Going Organic Can Kill You

by McLaughlin, Staci

  “So he hated the screenplay.” Heaven knows why I was poking a hornet’s nest, risking a sting, but I couldn’t help myself.

  Logan bent down and yanked a cluster of leaves off the cilantro. I swear I heard the plant scream.

  “The man was an idiot. He wouldn’t know a good movie if Steven Spielberg screened it himself. When he told me my screenplay was undeveloped and boring, I lost all respect for him.”

  I eyed the squawking blue jay, seeming to mock Logan. “But you think this new boss is smarter?”

  “Wilcox is a man of integrity. He’ll recognize the value of my work.”

  Logan had probably said the same thing about Maxwell at one time.

  “Now excuse me,” he said. “I need to make a phone call.” He stomped away, trampling the chervil. Guess he needed a few more days of relaxation to start respecting the vegetation.

  I thought about our conversation. Logan must have been furious when Maxwell insulted his screenplay, especially after all the humiliating chores he’d performed. But had Logan been angry enough to kill him? He’d been in the dining room for the entire lunch period. Had Maxwell been killed prior to lunch or during the meal? Would the police be able to narrow down the time of death to such a small window?

  I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Logan was out of sight, then bent down and dug around the cilantro plant. My fingers only found damp soil and pebbles. Maybe Logan really was checking the roots. Or I’d interrupted his attempt to hide something.

  I stood and brushed off my hands. Two days ago, my biggest problem had been how to swallow Zennia’s meals without gagging. Now, I spent my time wondering which person at the spa had committed murder. Life had certainly taken an interesting detour.

  Esther came out the back door, clad in brown slacks and a denim shirt embroidered with corn stalks and scarecrows, an oversized purse slung over one shoulder. Her gray hair sported fresh curls and a touch of rouge brightened her already ruddy cheeks. She was certainly gussied up.

  “Dana, any trouble with the clog today?”

  Uh-oh, had another guest clogged a toilet? “Weren’t you taking care of that problem?”

  “Remember how we talked yesterday about you updating the Web site?”

  My mind went blank. What did a clogged toilet have to do with the computer?

  “You’re supposed to write something every day,” Esther prompted.

  “Oh, the blog,” I said. “I posted the blog today with no problems.”

  Esther reached into her purse and extracted a compact. She popped it open and studied her reflection in the mirror, rubbing at the rouge. She snapped the compact closed. “Oh! Where is my mind today? I meant to ask this morning how the committee meeting went?”

  “The group was smaller than I expected, but the meeting went fine. A bit short.”

  “That George hates long meetings. Sometimes I don’t even get a chance to speak.”

  The blue jay was back to shrieking, his voice almost drowning out Esther. I tried to tune the bird out.

  “But with only three members, wouldn’t everyone be able to speak?” I asked.

  “Not with George in charge. He used to be a sergeant in the army. Doesn’t have time for chitchat. I just wish we could get more people to attend.”

  “Have you tried recruiting other business owners?”

  “People do join for a while, but eventually they all drop out. I’m afraid our festivals and contests haven’t drawn the numbers we wanted and people get frustrated.”

  I patted her shoulder. “I bet this cricket-chirping contest is a huge success.” Please don’t let God strike me down for lying.

  “I sure hope so. With all these new reservations helping the farm, a huge crowd for the cricket chirpers would be the cream on the peaches.”

  “Speaking of the contest, George wants you at the fairgrounds at one tomorrow afternoon to help set up.”

  Esther frowned and I noticed that she’d applied her lipstick unevenly, adding a good half inch to her left side. “Goodness me, I’m not ready for that.”

  Uh-oh. Visions of unfolding chairs and dragging tables around filled my head. “Nonsense. You said the farm is prospering. Get out there and hold your head high.” Please, oh, please, don’t make me do it.

  Esther plucked at a button on her shirt. “No, it’s too soon. George and Bethany will hound me for all the details of the murder. I’m afraid I’m not up to it yet. But I know you’ll do a great job, Dana.”

