Going Organic Can Kill You

by McLaughlin, Staci

  Oh, to have such problems. Instead, I needed to retrieve the second bowl of flowers. As I turned toward the house, Christian and Gordon emerged from the back door and walked to the edge of the pool.

  “If I move the mats to the patio,” Christian said, “we’ll have the necessary space.”

  “Unacceptable,” Gordon said. “Guests like to socialize by the picnic tables. We can’t cover the area with your silly yoga mats.”

  Christian gestured toward the smaller patio. “With the increase in class attendance, we can’t all fit on that side of the pool. We need to move to a larger area where our energy can flow freely.”

  Gordon stepped closer to Christian, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Then find a place out of the way. Those mats are a tripping hazard.”

  I wedged myself between the two men. “Christian could set the mats out immediately before the classes and remove them as soon as a class is over.”

  “Dana, stay out of this,” Gordon said.

  A wave of anger rose up in me, and my jaw seized up. “I’m trying to help, Gordon.”

  “I’ll handle Christian and his mat issues. You need to focus on your little blog.”

  Before I could snap back with a witty retort that I was sure to think of any second, I heard “Yoo-hoo, Dana!”

  Esther hustled out of the house, carrying the second bowl of daffodils.

  I removed myself from between the Gordon and Christian bookends and met her by the edge of the large patio.

  “Morning, Esther. What can I help you with?”

  “I wanted to thank you for helping out this morning with the pigs. You really saved my bacon.” Esther chuckled at her own joke. Maybe I’d suggest she perform a stand-up routine for the guests if nothing else panned out.

  I straightened a chaise longue that sat at an angle from the others. “It was fun once I got the hang of it.” And the pigs stopped laughing at me.

  “Oh, good. So what are your plans for today?”

  “I was about to write my blog and then the cricket-chirping contest is this afternoon.”

  Esther slapped a hand to the side of her face. “How could I forget the contest? Too bad you’ll miss Zennia’s famous French honey walnut dessert. I’ll see if she can save you some.” I could almost see her writing a mental note as she pressed her lips together. “I never asked how Queenie was when you bought that honey. She wasn’t too much trouble, was she?”

  Let’s see. She’d threatened me with a shotgun, ranted about sinners, and scared an extra five years off my life. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  Esther leaned toward me. “I don’t mind telling you, she turned more than one hair gray the first few times I saw her. But she’s a kindhearted woman. And quite the Bible lover.”

  “She did quote a lot of scripture when I was there. In fact, I think she mentioned Maxwell, though I couldn’t quite figure out what she was babbling about.”

  Esther’s hand fluttered to her heart. “Maxwell? Did she know him?”

  “Probably not. But she might have seen him with a woman on that bench near her trailer.”

  “A woman?”

  I leaned in. “Queenie mentioned a golden-haired hussy.”

  A faint blush crept up Esther’s throat and into her cheeks. She fanned herself with her hand. “Oh, my goodness me.”

  Gordon cleared his throat at my elbow, and I jumped.

  “Do you ladies mind if we don’t entertain the guests with this salacious tale?”

  I glanced over at the patio. While I’d been regaling Esther with the details, Sheila had lowered her journal and Tiffany and Logan had set their cards on the table, all eyes on me. My bad.

  When my gaze settled on Tiffany, she bent her head and stared at her hands. Wish I hadn’t mentioned that part about the golden-haired hussy. “Esther, I’d better write that blog now.”

  The steam from Gordon’s anger practically formed a cocoon around him. I turned away from everyone, and slinked into the house, feeling the pressure of everybody staring at my back.

  In the office, I drummed my fingers on the desk. Writing a blog every day was proving harder than I had imagined. Well, the writing part was easy. Thinking of a topic was the hard part.

  I hadn’t come up with my list of extra topics yet, so I Googled other overnight spas to see if they had their own blogs and whether I could glean some ideas from those. The first hit was a spa in Oregon that catered to the nudist crowd. The next spa, in Arizona, offered rattlesnake taming as an option. The third hit was actually a newspaper article about a spa back east where a woman had been scammed out of her life savings by a gigolo. Guess we weren’t the only spa with a scandal on our hands. But none of these sites was helping me find a blog topic.

