Going Organic Can Kill You (Blossom Valley Mysteries)

by McLaughlin, Staci

  I hadn’t considered myself a Blossom Valley resident since I’d gone away to college, but seeing the place crumble was unsettling. The O’Connell Farm and Spa couldn’t revive the entire town on its own.

  I chopped up the lettuce, tossed in some carrots, and diced up a tomato. I put the bowl in the fridge to chill, noting that low-fat vinaigrettes had replaced all the creamy dressings. My stomach grumbled in protest.

  While Mom dumped the rice into the pot of water on the stove, I flipped through the stack of mail I’d spotted on the kitchen table. My forwarded bills were trickling in, a last remnant of my high-tech life in San Jose. I never thought I’d treasure my bills.

  Auto insurance ads. Credit card offers. My hand settled on the fourth envelope, addressed to Mom. The return address was Bank of America Home Loans. Across the envelope, F INAL NOTICE stretched out in scarlet red.

  I glanced at Mom. She was seasoning the chicken. I studied the outside of the envelope, then held it up to the light, squinting at the letters struggling to shine through the thin paper.

  “Dana!” Mom had approached without my noticing.

  The envelope fell from my hand and landed back on the stack.

  “That’s my mail.”

  I willed myself not to wince under her glare. “But what’s this about a final notice? Are you behind on your house payments?”

  “None of your business. Quit snooping.”

  I knew Dad didn’t leave much, but I never imagined Mom’s house might be in jeopardy. “We should talk about this. Now that I’m working again, I can pitch in more on the bills.”

  Mom pointed a finger at my chest, poking the air with each word. “It’s just a misunderstanding. I’ll take care of it.” She turned and stalked to the stove. The poor rice didn’t stand a chance under her whip-like stirring.

  I stared at her back for a moment. Was she really going to lose the house? No way could she get a new mortgage at her age with no job.

  That left me. At least for however long my marketing skills were needed after a man had been murdered at the farm.

  The next morning, I studied the clothing options in the closet. I pushed all the business clothes from my last job to the side and grabbed a green-and-white-striped hoodie. Done with dressing, I dug around the pantry for my usual box of Fruity Pebbles, then gave up and put on the kettle to make a package of instant oatmeal. Sugar-free oatmeal. Yech.

  While I waited for the water to boil, I flipped open the morning paper. MURDER AT O’CONNELL FARM AND SPA screamed back at me in bold black letters, Jason Forrester listed in the byline. I read the article, my stomach clenched in anticipation. Jason started right off with the murder itself, mentioning the dark pool of blood on Maxwell’s shirt that, thank God, I’d missed, the hands clutching the wound, the yoga pants. My mind immediately flashed back to the scene and I wondered if he’d managed to sneak in and see the body before it was taken to the morgue.

  The one bright spot in the article was that while Maxwell was indeed a Hollywood producer, low-budget horror films made up the bulk of his credits with an occasional attempt at more dramatic fare. I’d even seen one or two of his films, but hadn’t recognized his name when he’d checked in at the farm. With any luck, he’d merit a brief article on Entertainment Weekly’s web site before the latest Mel Gibson or Lindsay Lohan antic displaced him; people would soon forget that Maxwell had been killed at my place of employment.

  With a sense of relief, I finished the article, noting my name was absent. Jason had only written that a staff member had found the body. Granted, everyone in town knew I was the staff member, but until I saw my name in print, I’d live in denial.

  The kettle whistled as Mom entered the kitchen.

  “Oh, good, you found the oatmeal. I threw out that disgusting cereal you insist on eating. All that sugar is horrible for you.”

  I poured the hot water into the bowl and stirred the oatmeal mix. “I like that cereal. I finally collected all four glow-in-the-dark yo-yos.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, a free yo-yo isn’t worth your health.” Mom dropped a piece of whole-wheat bread into the toaster and pushed down the lever.

  I carried my bowl to the table and flipped through the rest of the paper. The bowling alley was adding new arcade games. The mayor’s cat, Milly, had produced a litter of eight kittens. Applications were now being accepted for entry into the Fourth of July parade in six weeks. Would the madness never end?

