Authors: Staci McLaughlin

Going Organic Can Kill You (5 page)

BOOK: Going Organic Can Kill You

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“Once the guests realize Maxwell was murdered, they’ll demand an immediate refund,” Gordon said, accenting the word
refund
with a sweep of his arm.

Esther shook her head slowly, whether in denial or defiance, I wasn’t sure. “Not everybody will go. Some of these people traveled cross-country for their stay. That’d be a mess of trouble to change all their plans and book new flights.”

“You make it sound like murder is a mere inconvenience,” Gordon said. “We’re not talking about a power failure or too much rain in the forecast. A man was killed. And the assailant is at large. People will run.”

I sat down next to Esther. “Let’s think positive. If the cops catch Maxwell’s killer right away, people won’t have a reason to leave.”

Gordon snorted. “These cops are lucky if they see one murder a year. They won’t solve it.” With that, Gordon stood and walked out the back door. Amazing how he always disappeared when confronted with a dilemma.

But Gordon was the least of my worries. If they didn’t catch the killer, no one would stay here. And no new guests meant no job for me. Which meant no paycheck. It felt like the air was being squeezed out of my lungs and I sucked in a mouthful. I didn’t know how much longer my contract would be extended here at the farm, but I needed every day I could get. I’d depleted my savings before moving back home and couldn’t afford to lose this job, not when Mom needed my help.

Esther sniffed. “This spa is my dream. I promised Arnold before he died that I would never sell the farm, but without any guests, I can’t afford the upkeep. We have to keep this place open.”

I studied the wrinkles in Esther’s face, the gray in her hair, and wondered if she’d aged after her husband had become ill, as Mom had after Dad’s passing. Esther shouldn’t have to face more troubles when her husband’s death was so recent.

I slapped my palm on the table. “Don’t give up so fast. Have a little faith in the cops. And if I spot anything out of the ordinary while I’m working here at the farm, I’ll tell Detective Caffrey. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the help.” Or else tell me to butt out.

“That’s sweet, Dana,” Esther said. “But what can you do?”

Good question. But I owed it to Mom to help her friend. “You never know. Maybe I’ll uncover some important detail for the police.” I at least had to try.

The back door banged open and I wondered if Gordon had returned with more tales of doom. Instead, the reporter from the
Herald
stood in the doorway. Crisply ironed creases ran down the front of his Levi’s, accentuating his height. His reddish-brown goatee, a shade lighter than his close-cropped hair, was neatly trimmed.

He pointed a finger at me. “You there. Who are you?” he barked.

Well, shoot, why’d he have to go and ruin his good looks by opening his mouth?

“If you’re looking to talk to the police, try the lobby,” I said, recognizing the local reporter who’d been covering the spa’s opening. Here I’d been eyeing him all weekend, but now that Maxwell had died, the prospect of being questioned by the guy with the dimples had lost its luster.

I glanced at Esther to see how she wanted to handle the press, but she was staring at the rooster clock on the wall and appeared not to be listening. If I were her, I’d be trying to think up a magic potion to rewind that clock a few hours.

The man waved a notebook in the air, not unlike the ones carried by the deputies. “Forget the cops. The name’s Jason Forrester. I’m a reporter for the
Blossom Valley Herald
, and I heard one of the staff found the body. Wouldn’t happen to be you, would it?”

I stood frozen as he stared at me with his intense green eyes. What was wrong with me? Had I accidentally been hypnotized by the cover of a cheesy romance novel while standing in the checkout line? I never noticed men’s eyes. But they sure were green. I shook my head to restart my brain.

“Sounds like you heard about the murder,” I said. “But I don’t think I’m allowed to talk to the press.”

“So you
are
the one who found the victim. What can you tell me?” He held up his notebook and pen.

From her place at the table, Esther swung her head back and forth between us, as if watching a Ping-Pong tournament.

I raised my hands. “Hang on a minute. I should ask Detective Caffrey before I speak to you. I don’t want to break any laws.” I didn’t recall this particular scenario being covered on
Law and Order
, but considering I’d already helped notify the guests of Maxwell’s death when I wasn’t supposed to, I didn’t want to tick off the detective any more than I already had. The man did carry around handcuffs.

“You won’t get in any trouble, trust me.” He gave me a grin full of teeth and I suddenly felt like Little Red Riding Hood facing the Big Bad Wolf. “The paper comes out tomorrow and I can’t afford to wait another week for your information.”

