Going Organic Can Kill You

by McLaughlin, Staci

  Gordon slapped the table, and I jumped. “Not if we get moving now. Dana can write a release for the local papers, post some specials on our Web site.”

  “We could angle it toward a couple’s retreat,” I said. “Offer a room-service breakfast, champagne and chocolates in the evenings.”

  Esther slid off the end of the bench and began pacing the patio. “Champagne might make me tipsy, but it wouldn’t let me forget I was staying at a spa where two people have died.”

  “Only one person has died at the spa. Queenie was over on her own property,” I said.

  “But the guests don’t see it that way,” Esther said. “And with no guests, I’m afraid I can’t employ you all full-time.”

  My breath caught in my throat and I looked at the others. Two sets of wide eyes and one set of narrowed eyes looked back at me.

  “Which one of us is getting the ax?” asked Gordon, owner of the narrowed eyes.

  “I’m not firing anyone.” Esther settled back down on the edge of the bench. “Instead, everyone can work part time, at least for the next few days until we figure out whether we’ll have any guests left.” She looked at Zennia. “I can handle breakfast and lunch for two people. You’ll be in charge of afternoon snacks and dinners.”

  “I can prep the veggies in the evening to shorten your work on the lunches,” Zennia said.

  Esther shifted her gaze. “Christian, I’ll cut your classes to two a day, both in the morning.”

  “One Pilates, one yoga. Got it,” Christian said.

  Now her look fell on me. “Dana, work half days for your blog and other tasks. You can pick your hours.”

  “Fine,” I said. If my work time was being cut, I might need to arrange my hours around the second job I’d be forced to get.

  She had saved Gordon for last. I noticed the hand resting on the tabletop trembled a bit. “Gordon, you’ll need to cut your hours as well.”

  “Don’t think you’re getting rid of me,” Gordon said. He stood up, hands balled on the table.

  “Now don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Esther said.

  An image of Gordon in old-fashioned underwear flashed into my mind, but I blocked it out. Now was not the time to laugh.

  “My role,” he hissed, “is to keep this farm afloat. You can’t possibly run this place alone.”

  Esther rose from her place on the bench and faced Gordon. I heard Zennia gasp and felt Christian stiffen beside me.

  “My husband and I ran this farm long before you showed up. I appreciate your help but I won’t tolerate your sass anymore.”

  I held my breath, sure he’d internally combust, flip the table over, kill a chicken with his bare hands, drown me in the pool.

  Instead, he turned and stomped into the house, hands in fists at his side, like a five-year-old whose mom wouldn’t buy him a Happy Meal.

  I watched his back until he’d passed through the dining room doorway. Gordon always seemed angry and suspicious of the world, lugging around a backpack full of bitterness. Had he killed Maxwell in a rage? Whenever anyone called him on his attitude, he backed down, but maybe he’d exploded with Maxwell. And what about Queenie? I still didn’t know how he’d seen the emergency vehicles from the farm.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Esther said. Her lower lip trembled. “I don’t like to argue with my staff. Or in front of them.”

  Zennia gripped her hand. “Gordon is too combative. I’ve offered him ashwagandha root, a known soul soother, but he refuses to recognize his problem.”

  Esther fingered a button on her shirt. “He has such passion for this farm, such vision. And now it’s going under, just like his bed and breakfast.” She looked around the table. “Meeting adjourned.” She remained on the bench, staring at the wood surface.

  Christian headed back toward the cabins, and I walked into the house, Zennia right behind.

  “Want me to fix you an early dinner?” she asked. “I know you didn’t have a chance to eat lunch.”

  “No thanks. I’ll stop for Chicken McNuggets on my way home.” Mom probably had a healthy meal planned, but after the day I’d had, I deserved something yummy and heart stopping.

  Zennia groaned. “How can you possibly eat those? Did you know McNuggets and Play-Doh share a common ingredient? Dimethylpolysiloxane.”

  “I haven’t eaten Play-Doh since I was three. Maybe I should give it another try.”

  Zennia gave me a playful shove into the hallway.