  I pictured Sheila writing in her journal, remembered her comment yesterday about looking for jewelry inspiration. Living among nature here at the spa clearly helped her tap into her creative side. And that’s what I’d recommend to readers. I typed up the blog, touting the benefits of fresh air and healthy food, and finished by suggesting the spa as an artists’ retreat.

  As I hit the POST button, I saw Heather walk past the door. I hadn’t talked to her since I’d confronted her about the towels. She might have seen something in Maxwell’s cabin the morning he was killed that would give me a clue as to why he was angry before yoga.

  I jumped up from the desk chair and hurried into the hall. Heather was at the kitchen doorway.

  “Heather,” I called.

  She stopped just as I heard voices at the other end of the hall. I turned toward the sound and saw Esther and Detective Caffrey enter from the lobby. The detective wore that neutral expression all cops seemed to master, offering no clue as to whether he suspected me of killing Maxwell or was trying to remember if he had enough clean underwear until laundry day.

  “Dana,” Esther said, “Detective Caffrey needs to talk to the staff again about Maxwell’s murder.”

  I looked back toward Heather to ask her to wait for me, but the doorway was empty. I’d have to catch her another time. Right now, I’d rather try to gather information from Detective Caffrey, if he was willing to share.

  “Any progress?” I asked him as he and Esther stopped before me.

  “I don’t comment on open investigations. But we need to go over your statement.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s go sit in the dining room.”

  Now was my opportunity to pass along all the information I’d gathered, from Queenie witnessing Maxwell’s little tryst and talking about blood spilling, to someone pushing me, to Sheila having possession of the necklace. Even if she claimed Maxwell gave her the jewelry as a gift, the police would want to verify her story.

  I followed the detective across the hall. The tables were set, ready for the lunch crowd, the silverware and maroon napkins laid out atop the cream tablecloth. Out the glass doors, I could see Sheila still sitting by the pool. Tiffany and Logan were no longer at the table.

  Detective Caffrey pulled a chair out, then sat down on the opposite side of the table. Guess this was my interrogation seat.

  I sat down and clasped my hands in front of me on the table. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve found out quite a bit that I want to share.”

  As he yanked his notebook from his dress shirt pocket, the springs hooked on his tie and he struggled to extract the cloth. “Let’s start with what you saw the day of the murder. Oftentimes witnesses will remember details on the second or third telling, once the emotions have calmed down.”

  I leaned forward. “First, let me tell you what Queenie said.”

  “Ms. Lewis, again, we’re talking about you.”

  My hands bumped a fork and I lined it back up with the knife. “But her information might be important.”

  The muscle below his eye began to twitch. “Is there a reason you’re being difficult, Ms. Lewis?”

  I leaned back in my chair. Why wasn’t he listening to me? “That’s not my intention. But I told you everything l
ast time.”

  “So tell me again. From the last time you saw Maxwell Mendelsohn on Sunday. Alive, that is.”

  I drummed my fingers on my knee and studied the daffodil in the bud vase on the table. “Well, I was helping Esther catch a loose pig when I saw Maxwell in Christian’s yoga class.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “Tiffany, Sheila, and a woman I hadn’t met. I believe she checked out the next day, and I never saw her after that yoga class.”

  Detective Caffrey scribbled in his notebook, the pen’s scratching noises clearly audible in the quiet room. “How did Mr. Mendelsohn appear?”

  “Fine. I noticed he was eyeing Sheila, his ex-wife, although I didn’t know she was his ex-wife at that point.”

  Detective Caffrey wrote in his book. The eye spasm had ceased.

  When he didn’t say anything, I continued. “Maxwell couldn’t complete the tree pose and got mad. Stormed off before class ended.”

  “Then what did you see?”