Should I answer his questions? The police had only been here for roughly an hour, so surely they wouldn’t want me talking to a newspaper reporter, even the local guy. But what about freedom of the press?

Detective Caffrey walked into the kitchen, saving me from my dilemma.

“Forrester! I don’t remember saying you could bother people.”

Jason straightened up. “I know you’re new to the department, but I’ve got an understanding with the sheriff when a major crime occurs.”

Detective Caffrey adjusted the holster strap on his shoulder. “This is an open investigation and I don’t want you talking to anyone without checking with me first. I suggest you have the sheriff call me.”

While the two argued, I inched back toward the hallway and slipped around the corner into the dining room. The linens had been stripped from the tables and replaced with fresh tablecloths and polished silverware. Lunch was a distant memory, replaced by the horror of finding Maxwell’s body.

I brushed my hand across my eyes as if I could wipe away the image and stepped out the side door that led to the patio. Tiffany walked past, heading in the direction of the cabins.

Even though I kept reminding myself that actors were just like everybody else, I felt my heart rate pick up as I opened my mouth to speak. Sure, she’d only starred in straight-to-video slashers, but Tiffany wouldn’t be the first Hollywood success to get their start in horror films. She could be the next Renee Zellweger or Naomi Watts for all I knew.

I said a quick prayer that I wouldn’t babble like a deranged fan. “Tiffany, did you talk to the police already?” I asked.

She stopped and looked at me, then back at the cabins, obviously torn. “Yep, all done.”

“I hope you weren’t too upset by what happened.” As Gordon had pointed out, this was a vacation spa. People expected to relax, not be interrogated by the authorities.

“Nah. They really didn’t ask a lot of questions, just if I knew Maxwell and when I’d seen him last. I told them how Maxwell had been in yoga with me and got all pissy.” She glanced back at the row of buildings. “Now I gotta go change before the news crews get here. With Maxwell being so famous, I bet even
Entertainment Tonight
sends out a truck to cover the story. Or that
TMZ
show.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” I said.

“Thanks,” she said, completely missing my sarcastic tone. “It’ll take a while for the crews to get up here once the story breaks, so at least I have some time. You wouldn’t believe how long it takes to get camera ready.” She turned to go. “Have you seen Logan anywhere?”

“No,” I said, pleased that she at least cared about Logan, even if she didn’t care about Maxwell. “But I’m sure he’s pretty upset about his boss’s death.” I was careful not to use the word
murder
in case she didn’t know.

Tiffany picked at a nail. “Logan’s fine. I need to talk to him about who’ll take over Maxwell’s latest project. I know I’m the perfect fit for the role of Isabella. I tried talking to Maxwell about it, but he was running late for some appointment. Now he’s dead. At least I didn’t have to sleep with him first. That would have been a huge waste.”

With that, she headed off to the cabins while I stood in place with my mouth hanging open. If Maxwell hadn’t been murdered, would she have slept with him for a part in his next film? I thought those rumors about casting-couch affairs were exaggerated, but apparently Hollywood’s sofa-sex tradition was alive and well. The sound of my name interrupted my musings about which of today’s stars likely slept their way to fame.

“Dana!” Gordon emerged from the dining room, clipboard in hand. Knowing him, he probably counted the silverware after every meal to make sure guests and staff members didn’t pocket the spoons. “What are you doing out here?”

“I, um, I’m just gathering my thoughts.”

“Well, get back inside. We have a farm to run and we can’t have the staff sitting around doing nothing.”

I felt the heat rise up in my cheeks. “I’m not sitting around. I talked to the police and was comforting Esther for a bit.” I took a step closer. “Speaking of Esther, she’s my boss, not you.”

Gordon leaned in, his breath hot on my face. “We both know Esther can’t handle anything right now, so I’ve taken it upon myself to keep things running smoothly. And we need those marketing brochures now more than ever.” He stepped back and looked me up and down. “Unless you’re not up to the task.”

I straightened up and stuck my chin out. “Why don’t you go count the chickens? To make sure they’re not bothering the guests, of course.” I brushed past him and reentered the house, my cheeks still flaming. What a twerp. But he was right, much as I hated to admit it. Once word got out about the murder, I’d need to produce one heck of a brochure to convince people to stay here. Of course, if Gordon whined enough to Esther about my backtalk just now, I might not be creating brochures much longer.

