She looked at Jason.
“Make that two. In to-go cups.”
The waitress walked off. We sat in silence while we waited for our drinks. I twiddled with the saltshaker and glanced occasionally at the two women in the adjoining booth. They were also silent, obviously waiting for Jason to dish out a tasty gossip morsel to go with their eggs.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. Had the waitress flown to Colombia to harvest the coffee beans herself? I offered Jason a small smile and pulled a handful of napkins from the dispenser.
“You could probably go ahead and ask me those questions in here. No one could possibly care what I have to say about my personal life.”
Jason glanced over his shoulder. “You’re still a newcomer to town. And you found a body to boot. People will devour any information they can get.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “We wait.”
Touchy, touchy. “Fine. Working on any other stories right now? Or are you not going to talk about those either?”
As Jason opened his mouth to speak, the waitress returned with two Styrofoam cups and the tab. Jason paid at the register by the door and we walked over to his car.
He set his coffee on the roof and pulled his notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. “Guess this will be a parking lot interview.”
I eyed the notebook. How was I going to transition Jason’s interview of me into talking about the murder?
“Why’d you move back to Blossom Valley?” he asked.
I thought for a moment, figuring I’d have to answer his question first if I wanted him to return the favor. “I’ve been worried about my mom ever since my dad passed away. She’d completely withdrawn from her clubs and friends. When I called home, all she’d talk about was visiting my dad’s grave and sitting at home staring at his picture. I decided she needed someone to push her back into her activities. Or at least get her to leave the house once in a while. Since I was unemployed, the timing to move was perfect.” A little voice whispered in my ear about my teeny tiny lie—the timing had been far from perfect—but I shushed it up.
“Sorry about your dad.” Jason jotted in his notebook. “How do you like being back in your hometown?”
I studied the concrete at my feet, noting the ants crawling in and out of the cracks on an endless quest. For food? For happiness? “I’m adjusting. Of course, finding Maxwell’s body hasn’t helped. Are the police making any progress on his murder?” Gee, that little change of subject wasn’t too obvious.
Jason squinted at me, clearly confused by my question. “Barely. Whoever killed Maxwell took the murder weapon and didn’t leave much evidence behind. The cops have interviewed every guest and no one saw anything.”
“Well, the entrances to the cabins face away from the pool area, so anyone could have hidden in those bushes and waited until Maxwell was alone.” Oh, didn’t I sound like a detective.
“Right, but let’s not get off track here. What exactly are you adjusting to here? Life in a small town?”
I’d gotten some information from Jason. His turn again. “Partly. One nice thing about San Jose is the anonymity. I could trip over a dead body once a week and none of the neighbors would be any wiser. Blossom Valley is like living in a fish bowl. You can’t even drink a cup of coffee without people whispering and pointing.”
As if proving my point, a blue Saturn turned into the lot. The driver stared at us for so long, she almost hit a parked car. She braked within an inch of its bumper, then twisted the wheel and pulled into a vacant spot. Cell phone already to her ear, she got out of the car and watched us as she spoke. She appeared vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place her name. That was the trouble with this town. Even the people I didn’t know looked familiar.
I sipped the coffee. Scalding but weak.
When I didn’t resume my answer, Jason stopped jotting notes.
“You said, ‘partly.’ What’s the other part?” he asked.
“Being back home.” I watched an ant that had strayed from the rest of the line and now wandered aimlessly. “I mean, I know I’m helping my mom, but I feel like I’ve taken a step back in life. I was making decent money at a job I was good at. Then I got laid off and wound up back here. And what do I have to show for it? Nothing.”
That internal voice, the one that usually woke me at three AM, piped up again, reminding me I’d almost had something to show for it. I drowned out the voice with a slurp of coffee.
“Um, do you need to put that in your article?” I asked. “I sound like a bit of a loser.”
“No, you sound like a lot of people around here in a tough economy. And I find it admirable that you want to help your mom.”
