Going Organic Can Kill You

by McLaughlin, Staci

  With a last look at the chickens, I cut past the wide trunk of the redwood tree and emerged through the shrubbery onto the little side patio that ran by the pool. Only two people lounged by the water, both strangers. Christian must not be teaching a class until later. I nodded to the sunbathers, then approached the French doors to the dining room, ready to finish my last brochure and work myself out of a job. Well, ready wasn’t the right word, but I could only stall for so long.

  As I touched the door handle, I heard a voice behind me.

  “Dana? Dana Lewis? Is that you?”

  I turned to see a woman about my age hurrying toward me. She wore brown knee-high boots, skinny jeans, and a tank top that fit her like shrinkwrap on a package of hamburger. Her red hair was accented with lighter streaks a smidge too symmetrical to be natural. With her designer sunglasses and perky bust, she was a walking Glamour ad.

  “I’m sorry, do I know you?” I asked.

  She removed her sunglasses and smiled, revealing perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. “It’s me, Kimmie Wheeler, well Kimmie Peters back then.”

  I stared. Under the layers of makeup and self-tanner, I spotted a glimpse of the cheerleader I’d known in high school. But her hair had been brown, her teeth crooked, and her chest smaller. Much smaller.

  “Wow, I didn’t recognize you.”

  She held a hand up. “Oh, stop. You’re too kind. Thank you.”

  I hadn’t actually been complimenting her, but she could think what she liked.

  She stepped back and eyed me from the soles of my battered Keds to the roots of my dishwater blond hair. “You look exactly the same.”

  Definitely not a compliment.

  “I didn’t realize you still lived in town,” I said.

  “Oh, God, please. I would never stay in this dump. I married Bob Wheeler, a plastic surgeon. We live over in Mendocino, although his work takes him all over the state, mostly to help the Hollywood clientele.” She looked pointedly at my chest. “Say, he’d give you a great deal if you wanted to get some work done.”

  I glanced down at my modest frame. “Happy with the ladies, thanks.”

  “If you say so.”

  Now I remembered why I hadn’t hung out with her in high school. “So what do you do while Bob is turning back the clock for those aging actresses?”

  “I don’t like to brag.” She brushed her hair back, the sparkle from her diamond ring almost blinding me. “But Bob and I opened a restaurant, Le Poelon, in Mendocino a few years back. Michelin recently awarded us three stars. You probably read about it in the paper. The French Laundry is the only other restaurant in Northern California to have that many.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Kimmie touched my arm and lowered her voice. “How about you? Do you live here?”

  “Moved back a few weeks ago. In fact, I’m a marketing consultant for the spa.” Somehow, telling her I created brochures didn’t seem impressive enough.

  A look of pity flitted across Kimmie’s face. “Laid off, huh? A lot of my friends couldn’t find work either and became consultants.”

  “And what brings you to the farm?” Hopes of getting on camera? A desire to tell your friends you’d visited the scene of the crime?

  “I’m checking on a friend. She’s been dreadfully upset about the murder. She wants to leave, but I think the best thing is to stay here and relax, recover from the shock.”

  That plan was definitely good for Esther and her business. “What’s your friend’s name? I’ve probably met her.”

  “Sheila Davenport.” Kimmie looked at me expectantly.

  Visions of beads and baubles popped into my head, dangling earrings accentuating a slender neck and short auburn hair. “The jewelry designer. She’s nice.”

  Kimmie wrinkled her nose. “Too nice, if you ask me. But these artists live and work through their emotions. And when any type of tragedy occurs, the artistic types suffer more than us normal people.”

  Oh, gag. “Did Sheila know Maxwell? I don’t recall seeing them together except at a yoga class.”

  Kimmie raised one professionally plucked eyebrow. “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Sheila is Maxwell’s ex-wife.”

  8

  I took a step back and bumped into the French doors. “Sheila is Maxwell’s ex-wife? Are you sure?” Or was Kimmie making that up? Trying to sound important?

