Going Organic Can Kill You (19 page)

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Authors: Staci McLaughlin

BOOK: Going Organic Can Kill You
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“Yeah, first one.”
With no one needing my help, I might as well see why people were here. “What made you enter the contest?”
The man scratched his chin, his fingertips disappearing in the clump of hair. “The five-hundred-dollar prize.”
“Five hundred dollars for a cricket?” Ashlee said. “How dumb.”
I whirled on my sister. “Ashlee, shush. Don’t be rude.” I turned back to the man. “Have you had your pet cricket long?”
“He’s not a pet. I caught him in my backyard last night. Used the little cage I had a frog in once. I’d never have a stupid bug for a pet.”
At the next table, a woman with a pageboy haircut and wearing a red corduroy jumper over a beige turtleneck with sheep on it glared. “Some people,” she mumbled under her breath.
“Think I’ll go talk to that nice lady,” I said. We certainly didn’t need any disgruntled cricketeers ruining the festivities.
The man winked at me. “Knock yourself out.”
“I’ll stay here,” Ashlee said.
Hmm ... surely Ashlee wasn’t attracted to this guy, though he was sexy in a rocker kind of way. Maybe her ex-con date had been a disappointment.
Moving to the woman at the next table, I sat down in an empty chair. She cast angry glances at the guy.
“Would you like to tell me about your cricket?”
“You mean King Arthur?”
Oh, lord, her cricket was named King Arthur.
“My name’s Agatha, by the way, Agatha Parson.”
She pulled the cover off the cage, revealing a lone black cricket, much like other crickets I’d seen in my mom’s yard. His cage was carpeted and held a miniature bed and chair.
“You gave him furniture,” I said.
Agatha ran a hand over the top of the container. “King Arthur is a member of the family. I couldn’t have him sitting in an empty cage.”
Of course not. Cricket furniture made perfect sense.
“How long have you had King Arthur? You two seem cozy.”
“Two months.” Agatha blew a kiss toward the cage. “We’ve been inseparable.”
“I read somewhere that a cricket’s average life span is two months.”
Agatha set the cover on the table. “It’s true King Arthur is in his twilight years. But crickets lead such rich lives, they don’t require a lot of time on this earth, unlike humans.”
I studied King Arthur in his cage. “I didn’t realize crickets were so calm,” I said. “He hasn’t moved a muscle. I guess he’s priming himself for the big contest.”
Leaping from her seat, Agatha shoved me out of the way and bent down to peer into the cage, her glasses bumping the wire mesh.
“King Arthur? King Arthur?” She shook the cage. The cricket skittered back and forth across the carpeted bottom. He landed feet up. “Arthur!” she wailed.
I saw others rising from their chairs, staring at the sobbing woman.
“Her cricket, um, King Arthur, died,” I said.
A simultaneous gasp rose from the crowd, and everyone rushed to Agatha, touching her arms and shoulders, plucking at the material of her turtleneck.
“It’s okay.”
“Such a tragedy.”
“Can we help?”
I inched my way backwards and extricated myself from the mass, bumping into someone. I turned around to apologize and found myself staring at a T-shirt. My gaze traveled upward and I stared into Jason’s green eyes.
“You’re causing a commotion,” he said.
Was he flirting with me? Was I creating a little excitement for him?
Jason nodded toward Agatha’s table. “What did you do to that poor woman?”
Oh, that commotion. Wasn’t I full of myself? “Nothing, but her prize cricket has gone to that big field in the sky.”
“Guess she won’t win the contest.”
“Odds are slim,” I agreed. “What brings you here?”
I noticed he’d dressed down for the event, swapping his usual button-up shirts for a Pearl Jam T-shirt.
Jason held up his notepad. “Covering the event for the
Herald
.”
“Must be big news around here.” Well, great, with that one statement, I’d managed to not only belittle the town, but his job, too.
“I can’t write exclusively about the murder. Those little old ladies get upset when I don’t talk about their bridge clubs or local contests.”
