A Healthy Homicide (6 page)

 

Light rain pattered against the window when I awoke the next morning. After a quick shower, I donned my long-sleeved work polo and khaki pants and went into the kitchen to zap a frozen breakfast burrito in the microwave. I watched the news while I ate, keeping the volume low so I wouldn’t wake Ashlee. By the time I finished eating, it was time to get to work.

Thanks to the steady drizzle, traffic was slower than usual through downtown. As I passed the Pampered Life, I saw that the memorial for Carla had grown. I watched a middle-aged woman in a poncho move the bouquets and stuffed animals around, placing some under the redwood bench and others against the building, beneath the green-and-white-striped awning, where they were somewhat protected from the rain.

A car horn blared, and I whipped my head forward, my eyes back on the road. I’d hate to get in an accident on my way to work. Jason might write an article about me.

At the farm I parked near the entrance. The rainfall had increased, and I dashed across the parking lot, purse held over my head. As I sprinted up the walk, I caught a glimpse of the ducks splashing in the nearby pond. A few quacked hello.

When I reached the office, I hung my jacket on the back of the chair to dry and settled into my seat, thinking about the workday ahead of me. With no pressing deadlines, I had time to focus on new material. A few days ago Gretchen had mentioned an advanced waxing method she was considering for the spa. Now might be a good time to ask her for more details. If we were adding new services, I definitely wanted to update our marketing materials.

On my way to the kitchen, I could hear the clatter of silverware and murmurs of conversation coming from the dining room. I retrieved the spare umbrella we kept in an old milk can near the back door, nodded to Zennia, who was up to her elbows in a sink full of dishes, and stepped out into the rain. The drops drummed a steady beat as I sidestepped puddles and worms. I followed the path past the cabins and wiped my feet on the welcome mat before entering the spa tent.

When Esther had first agreed to add a spa to the farm’s property, she’d envisioned a sprawling redwood building with plate-glass windows to let in the natural light and hardwood floors to complete the look. After she and Gordon had studied the contracting quotes and permit requirements, they’d settled on something that was more akin to a large tent. The exterior was comprised of large vinyl panels set in metal frames, complete with exterior windows and doors. The inside included a heating and cooling system and was partitioned into several areas with those cloth cubicle walls you’d find in an office building. Not quite as elaborate as Esther had originally planned, but still functional and a whole lot cheaper.

The lobby area, with its brown rattan chairs and small mosaic-tiled table, was empty, so I continued on to the back. Gretchen was lying on the massage table in the last cubicle. Her hands were crossed over her stomach as she stared at the ceiling.

“Gretchen?”

She jerked her head around. When she saw me, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the table. “Dana, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“No customers this morning?” I asked, although clearly we were alone in the tent.

Gretchen jumped down from the table and brushed her hands on her tan pants. “I have a client in half an hour.”

“Perfect. I wanted to know more about this waxing service you told me about. Have you decided if you’ll add it to our services?”

Gretchen let her gaze wander to the floor. “I don’t know. Seems kind of pointless now, but I guess I could tell you about it, if you want me to.” As glum as she looked, she might prefer getting a tooth extracted at the moment.

“Is this a bad time?”

Gretchen looked up and offered a weak smile. “No, sorry. I’m just distracted.”

“Is Gordon still on your case about Detective Palmer’s visit?”

She pressed her lips together. I waited.

“Worse,” she finally said. “The detective called again. He had more questions about my visit to Carla’s spa.”

That didn’t bode well. “What kind of questions?”

“He wanted to nail down exactly what time I’d been there, and asked me again about anyone walking by or hanging around. I already answered all those questions.”

I knew from watching TV that the detective wanted to see if Gretchen gave different answers to repeated questions so he could catch her in a lie. For a fleeting second, I wondered if he had.

Gretchen moved to a table full of lotions and oils and started shuffling them around for no apparent reason other than to give herself something to do. “I think he wanted an excuse to talk to me again.”

