitch to Crusher before he signed any papers. “Think he’ll be back later?”

  “I hope not. I didn’t like the looks of that guy.” Gordon turned back to the computer, once more absorbed in his work.

  I hoisted the box, my arms protesting, and headed toward the toolshed before my body failed me. That chore done, I retreated to the office and sat down in the desk chair. I needed to get those numbers to Gordon, and then I’d do a little Todd research.

  I spent the next couple of hours mostly on hold as I tried to track down advertising prices for the magazines I was interested in. After several rounds of transfers and the occasional hang-up, I finally got all the information I needed and added it to the proposal I’d been working on. Now it was time for a break.

  My first stop was Facebook. Wasn’t everyone on Facebook now? Well, maybe not my mom. Or Esther. But I’d seen Todd with a smartphone, so the odds were in my favor. I entered “Todd Runyon” into the search box and clicked the little magnifying glass.

  A surge of excitement rushed through me as his page appeared, for all the world to see. As I scanned the Farmville-related posts, from Todd sharing fuel to needing to harvest his crops, frustration replaced my hope. His only personal posts involved places he’d eaten and pictures of his Star Wars memorabilia. And nothing was posted the day of Bobby Joe’s murder, or even the day before. So much for that great plan.

  I drummed my fingers on the desk in front of the keyboard, then brought up Google. My search for Todd immediately resulted in a link to Facebook, but the second hit made me pause. Todd belonged to Twitter. Was it the same Todd Runyon? Did he actually post personal information or did he only Twitter about Farmville?

  I clicked the link, and a page full of posts populated my screen. The first post, from today, read, “Late 4 work. Boss gonna kill me. So much 4 Steel Works employee of the week.”

  Bingo. Mom had mentioned that Todd worked at Steel Works. I scrolled through the page. The guy liked his Twitter way more than his Facebook. He posted at least half a dozen times a day.

  I got to the entries for the day of Bobby Joe’s murder and started at the bottom. If I hovered my cursor over the date, a time stamp appeared. Todd had eaten a breakfast burrito at six that morning. Argued with a coworker at nine, then ate a Snickers. Had a cheeseburger and fries for lunch. Saw a red-tailed hawk on his way back to work.

  My fingers twitched with impatience as I continued through his day. Where was the proverbial smoking gun? Didn’t this man do anything besides eat and bird-watch? I scanned through his dinner selection, then froze at the next entry, my mouth sapped dry, my breathing halted.

  There, at ten that night, he’d posted, “Betrayed by wife. Gotta take care of that.”

  A chill ran down my spine. It seemed obvious exactly how he’d taken care of his wife’s betrayal.

  By killing Bobby Joe.

  24

  I scanned the next few entries for any insight into what had happened after ten on Thursday night, but the posts only contained more food lists. No references to the betrayal, no admissions of a guilty conscience. I wondered if Todd had posted that comment in a fit of anger and then decided he’d shared too much. Surely he could delete a Twitter post. Unless he’d been so busy killing Bobby Joe that he forgot.

  But that didn’t matter. I’d found his admission that he knew about his wife’s affair. Now all I needed was proof that he’d killed Bobby Joe. Detective Palmer wouldn’t exactly do cartwheels when I showed him this Twitter posting, but if I could find one more piece, the detective would have to take my suspicions seriously, maybe even arrest Todd. Then my family could get back to our normal lives where people didn’t gossip about us.

  I checked the clock on the computer. Almost time for Todd to get off work, assuming he worked the standard nine-to-five shift.

  I had no idea where Todd and Maria lived, but I knew where Todd worked, so I’d start there. Maybe I’d be able to follow him home. But what would I do once I got there? As much as I wanted to clear Ashlee’s name, I wasn’t prepared to break into someone’s house, even if I was fairly positive that person had committed murder. Maybe I’d come up with an idea on my drive into town.

  I updated my time card, made sure to put my cell phone in my pocket, and headed out. I nodded at Gordon on my way out the door, and he held up a hand in acknowledgment as he focused on a paper on his clipboard.

  When I reached the outskirts of town, I kept an eye out for the sheet-metal factory. While I knew the general location, I wasn’t positive on how to get there. I spotted the STEEL WORKS sign and took the
next exit, then followed the service road back the way I’d come. The factory had been in business for decades, long before the town council dictated that every new store needed a cute name. Besides, it’d be hard to think of an adorable label for this plain, brown building with its boring brown door. Not even a window livened up the drab facade.