  I stopped by the office to update my time sheet, then hopped in my car. After a quick stop at the drive-thru, I pulled up to the house.

  Ashlee met me at the front door and snatched my takeout bag from my hand. “Dana, you poor thing. How are you? Let me help you with that.”

  I reached for my sack of processed chicken parts, but she’d whisked it away, along with herself. Plates clacked, the bag rustled. By the time I reached the kitchen, Ashlee had placed the carton and sauce container on a plate and set the meal on the table.

  She rearranged the oranges and bananas in the ever-present fruit bowl, wiped a few stray crumbs off the table, and stepped back. “You’d probably rather eat in front of the TV.” She lifted the plate from the table and moved toward the living room.

  “I can carry my own dinner.”

  I made a grab for my cooling chicken, but she twisted around and kept walking.

  “Nonsense. You’ve had a hard day.” She set the plate on the coffee table and placed the remote control next to it. “Anything to drink?”

  Had aliens invaded Ashlee’s body? Where was my real sister? “Mom? You here? Mom?”

  Ashlee plucked at my sleeve. “Sit down. I’ll get Mom.”

  “Are you all right?” I asked her.

  She gripped my shoulders and practically pushed me into the recliner. “You’re the one who isn’t all right. Please, eat. I’ll take care of everything. And when you’re done eating, you can tell me about Queenie’s death. You know people will be asking me.”

  Ah, so the extra attention was Ashlee’s way of buttering me up for information.

  Mom appeared from down the hall. “Dana, I’m so glad you’re home. What a horrible day. How are you?”

  “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

  “Martha from my bunco group called a while ago to tell us about Queenie,” she said. “You can’t keep finding dead bodies like that.”

  “I’m not doing it on purpose.”

  Ashlee took my plate. “I’ll reheat these in the microwave.”

  “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling,” Mom said. “Another death, such a shock.”

  When Ashlee returned, she carried the chicken, plus my slippers. “Thought you might be more comfortable.” She set the plate on the table again and the slippers by my feet.

  “Stop that. You’re freaking me out.”

  “Dana, your sister knows you must be upset about these deaths. She’s trying to be supportive.”

  I slipped off my sandals and stuck my feet in the slippers. “Happy?”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about,” Ashlee said.

  The doorbell rang and I practically knocked Mom down on my way to the door. Probably the UPS guy, but I’d welcome any disruption in this Twilight Zone scene.

  Jason stood on the doorstep, the evening sun highlighting the red in his hair. I smoothed down an eyebrow with an index finger, not that one smooth eyebrow would do any good with the rest of me in a jumble.

  “I wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing.”

  I grabbed his arm. “I’m glad you’re here. Would you like to come in?” I pictured Ashlee giggling and drooling all over him and regretted my offer.

  “I don’t have time, thanks. The paper’s putting out an extra edition because of the murder.”

  “Do the police have any more information?”

  Jason glanced past me into the house. “Not sure how much I should say. Don’t want you scooping my scoop, so to speak.”

  I took him by the
elbow and guided him down the walk toward his car, out of earshot of Mom and Ashlee.

  “Please, I need to know if the police are close to an arrest. The spa is in serious trouble. I could be out of a job, and Esther might lose her dream.”

  Jason rubbed his goatee. “They’ve narrowed the time of death to between ten and midnight. And she was strangled with the netting on her beekeeper veil.”

  “But no idea why? Or who?”

  “Not yet. But don’t give up hope.” He wrapped an arm around my back and I momentarily laid my head on his shoulder, enjoying the warmth. He pulled out his car keys. “I’ve got a story to write. But promise me you’ll be careful.”

  I felt a chill, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t because Jason had removed his arm from my shoulder. “What do you mean?”

  “Those two deaths have to be connected. And you’ve found both bodies. The killer might wonder if he left behind any clues. If you found anything you weren’t supposed to.”

  “But I didn’t. I don’t know anything.” My voice squeaked as I spoke.

  Jason opened his car door. “Doesn’t matter. He might come after you next.”