I hoisted myself onto the massage table where Gretchen had been lying a moment ago and swung my legs back and forth. “If he wanted to talk to you, he wouldn’t need an excuse.”

Gretchen’s voice was low. “He would if he was here for another reason.”

My legs slowed. “Such as?”

She didn’t answer, instead moving the jars and bottles back to their original positions.

“Gretchen, what aren’t you telling me?”

She turned around slowly, her hands twisting a terrycloth washrag. “I had it rough as a kid.”

The sudden change in topic threw me. What did this have to do with Carla’s death? I said, “Okay,” in what I hoped was an encouraging tone.

“My mom died when I was twelve, and my dad had to work three jobs to support us. I pretty much took care of myself.”

I thought about how lost I’d been when my own dad died a while back, and I’d been a full-fledged adult then. I couldn’t imagine losing my mom at such a young age, right before those teen years. “That must have been tough,” I said, feeling as if my words were completely inadequate.

She wound the washrag around one hand. “With my dad at work all the time, I started hanging out with other kids who had nowhere to go. Some of them were troublemakers, but I was so happy to be part of the group that I didn’t care. We started shoplifting, pickpocketing a little. I even helped rob a place or two.” She focused on the washrag. “We never planned anything out and didn’t even try to hide what we were doing, so the cops had no trouble catching us. I was arrested five times before I even turned sixteen.”

I cringed. While I was growing up, I was never even suspended from school. Being arrested that many times seemed incomprehensible to me. “I had no idea.”

Gretchen threw the washrag in the nearby wicker basket, which we used for soiled linens. “No one does. A teacher helped me get my act together. I finally concentrated on school, and the judge agreed to seal my juvie records.”

I hopped down from the table and moved next to Gretchen. “Look, you’ve obviously changed. You have a great job now. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“But that detective must have looked into my background and seen my records. He probably thinks I had a relapse and decided to rob the spa. Killed Carla when she caught me.” She started moving bottles and jars around again, knocking one over in the process. The plastic bottle full of peach blossom lotion tumbled to the floor.

I grabbed the bottle and placed it back with the others. “You’re assuming too much. Did he make a reference to your record when you guys talked?”

She shook her head. “No, but maybe he was waiting for me to bring it up.”

“I’m not sure how sealed records work, but maybe even the police can’t see them without special permission. Don’t read more into his visit than there is. Plenty of people could have killed Carla.”

“Were they spotted at the murder scene, too?” she asked bitterly. She stepped away from the table. “If I were that detective, I would have already arrested me.” She turned on her heel and strode from the room.

I exhaled loudly through my nose, then grabbed a towel and a bottle of homemade cleaner and wiped down the massage table. Too bad Gretchen couldn’t erase her troubled past as easily as I was cleaning the table. She must be in a constant state of dread that someone would find out about her record, someone like Gordon. The man couldn’t stand to hear even a whisper of a scandal and would have never hired her if he’d known about her past. Even now he might try to force Esther to fire her if he got wind of it. If Detective Palmer knew about the record, he was too much of a professional to release the information, but these kinds of secrets had a way of slipping out, anyway.

I left the spa tent without seeing Gretchen again and made my way past the cabins and pool area. I used the French doors to enter the dining room. With breakfast over, the room was silent. Zennia had already removed the silverware and linens from the tables. I cut across the hall and went into the office. I’d been so distracted by Gretchen’s story that I’d forgotten all about the waxing, but I had other projects to work on.

For the next hour, I tried to concentrate but failed miserably. I felt too restless sitting at the desk. With lunchtime approaching, I called it quits and went into the kitchen to help Zennia, whether she needed it or not.

She stood at the stove, stirring the contents of a large pot. Her tie-dyed dress reached to the floor, and her usual braid looped around her head like a crown.

“What’s for lunch?” I asked as I went to the sink to wash my hands. “A plateful of vitamins and minerals?”