  The parking lot was half full, pickup trucks and an occasional sedan taking up the spaces. I drove up and down the rows until I spotted Todd’s green Ford. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure I had the right truck, but it was the only green Ford in the lot, and it had a bumper sticker like the one I’d noticed when I’d seen him at the diner. He was parked between a beat-up van and a large SUV.

  I looked around for an inconspicuous parking spot, preferably one in the shade, but the lot was free of trees and provided no cover. I settled for a spot three rows over, next to a pickup, hoping my little car would go undetected. Then I settled in to wait.

  After five minutes, I turned the key and rolled the driver’s-side window down, sweat dewing along my hairline.

  After another five minutes, I rolled down the passenger window, but that didn’t help. You needed a breeze to cool off the inside of the car, and the only air movement was when I’d inserted the key in the ignition.

  Five more minutes, and I got out to search the trunk for any water bottles I might have forgotten. The trunk smelled faintly of paint and dirt. I slammed it shut.

  Back in the car, I felt under the seats for water and glanced occasionally at the main building, but Todd hadn’t exited. In fact, no one had left, making me worry that these guys worked a swing shift and I’d be sitting here for hours. In this heat, I’d melt faster than the Wicked Witch of the West when you threw water on her.

  I thought about what I was doing here. I needed evidence, no matter how flimsy, that would connect Todd to Bobby Joe’s death. Since Bobby Joe was killed at the fairgrounds, Todd would have had to drive there, presumably in his truck. Maybe he’d dropped something on the floorboards, or absentmindedly thrown trash into the truck bed that could place him at the scene. Hmm . . .

  No one had driven into the parking lot. No one had left the building. Might as well use the time and solitude to snoop around Todd’s truck. If anyone saw me, I’d claim to be waiting for Todd. Unless it was Todd who saw me. Then I was screwed.

  I shut my car door and wound through the parked cars until I reached Todd’s truck, all the while listening for the sound of a car pulling into the lot or the door of the building opening. I stopped at his tailgate, using the van to partly shield me, and looked in the bed. Scraps of paper and an empty plastic bag clung to the corners nearest the tailgate. I picked up each piece of paper, then dropped it back; most were receipts from the liquor store.

  The rest of the bed was empty, save for the tool chest at the front. I moved to the side of the truck, stood on tippy-toe and, not spotting a lock, lifted the lid. The tool box squeaked open, and my gaze locked on the building, sure everyone inside had heard the noise.

  When no one came out, I lifted the lid higher and peered inside. Wrenches and screwdrivers lay scattered in the large box, gleaming in the evening light. In the far corner, somewhat obscured by a hammer, rested a dull black handgun.

  I stared at the gun as though it was a rattlesnake coiled to strike, a combination of fear and fascination mesmerizing me. What was Todd doing with a gun? Why hadn’t he used it to kill Bobby Joe? Of course, when you found out your wife was cheating on you, crushing a man’s skull with a tailpipe might be more satisfying than shooting him.

  Did the police know about the gun? Would they care? If he had a permit to carry it, I wasn’t sure it mattered. Knowing Todd had a gun didn’t really help in my search for evidence.

  I eased the lid back down, wincing at the squeak, and stepped back from the truck. A total strikeout. Then I noticed the lock was not engaged on the driver’s-side door. Did I dare open it? I wasn’t willing to sneak into Todd and Maria’s house in search of evidence, but I wouldn’t technically be breaking into Todd’s truck. That unlocked door was practically an invitation for me to snoop around. If he was going to be that careless about his personal property, then it served him right if someone opened the door. And that someone was going to be me.

  With a shaky breath, I rested my hand on the door handle, then curled my fingers under it and pulled. The door came open, releasing a cloud of pent-up summer air. The faint odor of stale cologne wafted out. I leaned inside.

  The area between the seats held a plastic coffee mug, a handful of papers that looked like they related to his work, and a Maxim. I ran my hand under the seat on the driver’s side, but came up only with a dime and three toothpicks.

  I started to pocket the dime, then dropped it back on the floor. There was a big difference between opening an unlocked truck door and stealing from the owner, no matter how small the denomination.

  The passenger side called to me, and I debated between going around to the other side and actually climbing into the cab. In the interest of time, I pulled myself onto the seat and slid in front of the glove box. I dropped open the door and pawed through the papers, but all I found was a current registration, an old parking ticket, a travel brochure for Mendocino, and a pack of Kleenex. Not the most incriminating assortment.

