Going Organic Can Kill You (Blossom Valley Mysteries)

by McLaughlin, Staci

  “Fine, I’ll tell them.” Gordon whirled around and stepped back into the lobby. “Everyone, could I have your attention please?”

  Conversations petered out and all eyes turned on Gordon.

  “Unfortunately, there’s been a death here at the farm.” Several gasps emanated from the group. “Maxwell Mendelsohn.” At this, Logan stopped texting and looked up, a lock of hair breaking loose and hanging in his eyes. “Please wait here until the police have a chance to speak with each of you.”

  Several people started talking to each other, the volume gradually rising. Gordon raised a hand and the room fell silent.

  “I understand what a terrible inconvenience this is for everyone,” Gordon said. “I’ll make sure the police conduct their interviews as quickly as possible so you can get back to enjoying all the fine amenities the O’Connell Farm and Spa has to offer.”

  Enjoy the spa after a man was murdered? I could use a little of whatever spiked cider Gordon was sipping.

  “In the meantime,” he continued, “I’ll arrange for some snacks and drinks to tide you over.” With that, he walked past me and headed toward the kitchen.

  The minute he moved, everyone started talking at once.

  “Maxwell’s dead?” Tiffany said, her hazel-green eyes wide.

  “Which one was Maxwell?” a man I didn’t know asked.

  Guess his vacation wouldn’t be too affected by the news.

  I backed out of the room before anyone could ask me questions and bumped into someone from behind.

  “Dana,” Heather said. “What’s happened? Why are the police here?” She was chomping on gum, the mint scent mingling with the fainter smell of cigarette smoke.

  I studied her, looking for a spark of guilt. Why had she really asked me to change the towels?

  “Maxwell was murdered,” I said without preamble, just to see her reaction.

  Heather’s face paled, her bottom jaw dropping open, exposing her tongue ring and a wad of gum. Her surprise seemed genuine enough, and I felt a tinge of guilt myself at suspecting her of anything. But a man had most likely been murdered and someone was guilty.

  “My God, do they know who did it?” she asked, fingering her T-shirt hem.

  “Not yet.” I looked Heather in the eye and hoped my voice wouldn’t tremble with my question. “What were you doing when I was taking the towels to the rooms?” I held my breath as I waited for her answer, wondering if she’d ever ask for my help again. Probably not.

  A shadow of emotion that I couldn’t quite name flitted across her face as she broke eye contact, but then her gaze settled over my left shoulder and her expression was replaced with wariness. I turned to see what had caught her attention.

  A man approached us from the lobby. His shoulder holster and buzz cut announced his status as a cop before he opened his mouth.

  He stopped before me and cleared his throat. “You’re Dana Lewis, right?” His voice was flat and businesslike.

  I nodded mutely, my throat suddenly dry.

  “I’m Detective Caffrey. I’ll be questioning you. Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

  “Let’s use the office,” I managed to choke out, my voice sounding scratchy. The room was only a few short steps away and I sank into the desk chair, suddenly unsure if my legs would continue to hold my weight.

  Detective Caffrey remained standing, looming over me. “You state that you found Mr. Mendelsohn’s body when you entered his room with fresh towels. Is that correct?”

  “He was lying on the bed. I thought he was sleeping.” Once more, an image of Maxwell’s prone body came to mind but I blinked it away.

  “Doesn’t the maid usually handle the towels?” Detective Caffrey asked.

  “Right, but she had something else to do and asked me to help out. Apparently the towels weren’t dry yet when she cleaned the rooms earlier.” What had Heather been doing? She’d been so vague when I asked. Had she somehow known Maxwell was dead and wanted me to find the body? Had she killed him herself and wanted to point the finger at me? Ridiculous.

  Detective Caffrey studied me, pen poised over his notebook, as those thoughts galloped through my brain. “Did you want to add anything else?” he asked. “The slightest detail may be important.”

  Perhaps Heather had a legitimate reason for not replacing the towels. No sense getting her in trouble with the police until I had a chance to ask her. I looked at Detective Caffrey’s shoes, black and shiny, much like Gordon’s. “No, nothing to add.”