She turned from the pot, still holding the wooden spoon. “More like a bowlful. It’s curried lentil soup with seven-seed bread baked fresh this morning.”

Not exactly my cup of tea, or, rather, soup, but others might enjoy it. I removed a stack of white ceramic bowls from the cupboard and set them on the counter. “I’d love to help you serve. How many are we expecting?”

“Twelve or so, depending on whether or not we get anyone from the spa. I heard a couple of the guests discussing whether to drive to Mendocino for the day, but they were worried about the weather, so they may have changed their minds.”

I thought of the narrow highway that twisted through the towering redwoods, the sun shut out completely by the mammoth trees, the road slick with water. “I know I don’t like driving over there in the rain, even when it’s only a shower.”

“I agree. No sense tempting fate. Their auras already looked a bit unsettled when I saw them at breakfast, so I hope they stayed here. My soup will soothe their souls.”

“How’s my aura today?” I joked, though a tiny part of me worried about her answer.

Zennia stared at my forehead long enough that I found myself shifting my feet. “Same as most days,” she said. “If you improved your eating habits, it would be brighter.”

“Maybe I could try a spoonful of your soup.” I heard voices in the hall as people moved into the dining room. “But for now, I’ll serve it.”

I ladled soup into two bowls and carried them out of the kitchen and next door to the dining room. An older couple sat at a table near the French doors. They nodded their thanks as I placed the steaming bowls before them, and then they resumed talking. I returned to the kitchen for a basket of the multi-seeded bread and dropped that off, as well. More people drifted in, and I shuttled between the kitchen and the dining room until I’d served everyone.

While people savored their soup, I filled a pitcher with ice water and slowly wandered the outer circuit of the dining room, keeping an eye out for anyone who needed a refill. In one corner two women in their mid-thirties were deep in conversation, the subject apparently more tantalizing than their untouched soup.

The blonde removed a slice of bread from the basket. Her nails looked freshly polished, and I recognized Gretchen’s handiwork in the fleur-de-lis design on each finger. At least Gretchen’s worries weren’t affecting her work. As the woman talked, she tore the bread into smaller and smaller pieces. I edged closer to find out what had her so worked up.

“To think she was killed right in her own business,” the woman was saying. “So scary.” She shuddered and tore another piece off the bread slice.

I realized with a start that she was talking about Carla. I froze next to their table, praying the women wouldn’t notice me.

The other woman ran her hand through her short brown hair and dusted off the shoulder of her red cardigan. “I know. It makes me nervous to even be out at night now.” She looked up at me expectantly. I guessed my statue impersonation wasn’t as convincing as I’d hoped.

I held the water pitcher aloft and raised my eyebrows. She studied her already full glass of water for a second and looked back to me. I shrugged and moved to the next table as slowly as possible, waiting for their conversation to resume. I didn’t have to wait long.

Behind me, one of them cleared her throat. I snuck a peek over my shoulder.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” the blonde said. “I don’t think you’re the type that gets murdered.”

“What type is that?” her companion asked.

I hastily refilled the water glasses at the next table and then shifted back over to hear the answer.

“I heard she had a boyfriend.” Again, she cleared her throat. Maybe she should drink some of the water I was offering. I dared a glance in her direction, noting a smirk on her heavily made-up face. She tossed the remains of her bread slice on her plate. “And guess what? He’s married.”

 

I almost dropped my water pitcher. Carla not only had a boyfriend, but a married one?

The brunette gasped. “No. You don’t say.”

The blonde with the painted nails leaned back, looking pleased with herself. “That’s just what I heard. Don’t quote me on it.”

“Do you know his name?” the other woman asked. She shoved her bowl away, causing a few drops of the lentil soup to slosh over the side. She ignored it. “Is he from here in town?”