  “Of course I’m sure. I was maid of honor at their wedding. And I helped Sheila finish off the second pitcher of margaritas when Maxwell dumped her for that twenty-year-old bimbo he cast in one of his ridiculous movies.” Kimmie ran a finger down the crease along her mouth. Time for another Botox injection. “Not that I’ve ever seen one of his films myself. I only watch movies with value.”

  “Maxwell sounds like a jerk,” I said, then remembered the man was murdered and felt myself flush at my comment.

  “Rumor had it he only married her for her family’s money to start his career, so no surprise things didn’t work out. But Sheila’s the emotional type that will be devastated by his death.”

  She might be even more upset if she was the one who had killed him. Ex-wives made the perfect murder suspects, with those unresolved feelings of love and bitterness. Sheila had just claimed the top spot on my suspect list. “Any chance she still loved him?”

  Kimmie waved a manicured hand. “No. She told me last month over cocktails that the divorce was the best thing to ever happen. She wasted years focusing on Maxwell’s happiness instead of her own. With the jewelry business, she’s realized how fulfilled her life is now.”

  “Glad she got over the two-timing bum.”

  “’Course her grandfather’s trust fund helped. I’d be fulfilled, too, if I were sitting on a few million. Although, between the restaurant and Bob’s plastic surgery business, we’re not exactly hurting.”

  I almost choked on my own saliva. “Did you say a few million?”

  Kimmie glanced at her diamond-encrusted watch. “Gotta run. I want to see Sheila first, and then I have to visit my mom. We keep inviting her to move in with us, what with her poor health. We’ve got plenty of room in that giant house in Mendocino, but she likes it here. God only knows why anyone would choose to stay in Blossom Valley.” I cleared my throat and she blushed. “No offense.”

  “None taken.” Gee, I sure hoped she didn’t accidentally scratch her eye out with those nails of hers. Blood was so hard to remove from acrylic.

  With a “ta-ta” and a wave, Kimmie strolled down the path, heels clacking on the pavement.

  I watched her go, marveling at her revelation. Sheila and Maxwell had been married. Until Maxwell left her for a younger woman. Did that have any bearing on his murder? Why had he been staring at Sheila in yoga class yesterday? His gaze had been more amorous than acrimonious, but she hadn’t even glanced in his direction. Was the note on the nightstand from her? Did the police know about their history together? Surely they’d done a background check on Maxwell and knew about any previous marriages.

  With questions swirling around my head, I entered the farmhouse through the French doors and found Esther in the office. I’d had an epiphany about my job last night while staring into the dark and trying to quiet my inner voice that kept babbling about money issues and mortgage payments. Now was my chance to run my idea past Esther.

  She was shuffling through a pile of bills, her checkbook open. She glanced up when I entered. “Hi, Dana, am I in your way? I’m trying to figure out these numbers, but I’ll be done in a minute.” She punched buttons on a calculator, squinting at the display.

  “Take your time.” I sat down in the extra chair by the bookcase and craned my neck around to study the titles: Small Business for Dummies, How to Go on Living when Someone You Love Dies, Learning Hip-Hop Moves in Twelve Easy Steps.

  I was still staring at that last book when I heard Esther move behind me.

  She stacked together the loose papers on the desk and pu
t the calculator in a drawer. “All yours.”

  As she started to rise, I put out a hand to stop her and she settled back in the chair.

  “I wanted to tell you that I’m almost finished with the last of the brochures you requested. Which means I’ve nearly completed my contract.”

  A frown appeared on Esther’s face. “Oh, Dana, are you leaving us? Did you line up a job with someone else?”

  “No. In fact, with the sudden spotlight on the spa thanks to Maxwell’s death, I thought now would be a good time for a marketing blitz. Magazine ads, a full-page spot in the Herald, or even a commercial.”

  Esther patted my knee. “Oh, goodness me, we don’t need such a kerfuffle. With all these cornballs staying here, I have more business than I can handle at the moment.”

  Ugh. Not the response I wanted to hear. “Even if you’re booked solid now, we need to think about future business, after the interest in Maxwell dies down,” I said.