  I thought back to that day, Maxwell walking off, everyone returning to yoga. “Nothing. But when I talked to Logan later, he mentioned that his boss was angry before yoga, though he didn’t know why.”

  Detective Caffrey stopped writing. “Let’s focus on what you personally saw.”

  “But whoever Maxwell was upset with might have killed him. And did you know Maxwell wanted to reunite with Sheila? Even bought her a fancy necklace.”

  At this, Detective Caffrey closed his notebook with a snap. “Ms. Lewis, I was afraid of this.”

  My heart stilled. “What do you mean?”

  “This is a criminal investigation.”

  “I know, that’s why I’m passing along all this information.”

  Detective Caffrey frowned. “What you’re doing is looking at a charge of obstructing justice.”

  Criminy, what did I do?

  18

  “Obstructing justice? I’m helping you.” The nerve of that man!

  The tic started below Detective Caffrey’s eye again. He should really see his doctor about that. “We don’t call it helping when a citizen gathers information from suspects in a murder investigation.”

  “You make it sound like I’m interviewing people.” I put my hands on my hips to show him how offended I was by his accusation, though the table partially obscured his view and probably ruined the effect. “I mean, if I run into someone, I might talk about the murder—everyone is—but I’m certainly not trying to do your job. People tell me things. It’s a curse.” Especially when they tell me about their ex-husband’s package size.

  Based on the speed of his eye twitch, I could only assume my answer didn’t please him. Maybe the curse remark was a stretch.

  “Let me be clear,” he said. “I cannot have regular citizens interfering. I’m warning you to stay out.”

  “I’m no ordinary citizen. I found the body, remember?”

  Detective Caffrey glowered at me. I felt my skin heat up, little beads of perspiration forming at my hairline.

  “I mean, yes sir.”

  With a sigh, Detective Caffrey opened his notebook again. “Let’s jump ahead to when you found the body.”

  “Right. I was taking clean towels to each room. Maxwell’s door was unlocked, so I stood outside for a minute ...”

  The detective held up his hand. “Hold on. His door wasn’t locked?”

  “Didn’t I tell you that before?”

  “No. See what I mean about remembering extra details? But go on.”

  “I poked my head in, saw his feet, and debated whether to come back. But then I figured I’d try to sneak in and not wake him. That’s when his phone rang. When he didn’t wake up, I stepped up to the bed and saw that he was dead.”

  I tried to ignore the fact that I’d made a rhyme, but the phrase I’m a poet and didn’t know it popped into my head. Good grief, we were talking about a dead guy and all I could do was act like a ten-year-old.

  Detective Caffrey and I sat in silence while he jotted my information down.

  “Say,” I finally said, “did you guys figure out who that note was from? The one that asked Maxwell to meet them behind the chicken coop?”

  Detective Caffrey stilled, all but his tic, which increased in pace. Uh-oh.

  “Did you tell anyone else about the note?” His voice was calm, his words carefully spaced.

  “I don’t think so.” Had I?

  “Ms. Lewis, that note may be critical to finding the killer. Letting that information slip would be worse than your habit of talking to suspects.”

  I felt like creeping beneath the tablecloth under his cop stare. “I won’t mention it. But speaking of the chickens, now might be a good time to tell you how someone shoved me when I found a money clip by the coop. Snatched it right out of my hand.”

  He flipped to a new page in his notebook. “You were physically assaulted? When?”

  “Yesterday morning.”

  Detective Caffrey sighed again. Did I tire him out that much?

  “Why didn’t you contact me?”

  “I wasn’t hurt. And I didn’t see the person. And who knows if the clip is connected to the murder.” The reasons had sounded plausible yesterday, but sitting before the detective, I wondered if keeping quiet had been the best decision.

  “Tell me what the money clip looked like.”

  I picked at a speck of lint on the tablecloth. “I only saw it for a second. It was silver.”

  Detective Caffrey clicked his pen, repeatedly. His expression held a hint of exasperation. “That’s all for now. I may have additional questions. And will you contact me immediately if anyone assaults you again?”