“I have no idea. All I heard is he’s some older guy and a total knockout. On a scale of one to ten, we’re talking an eleven. I know if I was going to deal with all the hassle of sneaking around with a married man, he’d have to be worth it.”

The brunette ran her hands through her hair, exposing her gray roots. “I agree. Otherwise, why bother?”

The two women fell silent. I weaved among the rest of the tables, filling water glasses here, checking bread baskets there, my mind far away from the dining room, busy concentrating on Carla and her love life. Jason had mentioned that one of the neighbors had spotted the same guy visiting Carla multiple times. Was that the boyfriend in question? If so, was he actually married, or was the Blossom Valley gossip factory working overtime in the fabrication department?

I went back into the kitchen and set the half-full water pitcher on the table. I flexed my fingers to work out the cramps from clutching the handle so tightly.

“How’s the lunch crowd?” Zennia asked as she layered mango slices atop dishes of yogurt lined up on the counter.

“Good. Everyone seems to be enjoying your soup.”

“Wait until they try my mango parfait.”

I went back to the dining room to clear the tables and see which diners wanted dessert. In the corner, the brunette had pulled her soup bowl back and was spooning up the soup, while her companion nibbled on a chunk of bread and looked out the window. By the time I’d cleared the dishes from the other tables and delivered the desserts, they’d finished eating, but they weren’t talking. I guessed they didn’t have anything new to say about Carla and her boyfriend. Just as well. They’d given me enough to chew on for now.

After the guests had vacated the dining room, I helped Zennia with the dishes, my mind still on Carla. When I’d dried the last glass, I went into the dining room and pulled the tablecloths and napkins from the tables, then dumped them into the industrial-size washer in the laundry room. I started the cycle and went to the office to call Jason, hitting three wrong keys in my haste to dial the number. I finally hit the right buttons and pressed the phone to my ear.

He answered on the first ring. “Hey, babe. How’s it going?”

I skipped the usual niceties, too absorbed in my news. “I used my vast connections of underworld spies and informers to uncover top secret information about Carla.” That sounded more impressive than admitting I’d been eavesdropping while serving lunch.

“Seriously?” His voice took on an urgent tone. “I know you wouldn’t tease me about info for a news story.”

“Of course not.” I paced around the office, the excitement in Jason’s voice compelling me to move. “There’s a rumor that Carla was dating a married man.”

I heard typing on the other end of the line. “Did you get a name?”

“Afraid not. But I thought you could ask around. I heard he’s older and really good-looking. Maybe it’s that guy the neighbor kept seeing over at Carla’s house.”

Jason murmured agreement. “Makes sense. I’ll ask the neighbor again, but maybe this connection of yours already knows. I could use any other information they have, too.”

I had figured Jason would be so distracted by Carla’s boyfriend that he wouldn’t even consider my imaginary informant. I tried to think up a name for her, but all I came up with was Jane Doe, which was not the best choice. “Oh, all right, I don’t have any connections. I overheard a couple of women in the dining room.”

Jason laughed. “Hey, I’ll take the information any way you can get it. Continue to keep your ears open.”

“You bet.”

“Let me get on this, and I’ll give you a call later.”

We said our good-byes and hung up. I stuck my phone in my pocket and turned to the computer.

The rest of the day flew by as I contacted local publications about ad pricing, struggled with a formatting issue in one of my documents, and thought up new promotional ideas. I considered all the extra services Carla’s place had offered, and wondered how much it would cost to train Gretchen to administer Botox injections. Then I shook my head. Carla hadn’t been dead two days, and I was already trying to profit from her.
Shame on me.
That was more Gordon’s style.

Around five, I wrapped up my work. After a quick good-bye to Zennia and Esther, and a wave to Gordon, I stepped outside. Ahead of me, Gretchen was walking to her car, an older-model Nissan with a missing hubcap. With her head down and her back hunched, she looked as if the weight of a thousand massage stones rested on her shoulders.

