All Natural Murder (17 page)

“So?”

Ashlee giggled. She actually giggled. “You’re always so prim and proper. It’ll do you good to date around, play the field.”

But I didn’t want to play the field. “Calm down. I’m only going out for coffee.”

Ashlee leaned over the arm of the couch, her interest in the dueling housewives gone. “With who?”

“Crusher.”

Ashlee clapped her hands. “He’s so cute. You should totally go for it.” She reached for my arm. “And don’t worry about me. I’d already decided I didn’t want him.”

“I wasn’t worried about you. It’s not even a date.”

“Of course it is.”

I straightened in the chair, the springs in the worn cushion shifting under me. “For your information, I’m helping you. I’ve tried talking to Crusher before about Bobby Joe, and he’s always changed the subject. This could be my chance to figure out what he’s hiding.”

“Oh, stop,” Ashlee said. “You’re only pretending to question Crusher because you don’t want to admit you’re on a date.”

“I am not.”

“Dinner!” Mom called from the other room.

I glared at Ashlee as I rose from the chair. Between Mom dating and me not dating, I’d had just about enough date talk.

“Not another word,” I warned her. I stalked into the kitchen, my thoughts full of fireworks and murder.

By the time I’d finished dinner and cleared the table, seven o’clock was fast approaching. I brushed my hair one last time, spritzed it with hairspray for no other reason than I saw Ashlee do it all the time, then drove to the spa. As I thought about what questions to ask Crusher, the dinner in my stomach jumped and flipped and wouldn’t stay still. Surely it wasn’t nerves. Must be the wild rice Mom had served with the chicken.

As soon as I entered the lobby, Crusher stood up from the love seat. He wore faded jeans with the knees torn open and a T-shirt that was thinning around the collar. Thank God I’d skipped the dress.

“Ready?” he asked, moving past me and opening the door I’d come through.

“Yep.” I followed him across the parking lot to his Chevy truck. From a distance, the truck had looked fairly normal. Up close, it was a younger brother to his professional monster truck, big tires and all.

Crusher swung open the passenger door, and I stood there for a moment, looking up, then up some more. I put my foot on the side step, gripped the inside door handle, and pulled myself in, Crusher giving me a butt shove to make sure I made it.

“Gee, thanks,” I called down to him. He grinned, then went around to his side and clambered in like a Cirque de Soleil performer.

The truck rumbled to life, and he drove us to The Daily Grind, Blossom Valley’s coffeehouse. Crusher parked and jumped out, but I managed to find my way to the ground before he could rush around and help. Who knew what he’d grab this time. We crossed the parking lot and entered the coffeehouse.

If Starbucks and Cracker Barrel ever had a baby, it’d resemble the inside of The Daily Grind. Gleaming stainless-steel espresso makers hissed behind the shiny brown counter while jars of local jams and pickled vegetables vied for attention on the display stands that lined the front.

We ordered our coffees at the counter. Crusher pulled out his wallet, held it open, and turned to me with a sheepish grin.

“I forgot to stop by the ATM. You mind paying?”

I didn’t bother pointing to the debit card swiper attached to the counter. I’d already pulled out a few bills for my own coffee, and a few more wouldn’t cause too much damage. I handed over the money.

“I’ll pay next time. I get that check for winning the rally in another week or two,” Crusher said, grabbing a stack of napkins off the counter.

“It’s really no problem,” I said.

We found a vacant cafe table to wait for our drinks. The table next to us held a couple of teenagers, the gangly guy tapping his foot and running his tongue over his braces, the girl glancing between her date and the table while twirling her hair around her finger. I felt awkward just watching them.

The barista called Crusher’s name, and he retrieved our beverages, his a triple-shot espresso, mine a white chocolate mocha. Crusher smiled at me while I fiddled with a stirrer. I sipped my coffee, burning my tongue, while Crusher smiled some more. I glanced at the teens next to me. Awkwardness must be contagious.

“How long have you been doing the monster truck thing?” I asked, wanting to end the silence and get down to business.

“Since I got my license way back when.”

I blew on my coffee. “You must be good to be in the business so long.”

“I started like gangbusters. After I apprenticed for a couple of years and got a special license, I got a chance to get behind the wheel and started winning rallies left and right. I love to hear the cheers, even the boos. Means I’m grabbing people’s attention.”

“So you see this as a long-term career?” I wondered how much money a monster truck driver made if they weren’t one of the big names with all their sponsors and endorsements.

“You bet. I hit a rough patch the last couple of years. My ego got in the way. But now I’m back on track.”

At least he admitted his shortcomings. “Didn’t you say you were meeting that scout today? How did that go?”

Crusher leaned back in his chair, all swagger. “Great. He can get me a deal with Charging Bull Soda. That’ll mean some big bucks.”