  “Did you sleep okay? No bad dreams from yesterday?” Mom asked.

  I folded up the newspaper and set it on the table. “Nope. ’Course it helps that I didn’t know Maxwell.”

  Mom grabbed the paper. “Sue Ellen called this morning, snooping for information, so be prepared for questions from people. But I imagine you’ll stay home today after what happened.”

  “Actually, I’m off to the farm as soon as I’m done with this oatmeal. See if I still have a job today. All the guests may have fled overnight, forcing Esther to let the staff go.”

  Mom walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, Dana, do you think you’ll lose your job? It took you so long to find one.”

  She didn’t need to remind me of that. I was well aware of my lengthy unemployment.

  “We’ll see what Esther says. My contract is almost up anyway, but I was hoping to stay on for a bit longer.”

  I scarfed down the rest of my oatmeal, then rinsed my bowl in the sink and put on my Keds. Might as well get this over with.

  On my way to the farm, I spotted the sign for the Daily Grind and swung into the lot. One packet of oatmeal was not enough sustenance for me to face Zennia’s cooking. I might suffer a weak moment and eat one of her wheatgerm muffins.

  With the nearest Starbucks fifty miles away, the Daily Grind had a steady business. I parked in the only vacant slot and pulled open the door to the coffee shop, a wave of conversation hitting me as I stepped inside. Half a dozen people waited for their turn at the register, hemmed in by display stands touting vinegars and jams from nearby farms, several jars acting as bookends to hold up poetry anthologies and novels by local authors.

  In San Jose when I ventured out of my cubicle for a coffee break, lone java drinkers occupied half the café tables, hunched over their laptops, updating their Facebook status. But here, at least two people occupied every table, chatting over their morning coffee.

  I took my place in line behind a man in jogging shorts and a tank top. To my left, the mayor sat at the counter that lined the plate-glass window. I thought about congratulating him on his kittens, but he was talking with the man sitting next to him. In the tiny coffee shop, I had no trouble hearing their conversation.

  “And now someone’s been killed,” the man I didn’t know was saying. “I knew that spa was a stupid idea. Bringing in those crazy Hollywood types with their liberal agendas.”

  The mayor put a hand on his shoulder. “Now, Jim, anything that brings folks into town is a godsend. You know we don’t have enough residents to keep some of these businesses afloat. The downtown’s starting to look like a ghost town. We need the revenue.”

  “Wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for that organic nonsense. You know those vegetables are dirty. You gotta use pesticides to make the food safe. Won’t catch me eating that hippie food.”

  The mayor drained his coffee cup and glanced at his watch. “I need to prep for my TV conference. A few of the Bay Area news stations, and even Entertainment Tonight, have sent crews to Blossom Valley, thanks to this murder. Great opportunity to plug our little town.” He slid off the bar stool, took a moment to shake hands with a couple of guys in suits at a nearby table, then made his way to the door.

  Tiffany would be thrilled to hear that the press had arrived. Of course, she probably knew by now and was dressed and ready for her close-up. I ordered my mocha, then watched the crowd while I waited. I spotted my old dentist and his wife in the back corner and felt a flash of guilt that I hadn’t gotten my teeth cleaned since I’d lost my dent
al insurance.

  In the corner, Mrs. Harris, my freshman English teacher, nursed a cup of tea while an older gentleman sat in the other chair, reading a newspaper. The year after I graduated high school, a group of students had disassembled her old VW Bug and reassembled it on the science building roof, prompting her early retirement. Good to see she was still around.

  The barista called my name, the tattoo of a mermaid on his cheek moving as he spoke. I’d noticed since my return that anyone considered renegade in Blossom Valley worked at either the coffee shop or the pot dispensary. I grabbed the cup he offered and hightailed it out of the building before my dentist could question my flossing habits or Mrs. Harris asked me to diagram a sentence.