  Ugh. So much for escaping the drudgeries of cricket chirping. But it’s a job, I reminded myself. One to which I had agreed.

  “I’ll protect this year’s winner from the giant trophy.”

  Esther frowned. “I’d almost forgotten about that. But if you run into Jason, make sure he mentions in his news coverage how the farm is helping the community with our involvement.”

  “Jason?” A little spark jolted my chest.

  “He covers all the Rejuvenation Committee projects. Isn’t that boy just as cute as a june bug?”

  I’d never seen a june bug, but I’d definitely agree that Jason was good looking. “I’ll be sure to talk to him.” No problem there. But would I look too silly popping open metal chairs and directing contestants to tables while wearing high heels and my silk blouse with the plunging neckline?

  “Good. I know Gordon likes to handle the press for the farm, but he’ll never help with a committee project.”

  “Why do you tolerate that man?” The question had slipped out before I could stop myself, and I pressed my lips together before I could say more.

  Esther fiddled with her purse clasp. “I know he can be like a burr in your backside, but he’s good at his job. He’s still upset from when his bed and breakfast went under.”

  “He had a B and B?”

  She nodded. “That’s why he knows all the ins and outs of the business. He jumped right in, filed all the permits and paperwork for the spa, and saved me a mess of headaches. Without him, I’m not sure I would have had the confidence to open the spa.” Esther glanced at her watch. “My goodness, so late? I have a meeting at the bank.”

  She turned and hurried back inside the main house. I wandered through the herb garden and down the path, trying to think up more blog ideas. I was already planning to blog about Zennia’s wheatgrass, but I wanted to make a list of go-to topics for those days when I was stumped. As I rounded the bend near the redwood tree, I saw Sheila step onto the path up ahead, dressed in white pants and a silk tunic. She had a spa bath towel tucked under her arm. I expected her to turn toward the cabins at the juncture, but instead, she headed toward the Chicken Run Trail.

  Interesting. Why would someone carry a towel into the woods? No creeks ran along the trail. Esther certainly wasn’t hiding a swimming pool back there. And if Sheila expected to get sweaty on her walk, why wouldn’t she carry a handkerchief or hand towel?

  Unless she was trying to hide something. Like the murder weapon. What better way to dispose of the knife that killed Maxwell than to roll it up in a towel and hide it among all the trees and bushes?

  As Sheila disappeared around a corner, I picked up my pace, eager to see where she was going. She walked steadily ahead, as if she had a destination in mind. I stayed close enough to keep her in sight, but far enough away that I could dart back around a corner if she stopped.

  After several minutes of following her, the sweat began to form along my hairline and I brushed at the liquid with the back of my hand. Maybe Sheila would lend me her towel to dry my forehead. We had to be approaching the back of the property by now, the trees becoming denser, the terrain more sloped as it neared the mountains.

  Sheila stopped on a straight part of the path, next to a birch tree. She jerked her head to the right. Instinctively, I jumped back behind the nearest pine tree, hoping the trunk’s girth would protect me from detection.

  Did she know I was following her? Was she staring at the tree this very instant?

  The sound of snapping branches
reached my ears. Was Sheila trying to trick me into poking my head out? Or was she hiding the knife? The desire to find out was so strong that I clenched my teeth, my hands pressed firmly against the trunk.

  I silently began counting in my head, trying to calm my breathing at the same time. When I reached ten, I decided to take a peek.

  Keeping my back to the trunk, I stepped to the side and eased my head around the corner.

  An empty stretch of path waited for me. Nothing more.

  Holy crap.

  Sheila was gone.

  16

  I blinked several times, wondering if all this walking was causing me to hallucinate, but the path remained empty. No sign of Sheila.

  Had I hidden behind the tree that long? At her pace, she couldn’t have possibly rounded the next bend before I checked. Had she spotted me and run?

  I came out from behind the tree and hurried down the path, trying to keep my steps quiet while catching up to wherever she’d gone. I practically jogged around the next corner, body tense, ready to hide behind another tree if Sheila was just ahead. But the trail was still empty, another straight section of dirt.