  “I don’t know. It’s so hard to think months, or even weeks, down the road with his murder hanging over the farm.”

  I scrambled to think of a new selling point. No way would I accept the end of my contract so easily.

  “But I’ve been thinking,” Esther said before I could speak, “I do have this pesky Web site Gordon insisted I set up. Well, one of the local teenagers did it. I have no idea how these computer things work.”

  “Everyone needs a Web site these days,” I said, gripping my St. Christopher medal as my hope meter rose a few degrees.

  Esther glanced at the necklace, then shrugged. “If you say so. But Gordon said we need to change it every now and again, to keep people coming back. He mentioned something called a frog? Or was it flog? I know I want to flog my computer sometimes.”

  I bit down on my lip to hide my smile. “I think he meant a blog. And I could easily write one for you. How often were you thinking?”

  “Heavens, I don’t have the first clue. Once a month? Every week?”

  “A weekly blog’s good, but with all the attention on the farm right now, a daily blog might be better.” And a daily commitment would at least keep me partly employed.

  Esther patted my knee. “Every day, then.”

  I sat up a bit straighter, ready to push the matter. “But a blog won’t keep me busy all day,” I said. “Are you sure there’s nothing else? Sunset magazine prints a weekend getaway section in every issue. I could submit an article about the spa.”

  “We’ll worry about that another day. But I would love for you to stay on.” Esther chewed on her lower lip, getting lipstick on her teeth. “Besides that web thing, you could be a general assistant around here. You know, help Zennia serve meals, run the front desk when Gordon’s busy, that sort of thing.”

  My momentary high slowly lowered, like a helium balloon with a pinpoint leak. I’d built my entire career around marketing, from the moment I’d graduated college. I had a damn good résumé now, minus that little yearlong unemployment spell. Did I want to be the rural version of a Girl Friday?

  I thought again of the red letters on Mom’s mortgage payment and her defensive anger at my questions. She needed my help, whether she’d admit it or not. And I couldn’t live off her while I looked for another marketing job, considering how long it’d taken me to land this one.

  Esther was staring at me, hands clasped.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’d love to stay and help out.”

  Esther beamed. “Fantastic. We can work out a new contract when you’re done with this one. And don’t you worry, I’m sure we’ll need to advertise the spa again soon. We can’t count on another murder to keep our name in the limelight.” I stared at Esther, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Shame on me for saying such a thing.”

  She bent down, opened a bottom drawer, and extracted a petty cash box. From her slacks pocket, she withdrew a key and unlocked the box, revealing a stack of small bills. She pulled out two tens and handed them to me. “For your first task, be a dear, and go pick up some honey from Queenie.”

  I folded the bills and stuffed the money in the back pocket of my jeans. “Who’s Queenie?”

  Esther shut the lid, locked the cash box, and set it back in the drawer. “She lives in a trailer on land that butts up to the back of the farm. After her husband ran off with her brother, she turned nuttier than that almond butter Zennia sells at the farmer’s market. They say she beat a guy to within an inch of his life when he made a wisecrack about it. But she found the Lord while in jail. Now that she’s out, she pretty much sticks to herself, except for the occasional run to Taco Bell and delivering honey to the food bank.”

  In the vast collection of gossip Mom had shared over the years, she’d somehow missed this tale. “Has she lived here long?”

  “A year or so. Came from down south and moved onto Old Man McGillicuddy’s land after he passed. He and my Arnold loved to have coffee at the Breaking Bread Diner, chewing the fat, talking about the old days before the highway got built.”

  I remembered Old Man McGillicuddy. He used to sit outside the post office and whack the children on the legs with his cane when they walked by. In return, the kids would throw rotten pears from the nearby orchards onto his front porch. Or maybe the rotten pears caused him to whack the kids. Must have been one of those chicken-and-egg situations.

  I stood and pulled my car keys from my pocket. “His farm is off Pine Cone Road, right?”

  “From here, it’s more trouble than it’s worth to drive all the way around. Follow the Hen House Trail back through the farm property. When you get to the bench under the elm tree, you’ll see the trailer.”

