A Healthy Homicide (3 page)

 

At Ashlee’s words, all remnants of sleep vanished. “What? Are you talking about Carla?”

Ashlee settled onto the edge of the bed. “I guess that’s her name. It’s whoever runs the place.”

“How? When?” I couldn’t quite grasp what Ashlee was saying. I’d met Carla only yesterday. She’d looked ridiculously healthy and seemed so happy. How could she be dead now?

“Brittany found her in one of the mud baths, her feet sticking straight up. She swears there were all sorts of weird symbols painted in mud on her feet, like maybe someone killed her as a gang ritual or something.”

I shook my head. “Don’t be silly. Blossom Valley doesn’t have any gangs. Sure Brittany’s not looking for a little drama?” I shoved Ashlee off my bed, and she squawked in protest. “Never mind. I’ll find out myself.” I threw back the covers and rushed into the kitchen to retrieve my phone. If anyone knew the details of what had happened, Jason would. I called his number and got voice mail. Without leaving a message, I texted him to see if he’d heard anything from the police about Carla dying last night.

I waited to see if he’d reply right away, but gave up after a minute and grabbed the bag of ground coffee out of the cabinet, frowning at how light the bag felt. Now was not the time to run out of coffee. The way this day had started, I might need more than one pot.

While I listened to the machine gurgle, I heard the sound of a train horn, which meant I had a text. I snatched up my phone and read the display. Jason’s reply confirmed my fears. Carla
was
dead. I looked away from the words on the screen, caught off guard by the incredible pressure that had settled in my chest. I’d barely known the woman, so why did I feel like crying?

I absentmindedly scanned the rest of the text. Jason promised to call when he had a break, but I knew not to wait around. Major crimes didn’t happen often here, and he’d be busy hunting down every witness to interview and every extra detail to write about.

My hand trembling, I set the phone on the counter. The coffee machine beeped, and I automatically went over and poured myself a cup. I took a sip and winced as the hot liquid scalded my tongue. I needed to shake off this gloom. What had happened to Carla was terrible, but Esther still expected me at work this morning.

With the coffee cup feeling unnaturally heavy in my hand, I went into the bathroom to get ready. On my way out of the apartment, I grabbed a packet of Pop-Tarts for breakfast, vowing to toast the things one of these days. My car started with only minor grumbling, and I backed out of my parking space.

My route to work brought me down Main Street, and I slowed the car as I neared the Pampered Life. Three cop cars were parked at the curb, the only sign that anything out of the ordinary had happened. Still, three cars seemed like two too many, and I had to wonder how Carla had died.

According to Ashlee, Brittany had discovered Carla in one of the mud baths. Had she fallen asleep while taking a soak and somehow drowned? Slipped on the tile floor and hit her head before falling into the muck? Or had she been helped along by someone? While I knew nothing about Carla, I had a hard time envisioning anyone shoving that happy, smiling face into a trough full of mud and holding her down until she suffocated. I shuddered at the image and brought my attention back to the spa.

Several people stood at the back corner of the building, Jason included. At over six feet tall, he was easy to notice. I debated pulling over and talking to him, then thought better of it. The cops must be in the middle of their investigation, and I really had no reason to talk to him, other than pure nosiness. I kept driving.

At the farm I parked in my usual spot and followed the path toward the house. Heavy gray clouds hung low in the sky, suppressing the usually vibrant reds and yellows of the flowers lining the walk and silencing the warbles of the songbirds I knew were perched in the nearby trees. I spotted a guest in the distance jogging toward the Henhouse Trail, which cut through the trees and brush toward the back of the property, providing solitude for early risers. I was tempted to take a walk back there myself after everything that had happened this morning, but work beckoned, and I turned toward the main house.

When I reached the kitchen, I found Zennia breaking eggs into a ceramic bowl. On one hand, a large red mark glowed brightly against the soft, pale flesh near her thumb.

“Berta mad at you again?” I asked as I snagged a bunch of grapes out of the fruit bowl.
The perfect complement to my strawberry Pop-Tarts,
I reasoned.

“That hen is so cantankerous,” she said.

“I don’t know why. She has plenty of room to run around in. We feed her that all-natural grain. She should be the happiest chicken on earth.”

“No kidding. I’ve tried singing to her when I collect the eggs, reciting poetry, anything to improve her mood, but nothing works.”

I popped a grape in my mouth. “We could always stop stealing her eggs.”

Zennia rubbed the spot on her hand. “Trust me, I’ve considered it.”

I thought about telling Zennia that Carla had died, but I didn’t feel much like sharing the news yet, especially since I knew so little. Instead, I cradled the grapes in one hand and took a napkin off the stack on the table. “I’ll be writing my blog, if you need any help serving breakfast.”

“I should be able to handle it, but I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

Once in the office, I set my grapes and the napkin on the desk and slipped off my jacket. I was placing my purse in the bottom desk drawer when the door opened and Gordon entered.

With his three-piece suits and greased-back hair, he always reminded me of a pit boss in a Las Vegas casino, rather than Esther’s right-hand man. He’d once owned his own bed-and-breakfast over in Mendocino, but it had folded a few years ago. I suspected he saw the farm and spa as his chance for redemption, and I had to admit that his business experience and tight control of the budget were the reasons this place was still afloat.

We’d butted heads the first several months after I’d started working here, but now we’d reached a tentative understanding in our working relationship. Plus, we didn’t see each other too often, which helped.

I slid the drawer shut and pulled the chair closer to the computer. Gordon set the clipboard he always carried next to the keyboard and perched on the edge of the desk. He placed his hands on one knee, clearly planning to stay awhile.