  “Had you spoken to Mr. Mendelsohn on previous occasions?”

  I thought back to his stay at the farm. “Not that I recall. I mean, I’ve spotted him here and there, but we never spoke. I did talk to his assistant, Logan, when he didn’t show up for lunch.”

  “The assistant didn’t show up for lunch or Mr. Mendelsohn?”

  “Mr. Mendelsohn. I asked Logan if he was expecting his boss, so I could keep a plate of food ready, and he said yes.” Had Logan been lying to cover his crime? Trying to create an alibi? Good grief, if I kept suspecting everyone, I’d drive myself batty.

  Detective Caffrey jotted down a note. “Did you see Mr. Mendelsohn earlier in the day?”

  “Around eleven. He was in a yoga class, although he was struggling with the tree pose, got angry, and left.”

  Detective Caffrey stopped writing. “He was angry with the tree pose?”

  “Right. He almost fell over in front of the whole group.”

  “And that’s the last time you saw him?”

  I brushed at a patch of dirt on one knee that I had missed earlier. “He went back to his cabin after that.”

  “Did you actually see him enter his cabin?”

  I thought for a moment, trying to picture the scene. “No, I was helping Esther catch Wilbur before he ate all the vegetables.”

  “Are guests restricted on the number of vegetables they can consume?”

  “Wilbur’s a pig.”

  Detective Caffrey frowned. “He can’t eat that much.”

  If the detective had this much trouble following a simple conversation, Maxwell’s killer could rest easy. “No, Wilbur is an actual pig. You know, the oink-oink kind.”

  A muscle pulsed below Detective Caffrey’s eye. “Of course he is.” He looked over his pages, then snapped his notebook shut. “If you think of anything else, please contact me immediately.” He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to me.

  I tucked the card under the keyboard on the desk. “What now?”

  “I need to question the rest of the staff and the guests before they find out what’s happened.”

  Uh-oh. “Um, the guests already know Maxwell died.”

  The tic under his eye beat faster. “How did they find out?”

  I shoved the business card farther under the keyboard. “I explained to Gordon what had happened, and he told them.”

  “Who authorized you to release this information?”

  “No one. Deputy Williams told me to wait in the house and I thought I’d do you guys a favor by keeping the guests in one spot.” I swiped at my forehead, sure I felt perspiration forming. “But the guests don’t know he was murdered. Only the staff does.”

  Detective Caffrey pressed his lips together, his only sign of annoyance. “How many are on staff here?”

  “The maid, the manager, the yoga instructor, and the cook. And me, of course.”

  “I’ll talk to the maid first,” Detective Caffrey said.

  “Let’s see if she’s in the kitchen.”

  I stepped into the hall ahead of the detective and nearly bumped into Heather, her face flushed and glistening with sweat. Had she been listening at the door?

  “Detective Caffrey wants to talk to you.”

  “Me?” Her entire body visibly trembled as she fingered the bump in her jeans pocket.

  The detective gestured toward the office. “I’ll need to ask you a few questions.” He followed Heather into the room and shut the door, leav
ing me standing in the hall.

  Had Detective Caffrey noticed Heather shaking? What would she tell him about her absence?

  In the kitchen, Esther and Gordon sat across the table from each other. Esther clutched her teacup and stared into the porcelain bottom as if to read the leaves and find out what the future now held for the farm.

  “Once the guests realize Maxwell was murdered, they’ll demand an immediate refund,” Gordon said, accenting the word refund with a sweep of his arm.

  Esther shook her head slowly, whether in denial or defiance, I wasn’t sure. “Not everybody will go. Some of these people traveled cross-country for their stay. That’d be a mess of trouble to change all their plans and book new flights.”

  “You make it sound like murder is a mere inconvenience,” Gordon said. “We’re not talking about a power failure or too much rain in the forecast. A man was killed. And the assailant is at large. People will run.”

  I sat down next to Esther. “Let’s think positive. If the cops catch Maxwell’s killer right away, people won’t have a reason to leave.”