“Thanks. But I’m worried that Maxwell’s death will be a reminder of my dad’s death and she’ll slip back into a depression.” Bit of a stretch on that one, but it was for a good cause. “How is it that no one saw anything suspicious near Maxwell’s cabin?”
“Apparently the yoga class had broken up a few minutes before, and people were already in their cabins resting before lunch or visiting in the lobby, that sort of thing.”
“So how will the police find the guy?”
He transferred his pen to the hand with the notebook, sipped from his cup, then put the coffee back on top of his car. “I’m sure they’ll try to figure out exactly where everyone was when Maxwell was killed, see if they can catch someone in a lie. But unless the killer announces his guilt, the cops will have a hard time nailing this guy.”
“Or gal,” I said. “You don’t need much strength to stab someone.”
I stared at the ants on the sidewalk. The police might not find the killer. I’d seen Maxwell dead, clutching his stomach. He at least deserved to have his killer caught. And Mom was counting on me to help Esther.
I looked up to find Jason frowning at me. “What?” I asked.
“Last time I tried to question you about the murder, you practically ran screaming from me. Now that’s all you want to talk about. What gives?”
I waved my hand at him, like he was creating a whole beach from a handful of sand. “Idle curiosity, nothing more. So, uh, let’s get back to that interview.”
He studied me for a moment, then glanced at his notebook. “Why did you agree to work at the farm and spa?”
“Marketing positions are few and far between in this town. The farm was the first place that offered me a job.” Boy, didn’t that sound pathetic. I’d leave out the part where my mom actually arranged the job for me.
The two whispering ladies from the diner exited the restaurant and walked over to a red car parked near where we stood. One woman clutched a set of keys in her hand but made no move to open her door and drive away. Instead, they stood in silence.
After an unbearable pause, the other woman said, “Excellent eggs this morning.”
More silence, while the woman with the keys cast sideways glances at Jason and me.
Jason opened the passenger door of his Volvo. “Let’s sit in my car.”
I smiled at the ladies, who pretended not to see me, and turned to step in. My foot caught in the asphalt crack and I fell toward Jason. I tossed my coffee cup to the left so as not to burn him and my hands landed on his chest. Even in my frantic state, I noticed the hard, muscular surface. I clutched his shirt and our faces came close together, our lips a mere inch apart.
For a moment, our gaze connected. I noticed little gold specks in his green, green eyes. I felt his breath on my lips.
“My car!” Jason yelled.
Behind me, a snort erupted. Guess those two women witnessed my little accident.
I straightened up, my face hot. I grabbed the napkins that had floated to the ground and wiped the top of his car, the flimsy paper causing the coffee to spread and drip off the edges.
Jason dropped his notebook, ran to his trunk, and popped it open with his remote. He returned with two towels. He tossed one to me and pressed his towel onto the coffee, trying to stop the flow down the side. I mopped up the spill on my e
nd and crumpled up the empty cup.
“I’m sorry. I can’t believe I dumped coffee all over your car.”
“Everything’s fine. We got all the coffee off.”
I wasn’t sure if Jason was talking to me or the car. Pulling a plastic bag from the trunk, he shook it open and dropped in the wet towel. I handed him my soaked cloth and he added it to the bag.
I slipped into the passenger seat, my face hotter than my coffee had been. Out the window, I could see the two ladies still watching us, now laughing. Losers.
Jason got in the other side, the notebook once more in his hand, and settled back in his seat, still breathing fast. He flipped to a new page. “Tell me what you do at the farm?”
Stumble over dead bodies, get pecked by chickens, act as a taste-test dummy for Zennia’s abominations. Probably not the answer he was looking for.
“I was hired to create a series of brochures for the spa, plus finish the ones the original guy didn’t get done. I also conducted market research here in town to discover what people expect at an organic spa and created a handful of press releases. Now I’m updating the Web site, plus helping out other employees as needed.”