  I returned to where Sheila had stopped. Maybe the snapping branches hadn’t been from Sheila hiding something, but rather the sound of her moving off the trail. As I got closer, I could see a faint path through the thick undergrowth.

  Better arm myself before I wandered into uncharted territory. I scanned the ground and grabbed a fist-sized rock, hefting it up to test the weight. Not the best weapon, but I probably wouldn’t find a better one under the circumstance. Taking a deep breath, I plunged into the opening, breaking more branches, the loud cracks making me wince. If Sheila was really disposing of a weapon, maybe I should be quieter.

  I slowed down and inched my way through the brush, trying to move the twigs and leaves ahead of me, the rock heavy in my hand. A fly buzzed by my eye and I swatted it away. By now, I could feel a layer of sweat sitting on my face, mingling with my foundation. Gross.

  Up ahead, movement caught my eye. I could see where the foliage ended and an open space began. Sheila stood near the base of the hill, staring at something. Then she bent down and dropped from sight.

  I pushed my way through the last few feet of bushes, cringing at every sound. If Sheila hadn’t disposed of the knife yet, I didn’t want her using it on me when she heard me coming. The rock I carried could only do so much.

  Just as I stepped past the last tree, Sheila sprang into my field of vision. I raised the hand with the rock at the sudden movement, ready to strike. Sheila threw up her hands and shrieked.

  I slowly lowered my arm and stepped out into the open space. For a killer, Sheila certainly didn’t look dangerous. Had I scared the bejeezus out of one of the guests because of my overactive imagination?

  “Sheila, you okay?”

  She backed up a foot, hands at her chest, partially blocking the butterfly pattern on the front of her silk tunic.

  “Look, I know I probably shouldn’t be back here. I just ...” her voice trailed away, her eyes focused on the rock in my hand.

  I dropped the rock, suddenly aware of how threatening I must appear. “When you jumped in front of me, I freaked out. Sorry I scared you.” I skipped the part where I’d followed her from the spa with the hope of catching her getting rid of a murder weapon.

  I glanced past Sheila to where the towel lay on the ground, still rolled up. Nearby, a pool of water shimmered in the sun.

  She smoothed her tunic, drawing my attention back to her. “I heard you coming through the bushes and was worried that you were a wild animal or, worse yet, the killer.”

  I brushed past her to look into the pool, where little bubbles rose to the surface. Dropping the murder weapon into the water would be the perfect plan. “What are you doing out here?”

  Sheila joined me and gestured to the water, a bracelet with large colored beads encircling her tanned wrist. “I was walking through the woods yesterday, looking for inspiration for my next line of jewelry pieces, and stumbled across the springs. The water is so warm and the area so peaceful that I came back today to soak my feet.”

  “That explains the towel,” I said more to myself than to Sheila, suddenly feeling like the world’s biggest jackass, chasing guests through the woods, threatening them with rocks.

  Sheila grabbed the towel from the ground and it unrolled, revealing more white terry cloth fabric and no knife. Big surprise.

  She shook out the towel. “I almost didn’t bring it. Esther hasn’t said we have to stay on the path, but I wasn’t sure if we were supposed to be back here, what with no trail or markers. I knew I might attract attention if I strolled away from the cabins with a towel tucked under my arm, heading in the opposite direction from the pool.”

  Well, she’d certainly attracted my attention.

  Sheila spread the towel out. “Do you mind if I dip my feet for a moment?”

  Would Esther mind? Did she even know about the springs, tucked way back here at the base of the hill, nowhere near the path? Being alone with Sheila might be my one opportunity to ask about the necklace or where she was when I was collecting eggs. Just because she wasn’t the one who’d killed Maxwell, didn’t mean she didn’t push me. I hadn’t caught a glimpse of my assailant. The attacker could have been a man or woman.

  “You did walk all the way out here,” I said.

  Slipping off her sandals, she plopped on the ground, making me cringe on behalf of her flared white pants. Not like Sheila to get so dirty.