  With no commuter traffic on the highway, I arrived at the farm in minutes. Turning into the lane, I took a swig of coffee, then looked at the road ahead and almost dropped my cup. The parking lot was full of vans, giant satellite dishes propped up on their roofs. People with mics and cameras milled around in front of the main house, chatting amongst themselves.

  As one, they turned toward my little Honda Civic, squinting against the morning sun and trying to see through the windshield. I felt like a panda at the zoo. Where was a thick clump of bamboo to hide behind when you needed one? No way did I want to talk to these people.

  I pulled into the spot closest to the side path, then bolted out of my car, leaving my half-drunk coffee behind.

  “Do you work here?” a chesty blonde with a microphone hollered while a cameraman trailed behind her.

  “Did you know Maxwell Mendelsohn?” a man in a polo shirt and khakis called.

  I waved to them as I hurried down the path. “Sorry, can’t talk. Late for work.” I glanced over my shoulder and saw the blonde trotting after me. I increased my pace, darted around the cabins, and stopped, listening. No click-clack of heels on the pavement behind me. She must have given up running in those shoes.

  I glanced to my left and realized that I’d stopped directly outside Maxwell’s cabin. Yellow crime scene tape blocked the door, an official notice to keep out taped to it. My coffee churned at the reminder and I turned away.

  Avoiding another glance at the door, I walked down the path, rounded the corner of the last cabin, and found Jason directly before me.

  His hands clamped down on my shoulders. “You’re not slipping away this time.”

  7

  I jerked out of Jason’s grasp. “Get your paws off me, buster!”

  He held up his hands. His striped button-up shirt lay flat against his stomach, hinting at a six-pack. “Hey, sorry. I was excited to find you. Your disappearing act yesterday didn’t go over too well with my boss.”

  Jason looked so contrite that I felt heat rise in my cheeks. “Guess I’m a little on edge.”

  “Who could blame you with what happened yesterday?”

  “Yeah, finding a dead guy was the last thing I expected.”

  I started to walk toward the main house again and Jason fell into step beside me. We passed the pigsty, and I’d swear Wilbur snorted his approval of Jason. I brushed my hair behind my ear and wished I’d thought to apply lipstick this morning.

  “What were you doing in his cabin anyway?”

  I caught a whiff of mint as he spoke and wondered if he could smell my coffee breath. “What? Oh, just changing the towels.”

  “I thought you were the marketing person.”

  The hairs on my arm prickled. “I am.”

  “Then why were you replacing the towels?” Jason’s words came out a little too quick and a warning light flashed in my brain.

  “Heather was busy.”

  “What was she doing?”

  The warning light flashed brighter and faster, and I felt my defenses rise. “Picking her nose? Learning to belly dance? She didn’t say.”

  “Really,” Jason murmured.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him pull a notepad and pen from his shirt pocket and jot something down.

  I stopped and faced him, crossing my arms over my chest. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking notes. I may need this information for my next article.”

  “Forget it. You can’t use what I said in the paper.”

  Jason held up his hands. “I’m a reporter. That’s my job.”

  “But people will read it. And gossip about me.”

  A gust of cool wind blew past, rustling the camellia bushes, but not helping at all with the heat from my sudden ire.

  “Trust me,” Jason said. “They’re already gossiping about you. You’re the one who found the body.”

  A memory of my college roommate being misquoted in the press, ruining her chances for an internship with a senator, flashed through my mind. Was Jason any different? Unlikely.

  Without another word, I stomped off through the herb garden, squashing the cilantro.

  “Hey, I’m not done,” Jason called after me.

  “Oh, yes you are.” The scent of cilantro followed me as I strode into the kitchen. I slammed the back door behind me.

  Zennia glanced up from where she was preparing a fruit tray. She wore an embroidered smock and gauzy pants, a handkerchief tied around her head that made her look sixty rather than her true age of forty-two. “Everything all right?”

  “That reporter, Jason, was pestering me again. I thought we were having a perfectly nice conversation but he was secretly digging for details about the murder.”

  Zennia peeled a banana. “That is his job, Dana. But he’s a good man. He wrote a whole series of articles in the paper about the plight of the polar bears due to global warming.”