“I thought they just read the obituaries, like my mom.”
Jason laughed. “That, too.”
We stood together for a moment, the hum of background voices only emphasizing our silence. I glanced around the room, frantic for anything to talk about, but the harder I tried, the blanker my mind got.
Jason cleared his throat. “Guess I’d better interview some contestants.”
“Right, see you around.” Not my best parting line.
As Jason walked toward George, I watched his fine-fitting jeans move back and forth. That man should be in a Levi’s commercial.
Then I mentally slapped myself. While I’d been ogling his butt, I’d totally missed my chance to ask him about the murder. If I wanted to help Esther, I really needed to focus, not get distracted every time a cute guy talked to me.
Shoulders slumped, I returned to where Ashlee sat with the same guy, the only two people not comforting Agatha. Judging by Ashlee’s smile, she wasn’t too upset about having to stay for the contest anymore.
“Bobby Joe was telling me all about his army adventures,” Ashlee said.
“You were in the army, huh?” I said.
The murmurings from the crowd continued as Agatha let out an occasional wail.
“You bet. Got to ride in the tanks and load the cannons, slide down the ropes out of the helicopters. Man, I miss those days.”
I eyed his slouched posture and greasy hair. “Now that you’re out of the service, what do you do?”
Bobby Joe took a can of chew from his back pocket and stuck a wad in his lip. “I pump gas at Running on Fumes, the station over off the highway.”
“I know the place.”
Turning to Ashlee, Bobby Joe said, “It’s more important than it sounds. I deal with all kinds of rich clientele.”
Ashlee smiled, flashing her dimples. “I’m sure. You’re probably the man in charge over there.”
“You got it, baby. Why, just this past Friday, I helped some rich guy change the oil in his Mercedes.”
“A rich guy, huh?”
Bobby Joe spit into an empty soda can, a brown blob puddling on the tab. “The car cost eighty thousand if it cost a dime, and he’d almost let it run dry. Tried to blame it on his assistant. Dumb ass.”
“He from around here?” This conversation could put an insomniac to sleep, but no way was I talking to anyone else. Another cricket might die, a senseless tragedy.
“Nah. Out-of-towner. Said he was staying at that new spa.”
Forget what I said about a boring conversation. “Was his name Maxwell?”
Bobby Joe licked his thumb and rubbed at a spot on his jeans. “Yeah, that sounds right. At least that’s what the hot chick called him. Of course, she wasn’t as hot as Ashlee here.” He winked at her.
Ashlee giggled in return.
Good grief.
“What hot chick?” I asked, inching away from Ashlee so Bobby Joe would focus on my questions.
Bobby Joe adjusted the band on his watch, a tarnished gold Rolex with three links missing. “Some blonde in a real tight, real short dress. Said she was the star he was looking for.”
Tiffany certainly fit the description of a blonde in skin-tight minidress. “What did he say in response?”
“Come on, Dana, who cares?” Ashlee asked. “Bobby Joe and I are trying to talk about us.”
I made a shooing motion at Ashlee. “This could be important.”
Bobby Joe scraped at the dirt crusted on his thumbnail. “He laughed at her, said so many girls had told him they were his next star that he could form his own galaxy. Boy, did she get pissed at that. Surprised she didn’t scratch his eyes out with those fake nails of hers.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ashlee curl her fingers into her palms to hide her nails.
“Then what happened?” I asked, shifting from foot to foot.
“God, Dana,” Ashlee said. “You’re totally ruining the mood here.”
“What mood? It’s a cricket contest,” I said. “Now let Bobby Joe answer.”
Bobby Joe patted Ashlee’s knee. “I’ll answer her questions, then we’ll have all the time in the world.” He turned to me. “She was blathering about how she’d got a copy of some script and had been practicing for weeks. He told her to stop bothering him, paid for his gas, and hightailed it out of there.”
“And that was all?” I stopped fidgeting as my hope for a big story faded.