“Maybe you can decorate your truck like a matador to go with the bull theme.”

“El Toro Loco’s already cornered that market, but we’ll come up with something as rad.” Crusher tossed his head to flip a lock of hair out of his eyes. I bet he practiced that in front of the mirror.

“What about you?” he asked. “You worked at that spa long?”

I grabbed one of his napkins and swiped at a drop of coffee on the table. “Only a few months. I used to live in the Bay Area, worked for a computer company in the marketing department. But with the recession and layoffs, I had to move back home. Plus my mom needed me.”

Crusher leaned forward, his eyes softening in concern. “Why’s that?”

“My dad passed away, and she wasn’t handling it well.”

“Sorry about your old man.”

“Thanks.” Talking about my dad reminded me that Mom had a dinner date this week. I changed the subject before Crusher could ask anything more about my parents. “So where’d you grow up?”

We chatted about Crusher’s upbringing in San Diego with his military father and his three older brothers. As we talked, the sky out the window faded from oranges and reds to grays. The coffee level in my cup got lower and lower.

When we’d reached present day in Crusher’s history, I managed to steer the conversation around to Bobby Joe. “I didn’t notice people talking about Bobby Joe’s death at the rally. I thought the announcer might say a few words.”

Crusher turned his cup around and around in his hands. “He didn’t have a big enough name in the sport yet. But you can bet us drivers were talking about it.”

“What were you guys saying?”

“Just shooting the shit about who might have crushed his head like that. Someone must have been pretty damn mad.”

I felt the stirrings of interest. Finally, an inside opinion.

“Did you come up with anyone?”

Crusher drained the last drops of espresso. “Not much. Some of the guys were there the night he died and saw some girl yelling at him.”

The stirrings in my stomach sped up. “That girl is my sister.”

Crusher reddened. “You mentioned that.”

“Did you hear her yelling yourself?”

“Naw, I was back at the spa pretty early that night. Most people don’t realize how hard driving a truck that size is. We have to be in shape like any other athlete. I try to get to bed early the week of a rally.”

I couldn’t equate driving around in a circle with tackling a quarterback or swimming a hundred meters. “How about the drivers? Any of the others dislike Bobby Joe?”

Crusher popped the top off his coffee cup and peered inside, making me wonder if he was looking for the answer in there.

“Everybody gets along on the circuit. We’re like a big family, and Bobby Joe was a pretty cool dude. He didn’t have any enemies.”

Apparently Crusher hadn’t heard about the spurned husband or the angry boss.

He gestured toward the window, where we could see the sidewalk crowding up. “What’s with all the people? Is it for the fireworks?”

“Probably. That used to be the big thing around here when I was a teenager. Not much has changed in the ten years I’ve been gone.”

“We should grab a spot. Where’s the best view?”

He hadn’t officially asked if I wanted to join him for the fireworks, but it seemed ridiculous to go home now that they’d be starting any minute.

“The park. We can walk from here.”

Crusher followed me out of the coffeehouse, and we stepped onto the sidewalk, merging with a staggered line of people headed toward the town park and its large lawn area. A little girl, dragging her mom by the hand, brushed past us, clearly intent on getting a good seat.

The lawn was already half full, the largest clump of people sitting in the middle section away from the trees. We threaded our way through the picnic blankets and lawn chairs, searching for a patch of vacant grass. As we passed a group of women about my age, one of them nudged her companion and pointed. Then all the women leaned close together and started chatting.

They must have recognized Crusher from last night’s rally. I felt momentary pride at being seen with a pseudo-celebrity.

He stopped at a small area between a row of ice chests and more blankets. We settled onto the grass together while two women to my right noticed us and started whispering. Guess he was a bigger draw than I’d realized.

The sky was darkening quickly. I plucked at the grass and listened as he told me more about San Diego and what a big shot he used to be. Finally, the sky was black, the park lit by nearby streetlights. The crowd’s murmurs grew louder in anticipation, everyone knowing the show was about to begin.

“This is it,” Crusher said, straightening up and staring expectantly at the sky.

As I shifted from kneeling to a cross-legged position, my gaze picked out a familiar shape. I froze. Jason moved among the spectators on the grass, notebook in hand, stopping to chat with the occasional John Q. Citizen.

Shoot. I didn’t want him to see me here with Crusher. He might misinterpret the situation. I hunkered down, hoping he wouldn’t spot me in the dim light. He weaved among the blankets, getting closer.

“Man, I can’t believe how excited I am over a bunch of fireworks,” Crusher said.

“Yeah, me too,” I practically whispered, though Jason couldn’t possibly hear me.

When he was still a good twenty feet away, he glanced over just as I looked at him. He noticed Crusher next to me and visibly frowned, then turned and headed in the opposite direction.