  Gordon snorted. “These cops are lucky if they see one murder a year. They won’t solve it.” With that, Gordon stood and walked out the back door. Amazing how he always disappeared when confronted with a dilemma.

  But Gordon was the least of my worries. If they didn’t catch the killer, no one would stay here. And no new guests meant no job for me. Which meant no paycheck. It felt like the air was being squeezed out of my lungs and I sucked in a mouthful. I didn’t know how much longer my contract would be extended here at the farm, but I needed every day I could get. I’d depleted my savings before moving back home and couldn’t afford to lose this job, not when Mom needed my help.

  Esther sniffed. “This spa is my dream. I promised Arnold before he died that I would never sell the farm, but without any guests, I can’t afford the upkeep. We have to keep this place open.”

  I studied the wrinkles in Esther’s face, the gray in her hair, and wondered if she’d aged after her husband had become ill, as Mom had after Dad’s passing. Esther shouldn’t have to face more troubles when her husband’s death was so recent.

  I slapped my palm on the table. “Don’t give up so fast. Have a little faith in the cops. And if I spot anything out of the ordinary while I’m working here at the farm, I’ll tell Detective Caffrey. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the help.” Or else tell me to butt out.

  “That’s sweet, Dana,” Esther said. “But what can you do?”

  Good question. But I owed it to Mom to help her friend. “You never know. Maybe I’ll uncover some important detail for the police.” I at least had to try.

  The back door banged open and I wondered if Gordon had returned with more tales of doom. Instead, the reporter from the Herald stood in the doorway. Crisply ironed creases ran down the front of his Levi’s, accentuating his height. His reddish-brown goatee, a shade lighter than his close-cropped hair, was neatly trimmed.

  He pointed a finger at me. “You there. Who are you?” he barked.

  Well, shoot, why’d he have to go and ruin his good looks by opening his mouth?

  5

  “If you’re looking to talk to the police, try the lobby,” I said, recognizing the local reporter who’d been covering the spa’s opening. Here I’d been eyeing him all weekend, but now that Maxwell had died, the prospect of being questioned by the guy with the dimples had lost its luster.

  I glanced at Esther to see how she wanted to handle the press, but she was staring at the rooster clock on the wall and appeared not to be listening. If I were her, I’d be trying to think up a magic potion to rewind that clock a few hours.

  The man waved a notebook in the air, not unlike the ones carried by the deputies. “Forget the cops. The name’s Jason Forrester. I’m a reporter for the Blossom Valley Herald, and I heard one of the staff found the body. Wouldn’t happen to be you, would it?”

  I stood frozen as he stared at me with his intense green eyes. What was wrong with me? Had I accidentally been hypnotized by the cover of a cheesy romance novel while standing in the checkout line? I never noticed men’s eyes. But they sure were green. I shook my head to restart my brain.

  “Sounds like you heard about the murder,” I said. “But I don’t think I’m allowed to talk to the press.”

  “So you are the one who found the victim. What can you tell me?” He held up his notebook and pen.

  From her place at the table, Esther swung her head back and forth between us, as if watching a Ping-Pong tournament.

  I raised my hands. “Hang on a minute. I should ask Detective Caffrey before I speak to you. I don’t want to break any laws.” I didn’t recall this particular scenario being covered on Law and Order, but considering I’d already helped notify the guests of Maxwell’s death when I wasn’t supposed to, I didn’t want to tick off the detective any more than I already had. The man did carry around handcuffs.

  “You won’t get in any trouble, trust me.” He gave me a grin full of teeth and I suddenly felt like Little Red Riding Hood facing the Big Bad Wolf. “The paper comes out tomorrow and I can’t afford to wait another week for your information.”

  Should I answer his questions? The police had only been here for roughly an hour, so surely they wouldn’t want me talking to a newspaper reporter, even the local guy. But what about freedom of the press?

  Detective Caffrey walked into the kitchen, saving me from my dilemma.

  “Forrester! I don’t remember saying you could bother people.”