“Doing what?”
I was afraid he was going to ask me that. “You know, this and that.”
“You had a basket of eggs in your hand this morning. What was that about?”
“I had to help collect them from the chicken coop, that’s all.” I moved my left hand to cover the fading red gouges on my right hand, my gift from Berta and her feathered friend.
“Quite the skill set you’ve got there,” Jason said.
“It’s a job. Something I’m grateful for.” Even if I had no idea what I was doing half the time.
Jason wrote in his notebook.
“How about you? Did you grow up around here?” I asked, steering the questions around to Jason and away from my life as a fumbling farmer. “I don’t remember you from school.”
“No. I’m not from around here.”
I waited for him to add more, but he didn’t. “Then where are you from?”
After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Atherton.”
“That rich little Bay Area town near Stanford? Why move to Blossom Valley?”
“These things happen.”
Not exactly a specific answer, but Jason wasn’t the one being interviewed.
He put the key in the ignition, clearly finished talking about himself. “That’s all I need for the article. I’ll get you back to work.”
“I’m sure Zennia needs my help with lunch prep.” Or the pigs needed a massage.
Jason started the car, the engine humming.
“You interviewing the rest of the staff now?” I asked.
“Soon as we get back. I noticed Esther is running a bit of a skeleton crew.”
I waited until he merged onto the freeway, slipping in behind a semi hauling lumber. “She doesn’t have the money to hire more staff until we see if the farm is a success.”
“Looks like business is taking off, based on the number of cars in the parking lot.”
“We’re doing everything we can.” I looked out the window at the pear trees and nearby hills. With the continued heat wave, the green spring grass was turning brown, a contrast to the pear tree blossoms. “Once the thrill of Maxwell’s death wears off, I’m not sure how much business we’ll have. That’s why the police have to solve this murder.” Or else I did.
“Give ’em time.”
We pulled into the farm lot, the cluster of reporters still hanging around the front door. Unless the police had a major breakthrough, the media couldn’t possibly stay much longer.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I said as Jason and I walked into the lobby.
Gordon stood at the front desk. When we entered, he stopped typing at the reservation computer and clasped his hands together. He steepled his index fingers and tapped them together, showing off a set of gold pinkie rings.
“Enjoying a late breakfast, Dana? Perhaps Esther would like to know about her absent employee.”
A burst of anger shot from my gut to my face, blotting out my vision for a moment. The haze passed and I stared at Gordon in his three-piece suit and stupid polka dot tie.
Maybe I needed to talk to Esther myself.
15
I stepped up to the reservation counter and slapped my palms on the surface, keeping my voice steady. “Jason was interviewing me for the Herald, per Esther’s request. You of all people know how important publicity is.”
“In fact,” Jason said, “if you have a moment, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Gordon straightened his tie. “I am the manager of the farm. My job is critical to its success.”
I managed not to roll my eyes and slipped down the hall. Gordon would talk Jason into a coma but at least that would keep him off my back for a while.
In the office, I typed up the day’s blog, having composed it in my head the night before. I posted the blog to the Web site and checked the day’s headlines before heading to the kitchen to help Zennia with lunch.
A row of shot glasses sat on the table next to a square of grass. Odd place to keep part of the lawn.
At the counter, Zennia, wearing a tie-dyed dress and Birkenstocks, sliced okra. My stomach did a little rumble of complaint as I eyed the green vegetable. Should have grabbed a Danish to go with my coffee.
“Dana, perfect timing. You can prepare the wheatgrass.”
My hearing must be going. “Wheatgrass?”
“One shot a day provides all your amino acid needs. The guests will appreciate the health benefits.”
I opened the fridge and studied the contents. Yogurt, milk, and chicken breasts occupied the shelves, but nothing that looked like wheatgrass. I shut the door and walked over to the table.
“Is this piece of lawn the wheatgrass?” I asked.