  “You bet.” Just call me Miss Cooperation.

  He rose, stuffed his notebook in his shirt pocket, and walked out of the dining room.

  I stayed in my chair, studying the silverware and thinking about our conversation. That detective was one tightlipped fellow. I’d learned nothing about the investigation.

  Maybe I needed to stay out of the way, like the detective said. Of course, if people volunteered information, I couldn’t help that. What was I supposed to do, plug my ears?

  I stood and stretched, feeling the muscles in my back loosen a bit. I should listen to my advice to Zennia and try Christian’s yoga class. Improve my flexibility. Or I could stop by the Watering Hole for a margarita instead. That’d relax all my muscles.

  As I stepped from the dining room, Esther exited the office across the hall, pulling the edge of her green blouse down to cover her belly.

  “Dana, are you done with the detective?”

  “Just finished. Now I need to see if Zennia needs help with lunch.”

  Esther waved her hand. “I’ll help her. You need to leave for the cricket-chirping contest.”

  I glanced at my watch. “Setup isn’t for over an hour. I could help here.”

  “Nonsense. You skedaddle now. You’re a sweetheart for filling in at the contest for me.”

  Or a gutless wonder for not refusing her request.

  The interior of my Honda was too warm for comfort and I pulled away from the seat, trying to keep my shirt from sticking. Though summer was a few weeks away, the temperature continued to rise. I hit the air-conditioning switch and pulled out of the lot.

  With an hour to kill, I exited at State Street, zipped through the Taco Bell drive-thru, and drove my gordita and chalupa treasures home.

  Ashlee’s Camaro sat in the driveway. She must be on her lunch break. I flipped a U, pulled up to the curb, and got out, waving to Mr. McGowen, our thirty-year neighbor working in his yard next door.

  The inside of the house was dark and cool. I headed straight for the kitchen, the aroma from my Mexican food making my mouth water.

  At the table, Ashlee ate the last quarter of a tuna sandwich.

  When she saw my plastic bag, her eyes lit up.

  “If I’d known you were stopping at Taco Bell, I’d have put in my order.”

  I nodded toward her
plate. “Tuna not doing it for you?”

  “With low-fat mayo, tuna packed in water, and whole-wheat bread, that chalupa wrapper would taste better. But gotta keep those pounds off.”

  I sat down across from her and emptied my bag, more interested in eating tasty food than losing weight. “You on your lunch break?”

  “Nope, off for the rest of the day. Fleas took over the office, so the vet had to close this afternoon.”

  Cheese spilled out of my chalupa as I unwrapped it and I stuffed every last shred back in. “Where’s Mom?”

  “The store. Buying more food we’re not going to like.”

  I bowed my head and pretended to weep. “Thank goodness for fast food.”

  With her last bite of sandwich gone, Ashlee pushed her plate away, then sipped her bottled water. She studied me a moment, clearly wanting to say something.

  “Yes?” I asked, sinking my teeth into the gordita shell.

  “I’m wondering what you’re doing home.”

  “Eating lunch.”

  “I mean, why did you move back?”

  I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “To spend more time with you.”

  “I’m serious, Dana. You had a killer job at that computer company. I’m sure you could’ve landed a new spot at another company. Why are you here?”

  I gazed at Ashlee with her too bright lipstick and overload of eye shadow, not sure how much to say. But even though she was my little sister, now would be a good time to treat her as an adult.

  “Because I don’t think Mom is coping very well with Dad’s death.”

  Ashlee crossed her arms over her chest. “She’s fine. I’m here all the time.”

  “But I know Dad’s life insurance barely covered the funeral and he had such a small pension. Money is tight, and I want to help out.”

  “Go get another high paying job in San Jose and mail a check every month.”

  I resisted the urge to tell Ashlee how I’d turned down a generous offer from a large Bay Area firm. She wouldn’t understand.

  “Mom barely accepts my rent check. She wouldn’t allow me to mail money home just to help. Living here, I can buy groceries, gas up her car, and lighten the burden.”