  She rolled the fabric up a few inches and swung her feet into the water. “Love it,” she said, but her voice lacked enthusiasm.

  “Everything all right?” I asked.

  In the sunlight, I could see gray roots peeking out from her hair part.

  Sheila swirled her leg in the water, ripples gliding across the surface. “Thinking about poor Maxwell.”

  I walked over to where she sat and crouched down. “I heard you two were married. I’m sure his death was a shock.” Especially if she caused it in a moment of fury.

  “Not just a shock but a waste. I know most of Maxwell’s movies were those silly horror flicks, but every now and again, he’d produce a beautiful film, one that resonated with people and could open their eyes to others’ plights.”

  Guess she wasn’t referring to The Dead Man Always Rings Thrice, one of Maxwell’s early works.

  “At least you can take comfort that his memory will live forever through his movies.” I scooped up a handful of leaves and tossed one into the water, watching it float lazily on the surface. I tossed in another leaf.

  Tears tumbled down Sheila’s cheek, rolling into the crease around her mouth. “It certainly will.”

  I touched her shoulder, almost tipping over from my crouched position. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You didn’t. I’ve been missing Maxwell since he was murdered.” She raised her head and looked at the trees on the hill. “He wanted us to get back together, you know.”

  “Get out.” I slapped a hand over my mouth and waited for a tongue-lashing at my inadvertent rudeness, but Sheila let out a chuckle.

  “I know I’m not young. My beauty has begun to fade.”

  I started to correct her, but she talked over my attempt at interruption.

  “And Maxwell could have any starlet he wanted. But he realized that what he wanted was a woman who would stand behind him, not one who would climb over him to advance her career.”

  I sat down in the dirt, rubbing the ache in my knee caused by crouching. “He told you this?”

  Sheila twisted her bracelet, admiring the leaf pattern etched in the large gold clasp. “On Friday. He came to my cabin after dinner. Said he wanted to see how I’ve been doing the last few years. We hadn’t spoken since the divorce, you see.”

  “How long since you two split up?” Sheila’s leg movement had sent the errant leaf back to the edge and I scooped it out of the water.

  “Five years. We
parted on fairly rotten terms. At the time, I was consumed with anger, but I’d forgiven him.” She plucked a pine needle off her pants and snapped it in half.

  “And now he wanted you back?” If her story was true, she didn’t have much of a reason to kill Maxwell over a bad divorce. Having your ex-husband want you back was the best revenge.

  Sheila rotated the bracelet again, fingering the beads. “Something happens to men after their midlife crisis ends. They wake up one day and realize that flashy cars and flashier girls don’t guarantee happiness. Maxwell was tired of questioning everyone’s motives, and being used for his connections in the industry. That Tiffany hounded him day and night for a role in his next movie.”

  I thought back to what Tiffany had said, about how she hadn’t had to sleep with Maxwell, although she’d sounded ready if the need arose. “She does seem ambitious,” I commented.

  Sheila twisted her mouth. “Ambitious is one word. Predatory is another. But Maxwell was done playing those games.”

  “And you’re sure he was sincere?” I asked. The man did create a world of fiction for a living, after all. And Sheila’s fairy tale story of the egotistical man trying to woo back the only woman who was ever good to him sounded a bit clichéd, like a late-night Lifetime movie.

  “Yes, he bought me a necklace as a reconciliation gift. Quite generous for Maxwell. Gave it to me on Saturday after yoga. Must have been right before he was killed.”

  So Maxwell had actually given her the necklace between the time he caught Heather trying it on and when I’d seen it in Sheila’s room.

  Sheila choked back a sob. “He must have spent a fortune. All those gems.”

  “You don’t need to tell me. Man, that baby sparkled.”

  She turned toward me. “How do you know? Did Maxwell show you the necklace?”

  Oops. Couldn’t exactly admit I was snooping in her room while changing towels. “Um, I don’t remember where I saw it.”

  Her face settled into an expression of neutrality, like a shop that’s closed for the night.