Going Organic Can Kill You (Blossom Valley Mysteries)

by McLaughlin, Staci

  I resisted the urge to pull the shirts back out and fold them. “Did he think he could win her back so easily?”

  “Like I said, once he spotted a goal, he went all out. If he hadn’t been killed, I’m sure he and Sheila would be engaged by now.” Logan moved to the dresser, pulled open the top drawer, and tossed a stack of underwear into the case.

  Sounded like Maxwell liked to bully people into agreeing with him. But Sheila was dating Christian now. How would she have responded to Maxwell’s pressure to get back together, especially if she had anger-management issues? “Somehow I doubt Sheila would have agreed to date him again.”

  Logan moved past me and into the bathroom. “We’ll never know,” he called back. He walked back out, BlackBerry in hand. He studied the screen, then frowned at me.

  I pasted on my most innocent smile and crossed my fingers. He looked at the screen again, stuffed the phone into his shirt pocket, and went back into the bathroom. I let out a sigh.

  He returned with a load of bottles and tubes in his hands, dumped them on top of the underwear, and zipped the suitcase shut. “All done.”

  “I’ll walk you to the office,” I said, trying to think of any last minute questions I could ask.

  “Say, I never found out where you were when Maxwell was killed,” I said. Maybe a direct question would shock him into answering.

  “That’s because it’s none of your business,” he said, not bothering to look at me.

  So much for that plan.

  “Do the police know you’re leaving? They might need your help.”

  Logan didn’t even break stride. “They have my contact info.”

  We made our way past the deserted pool area with its empty lounge chairs.

  “Won’t you be saying good-bye to Tiffany?” I asked as a last ditch effort to delay his departure. “I thought you two hit it off.”

  Logan shifted his suitcase to his other hand. “Tiffany’s a sweet kid, but she’s not for me.”

  I was pretty sure that was a guy’s way of saying he’d struck out, but I didn’t press the point.

  We arrived at the front office where Gordon frowned at the computer. When he saw Logan, he hit the charm switch to his personality, his face aglow with a smile.

  He smoothed back his hair. “Logan, one of our faithful customers, how nice to see you.” He eyed the suitcase. “Please don’t tell me you’re leaving us. I’ve got a wonderful whale-watching trip lined up. Why didn’t you tell him, Dana?”

  “She did. But I’m not much of a whale guy.”

  Gordon pressed his palms together as if praying Logan would fall for his pitch. “My good man, we’ll be doing much more than whale watching. Lunch at Le Poelon, sweets from the Mendocino Chocolate Company, shopping at the Artists’ Co-op.”

  Logan shook his head. “I’ve got a long drive back to L.A. and I need to get going.”

  “Did Dana tell you about our half-price room rate?”

  “My room’s already paid for.” Logan set his suitcase on the floor. “I want to go home.”

  Gordon glared at me, like I’d convinced Logan to leave.

  “He heard about Queenie,” I said.

  “I can assure you her death is not connected to this farm in any way,” Gordon said, sounding a bit desperate.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Logan said. “I’m ready to go.”

  Gordon banged his fingers on the keyboard for a few seconds and the printer spit out a page. He snatched it from the tray. “You’ll need to sign out.”

  Logan grabbed the pen from its holder.

  “Have a safe drive home,” I told him. “Please come back and stay again.” Unless, of course, he’d killed Maxwell. Then he could stay away forever.

  “Don’t keep a room vacant on my account,” Logan said and walked out the front door.

  Gordon folded up the paper, grumbling under his breath, and I walked down the hall. Esther and I had cleaned the rooms, no one waited for meals to be served, and I’d written my blog. Now what?

  As I passed the open door of the office, I heard a quiet sobbing and poked my head in. Esther sat at the desk, elbows on the surface, handkerchief in hand, blotting her eyes. She saw me and tried to smile, her lips twisting into a grimace.

  “Dana, sorry for the waterworks.”

  I placed a hand on her shoulder. “This whole thing will blow over.”

  “Two murders? In a pig’s eye.” She sniffed. “Do we have any guests left?”