“Nah, I didn’t tell you about the big finish. That dame chased after him and tried to grab his arm to stop him. He turned around and gave her a shove, knocked her clean on her ass. Hopped in his car and roared off. ’Course, I don’t abide hitting no woman.” This last bit was directed at Ashlee. “But she wouldn’t have fallen if she hadn’t been wearing those silly shoes.”
Maxwell had pushed Tiffany, if indeed the girl had been Tiffany. Not only pushed her, but laughed at her claims about her acting skills.
Would she have taken that as his final word? Or did she go to his room to confront him?
Had she ended up killing him?
20
A microphone-amplified voice interrupted my thoughts as I mulled over Bobby Joe’s comments about Tiffany and Maxwell at the gas station.
“Everyone, listen up,” George said. I spotted his crew cut among the other heads in the center of the room. “The chirping contest is about to begin. All contestants, return to your tables and wait for us judges. Unless we’re at your table, keep your cricket uncovered so it doesn’t interfere with the judging. Now scoot.”
At the table next to Bobby Joe’s, Agatha packed her things, sobbing.
The other people hurried back to their stations and pulled off the covers to peer at their crickets, probably to assure themselves that their crickets hadn’t joined the one Agatha would be burying. Once the place had quieted, George and Bethany emerged from the handful of spectators still standing in the middle and stopped at the closest table.
I couldn’t hear what George and Bethany said, but the cricket owner looked jumpy. Crickets. Jumpy. Ha! I cracked myself up.
Next to me, Bobby Joe and Ashlee had their heads bowed together, Ashlee giggling at whatever Bobby Joe was saying. I stood to the side, marveling at my sister’s ability to pick up any man, in any place.
Across the room, George and Bethany moved to the next table. I glanced at my watch. At this rate, the contest wouldn’t be over for at least an hour.
My cell phone rang, and I pulled it from my pocket, happy for a moment’s distraction. I glanced at the caller ID as I hit the green button, but I didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?” I said.
A recording greeted me. “Do you own your own home? Are you sick of paying too much for insurance?”
Ugh. I hit the OFF button. That better not count against my monthly minutes.
I looked across the room and saw Jason trailing behind the judges as he jotted notes and watched the proceedings. He glanced over to where I stood, smiled, and waved.
I placed my phone on the table behind me and waved back, wiggling my fingers like a five-year-old. God, I was such a dork. I turned away and studied my sandals, wishing I’d taken the time to paint my toenails.
After an eternity—during which I walked around the building a few times, kept an eye on Jason while pretending not to check him out, and listened to Ashlee flirt—George and Bethany reached Bobby Joe’s table. He slowly rose from his chair, brushed off his jeans, and threw the cover onto his cage. His cricket chirped so loud that a woman three tables down grabbed her cricket cage and walked out the door.
George and Bethany wrote on their respective clipboards, then moved to one side and murmured to each other while consulting their notes. After a few minutes, George returned to the middle and removed the microphone from its stand.
“Tough competition this year, folks, but one cricket stood out from the orchestra. We’re pleased to announce the winner of the sixth annual cricket-chirping contest is Bobby Joe Jones,” George said. The small group of fans and the other contestants burst into applause as Bobby Joe stepped forward and accepted his money and the trophy, which was definitely big enough to squash a cricket. Jason snapped a picture of Bobby Joe.
“How long you been raising crickets, Bobby Joe?” George asked. The hair on the back of my neck perked up. This wouldn’t be good, considering what Bobby Joe had already told me.
Bobby Joe held his five-hundred-dollar check at arm’s length to read the amount, licking his lips. “What? Oh, right, the cricket. Yeah, I don’t raise ’em. I found this one last night when I let my dog out.”
“You mean, you don’t know anything about crickets?” George asked.
“Nah, they’re stupid bugs. I’ll probably feed this one to my lizard when I get home.”
An angry buzz filled the room as the crowd muttered to one another. “Cricket killer!” someone near the back shouted.
