Authors: Staci McLaughlin

Going Organic Can Kill You (23 page)

BOOK: Going Organic Can Kill You

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Esther finished cleaning while I was still pulling on fresh pillowcases.

“See you in the next cabin,” she said and pushed the vacuum out the door.

I moved into the bathroom and stepped over the pile of dirty towels on the floor. I was pretty sure this was Logan’s room, having seen a closet full of khakis and white dress shirts.

I shoved his bottles of hair spray, gel, and smoother to one side to spray cleaner on the counter. Logan’s BlackBerry sat behind a can of Aquanet. My heart rate picked up. Now was my chance to find out who Logan was always texting.

Grabbing the BlackBerry before I lost my nerve, I pushed a button. The screen sprang to life, a cursor blinking in the password box. Uh-oh. I hadn’t expected the phone to be locked. What would Logan’s password be?

I typed
Hollywood
.

An error message appeared.

Production
.

Nothing. Well, crap. My one chance to do a little spying in a guest’s room was disappearing faster than the guests.

As I started to type
Money
, I heard a key in the lock and froze. The sound of bird chatter and the far-off hum of farm machinery increased in volume as someone opened the door, then decreased. I heard the latch of the closed door snap into place.

“Hello?”

No answer.

“Esther?” A little louder this time.

Silence.

Who was out there?

Had he come for me?

I silently set the BlackBerry on the counter and snatched up the spray bottle. Holding my breath, I tiptoed from the bathroom. I sensed movement to my left and swung around, finger convulsing on the bottle trigger.

“
Aaa!
” Logan threw his hands up, swiping at the mist on his face and dropping his iPod, the ear buds flying from his head.

“Oh, no!” I grabbed a cloth with my free hand and tried to wipe his face.

Logan seized the material and threw it on the floor. He squinted at me. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know who was walking in here.”

“I used my key. This is my cabin. Who else would it be?”

I gestured uselessly with the arm holding the sprayer. “Guess I’m on edge.”

Logan’s eyes teared up, no doubt a residual effect from my spritz of cleaner.

“So what they were saying at the Daily Grind is true? Some lady was killed around here?”

I picked the cloth off the floor and crumpled it in my hand. “Afraid so.”

Logan glanced at his Louis Vuitton suitcase in the corner. It must have cost him a month’s salary. I guess if Maxwell was going to insist he wear khakis and white shirts, Logan needed to spend his money on something.

“I’m out,” he said.

“You sure? Gordon was going to drive a limo over to Mendocino for some whale watching.” I felt lame telling him, like a used car salesman who knows he’s lost the deal but throws pathetic offers out there anyway.

Logan grunted. “I’ll pass, thanks. No offense, but this spa is boring. I only stayed because the room was prepaid.”

“You and Maxwell didn’t strike me as spa aficionados.”

“Not even close.” Logan walked to the closet and pulled a dress shirt off its hanger. He tossed it on the couch and reached for the next shirt. “This whole trip was Maxwell’s grand scheme to woo his ex-wife.”

“Wait. This was planned? He didn’t decide to reconcile after accidentally bumping into her here?”

Logan stripped the shirt off the hanger. “Maxwell left nothing to fate. He always had a plan. A mutual friend mentioned that Sheila would be coming here, and next thing I knew, he had me call for reservations and buy some overpriced necklace to wrap up.” He tossed the last shirt on the couch, opened his suitcase on the coffee table, and began stuffing in the clothes.

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-conditioned 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?

BOOK: Going Organic Can Kill You

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