Did the police know about Carla’s possible married boyfriend? That might ease some of Gretchen’s worries that the police were targeting her. The boyfriend or his jilted wife was a more likely suspect than a masseuse at a competing spa.

Gretchen pulled out of the lot, and I got into my own car, started it, then cranked up the heat. The light rain that had followed me around all day had dissipated, but clouds still cast a blanket over the sky. The weatherman had hinted at a warm front moving in, which I would be happy to see.

As I exited the highway and made my way down Main Street, I noticed that the same woman who’d been moving the flowers and stuffed animals out of the rain at the Pampered Life this morning was now taping a flyer to the spa’s window. I squinted as I slowed, but I couldn’t read the flyer’s words from the street.

Curiosity got the better of me, as usual, and I pulled to the curb. The woman set the stack of flyers on the bench and looked up as I stepped onto the sidewalk. In her forties, she was fairly attractive in a plain way, with a friendly smile and large blue eyes. My mom would have described her figure as pleasantly plump, whereas Ashlee would have handed her a card for Weight Watchers.

As I got closer, she took a flyer from the stack, marched over, and thrust the paper at me. It advertised a Celebration of Life for Carla tomorrow evening at an address here in town. According to the flyer, everyone was welcome, and all attendees were encouraged to “bring a dish to share.”

I looked up to find the woman staring at me. “I’m glad someone is arranging a service,” I said. “I’m Dana, by the way.”

“Patricia Porter. She has cousins in Colorado who are preparing a funeral, but I thought the locals might like to pay their respects. Did you know her?” she asked, sounding borderline suspicious. “I don’t remember ever seeing you before.”

“I met her only a few days ago. Did you know her long?”

Patricia nodded. “I probably knew her better than anyone. We grew up together in Denver. After I got married, I came out here, while she finished college and settled in San Francisco, but we stayed in touch. When she started talking a few months ago about getting out of the rat race in the city, I talked her into moving up here. She’d been working on opening the spa ever since.”

“I’m surprised I didn’t hear more about the spa before it opened. I’m sure you know how excited people get around here when a new business is in the works.” Some locals had even been known to start a betting pool to see who could guess what would open in a vacant spot.

“Well, of course, I knew all about it,” Patricia said, “but I’d never breathe a word until everything was absolutely ready. She and I both knew this spa would be a huge success.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I only wish she’d had a chance to prove it. To be killed so soon after opening the place seems wrong.” She started to cry.

I struggled for something to say and was relieved when a man in his midfifties joined us. He wore brown slacks, a white dress shirt, and a jacket that almost hid a modest paunch. The way he carried himself implied he’d been an athlete in his younger days. In his hands were two take-out coffee cups from the Breaking Bread Diner.

He set the cups on the bench and pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket. “There, there, Patricia. Don’t let yourself get upset.” He dabbed ineffectually at Patricia’s cheeks until she took the handkerchief and dried her own tears. He retrieved the coffee and handed one cup to her.

“Thank you, Stan.” She wadded up the handkerchief and gave it back to him.

He used the square of cloth to mop his neck before stuffing it in his pocket. “I added two sugars just like you like it, dear.”

“You know everything about me.” Her mouth turned up in a smile, but her tone implied that wasn’t necessarily a compliment. Stan glanced at her nervously.

I eyed him. Here was a married, older guy who fit the description the woman at lunch had provided when talking about Carla’s boyfriend. I wouldn’t exactly call him a knockout, but maybe the woman had different tastes than me. Either way, it couldn’t hurt to talk to him. I stuck out my hand. “Hi. I’m Dana.”

He switched his coffee to his other hand, and we shook. “Stan. Pleased to meet you.”

“We were talking about Carla’s memorial service,” I said. “Are you helping Patricia organize it?”

Stan opened his mouth to answer, but Patricia jumped in. “Oh, no, my husband is much too busy with work. I’m doing everything myself, from the decorations to drinks to these flyers.” She tapped the one in my hand for emphasis.