  By now, I suspected I was wasting my time, but I’d come too far to quit. I reached down under the passenger seat, and felt along the floor, my hand brushing against more paper. I stretched a little farther, bringing my shoulder down so it almost touched the plastic mat.

  As I captured the paper between two fingers, I heard a footstep land directly outside the truck. My heart beat triple-time, and my fingers went numb. With a slowness that belied my absolute panic, I pulled my arm back from under the seat, raised my upper body, and turned.

  A whimper escaped my lips.

  Todd stood at the open driver’s door, a shiny silver buck knife in his hand.

  25

  Todd raised the knife, his eyes unreadable through the clear lenses of his glasses. I scooted on the truck seat until my back hit the passenger door, my mind motoring. If I could pop the door open, I could jump into the truck bed and grab the gun. But would I be fast enough?

  “What the hell are you doing in my truck?” he asked, his voice loud, the anger obvious.

  I stared at him, my mind no longer motoring. Now it was idling. All I could think was, “Please don’t stab me. Please don’t stab me.”

  “Answer me!”

  He reached into the truck and swiped at my leg with his free hand. I scrunched up farther against the door, not sure I could get out before Todd grabbed me.

  “I was . . .” I tried to think of any plausible reason I might be sitting in the truck of a likely killer. “I wanted to leave you a note,” I blurted out.

  Todd gestured toward the windshield. “You couldn’t leave it under my wipers?”

  “Nothing to write with. I was looking for a pen and some paper.” Sweat poured down my temples, and I wanted to wipe the mess away, but my brain no longer had control over my arms. Or my legs. All I could do was sit frozen in the corner.

  A burly man not much smaller than Shaquille O’Neal came into view. “Need any help, Todd?” the man asked.

  I didn’t know whether to be scared or relieved. Surely Todd wouldn’t try to kill me with a witness present, would he? Then again, in some states, you could beat a robber to death with your shoe if he broke into your house, and the police wouldn’t arrest you. Did the same apply if someone broke into your truck?

  Todd glanced at the man, who probably couldn’t see the knife behind the door. “I’ve got it covered, thanks.”

  The man moved past the truck and on his way. I almost yelled to him for help, but I wasn’t sure whether he’d help me or Todd.

  Todd lowered the knife. A positive sign.

  “So if you had left me a note, what would it say?”

  Good question.

  “Um, to meet me at the Watering Hole after
work.” What the hell made me pick a bar as a meeting place? I didn’t hang out in bars.

  Todd folded the knife and stuck it in the back pocket of his jeans. “Wow, you’d break into my truck to set up a rendezvous? Sorry, honey, I’m married. Guess you couldn’t stop thinking about me after we met at the truck rally.”

  I shot up from the corner without thinking. “I’m not hitting on you.”

  Todd reached for his back pocket, and I tensed. When his hand reappeared, it held a bandanna. He whipped off his glasses and rubbed the lenses. “Then what did you want to meet for?”

  “To talk about Thursday night. You know, the night Bobby Joe was killed.”

  What was wrong with me? Here I thought Todd killed Bobby Joe, and I was provoking him while trapped in his truck, while he stood outside with a knife. What an idiot!

  Todd’s hand froze for a second, then he resumed cleaning his glasses. He slid them back on his nose and folded up the bandanna before stuffing it in his pocket. “What about Thursday night?”

  “You know,” I said, “it’s pretty hot in here. I’m just gonna step outside.”

  Todd reached over and hit the lock button on the driver’s-side door. I heard a click in response from the passenger door behind me. My breathing grew shallow, my lungs begging for more oxygen. I grabbed my St. Christopher medal and pressed the smooth surface to my lips.

  “The hell you are,” he said. “Why do you keep asking about Thursday night?”

  “You’re right. Forget I said anything.”

  I had to get out of this truck. Maybe I could honk the horn with my foot. Someone might notice and come help me. But I hadn’t seen anyone in the lot except that Jolly Green Giant. Of course, I’d been so focused on Todd that a band of trumpeters could have marched through and I would have missed them.

  “Sounds like you think I had something to do with Bobby Joe’s death,” Todd said. “Now I know why you were chasing Maria at the rally. You thought she’d tell you I had a hand in it.”

  My arms finally started working, and I reached out to him, palms up, like a beggar in the street seeking a handout. “He seduced your wife. No one could possibly blame you for killing him.” Well, other than twelve of his peers, but I didn’t mention that.