The pain from the guilt and disappointment in myself was so acute that I momentarily thought my appendix had burst. I half-rose, prepared to go after him, explain that this wasn’t a date, that I only wanted to ask Crusher about Bobby Joe.

One of the fireworks exploded in the night sky. The people in the crowd lifted their faces, murmuring oohs and aahs, and my own gaze was drawn to the sight. I watched the smiley face collapse into a line of sparkles, then wink out, the smell of gunpowder drifting in the air.

I looked back to where Jason had been, in time to see him disappear among the trees on the edge of the park.

Crap. I was too late.

The fireworks show streamed by me in a blur. Every time I tried to focus, my mind replayed Jason’s face when he’d caught sight of Crusher and me. The grand finale arrived, full of horsetails and clusters, but even that couldn’t hold my attention.

As the last sparkler faded away, Crusher rose and brushed off the seat of his pants, then held out a hand. I grabbed it and stood, twisting from side to side to loosen my muscles.

“Great show,” I said, even if I barely remembered any of it.

“Yeah. It’s been a long time since I saw fireworks.”

We moved with the rest of the crowd across the park and back onto the sidewalk. Groups of walkers turned onto side streets, while most stayed on the main drag.

When we reached Crusher’s truck, he opened the passenger door and helped boost me inside once more, making me realize I could never seriously date someone who drove such a tall truck. I felt like a damsel in need of rescue, a ridiculous feeling for something as simple as getting into a car.

I started to pull the door closed but stopped when I heard someone call Crusher’s name. A man was making his way through the throng of people, heading toward the truck. Gold chains dangled around his open collar, and a gold bracelet flashed under the streetlight. He wore nice slacks and dress shoes, his attire in sharp contrast to everyone else’s tank tops and shorts.

“Crusher,” he hollered again as he maneuvered around a stroller, “we need to talk.”

Crusher jumped into the driver’s seat and slid over to where I sat, sticking one hand out the still-open door. “We’ll get together,” he called to the guy. “Don’t worry.”

The man pushed forward faster, his expression obscured by the darkness as he moved away from the streetlight. “Wait right there,” he yelled.

“I’ll call you, man.” Crusher moved back to his side and slammed his door shut. I followed suit, and he fired up the truck. The exit on the other side of the lot was free of foot traffic. He roared onto the street and away from the coffee shop and pedestrians.

I looked in the side mirror and saw that the man had disentangled himself from the crowd. He stood in the parking spot we had vacated, staring after us.

I glanced at Crusher, who was breathing a little heavily. “What was that about?” I had to practically shout to be heard over the engine.

He shrugged, loosening his grip on the steering wheel and draping one wrist over the top. “He’s an old friend.”

“Do you always run from your old friends?” Maybe that guy was an old friend like Kimmie was an old friend. God knows I wanted to run from her half the time.

Crusher forced out a laugh. “I wasn’t running.” He adjusted the rearview mirror. Checking to see if we were being followed, maybe? “He’s a nice guy, but he’s a drinker. I didn’t want him to ruin the evening.”

The man hadn’t looked drunk, but I’d only seen him for a moment, and the area wasn’t well lit.

We rode without further talk to the farm, me thinking about Jason, Crusher probably thinking about that guy in the parking lot. Or his next monster truck event. Or ham sandwiches. I really didn’t know the guy.

Once Crusher parked, I opened the door and slid to the ground, already digging my keys from the depths of my purse. I pulled them out with a jangle as Crusher came around to my side.

“This place have any booze?” he asked. “Maybe you can dig some out of the kitchen and join me in my room for a nightcap.”

Either he didn’t notice my keys or he was trying to change my mind. Either way, I wasn’t interested. Crusher was definitely charming in a surfer boy way, but this wasn’t a date. Besides, we had no connection. That realization had been cemented the moment I saw Jason at the park and knew I’d rather enjoy the fireworks with him.

“Thanks, but I have an early day tomorrow.” I was careful not to say, “Maybe next time.” I didn’t want to give him false hope.

Crusher twisted to the side a little and surreptitiously cupped a hand in front of his mouth to smell his breath, like bad breath was the only reason I might turn him down. Then he turned back with a slight frown. “Sorry to hear that. This is good-night then.” He stepped toward me at the same time I stepped back, keys held up as a blocker.

“Right. Good-night.”

Crusher shrugged. “It was worth a shot.” He gestured across the parking lot. “At least let me walk you to your car.”

“I’m a big girl. I can make it.” I offered a smile to take the sting out of my words.

I walked to my car alone and slid behind the wheel. When I looked back, Crusher still stood next to his truck, checking his reflection in the side mirror. Guess he wasn’t used to being rebuffed.

Traffic was light, and I pulled into my driveway minutes later. As soon as I got inside, I slipped into my room and tried to call Jason. No answer. I debated leaving a voice mail, then decided against it. I’d try again in the morning.