  26

  After a night of staring at the ceiling and listening for any unusual floorboard creaks, thanks to Jason’s warning, I awoke to a minor headache and a major bad mood. The smell of fake eggs simmering in a coating of non-stick fake cooking spray didn’t help.

  “Want some eggs, Dana?” Mom asked, more chipper than Barney the Dinosaur.

  “Just toast.” I wrenched two slices out of the bag. Were those sprouts in my bread? “I really need some white bread.”

  “Nonsense. This brand is full of fiber. Good for digestion.”

  “You sound like Zennia.”

  Mom slid her eggs onto a plate. “I should meet this Zennia. She could give me some healthy cooking tips.”

  “No.” Having Zennia teach Mom about wheatgrass and fish granules was not an option.

  “My goodness, but you’re surly this morning.”

  I pulled the toast from the toaster, singeing my fingertips, and smeared I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter across the surface, crumbs falling in a heap as I attacked the bread with the knife.

  “Got a lot on my mind.” I slapped the bread on a plate and stalked off to the living room.

  Since Esther had given me the option of setting my own half-day schedule, I spent the morning sorting through the rest of the boxes I’d brought home from San Jose. Call me superstitious, but I’d left a stack in the corner of my bedroom, untouched, somehow believing that if I opened the final boxes, it meant I was never leaving home again. Now, I unwrapped the picture frames and glass figurines and set them on my dresser top, telling myself the situation was only temporary.

  With the boxes emptied and broken down for recycling, I threw together a turkey sandwich, eating at the counter, and then drove to the farm. Only three cars sat in the lot. For a moment, I felt like I’d flashed back in time to last week, with Esther and the rest of us waiting for opening weekend. But no, opening weekend had come and gone and so had most of the guests.

  Gordon sat at the computer in the office, his suit jacket draped over the back of the chair. His greased hair gleamed in the lights as he studied the screen with a frown.

  “How are the reservations today?” I asked.

  “Cancelled. We’ve still got three couples lined up, but they probably haven’t heard about the second murder yet.”

  Lord, the farm was truly going out of business.

  “I thought about marketing angles last night,” I said. “We could have two approaches. First, make the place a family day-trip destination. Offer classes on pig tying or conduct chicken races. Let kids pick their own vegetables. On the other side, we could ratchet up the spa services for the yuppie crowd, advertise in the health and wellness magazines.”

  Gordon grunted. “Not bad. But that doesn’t help us today. I’m working with the meat and toiletry suppliers, trying to get a discount. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes and then you can have the computer.”

  “I’ll come back.” I wandered out the back door and through the herb garden, inhaling the scent of dill. The midday temperature was already too warm, and on its way to getting hotter. I should have worn shorts again today, instead of my jeans.

  At the pigsty, I leaned over the rail and patted Wilbur’s head. He oinked in return.

  “Don’t be mad if I tie up your feet,” I told him. “I’m only doing it for Esther. And to keep you and your buddies well-fed.”

  Behind me, the click-clack of heels sounded on the pavement. Tiffany tottered toward me in a minidress, her blond hair piled on her head, a large satchel in one hand.

  “Didn’t realize you were still here,” I said when she stopped at the sty.

  She dropped the bag on the ground. “I’ll be leaving as soon as my ride gets here.” Another suspect taking off, and nothing I could do to stop her. Would I find incriminating information about her after she left, like I had with Logan?

  Wilbur nuzzled my fingers with his slimy snout and I moved my hand away, wiping the snot on my jeans. I’d better say something if I wanted to gather any last information. “You didn’t drive yourself up?”

  “No, tagged along with a buddy heading up to Oregon. He’s coming back tomorrow, but I want to get the hell out of here, so I called one of my friends.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t catch a ride with Logan.”

  “Believe me, I would have if I’d known he was leaving.”

  “Think you’ll get in touch with him once you get back home? I noticed you two were getting awful close.”

  Tiffany tilted her head. “Logan’s gay, you know.”