  Jason straightened up. “I know you’re new to the department, but I’ve got an understanding with the sheriff when a major crime occurs.”

  Detective Caffrey adjusted the holster strap on his shoulder. “This is an open investigation and I don’t want you talking to anyone without checking with me first. I suggest you have the sheriff call me.”

  While the two argued, I inched back toward the hallway and slipped around the corner into the dining room. The linens had been stripped from the tables and replaced with fresh tablecloths and polished silverware. Lunch was a distant memory, replaced by the horror of finding Maxwell’s body.

  I brushed my hand across my eyes as if I could wipe away the image and stepped out the side door that led to the patio. Tiffany walked past, heading in the direction of the cabins.

  Even though I kept reminding myself that actors were just like everybody else, I felt my heart rate pick up as I opened my mouth to speak. Sure, she’d only starred in straight-to-video slashers, but Tiffany wouldn’t be the first Hollywood success to get their start in horror films. She could be the next Renee Zellweger or Naomi Watts for all I knew.

  I said a quick prayer that I wouldn’t babble like a deranged fan. “Tiffany, did you talk to the police already?” I asked.

  She stopped and looked at me, then back at the cabins, obviously torn. “Yep, all done.”

  “I hope you weren’t too upset by what happened.” As Gordon had pointed out, this was a vacation spa. People expected to relax, not be interrogated by the authorities.

  “Nah. They really didn’t ask a lot of questions, just if I knew Maxwell and when I’d seen him last. I told them how Maxwell had been in yoga with me and got all pissy.” She glanced back at the row of buildings. “Now I gotta go change before the news crews get here. With Maxwell being so famous, I bet even Entertainment Tonight sends out a truck to cover the story. Or that TMZ show.”

  “I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” I said.

  “Thanks,” she said, completely missing my sarcastic tone. “It’ll take a while for the crews to get up here once the story breaks, so at least I have some time. You wouldn’t believe how long it takes to get camera ready.” She turned to go. “Have you seen Logan anywhere?”

  “No,” I said, pleased that she at least cared about Logan, even if she didn’t care about Maxwell. “But I’m sure he’s pretty upset about his boss’s death.” I was careful not to use the word murder in case she didn’t know.r />
  Tiffany picked at a nail. “Logan’s fine. I need to talk to him about who’ll take over Maxwell’s latest project. I know I’m the perfect fit for the role of Isabella. I tried talking to Maxwell about it, but he was running late for some appointment. Now he’s dead. At least I didn’t have to sleep with him first. That would have been a huge waste.”

  With that, she headed off to the cabins while I stood in place with my mouth hanging open. If Maxwell hadn’t been murdered, would she have slept with him for a part in his next film? I thought those rumors about casting-couch affairs were exaggerated, but apparently Hollywood’s sofa-sex tradition was alive and well. The sound of my name interrupted my musings about which of today’s stars likely slept their way to fame.

  “Dana!” Gordon emerged from the dining room, clipboard in hand. Knowing him, he probably counted the silverware after every meal to make sure guests and staff members didn’t pocket the spoons. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I, um, I’m just gathering my thoughts.”

  “Well, get back inside. We have a farm to run and we can’t have the staff sitting around doing nothing.”

  I felt the heat rise up in my cheeks. “I’m not sitting around. I talked to the police and was comforting Esther for a bit.” I took a step closer. “Speaking of Esther, she’s my boss, not you.”

  Gordon leaned in, his breath hot on my face. “We both know Esther can’t handle anything right now, so I’ve taken it upon myself to keep things running smoothly. And we need those marketing brochures now more than ever.” He stepped back and looked me up and down. “Unless you’re not up to the task.”

  I straightened up and stuck my chin out. “Why don’t you go count the chickens? To make sure they’re not bothering the guests, of course.” I brushed past him and reentered the house, my cheeks still flaming. What a twerp. But he was right, much as I hated to admit it. Once word got out about the murder, I’d need to produce one heck of a brochure to convince people to stay here. Of course, if Gordon whined enough to Esther about my backtalk just now, I might not be creating brochures much longer.