I sat down at the desk in the office and jiggled the mouse to activate the screen. My half-finished document that I’d started hours ago still waited. I stared at the picture of the herb garden with the pool in the background, but the only tag lines I could produce were too macabre to print. “Come splash in the pool, mere yards from where a man was knifed.” “Try our organic vegetables, but keep your doors locked.”

Doors locked. Had Maxwell locked his door when he left yoga? The cabin hadn’t been secure when I arrived, but that meant the killer hadn’t locked the door on his way out. Had Maxwell let someone in, not knowing their intent?

I shuddered. Let the police worry about Maxwell. I needed to focus on the brochure. I studied the cracks in the ceiling, tapped my fingers on the keyboard, then forced myself to type a few words to at least feel like I was accomplishing something.

I removed my hands from the keyboard and set them in my lap. What I needed was a glass of Zennia’s lemonade to help the creative juices flow, or at least provide a distraction until I could think of something to write. I saved the file and went into the kitchen, feeling momentary angst that Jason might be waiting to pounce. He didn’t seem like the type who would give up easily.

But only Zennia and Esther were in the kitchen. I wasn’t sure Esther had even moved since she had first sat down. Zennia had freshened Esther’s cup of tea and now held a mug herself.

I took down a glass from the cupboard and grabbed the lemonade pitcher from the fridge. “How’re you holding up, Esther?”

She looked at me, twining her fingers together and squeezing them until the knuckles turned white. “What’s going on out there? Are the guests terribly upset?”

I poured a glass of lemonade and took a sip, my lips puckering at the tartness. “I’ve only seen Tiffany. She was about to doll herself up in anticipation of the paparazzi arriving.”

“The devil’s in that girl,” Zennia said. “I bet she eats trans fats and drinks alcohol all day. She needs a cleansing of both her body and spirit.”

“She’s young and ambitious,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll use Maxwell’s death as an opportunity to plug her new movie.”

Esther sniffed. “At least she’s staying.”

“Tiffany may be the only one,” Gordon said as he walked into the room. He eyed me with my glass of lemonade and frowned.

I reminded myself that he wasn’t my boss and smiled at him.

“What do you mean?” Zennia asked.

“Two couples have requested refunds and are planning to leave as soon as the police give the okay.”

Esther gasped. “Already?”

“Apparently murder wasn’t part of their vacation plans,” Gordon said.

“Do the guests know it was murder?” I asked. “I thought the police would want to keep that part quiet.”

Gordon refastened a cuff link. “One of the deputies let it slip. Not that they could have kept it secret for long. You know how this town is.”

I sure did. Info traveled fast in Blossom Valley. Of course, since I’d had the audacity to move away for college, I was considered an outsider and thus was shunned when the locals shared gossip. But the waitresses at the Breaking Bread Diner would be spreading tidbits faster than the patrons could spread cinnamon butter on their famous honey rolls.

“What should we do?” Esther asked.

“I’ve got a plan,” Gordon said. “I’m going to spread a rumor that Maxwell was the victim of a mob vendetta. If people think the crime was targeted, they might feel safer and stay.”

“You think a mob attack will make people feel safe?” I asked. “Besides, lying to guests is a bad policy.”

Gordon glared at me. “It’s either that or kiss this whole operation good-bye.” He turned to Zennia. “Dinner’s not for a couple of hours, but you’d better be prepared. Some of the guests are bound to be hungry, even with this murder.”

Esther stood, seeming to gather her strength as she rose. “Gordon’s right. We need to get back to work. It’ll do us all some good.” She touched my arm. “Except you, Dana. You should go home and rest.”

“Nonsense,” Gordon said. “She needs to finish those brochures.”

“Don’t be silly. Dana found the body, poor girl.”

Much as I wanted to stay and help Esther, I could feel my energy sagging. Just holding my head up suddenly felt like too much work.

I set my glass on the counter. “I’ll be back first thing tomorrow,” I told Esther, resting a hand on her shoulder for a moment and giving it a squeeze.

Saying a quick good-bye to the others, I retrieved my purse from the office, updated my time sheet, then slipped out the kitchen door. I took the back path past the pigsty and cabins to reach my car on the far side of the lot, hoping to avoid questions from the guests or the police. No one stopped me, not even Jason.

Once in my Honda, I locked the door and sat for a moment. People were checking out. And who could blame them? But if we ran out of customers, Esther would have to shutter the farm. I’d be out of a job.

Again.

Then what would I do?

BOOK: Going Organic Can Kill You

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