  “Sheila is here, and I don’t believe Tiffany has checked out either.”

  Esther set the handkerchief down. “They will.”

  “Let’s not give up yet,” I said, though even I had to admit the future looked bleak. I glanced around the room, noting the cheery needlepoint landscape scene on the wall, the framed picture of her late husband. The farm couldn’t close now, not so soon. “Anything I can help with?”

  Esther gestured to an empty cardboard box at her feet. “Maxwell’s production company, Galaxy Creations, called me a bit ago. Really, those company lawyers called. With Maxwell working on a movie when he died, the company is worried about someone stealing their ideas. What was that word? Proper? Popular?”

  “Proprietary?” I offered. At least that was the word in all those confidentiality agreements I’d constantly had to sign at my last job. We’d had to take an entire class on guarding company secrets, how corporate spies were everywhere, especially at the local bars where office workers frequented.

  Esther nodded. “That’s the one. Now, they want Maxwell’s things quicker than a jackrabbit. I’m trying to build up the courage to walk over to his cabin. I know the police took his body away days ago, but what if his spirit is waiting for me?”

  I picked up the box. “I’ll take care of his belongings. I’m not a big believer in ghosts.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Dana.” She glanced at her husband’s picture, reminding me of Mom always looking at Dad’s picture. Hopefully both women would find their way again soon.

  I walked toward the door and turned. “You’re sure the police have finished with Maxwell’s room?” I wasn’t exactly eager to pack up a dead guy’s belongings, but at least I didn’t have to wear hip boots or stick my hands under chickens to complete the task.

  Esther nodded. “Yep, all done. Leave the box here in the office, and I’ll label it when I get back.”

  “No problem.”

  Walking across the hall and out the dining room door, I couldn’t help but note the silence on the back patio. With no people swimming or lounging by the pool, the place appeared deserted, ready to close down. I shook off the sense of desolation and let myself into Maxwell’s room; the police tape no longer stretched across the door.

  The mattress sat bare, stripped of linens. The dresser top and coffee table held traces of powder, probably from the police fingerprinting the area. They’d probably cleared out anything related to the murder, but at least I could snoop around while I packed.

  Five Tommy Bahama shirts and three pairs of slacks hung in the closet. A pair of penny loafers sat on the floor. I placed the shoes in the box, then pulled the clothes from the hangers and folded them before placing them on top of the shoes. A check of the dresser revealed only a single stack of undergarments, not exactly earth shattering. Either the police had taken most items with them or Maxwell traveled light. Only his bathroom toiletries, his laptop, a small printer, and his yoga book remained to be packed.

  Surely, Galaxy Creations didn’t want Maxwell’s disposable razor and half-filled tube of toothpaste returned. The laptop probably held the only items of interest for the company, and I was surprised the police hadn’t confiscated it. Guess they didn’t believe info on his hard drive was connected to his death. I swept everything from the bathroom counter into the trash and prepared to add his yoga book to the box but stopped.

  Back when I’d been working in San Jose, I’d attended yoga classes at the gym. Once I’d lost my job, exercising in an air-condition
ed room full of televisions felt decadent, and I’d cancelled my membership. I’d been tempted to join Christian and his students in their yoga poses and Pilates moves, but mingling with the guests was not exactly professional. Of course, with only Sheila left, I could now get semiprivate lessons.

  I flipped through the book, glancing at the glossy shots of the yoga master in the Boat and Spider poses. I read snippets from the middle of the book as the author explained that yoga is not a religion but rather a discipline, how the goal is to unite a person’s consciousness with the universal consciousness.

  What was I doing? I should be focusing on Maxwell’s killer, not yoga philosophy. I wasn’t going to find any clues in a book. I started to swing it shut when folded papers at the back caught my eye.

  What was this? A clue after all?

  I unfolded the sheets, three in all. The top paper was a printout of an e-mail to Logan saying that Nathaniel Wilcox of Tiger Shark Studios had received Logan’s résumé and would be considering his request for employment. Wilcox had entered Maxwell’s name in the blind carbon copy field. The e-mail was dated the day of his death.