“Right. Stick a little patch in the juicer and fill each shot glass.”
Not convinced I understood Zennia correctly, I cut off a piece of grass, loaded it in the juicer, positioned a shot glass below the spout, and pushed the button. Three seconds later, a thick green liquid jiggled at the bottom of the glass.
I sniffed the contents and got a whiff of freshly mowed lawn. Somehow I didn’t see the guests lining up after lunch to thank the chef.
“How are you doing, Zennia? Since the murder, I mean.”
“My entire digestive tract is definitely off,” she said. “Must be the lack of sleep. I seem to lie awake a lot, wondering whose soul is so black that they would take another life.”
I deposited more grass in the juicer. “I’d like to know that myself.” I bumped the shot glass just as I hit the button. The wheatgrass plopped onto the table. I wiped up the mess. “You should take a yoga class with Christian. Help yourself relax.”
Zennia lifted the cutting board and dropped the sliced okra into a skillet on the stove. The okra hissed in the pan. “I’ve never been particularly flexible. I prefer meditation each morning, although my focus has been less directed than usual.”
I finished juicing the wheatgrass, then poked my head into the dining room. Guests were filtering in the side door, many sitting at tables. I went back to the kitchen for the first four glasses, ready for lunch service.
After an hour of steady work, everyone had managed to swallow the wheatgrass with minimal groaning and the dining hall emptied out. I carried the dirty dishes to the kitchen, helped Zennia clean up, then wandered out to the herb garden, admiring the dill and chervil. I knew it was chervil because Zennia had stuck a sign next to each plant following a guest request.
In the corner, a figure crouched over the cilantro, fingers scratching at the soil around the plant. I recognized the hair as belonging to Logan. Was he digging something up or burying something? As if sensing my gaze, he stood up and turned around.
“Hi, Logan,” I said. “Lose a contact lens?”
Logan blushed, as if caught smoking the greens instead of
fondling them. “Checking to see how deep the roots are. I’m trying to relax, but doing nothing is harder than I thought.”
I gestured to the BlackBerry clipped to his belt. “I bet if you turned that off, you’d relax more.”
The mere mention of his gadget made Logan check the screen. “Let’s not get crazy.” He brushed hair out of his eyes, but the strands immediately flopped back into place. “Besides, I need to be available. Looks like Wilcox over at Tiger Shark Studios is hiring me. I start next week.”
“Congratulations. That was fast.” He’d found a job in two days and I’d taken almost a year? Next time I needed employment, I’d call Logan for tips.
Logan tapped his chest with his index finger. His nails were manicured, his skin smooth.
“I know people,” he said.
He must know important people to land a new position that fast, especially in Hollywood, where every breathing body wanted a job in the movies.
“I remember you mentioned that Maxwell was your gateway to new projects. Think his death will hurt your plans?”
A blue jay squawked from its perch on a nearby oak tree branch.
“Wilcox knows the right people. And I’ve heard he’s not as difficult to work for as Maxwell.”
“I can’t believe you toted his silverware around and ironed his clothes on Sundays.”
“Those chores were only part of his absurd demands. Try running to Wal-Mart at midnight to buy his jock-itch cream. Or hustling his latest bimbo out to a taxi so he wouldn’t have to wake up next to her in the morning.” He gestured to his clothes. “And these khaki pants and white shirt? Maxwell insisted I wear the same outfit every day.”
I was wondering why a hip, young Hollywood up-and-comer always dressed like an electronics store employee. “And you tolerated all his demands for a screenplay?”
“Working for Maxwell was my first major studio job. But looking back, I should have refused his requests. One of life’s lessons, I guess.”
“Did Maxwell ever read your screenplay?” I asked, thinking of the argument George had overheard in the coffee shop.
Logan’s face darkened so much I actually glanced at the sun to see if a cloud was passing over. Nope.
Going Organic Can Kill You (Blossom Valley Mysteries) Page 12