Eyes wide, Bobby Joe jumped. As one, the crowd chanted, “Cricket killer! Cricket killer!” People moved toward the center of the room. Jason snapped a picture of the winning cricket, no doubt wondering if he’d get another chance. Then he took pictures of the crowd as they edged toward the winner.
Bobby Joe glanced again at his money. “Yeah, thanks for the dough. See ya.” He ran past two women heading his way and blew through a side exit, leaving his cricket on the table. The crowd followed him out, shouting.
I stepped over to Ashlee, who had picked up the cage and clutched it to her chest.
“Where is he going?” she whined. “We’re supposed to have coffee after the contest.”
“I think Bobby Joe might be busy avoiding the mob. But I’m sure you’ll see him again.” I indicated the cage. “If nothing else, you need to return his prized possession.”
Ashlee brightened. “True.” She cast a look around. “Now, let’s get out of here. These bugs are creeping me out.”
We left the building, Ashlee carrying the cage. The sound of peeling rubber filled the parking lot and I spotted a beat-up pickup truck roaring onto the street, a cloud of dust hovering where he’d been.
Ashlee held up the cage in her hands, clearly annoyed Bobby Joe hadn’t stopped long enough to reclaim his cricket.
I pulled my car keys out of the pocket of my khaki shorts. “Too bad you didn’t have a chance to give him your number.”
Ashlee snorted, reminding me of Wilbur. “Of course I gave him my digits. You always do that early on, in case you get interrupted. Usually, it’s some drunk girl claiming to be the guy’s date, but you need to be ready for any situation, even an angry cricket crowd.”
As if on cue, I heard Katy Perry singing. Ashlee set the cage on the pavement and checked her iPhone. She was almost as bad as Logan when it came to electronics.
Ashlee smirked at me while she answered. “Hi, Bobby Joe. I knew you’d call.”
I rolled my eyes and tried to think of a snarky comment, but none popped into my head. Wasn’t that the way it always worked?
As I listened to Ashlee gush to Bobby Joe, giggling and flirting, I couldn’t decide if I was disgusted or insanely jealous at how easily she attracted men. Probably a bit of both.
Ashlee snapped her phone shut. “Let’s get home. Bobby Joe’s picking me up in an hour. I barely have enough time to get ready.”
“You look fine. He already thinks you’re hot enough to ask out.”
She fluffed her hair with one hand while she opened the car door with the other. “Well, sure, but now I have to look even better. It’s expected.”
I slid into the driver’s seat. “Gonna doll yourself up for a man. How 1950s of you.” I said, but I automatically tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. I could mock Ashlee all I wanted, but her methods obviously worked.
“Whatever,” she said as she buckled herself into the seat, balancing the cricket cage on her knees.
I roared out of the lot.
At home, Ashlee vanished into her room for all her primping and prepping while I sat with Mom in the living room for the tail end of
Ellen
. Unable to focus on the guests, I went to my room, popped open my laptop, and caught up on the day’s news while sitting on my bed.
After a quick dinner of chicken and brown rice, I changed into my favorite pair of ratty sweats, loose strings and holes included, and settled in for a night of mediocre TV.
Mom joined me in the living room and perched on the couch.
“I keep meaning to ask you if you’ve found anything to help the police yet?” she asked.
I muted the TV and set the remote on the end table. “Hard to say. I tried to tell the detective on the case everything that I’ve uncovered, but he told me to butt out.”
Mom put a hand to her mouth. “You didn’t get in trouble, did you?”
I remembered the detective glaring at me, his eye twitch at full speed. Did the threat of an obstructing justice charge count as trouble? I’d keep that to myself until I needed to call Mom for bail money.
“No, but I can’t believe he blew me off like he did.”
“I’m sure the police want to solve this on their own.” She crossed her legs and settled into the cushion. “But I’d love to hear what you’ve found out, if you suspect anyone.”
