Going Organic Can Kill You (14 page)

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Authors: Staci McLaughlin

BOOK: Going Organic Can Kill You
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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 end 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.
“Maxwell’s vision was more limited than I realized when I signed on. He’d accept any plot if the movie contained enough special effects or nudity. But he couldn’t appreciate the finer films.”
“So he hated the screenplay.” Heaven knows why I was poking a hornet’s nest, risking a sting, but I couldn’t help myself.
Logan bent down and yanked a cluster of leaves off the cilantro. I swear I heard the plant scream.
“The man was an idiot. He wouldn’t know a good movie if Steven Spielberg screened it himself. When he told me my screenplay was undeveloped and boring, I lost all respect for him.”
I eyed the squawking blue jay, seeming to mock Logan. “But you think this new boss is smarter?”
“Wilcox is a man of integrity. He’ll recognize the value of my work.”
Logan had probably said the same thing about Maxwell at one time.
“Now excuse me,” he said. “I need to make a phone call.” He stomped away, trampling the chervil. Guess he needed a few more days of relaxation to start respecting the vegetation.
I thought about our conversation. Logan must have been furious when Maxwell insulted his screenplay, especially after all the humiliating chores he’d performed. But had Logan been angry enough to kill him? He’d been in the dining room for the entire lunch period. Had Maxwell been killed prior to lunch or during the meal? Would the police be able to narrow down the time of death to such a small window?
I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Logan was out of sight, then bent down and dug around the cilantro plant. My fingers only found damp soil and pebbles. Maybe Logan really was checking the roots. Or I’d interrupted his attempt to hide something.
I stood and brushed off my hands. Two days ago, my biggest problem had been how to swallow Zennia’s meals without gagging. Now, I spent my time wondering which person at the spa had committed murder. Life had certainly taken an interesting detour.
Esther came out the back door, clad in brown slacks and a denim shirt embroidered with corn stalks and scarecrows, an oversized purse slung over one shoulder. Her gray hair sported fresh curls and a touch of rouge brightened her already ruddy cheeks. She was certainly gussied up.
“Dana, any trouble with the clog today?”
Uh-oh, had another guest clogged a toilet? “Weren’t you taking care of that problem?”
“Remember how we talked yesterday about you updating the Web site?”
My mind went blank. What did a clogged toilet have to do with the computer?
“You’re supposed to write something every day,” Esther prompted.
“Oh, the
blog
,” I said. “I posted the blog today with no problems.”
Esther reached into her purse and extracted a compact. She popped it open and studied her reflection in the mirror, rubbing at the rouge. She snapped the compact closed. “Oh! Where is my mind today? I meant to ask this morning how the committee meeting went?”
“The group was smaller than I expected, but the meeting went fine. A bit short.”
“That George hates long meetings. Sometimes I don’t even get a chance to speak.”
The blue jay was back to shrieking, his voice almost drowning out Esther. I tried to tune the bird out.
“But with only three members, wouldn’t everyone be able to speak?” I asked.
“Not with George in charge. He used to be a sergeant in the army. Doesn’t have time for chitchat. I just wish we could get more people to attend.”
“Have you tried recruiting other business owners?”
“People do join for a while, but eventually they all drop out. I’m afraid our festivals and contests haven’t drawn the numbers we wanted and people get frustrated.”
I patted her shoulder. “I bet this cricket-chirping contest is a huge success.”
Please don’t let God strike me down for lying.
“I sure hope so. With all these new reservations helping the farm, a huge crowd for the cricket chirpers would be the cream on the peaches.”
“Speaking of the contest, George wants you at the fairgrounds at one tomorrow afternoon to help set up.”
Esther frowned and I noticed that she’d applied her lipstick unevenly, adding a good half inch to her left side. “Goodness me, I’m not ready for that.”
Uh-oh. Visions of unfolding chairs and dragging tables around filled my head. “Nonsense. You said the farm is prospering. Get out there and hold your head high.”
Please, oh, please, don’t make me do it.
Esther plucked at a button on her shirt. “No, it’s too soon. George and Bethany will hound me for all the details of the murder. I’m afraid I’m not up to it yet. But I know you’ll do a great job, Dana.”
Ugh. So much for escaping the drudgeries of cricket chirping.
But it’s a job
, I reminded myself. One to which I had agreed.
“I’ll protect this year’s winner from the giant trophy.”
Esther frowned. “I’d almost forgotten about that. But if you run into Jason, make sure he mentions in his news coverage how the farm is helping the community with our involvement.”
“Jason?” A little spark jolted my chest.
“He covers all the Rejuvenation Committee projects. Isn’t that boy just as cute as a june bug?”
I’d never seen a june bug, but I’d definitely agree that Jason was good looking. “I’ll be sure to talk to him.” No problem there. But would I look too silly popping open metal chairs and directing contestants to tables while wearing high heels and my silk blouse with the plunging neckline?
“Good. I know Gordon likes to handle the press for the farm, but he’ll never help with a committee project.”
“Why do you tolerate that man?” The question had slipped out before I could stop myself, and I pressed my lips together before I could say more.
Esther fiddled with her purse clasp. “I know he can be like a burr in your backside, but he’s good at his job. He’s still upset from when his bed and breakfast went under.”
“He had a B and B?”
She nodded. “That’s why he knows all the ins and outs of the business. He jumped right in, filed all the permits and paperwork for the spa, and saved me a mess of headaches. Without him, I’m not sure I would have had the confidence to open the spa.” Esther glanced at her watch. “My goodness, so late? I have a meeting at the bank.”
She turned and hurried back inside the main house. I wandered through the herb garden and down the path, trying to think up more blog ideas. I was already planning to blog about Zennia’s wheatgrass, but I wanted to make a list of go-to topics for those days when I was stumped. As I rounded the bend near the redwood tree, I saw Sheila step onto the path up ahead, dressed in white pants and a silk tunic. She had a spa bath towel tucked under her arm. I expected her to turn toward the cabins at the juncture, but instead, she headed toward the Chicken Run Trail.
Interesting. Why would someone carry a towel into the woods? No creeks ran along the trail. Esther certainly wasn’t hiding a swimming pool back there. And if Sheila expected to get sweaty on her walk, why wouldn’t she carry a handkerchief or hand towel?

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