“Now, honey,” Stan said, “if you need my help, all you have to do is ask. I know how much Carla meant to you.” He turned to me. “I’m an accountant. Tax season is our busy time. I’ve been working late every night the past couple of weeks.”

Patricia laid a hand on my arm. “Please tell me you’ll come to the service. I’d appreciate it so much.”

I’d been waffling about attending ever since I’d read the flyer. Tomorrow was my day off, and I didn’t have much planned. “I’ll be there,” I decided.

“Wonderful,” Patricia said. “I’m hoping for a nice turnout for Carla.”

Stan reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. “Now that that’s settled . . .”

Patricia tried to put up a hand to block him. “Stan, now’s not the time.”

“Nonsense, honey. It’s always a good time to talk about taxes.” He handed me his card. “If you don’t already have an accountant, I’d like to offer my services. My rates are reasonable.”

I studied the card, plain white with his name and
CERTIFIED PUBLIC ACCOUNTANT
written in black across the middle. The typical info was listed at the bottom. Considering I had no property, no stock portfolio, and no deductions, my taxes took me all of ten minutes to complete. “I’ve got it covered, but I’ll be sure to keep you in mind if I have any problems,” I told him.

A loud rumble came from behind me on the street, and I turned around. An older-model muscle car, polished to a high sheen and with flames painted on the side, pulled to the curb behind my Honda. The engine continued to thrum as the passenger door opened and a girl in her late teens or early twenties got out, her long brown hair swishing around her shoulders. She looked over at our little group before speaking to the driver of the car, a young-looking guy with an angel tattoo on his right forearm.

She shut the car door and walked to the entrance of the spa. Without acknowledging us, she pulled a key ring from her pocket, selected a key, and stuck it in the lock.

“Erin!” The shrillness in Patricia’s voice made me wince. “Did the police say you could go in there?”

This must be the niece who, Jessica was convinced, had murdered Carla. I took a closer look at Erin. With her petite stature and wispy frame, she looked more like a potential victim than a cold-blooded killer.

Erin turned toward us and rolled her eyes, drawing attention to her glittery eyelids and blue eyeliner. “Of course, Patricia. I’m not an idiot.”

Patricia pursed her lips but softened her tone. “I didn’t say you were. Only, I’d hate for you to mess anything up while the police are looking for your aunt’s killer.”

Erin’s gaze traveled to the flyer on the window. Her face darkened as she read the words. “Nice of you to invite me to my own aunt’s memorial service.”

Patricia blushed. “I called, but you never answer your phone.”

“You could have left a voice mail.”

At the curb, the driver of the muscle car honked. Erin gave him a little wave while Patricia glared at him.

“I see Ricky drove you over,” Patricia said. She reached for Erin, but Erin shifted away. “What would Carla say?”

Erin’s head whipped up. “Nothing. She’s dead. Now, let me get my stuff.” She twisted the key in the lock, pushed the door open, and disappeared inside.

Patricia sighed, and Stan started rubbing her back. “After all Carla’s done for that girl,” she said, shaking her head.

I couldn’t help asking, “Like what?”

“Gave her a place to live, for starters, after her no-good drunk of a mother—”

“Patricia, please,” Stan said. He removed his hand from his wife’s back and drummed his fingers on his coffee cup, the sound inaudible over the noise from the car still idling at the curb.

I expected Patricia to chastise Stan for interrupting her, but she gave him a little smile. “You’re right. I shouldn’t say bad things about Carla’s sister.” She addressed me. “Carla had such high expectations for Erin, and I’m afraid it will be all for nothing now that Carla’s gone.”

Erin came back out the door and frowned when she saw us still standing there. She clutched a small bag in her hand, but there was no way to tell what was inside through the opaque plastic. She pulled the spa door shut and locked it.

“I hope you’ll remember how Carla felt about Ricky,” Patricia said as Erin walked past.