I picked at a loose string on my sweats. “I keep changing my mind. I really had my eye on Sheila—she is the ex-wife after all—but then I found out that Tiffany and Maxwell had a big fight, and I have to wonder if she did it.”
“What was the fight about?”
“Tiffany wanted to star in Maxwell’s movie and he let her know that her chances were nil. Plus he pushed her to the ground, but that could have been an accident. Maybe her pride was so wounded that she killed him.”
Mom tapped her bottom lip. “What about that assistant who is still at the farm? Have you found out anything about him?”
I straightened up in the chair, glad I could use Mom for a sounding board. “He has a motive, but it’s pretty weak, so he’s my last choice at the moment.”
“Do you think the killer is still even at the farm? They could have been one of the guests who checked out the next day.”
The thought had crossed my mind, but I’d shoved it to the side. “Let’s hope not, or the police might never catch them. But if it’s not one of those three guests, then that really only leaves the staff and I’d hate for Esther to have a killer working at the farm.”
Mom shivered. “Don’t even think that.”
“Can’t help it. But other than Heather, I don’t know of any motive. I’m not even sure Zennia and Christian met Maxwell. And while Gordon has a quick temper, I think that’s just because he’s so dedicated to the spa after his own bed and breakfast went under.”
“Well, keep digging. I have faith in you.”
I smiled at Mom. “Thanks.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to take a shower.” Mom rose and retreated to her room.
I stayed in the recliner and poked at a hole in the sweats material covering my knee, feeling a bit restless. Nothing wrong with a night in. So what if Ashlee was off on a date? My job was demanding. I was tired.
The doorbell rang. I could hear Mom’s shower running, so I jumped up and went to the door, hitting the porch light switch as I leaned forward to peer through the peephole.
In the dim light, I recognized Jason standing on the porch.
What was he doing here? He couldn’t possibly have more questions about my finding Maxwell’s body. Did he have a follow-up question for the other article? But he could have asked at the cricket-chirping contest today.
I put my hand on the knob, then glanced down. My stained, holey sweats looked back at me.
Crap. I couldn’t answer the door like this.
Maybe if I didn’t open the door, he’d go away.
But I’d already turned on the porch light.
“Um, just a minute, I need a sec, I’ll be right there,” I called through the door.
I ran down the hall toward my bedroom, almost tripping as I slid my sweats off before I’d stopped moving. I tossed the sweats on the bed, snatched up the jeans I’d folded on the chair, and slid them on, snagging my foot in one of the legs until I jammed it through.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Coming,” I hollered. I made a quick detour to the bathroom to run a brush through my hair and frown at my lack of makeup. Oh, well, at least I didn’t look like a slob anymore.
I heard the shower water turn off as I charged to the front door and yanked it open.
Jason took a step back from the sudden movement. He’d changed from the Pearl Jam T-shirt he’d worn at the contest into a striped dress shirt and dark blue jeans. “Everything all right?”
“Yes, fine. Why do you ask?” Sure it’d taken me five minutes to open the door, but he hadn’t called first, so it was his own fault.
“I thought ... you just ... never mind.”
“Can I help you with something?” I asked, studying his defined jaw in the porch light. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? A date for a cousin’s wedding?
He held an object out, and I stepped onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind me.
I put out my hand and he dropped the item into my palm. My cell phone. I stared at the phone like it was a five-legged pig.
“You left it at the contest this afternoon,” Jason said.
I recovered my wits and stuffed the phone in my back pocket. “Thanks for dropping it by. You didn’t have to.”
Jason dug the toe of his Oxford shoe into the welcome mat. “I can’t live without my phone. Figured you’d want it back.”
How pathetic. My phone had been missing for hours, and I hadn’t even noticed. What did that say about my social life?
A thought struck me. “How did you know where I lived?”
He gestured toward my rear end, which totally threw me for a second. What did my butt have to do with my address?
“Ashlee’s in your list of contacts.”
Oh, he was talking about the phone in my pocket.

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