A Healthy Homicide (2 page)

 

I crossed my arms and tried to appear fierce under the woman’s watchful gaze. “I’m no spy.”

She pointed at my shirt. “Sure you are. It says so right there.”

I looked down and sighed. Gordon, the spa’s business-minded manager, had recently insisted on adding
O’CONNELL ORGANIC FARM AND SPA
to our work shirts, figuring it would be free advertising when we went into town for lunch or to run errands. I kept forgetting that everyone now knew where I worked simply by looking at my clothes. I offered a sheepish smile. “I forgot about that.”

She grinned back, her smile instantly putting me at ease. “Don’t worry. I’m only giving you a hard time.” She crossed the room and held out her hand. “I’m Carla Fitzpatrick, the owner.”

I shook her hand. “Dana Lewis. I was grabbing lunch down the street and couldn’t resist stopping by. How long have you been open?”

“About two weeks. Long enough to work out most of the new business kinks, although I’m still learning.” She checked her watch. “Would you like a tour? I’m so excited my place is finally open that every time someone new comes in, I drag them around to look at everything.”

I thought about my BLT, but the diner was notoriously slow with take-out orders. I had time. Still, I put a finger to my lips and tapped them while pretending to consider her offer. “Hmm, I don’t know. Wouldn’t I be fraternizing with the enemy?”

“We’ll call a truce for today.” She hooked her arm with mine, and together, we walked toward the archway like two pals on an afternoon stroll.

Jessica held out a slip of paper as we went by. “Erin called a while ago. She sounded upset.”

“I’ll deal with her later.” Carla took the slip of paper and folded it in half without reading it. “My niece,” she said to me.

On the other side of the arch, a long hallway stretched before us, with a door at the other end marked
EXIT
. A series of additional doors, some open, lined each side. Carla stopped partway down the hall, at the first open door. “Our nail station,” she announced quietly.

I surveyed the room. Three chairs and three small tables with manicure and pedicure equipment and stools occupied the space. An older woman with a gray perm sat at one table while a young woman in a smock worked on her nails. The room smelled like chocolate, and I glanced around for the source of the aroma. If it was some type of air freshener plug-in, I wanted one for my apartment.

After a moment, Carla and I crossed the hall, where she showed me the waxing room. The room was tastefully furnished and pleasant enough, with a blanket draped over the table and a soft-looking pillow on top, but I still viewed it as some kind of torture chamber. I knew what went on in here. I hustled down the hall as Carla entered the last room on the right.

“This is my favorite room,” she said over her shoulder. She switched on the light.

I blinked against the glare and looked around. The entire room was tiled, except for two large troughs in the back. What I assumed was mud filled both, the dark brown goo shimmering under the lights. With the extra warmth of the room and the soft saxophone music in the background, I could easily see myself sinking into that glop for a relaxing soak.

Carla watched me, her face full of pride. “Everyone who calls for an appointment wants to know about the mud baths. I use a secret blend of volcanic ash, mineral water, and peat moss. I think this room will be very popular.”

I felt a tendril of worry worm its way through my gut. After seeing Carla’s spa, with all its modern services and its comfortable atmosphere, the tent that we’d erected at the back of Esther’s farm seemed downright amateurish in comparison. We didn’t even have solid walls, for crying out loud. Maybe Esther was right to feel threatened.

“Well, now you’ve seen my place,” Carla said.

“It’s fantastic. You’ll be a huge hit.” But I wouldn’t be telling Esther that. I stepped out of the room, and Carla turned off the light. I led the way down the hall, Carla following behind. When we got to the front of the spa, I turned around. “We should have lunch sometime. We could compare notes on the spa business.” Even though we were direct competitors, Carla seemed like someone I’d like to hang out with.

“Great idea. Let me give you my card.” She stepped behind the counter and extracted a business card from a shelf underneath. I tore a blank page off a pad of paper that sat near the phone and jotted down my number.

We traded, and I stuck the business card in the back pocket of my khakis, along with the brochure I still carried. I nodded to both Carla and Jessica, who gave me a wave and a smile, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The air outside the spa felt especially cool on my skin compared to the warmth of the mud room. I hurried back to the diner, worried that my BLT would be ice cold after all this time, but Betty was only now wrapping up my sandwich. She stuffed it into a paper bag with a napkin and set it on the counter with my drink before ringing me up at the nearby register. I paid for the food and trotted to my car, eager to eat my lunch before the hour was up.

Back at the farm, I followed the path along the vegetable garden, turned at the row of guest cabins, and crossed the patio area to the back door. The kitchen was empty, and I sat down at the oak table, pulling my sandwich out of the bag. The bacon was still warm, and I was savoring the salty crunch of the first bite when Gretchen walked in. She must have been in between spa clients.

As I watched, she went straight to the sink and turned on the tap. Her shoulders drooped noticeably as she scrubbed her hands and dried them roughly with the hand towel. When she turned around, her gaze dropped to the floor. Her mouth was set in a grim line.