  Apparently, Wilcox respected Maxwell enough to let him know about his less-than-loyal employee. Had this been the reason Maxwell was so angry before yoga? Not because he’d thought Heather was going to steal the necklace but because Logan was leaving him for a rival studio? That would explain why Maxwell hadn’t told Logan why he was so upset.

  I slipped that paper to the back and focused on the second page. It appeared to be a contract of some kind. I scanned that sheet and the next one, which ended with signatures from Maxwell and Logan, dated roughly six months earlier. Logan had mentioned he’d worked for Maxwell for about that long. I didn’t understand all the legalese in the contract, but the gist appeared to be that while Logan was under Maxwell’s employment, anything Logan produced relating to the movie industry was automatically the property of Galaxy Creations Studios.

  Could that be right? I’d heard of similar stipulations at computer companies from a software engineering friend, but didn’t realize it extended to the movie industry. But the e-mail and the contract stored together in the back of the book couldn’t be a coincidence. After Maxwell had scorned Logan’s screenplay, would he stop Logan from pitching it elsewhere once he found out Logan was quitting?

  And what did it have to do with Maxwell’s murder? Or Queenie’s?

  Logan had left as soon as Queenie’s body had been discovered, ostensibly to drive back to L.A. But maybe he’d kept going, all the way to Mexico.

  Had the police—had I—let the killer escape?

  25

  I read the e-mail about Logan applying to Tiger Shark Studios again, but the words told me nothing new.

  Bet Detective Caffrey would like to see these papers. Of course, he’d told me not to meddle. And how embarrassing that the police had missed the papers when they’d searched the room. Would Detective Caffrey accuse me of suppressing evidence, suggest I’d found the notes earlier and hidden them? Maybe I’d keep this info quiet for a bit. At least until I had a chance to talk to Logan myself. Like, right now.

  I stuck the notes in my pocket and the book in the box. I’d come back for the box later. First I needed to track down Logan, find out if Maxwell could really lay claim to his screenplay. Would Logan fight it in court? Could he even afford to on an assistant’s salary? Murder might be a lot easier and cheaper to free himself from the contract. With a last look around the room, I pulled the door shut and made my way down the path.

  Back in the main house, I went straight to the front desk, where Gordon jotted notes in the ledger, waiting behind the counter for all those guests who weren’t showing up.

  Without preamble, I asked, “Did Logan mention stopping anywhere on his way out of town? I don’t recall him saying anything.”

  Gordon kept writing for a moment, never one to hurry when I was the one waiting. He finally raised his head. “Not that I know of. Why do you want to know?”

  “I, uh.” I stopped. I what? Wanted to accuse him of murder? Find out if he had a valid motive to kill his boss? “I just boxed up Maxwell’s stuff and thought he could take it back with him, save Esther the shipping charges.” I patted myself on the back for thinking up such a quick lie. Wait—was that a good thing?

  “He must be well out of town by now.”

  Gordon was probably right. “Maybe he stopped for a bite first. If you could give me the contact number out of his reservation file, I’ll give him a quick ring.”

  “Total waste of time, if you ask me.”

  I shrugged and gave Gordon my most disarming smile. “Can’t hurt to try.”

  Grumbling under his breath, Gordon moved to the computer and punched a few keys. He squinted at the screen and jotted something on the tablet of paper in front of the keyboard. He tore off the sheet and handed it to me.

  “I’m assuming this is his number, but the reservation was under Maxwell’s name, so I can’t be certain.”

  Great. Maxwell’s phone had been next to him when I’d found his body. My luck, the phone was still in police evidence and when I called, Detective Caffrey would answer. How would I explain the call when I wasn’t supposed to be meddling?

  I took the paper. “Thanks.” I rushed down the hall, certain that Logan was long gone but not ready to give up completely. I plunked down in the chair, snatched up the receiver, and punched in the number, crossing my fingers that Caffrey wouldn’t be on the other end. After three rings, I recognized the click as I was transferred to voice mail and let out my pent-up breath as Logan’s voice came over the line.