  I stuffed the keys back in my pocket and moved toward the door. “I’ll go right now and be back in time to help Zennia with lunch service,” I said, already accepting my new role.

  Esther put a hand to her lips. “I should probably mention that Queenie is a bit skittish of strangers so make sure you call out before you reach the trailer.”

  “Does she have a guard dog?”

  “No, just a shotgun.”

  I jerked my head back. “And you’re sending me out there without a bullet-proof vest?”

  Esther waved a hand. “She won’t shoot at you, silly. Not after the last time when she almost hit a guy.”

  Well, that was comforting. I exited the house and headed through the herb garden. As I walked down the path toward the trails, I wondered how I’d gone from a high-tech career in Silicon Valley to buying honey from a crazy beekeeping Bible-thumper with a shotgun. I could only imagine what the Kimmies of the world would say about my slide.

  The temperature had heated up and the sun beat down on me, reminding me more of August than May. I slipped into the shadows of the oaks with relief. Sparrows chirped and dragonflies buzzed as I turned onto Hen House Trail, which was nowhere near the actual hen house.

  I knew from Esther’s comments that while the majority of the O’Connell land had been used for farming, several acres near the base of the foothills had been left unplowed. Esther had hired a crew to remove underbrush and create a series of paths throughout the property, adding a bench here and there. While Queenie’s property must meet up with a small piece of Esther’s farm, the rest of the land merged with the nearby hills, nothing but trees and dirt for miles.

  I hadn’t seen any guests venture onto the trails yet, but I spent most of my time at the house, the view of the trail entrance obscured by the camellia bushes.

  Then I noticed faint shoe prints in the soft dirt. Guess I wasn’t the first person after all on the path, but I was currently the only one.

  A tree branch cracked nearby and I jumped, then whirled around and peered through the shrubbery. I couldn’t see anything, but I grabbed a large stick lying off the path anyway.

  Stick in hand, I followed the dirt track, passing pine trees and manzanita bushes until I reached the wooden bench under the elm tree. With its plethora of branches and broad leaves, the tree was a perfect umbrella to block out the sun.
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br />   Behind the bench, something bright pink at the base of the tree caught my eye. I leaned in, brushing my arm past a small clump of leaves, and picked it up, the material smooth against my fingers. I recognized the Y-shape at the waistband. A thong. Yuck.

  I dropped the underwear in the dirt, kicked it under the bench, then wiped my hands on my jeans. What was a fluorescent pink thong doing out in the woods? Better yet, what had the owner of the underwear been doing?

  I made sure the thong was bunched up against the leg of the bench, not wanting any guests to find it, then looked for the trailer Esther had mentioned. Through the overgrown foliage behind the tree, I spotted the trailer about five hundred yards away in the middle of a meadow. I pushed through the underbrush and broke out into the field, the knee-high grass brushing against my jeans. Better not be a rattlesnake in this here grass.

  A field mouse ran over my foot and I shrieked. I threw the stick at it, missing the tiny creature by a mile. How pathetic. Terrified by a mouse. I’d definitely been living in the city too long.

  The door of the trailer banged open. A woman in a faded peach peasant top, brown sweats, and no shoes barreled down the steps, shotgun in hand. Her thick black hair was snarled, bringing to mind pictures of Medusa in my old mythology textbooks.

  “Who is that? Who’s yelling?” she demanded, her hoarse voice suggesting a two-pack-a-day habit.

  But I didn’t have time to worry about her nicotine habit.

  With a snarl, the woman raised her arms and pointed the shotgun straight at me.

  And with the farm being the closest property, no one would hear me scream.

  9

  With exaggerated slowness and a sick feeling in my stomach, I raised my arms as the woman with the crazy hair continued to point her shotgun at me. Good thing I’d gotten rid of that stick a moment ago. No sense in antagonizing her.

  “I asked who you are,” she said.

  “I come in peace.” What the heck made me say that? I wasn’t Buzz Lightyear.