Alarmed, I swallowed hastily. The half-chewed bacon scraped its way down my throat. “Is everything all right, Gretchen?”

She threw the towel on the counter. “No. I ran into Esther this morning, and she told me how amazing the new spa is. Then I called one of my friends to see what she knew, and she said her mom couldn’t even get an appointment, it’s so busy. What will happen to my job when everyone stops coming here and goes there?”

I drank some iced tea to encourage the bacon the rest of the way down. Between Esther and Gretchen, I was starting to feel like a therapist. “You’re great with the customers. They won’t abandon you.”

Gretchen sank into a chair on the other side of the table and ran a hand through her short dark hair. “I hope you’re right. I drive past the place all the time, but I haven’t worked up the courage to go inside yet. What if we can’t compete?”

“We’ll be fine. In fact, I stopped there while getting lunch, and you have nothing to worry about.” I thought of the Brazilian waxes and manicure stations and then banished the images from my mind.

Gretchen reached across the table and gripped my free hand. Her icy fingers sent a shiver up my back. “What’s it like? Is it as nice as everyone says?”

I removed my fingers from her grasp. “Well, it is trendy. Massages, mud baths—”

She gasped. “So it’s true. They have mud baths.”

I set down my sandwich, then stuffed an errant tomato slice back into place. “The Pampered Life will attract a different clientele. Our regulars won’t desert us.”

Gretchen’s eyes, accented by heavy black eyeliner, never left mine. “I’ve already noticed a drop-off in bookings.” Concern was etched on her face.

“For now, because it’s new,” I said firmly, holding her gaze. “But then they’ll come back.”

“This job is too important for me to lose. I’ve worked too hard.”

“No one’s losing their job. Esther wouldn’t allow it.”

Shaking her head, she slapped her hands on the table and rose. “You better be right.” She strode out of the kitchen.

I stared at the empty doorway for a moment, wondering about her change in behavior. She’d sounded so angry. I returned to my sandwich, though my appetite had shrunk considerably. The bacon tasted too salty; the mayonnaise seemed less creamy. Would people sour on Esther’s place, like I’d soured on my sandwich?

After I’d swallowed the last bite, I crumpled up the paper before dropping it in the trash with my drink cup. I walked down the hall and settled into the office chair, glancing around at Esther’s photos of the farm and of her deceased husband. He’d passed away before he and Esther could realize their dream of turning their former farm into a bed-and-breakfast, but Esther had assured me that he was watching from heaven and nodding his approval. I’d never met her husband, but she’d worked hard to get this place running, and I suspected she was right.

I took a few minutes to answer blog comments from today’s post. Then I focused on the new marketing materials I was developing. I soon found myself immersed in work, forgetting all about the Pampered Life as the afternoon sped by. When five o’clock rolled around, I powered down the computer, pulled on my sweatshirt, and gathered my belongings.

On my way out the door, I ran into Gretchen in the hall. She barely raised her eyes to acknowledge me, and I automatically placed a hand on her shoulder. “Everything will work itself out, Gretchen. Don’t worry.”

She sighed. “I hope so, but I’m not leaving it up to fate. I have a plan.” Before I could ask what she meant, she slipped past me and into the kitchen.

I gave her retreating back a long look. She and Esther were both convinced that the Pampered Life would put an end to the spa here. Were they right?

And what exactly was Gretchen’s plan?

 

After dealing with Blossom Valley’s rush-hour traffic, such as it was, I pulled into my designated parking spot at the Orchard Village Apartments and shut off the engine. A salsa-red Camaro sat in the space next to me, which meant Ashlee had beaten me home again. I looked up at our apartment for signs of activity, but the front door was closed and the curtains in the nearby window were drawn. Knowing Ashlee, she was happily ensconced on the couch, watching a reality show.

I locked my car and headed up the outside stairs to the apartment. When I opened the door, the sounds of shouting and breaking furniture greeted me. Ashlee turned from her place on the couch, looking comfy in pink-and-white-striped pajama shorts and a pink T-shirt. She pointed at the TV. “Check it out. Catfight!”

I dropped my purse on a kitchen chair and shrugged out of my sweatshirt. “I’d rather watch the real cats that hang out by the Dumpster downstairs. It’d be more interesting.”

Ashlee waved the remote at me. “You don’t know what good TV is.”

“I know bad TV when I see it.”

“Whatever.” She concentrated on the screen as the two women continued sparring. After one ended up with her skirt bunched around her hips, a couple of guys from the sidelines stepped in and pulled the women apart. I shook my head and went to my bedroom to change, stepping over Ashlee’s jacket where it lay on the floor. Her flip-flops blocked my doorway, and I gave one a good kick, sending it bouncing off the nearby wall.