  “I don’t like feeling used.”

  Truth be told, I was a little mad at myself, not Jason. I’d been so busy avoiding his questions, I hadn’t thought to ask him any of my own. He must know more than me about the murder by now. The cops sure wouldn’t share any info, so he was my best shot, and I’d blown it.

  I plucked an apricot slice off the tray and popped it into my mouth. The sweet juice alleviated my gloomy mood. “How do things look this morning? Any more guests leave?”

  “Most have packed up by now,” Zennia said. “The film crew is heading out this morning. No sense looking for movie locations with no producer. I heard one of them say the project is officially on hold.”

  My breathing stopped for a moment, the apricot slice sitting on my tongue. Time to dust off my résumé? Not that I’d even been here long enough for it to collect dust.

  “Fortunately, they’ve all been replaced by new reservations,” Zennia added, slicing the banana into chunks. “In fact, we’re booked solid, with a waiting list.”

  “You’re kidding me.” My breathing returned, as if my brain had been waiting for a sign that inhaling oxygen was worth the effort.

  “Seems people want to stay at the spa where a Hollywood producer was killed. ’Course they have no interest in our many health benefits. But perhaps a few days of my cooking will enlighten them.”

  “Was Maxwell really that famous?”

  “I don’t know, but he did those horror movies, and now, instead of plotting ways to kill people, he’s become a victim. His fans are fascinated by his death.”

  Some fans. They should be mourning his passing, not fighting over room rentals.

  “What is wrong with people?” I asked as Gordon walked into the room.

  Today, he sported a diamond-patterned gold and black vest under his dark suit jacket, shiny gold cuff links winking in the fluorescent light as he rubbed his chin.

  “Whatever is wrong with those people is right for this farm. I certainly won’t turn away business because some guest gets his jollies from dead people.”

  He stretched his arms out and compared his two cuffs to make sure they were even, then looked at me. “That makes those brochures hot commodities right now. I’d even include a picture of Maxwell with a comment about how guests should visit to pay their respects to one of Hollywood’s great producers.”

  My stomach twisted li
ke a bow. “The man was murdered. We shouldn’t exploit it.”

  “At least give it some thought. I’m running a business here.”

  Gordon reminded me of a CEO at one of those banks that had passed out mortgages like they were passing out two-for-one coupons for the ice cream parlor. Anything for a buck.

  Without answering him, I walked out of the kitchen. I really did need to work on the ads. Esther was paying me to market the farm, at least until I finished the last brochure.

  I sat down in the desk chair and hit the power button. The computer whirred and beeped, then the Windows loading sign appeared.

  Through the open door, I could hear Esther and a man talking.

  “But I want to stay in his room,” the man was saying.

  “Young man, the police haven’t finished looking for clues. The room is closed until they give the okay,” Esther said.

  “Well, as soon as it’s available, I want to be moved. Imagine the looks on my friends’ faces when I tell them I stayed in the same room where Maxwell Mendelsohn was murdered.”

  Tuning out Mr. Death, I opened the brochure file. After staring at the ceiling for a moment, inspiration struck and I added the necessary lines to the brochure. One down and one to go. Now what to put in this last one? A walk around the farm might give me fresh ideas.

  I exited out the back door in case the news vans were lurking out front again and wound through the herb garden, stopping to sniff the lavender. At the pigsty, Wilbur and his fat, pink buddies were happily rooting around in the mud, their snouts oozing slime and brown bits I wasn’t quite sure were mud. I’d leave that part out of the brochure.

  The chickens were clucking over in the hen house and I wandered over, the sun already making the top of my head hot. A cluster of hens pecked at the ground inside the chicken wire while the rooster strutted. I stopped for a moment and studied the birds as they hunted for leftover feed. Chickens had such an easy existence. Sure, some farmer came by and stole an egg out from under your butt every morning, but otherwise, you got to eat all day and sleep all night. No job, no bills, no worries until the farmer showed up with an ax. And then the end was quick. Not a bad life at all.