  I blinked. News to me. Guess my gaydar was broken, not that I had one. “Then why were you two looking so cozy the last couple of days?”

  Tiffany tugged at her hem. Maybe if she bought longer skirts, she wouldn’t tug at them all the time.

  “Sometimes it’s nice to talk to a guy who you know doesn’t want to sleep with you.”

  Was this the same girl who’d planned to boink Maxwell for a movie role?

  Then she winked at me. “But don’t worry, I had a whole lot of fun while I was here.”

  Fun at a spa where a man suffered a violent death? Tiffany was whacked.

  Clucking from the nearby coop brought to mind the mysterious note I’d found on Maxwell’s nightstand the day of his death. “Did you leave a note in Maxwell’s room, asking him to meet you behind the chicken yard?”

  Tiffany tittered. “Yep, sure did.”

  “Not to land that movie role?”

  Tiffany twirled a tendril of hair hanging down from her topknot. “He brushed me off when I approached him before about playing Isabella, so my next plan was to seduce him. Once I got him in bed, he’d change his mind. Others have.”

  I took a step closer into her personal space, trying to catch her off guard. “When he brushed you off, was that when he pushed you?”

  She fought to keep her face calm but she couldn’t stop her eyes from widening for an instant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Someone saw Maxwell laugh at you, then push you to the ground.”

  “I don’t know who you heard that from, but they’re crazy. Maxwell would never laugh at me.”

  Funny how she denied the laughing part, rather than being pushed down.

  “Guess I heard wrong. When did you leave the note in his room?”

  “After yoga. I saw him leave his cabin, found the door unlocked, and left it. ’Course, he got killed right after that, so I figured the police kept the note. And here I only came to the spa to win that role.”

  “You weren’t celebrating your new movie?”

  Tiffany dabbed at the corners of her lips with her ring finger, but her gloss was already perfect. “That was the excuse I gave. But I’ve got a mole at Maxwell’s studio, and she told me when he decided to stay here. Figur
ed it was my one chance to catch him alone.”

  This girl was shameless. Of course, Maxwell had created almost the same plan to win back Sheila. But Logan seemed to think he’d done it for love, while Tiffany had used her sneaky devices for fame.

  A car horn beeped near the front of the house. Tiffany picked up her bag. “Bet that’s my ride. See ya.”

  She toddled off, all eye candy and sex appeal. If the police arrested her for Maxwell’s murder, she’d look fantastic on the stand. But I didn’t think Tiffany had killed Maxwell. My money was on Sheila or Logan.

  I left the pigsty and walked down the path. If I had my timeline correct, Maxwell had confronted Heather about the necklace immediately after breakfast. Logan spoke with him before yoga class, and Maxwell was angry.

  The chickens clucked at me as I went by.

  Was Maxwell upset about Heather or about Logan applying to another studio? He’d left yoga early, then later taken the necklace to Sheila in an attempt to reconcile. Tiffany saw Maxwell leave his cabin and slipped in to drop off the note.

  I cut through the camellia bushes and onto the patio. The pool water shimmered in the sun, the surface smooth.

  Maxwell had then returned to his room after being rebuffed by Sheila, and someone had killed him. Had Sheila followed Maxwell back to his cabin, furious at his offer of reconciliation? Perhaps the glitzy necklace had set her off, yet another example of how Maxwell only thought of himself.

  Or maybe Maxwell had confronted Logan about his job application and reminded Logan that the screenplay really belonged to the studio. Logan could have stewed while Maxwell was in yoga, then attacked him upon his return.

  But what about the murder weapon? Either one could have easily hidden the knife before and after the attack, Logan in one khaki pant leg or Sheila in the long sleeves of those loose blouses she loved to wear. But where did they hide it afterward?

  I followed the path past the far side of the pool and around to the cabins.

  Esther stood before Maxwell’s cabin, fingering the number seven on the door.

  “Need help?” I asked.

  Esther jerked her head at me. “Goodness, I didn’t hear you come up.” She plucked at a button, her favorite habit. “I can’t believe how everything went so wrong. People are cancelling their reservations.”