  “Yo, it’s Logan. Leave a message.”

  As the beep sounded, I mentally slapped myself for not preparing what I was going to say. I stumbled through the message. “Logan, hi, it’s Dana, you know, from the spa. The O’Connell Farm and Spa, that is. Well, what other spa would it be?” I let out a weak laugh and felt my face flush. “Anyway, I had a question regarding your stay here and need you to give me a call.” I rattled off my cell phone number and slammed the receiver down.

  Lamest message ever. But maybe I’d been vague enough to pique Logan’s curiosity. I’d try his number again later to cover all the bases.

  As I turned in the chair, Esther walked down the hall past the open office door, then popped back. Her face was devoid of makeup, her eyes red like she’d been crying. “Dana, I’m calling a staff meeting. See if you can round up the others. We’ll meet on the patio.”

  A staff meeting. A lead weight sat in my belly. Esther wasn’t usually so official. Whatever she wanted to tell us couldn’t bode well for my future employment. Or the fate of the farm.

  I popped back into the lobby, where Gordon still stood at the computer. I’d love to know what he did all day, always looking so off icial with his ledgers and clipboards.

  “Any luck with Logan?” he asked.

  “No, guess I’ll have to ship the box. But Esther wants everyone on the back patio for a staff meeting. Pronto.”

  “What the hell does Esther know about staff meetings?”

  “She is the boss, you know. See you there.” I hurried down the hall, looking for the others.

  Zennia sat at the kitchen table, shelling peas, wearing her cow apron. The bowl in front of her was half full of the green balls. A bowl beside it held the empty pods.

  “Staff meeting, back patio,” I said.

  “Why is Gordon calling a staff meeting?”

  “Not Gordon. Esther.”

  A crease formed on Zennia’s forehead and she dropped the pod in the bowl. “Be right there.”

  I walked out the back door to find Christian. The pool and surrounding chaises were still empty. Not surprising with no guests. Esther sat on a bench at one of the wooden picnic tables, head bowed. As I made my way to the cabins, I glanced over my shoulder and saw Gordon step out of the dining room and join her.

  I rounded the corner to the cabins and stopped outside Sheila’s door. If Christi
an wasn’t at the main house or the general pool area, perhaps he was with Sheila. I chanted a quick prayer that I wouldn’t find them flagrante delicto, then knocked.

  “Hello? Anyone there?”

  Voices murmured behind the wood and the door opened. Christian stood shirtless before me, and I tried not to ogle his six-pack.

  He froze in the doorway, like a ground squirrel that’s seen a hawk and is too far from his burrow. “Dana, I was teaching Sheila some meditation techniques.”

  I didn’t have time to deal with the little soap opera when Christian discovered I knew about his relationship with Sheila, so I got right to the point. “Esther’s called a staff meeting. Everyone’s waiting on the patio.”

  “Is the farm closing down?” he asked.

  My question exactly. “I don’t know, but we’d better hurry,” I said, “or people will wonder what’s taking so long.”

  “I’ll be back later to finish those meditation studies,” Christian told Sheila. He slipped a tank top over his head and followed me down the path.

  “Sheila told me about that woman’s death,” Christian said. “We’ll definitely need to offer our support to Esther. I’m not sure she can save this place now.”

  We arrived at the picnic table where Gordon, Esther, and Zennia waited on one side. Christian and I sat down on the other.

  Gordon made a show of looking at his watch. “About time.”

  Leave it to Gordon to make a big deal out of three minutes of waiting.

  “My apologies, everyone,” Christian said. “I was enjoying nature. Centering my thoughts in these terrible times.”

  Gordon rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Let’s get this meeting done with.”

  Esther patted Gordon’s hand. Even if he had lost his own hotel business, Esther was much too tolerant of the guy.

  “As you’ve all heard by now, we’re down to two guests,” she said.

  “Don’t forget the reservations for this coming week,” Gordon said.

  “I expect once Queenie’s death hits the major news stations, those people will cancel faster than you can say fiddledeedee.”