I switched into a long-sleeved T-shirt and lounge pants, washed my face, and brushed my shoulder-length dishwater-blond hair, then wandered into the kitchen to see what was for dinner. Up until a couple of months ago, Ashlee and I had been living with our mom, who had insisted on serving a healthy meal every night after our dad died of a heart attack almost two years ago. Between her dinners and Zennia’s dishes at the farm, which were both healthy
and
organic, I thought I’d never get to eat lip-smacking, mouthwatering foods again.

Now that I was in charge of my own meals, I tended to gravitate toward processed snacks and frozen en-trées. Every now and again when I was leafing through a magazine, I’d eye a picture of a green salad with longing, but the feeling went away as soon as I ate a doughnut.

I inspected the handful of items in the refrigerator and pantry before grabbing a package of Top Ramen and tossing it on the counter. While I waited for my pot of water to boil, I glanced over the counter into the living room and saw that Ashlee’s show was on a commercial break.

“Hey, Ashlee,” I called to her, “have any of your friends tried that new spa in town, the Pampered Life?”

Ashlee muted the volume and twisted around to face me. “You remember my friend Brittany? She got a job there. Which is super awesome, ’cause she can get a huge discount for all her friends, and that means me. Julia already went there for a manicure. The manicurist put a little skull and crossbones on every nail.”

“So everyone’s pretty excited about it?”

Ashlee tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sure. It’s the hot new place in town.”

Great.
Just what I didn’t want to hear. The water started to boil, and I yanked open the pack of Top Ramen, sending little curls of noodles skittering across the counter. I dumped the rectangle of glued-together pasta into the pot, then tore the top off the seasoning packet and watched the roiling water suck up the powder. “Think it’ll affect Esther’s place?” I called over my shoulder.

“Naw. All the cool chicks will hit up the new spa, but where you work gets all those fuddy-duddies with the giant purses and support hose. They wouldn’t set foot in a place so hip.”

No one matching Ashlee’s description had ever come to our spa, but at least she was confirming my earlier comment to Gretchen that the two spas would simply attract different types of people.

That settled, I poured my ramen into a bowl, grabbed a spoon from the silverware drawer, and sat down at the kitchen table to read a cooking magazine. I couldn’t live on instant soup and frozen meals of fried chicken and mashed potatoes forever. I marked a page for an easy macaroni and cheese with bacon recipe while I slurped up my noodles.

Dinner done, I dashed off a text to Jason to see if he wanted to hang out tonight. Before I had time to finish wiping down the table, he replied that he was tied up with a traffic accident on Main Street. As the lead reporter for Blossom Valley’s only newspaper, he covered everything from fender benders to burglaries to serial jaywalkers.

I set my phone on the counter and joined Ashlee on the couch, where she’d switched the channel from the battling women to a man trying to pawn a Revolutionary War–era musket. When the shop owner lowballed an offer, I thought the man might test out the musket right then and there, but he grabbed his gun and stalked out instead.

I slumped down in the cushions and put my feet on the coffee table. “No date tonight?”

Ashlee tore her gaze from the TV. “Chip had to go see his grandma, poor guy.”

“Why poor guy?”

“She’s ninety-six and thinks he’s George Clooney. It can get awkward when your grandma keeps hitting on you every time you visit.”

Yeesh.
“You’ve been seeing Chip awhile now. You guys getting serious?”

Ashlee snorted. “God, no. The last thing I want is to end up like you and Jason, watching TV every night like an old married couple.”

I put my feet down. “Old married couples are usually pretty happy, like Jason and me. You could learn a lot from us.”

“How to die of boredom, maybe.”

“Or how to enjoy a stable, long-term, fulfilling relationship.” Jason and I had been dating for less than a year, but that was a lifetime commitment by Ashlee’s definition.

I hopped off the couch to retrieve a bag of chocolate chip cookies and end the argument, then flopped back down and munched a cookie. While Ashlee flipped through the channels, I picked up a farming magazine I’d borrowed from Esther, and started reading. Within minutes, I was absorbed in an article about the local food movement. The next time I looked at the clock, it was time for bed.

I marked my page and said good night to Ashlee before going to my room, feeling one last nagging worry about the new spa as I closed the bedroom door.

 

 

The next morning, I felt someone shaking my shoulder. Still half asleep, I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to roll over, but a hand grabbed me and halted my movement. Then Ashlee spoke right in my ear, her grip on my shoulder firm. “Dana, get up. Hurry.”

I slapped her hand off me and inched over to my nightstand to check the clock. Not even six yet. Ashlee was never up this early. A jolt of panic brought me to a sitting position. “What’s wrong? Is Mom okay?”

“Mom’s fine, but Brittany called.”

I rubbed my eyes, trying to get my brain working. “Why is she calling so early? Did she get fired for giving out discounts to too many friends?”

“No, smarty, but she did call about the Pampered Life.” Ashlee grabbed my shoulder again. “That boss of hers there? She’s dead.”