“Good morning, Gordon,” I said, wondering what had prompted this unexpected visit. “Did you need to use the computer this morning?”

“No thank you, Dana. I’ll complete my inventory tracking this afternoon. The reason I’m here is that it’s come to my attention that we may have a problem.”

Not what I wanted to hear. “What kind of problem?”

“This new spa downtown.”

I raised my eyebrows. He’d heard about Carla’s death already? Gordon was usually the last to learn what happened in town. “How did you find out?”

“It’s right on Main Street. I couldn’t possibly miss it.”

I leaned back in the chair and crossed my arms. “You must have seen the police cars. I figured everyone would notice those.”

Gordon twisted one of his pinkie rings. “Police cars? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m worried that this new spa will cut into our profits. Our bottom line cannot withstand any decrease in customers.”

Was Gordon just now finding out about the Pampered Life’s opening? “I wouldn’t worry right now, not after what’s happened.”

Before I could explain further, Gordon slid off the edge of the desk and pointed a finger at me. “That’s why I’m in charge of running this place. Of course I need to worry. We have to make sure we don’t lose our clients.”

I straightened up in the chair, the rough fabric scraping against my back. “We won’t. Who knows if the spa will even stay open now?”

He looked at me as if I’d told him we were giving away free towels. “It’s brand new. It’s not going anywhere.”

I could tell he was winding up for a long lecture, so I held up my hand. “Gordon, stop. The owner died last night. For all I know, the Pampered Life will never open for business again.”

Gordon settled back down on the desk and adjusted the knot in his tie. “Died, you say? How?”

“I’m not sure. I heard she drowned.”

His face took on a calculating expression. “Her death certainly changes things.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was almost pleased. Actually, maybe I did know better. I wouldn’t put it past Gordon to place business above all else, even someone’s life. “Carla was a good person. You shouldn’t be happy about what happened to her.”

“I’m not, of course. But let’s not lose sight of what this means for the spa.”

“And let’s not lose sight of the fact that a woman has died, well before her time.”

Gordon nodded as if he agreed, but I could tell his mind was elsewhere. He stood and tapped the desk once with two fingers. “Back to work, then. Good job on the blogs lately.” And with that, he walked out.

I grumbled to myself at his insensitive attitude, then booted up the computer and answered half a dozen e-mails. That done, I tried to think up a topic for the day’s blog, but all I could focus on was Carla. I hadn’t heard much gossip about the Pampered Life before it opened. Had she known anyone in town? Surely she had family or friends around here who would miss her.

My train horn ring tone sounded, and I grabbed my phone, thankful for the distraction. My mood instantly lifted when I saw a text from Jason. Wrapping up story. Coffee at ten?

I sent back my assent, knowing he wanted to meet at the Daily Grind. Maybe by the time I got there, Jason would have answers to all my questions, or at least some of them. With that in mind, I refocused on work and blogged about all-natural cold remedies. I posted the finished write-up to the spa’s Web site and then busied myself with a marketing document, one eye on the clock. At a quarter to ten, I headed out, eager to learn what Jason had uncovered.

 

The Daily Grind coffee shop was an interesting mix of urban meets rural. Behind the counter, stainless-steel espresso machines hissed and steamed as baristas prepared cup after cup of nonfat, no-whip triple concoctions of caffeinated delight. On the customer side of the counter, farm-fresh jams, jellies, and olive oils crowded the shelves. I grabbed a jar of blackberry preserves and placed my coffee order. The coffee shop wasn’t busy, and I easily spotted Jason sitting at a corner table.

I threaded my way past the mostly empty tables, noticing the hint of gold in Jason’s reddish-brown hair as I approached. When he turned toward me, he flashed a smile that emphasized his dimples and made my heart flutter. I slid into the chair across from him and set my preserves on the table.

He held up his coffee cup. “Sorry I ordered without you. I got here early to make a few calls.”

“No worries. I know you’re busy.”

“Between last night’s car accident and this murder, I’ve been swamped.”

My stomach lurched at his words, and I gripped the preserves with both hands. “Did you say
murder?
” My voice squeaked, and I cleared my throat. Earlier this morning I’d briefly considered the possibility that someone had pushed Carla into the mud bath, but I’d chalked that idea up to watching too many episodes of TV crime shows. “Carla was murdered?” I asked again.

Jason eyed my death grip on the blackberries. “I’m afraid so. Did you know her?”

“We’d only just met, but still, how terrible. Are the police sure it wasn’t an accident?”

“They’re waiting on the test results, but they suspect someone struck her from behind and then pushed her in the mud bath.”

I remembered the pride in Carla’s voice when she declared the mud baths were her favorite part of the spa. And now they were her grave. “No chance she slipped and fell in?”

“Her head wound doesn’t match up with that scenario.”

“Ashlee’s friend said there were drawings on Carla’s feet, like gang markings. Is that true?”

He smirked. “Is Ashlee’s friend named Brittany?” When I nodded, he said, “She’s an odd one. I’ve never met anyone who giggled through an entire interview before, especially one that involved a murder.” He sipped his coffee. “She told me the same thing about the mud symbols, but the police denied it. Said some mud splatter had dried on the foot that was sticking out. Nothing more.”

I stared out the window, and Jason took one of my hands, his fingers warm and comforting. I turned back to find his green eyes filled with concern. “Are you all right? You seem pretty upset.”

“She was so excited about her new business. And she seemed genuinely nice. Her death is such a shame.”

Jason squeezed my hand in reply as the barista called my name. I started to rise, but Jason waved me back down. “I’ll get it.” He returned a moment later and handed me my white mocha.