I changed out of my leggings and top, threw on a T-shirt and pajama shorts, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed.

 

 

The next morning, my alarm blared at six. Why did I insist on torturing myself by getting up so early? The spa had no set work hours. I needed to learn to sleep in.

My brain felt foggy as I slogged my way through high-fiber cereal and an overripe banana. In the light of day, my guilt from last night had faded like the shadows caused by the moon. We were all adults here. Jason and I weren’t exclusive. And besides, I hadn’t even been on a date.

I slipped on my Keds, waved good-bye to Mom as she emerged from her bedroom, and drove to work.

The branches of the pear trees that lined the highway drooped as if too exhausted to hold up the weight of the fruit. Even the dragonflies that usually buzzed along the highway had taken the morning off. Now that the three-day weekend was coming to a close, most guests would be leaving the spa this morning, and I was looking forward to a slow and peaceful workday.

In the parking lot, a young couple loaded a rolling suitcase into the trunk of their Subaru, no doubt anxious to get on the road before the temperature soared. I parked in my usual spot and went straight to the office to post the spa’s blog, then opened a marketing document I’d started a few days ago. I’d decided to target niche markets to promote the spa. Writers-retreats ads would appear in
Writer’s Digest
or
The Writer
, family-fun trips would be advertised in
Parents
magazine, and healthy-living vacation ads would appear in
Whole Living
and
Health
—provided Esther’s budget could handle the cost. Esther was so concerned about money that we currently only advertised in a handful of papers, all small and independent. I spent the next hour or so fleshing out my ideas and fine-tuning the proposal for each magazine.

Satisfied, I leaned back in the desk chair and contemplated how to spend the rest of the day. Swim in the pool under the guise of cleaning it? Help Zennia in the air-conditioned kitchen? Maybe I could convince her to make soy ice cream. I might even eat some. Or maybe, instead of thinking up ways to pretend to be working, I should be worried about how little work there was for me to begin with. I’m sure Gordon hadn’t missed that detail.

The office door opened, and Esther poked her head in.

“Dana, my favorite peach.”

I crossed my fingers that whatever project she was about to dump on me wouldn’t involve manure, compost, or ducklings.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“You remember the other day when I mentioned the town’s Rejuvenation Committee was thinking up ideas?”

I nodded slowly, wondering where this was going.

“We’ve picked our project, and you’re just the person for this little job.”

I bit back a groan. The last time I’d helped the committee I’d set up chairs for the cricket-chirping contest. Not exactly a bullet point to add to my résumé. “What’s the project?”

She clasped her hands together. “Window painting at local businesses.”

Sometimes I wondered if the committee members were drunk when they thought up these plans. “Where do I fit in?”

“You’ll be doing the painting, silly. Several of the downtown shops have signed up. They figure cute little window paintings will draw in the tourists. Get people to stop and come in their stores.”

I held up my hand like I was under oath. “I’m not an artist. I can barely paint over scuff marks on the walls.”

Esther waved her hand as though my concerns held no more weight than a helium balloon. “We have stencils. You don’t need talent.”

Good thing. “Did George or Bethany consider doing the painting?” I knew Esther’s arthritis bothered her, but the other two committee members were fit and able the last time I’d seen them.

“You know what a fusspot George is. He can’t possibly leave that teenage helper of his to run the tire shop, and Bethany works by herself. She can’t afford to close the flower shop for even one day with business so slow already.”

I sighed in resignation.

Esther took that as consent and beamed. “I knew you’d do it. I’ve left the supplies in the toolshed. We really should have done this before the holiday weekend, but that egg’s already hatched.” She toddled off, humming.

So much for my relaxing workday. Oh well. I wasn’t getting paid to be lazy.

I looked down at my work shirt, wondering if Esther had included a smock in the supplies, then rose to my feet. I stopped in the kitchen long enough to let Zennia know I wouldn’t be helping with the lunch service, and went out the back door to the toolshed. As promised, a large cardboard box containing several paint cans, brushes, and other odds and ends sat on the floor of the shed, wedged between the lawn mower and the edger.

I dragged the box across the floor until it was free of its neighbors, then hefted it up, the cans clanking against each other. With back arched and knees slightly bent, I staggered down the path to my car and dropped the box on the pavement near the trunk.

My clothes already felt sticky, and I hadn’t even made it out of the parking lot yet. I swiped my arm across my forehead before I popped the trunk and loaded the box. A sheet of paper tucked to the side of the paint cans caught my eye, and I pulled it out. Five downtown businesses were the lucky recipients of my stenciling skills today. Get the Scoop would be my first stop. How hard could it be to draw ice cream cones, with or without stencils?

I drove into town and down Main Street. As I approached the ice cream parlor, a man backed his Oldsmobile from a spot in front of the shop, and I swooped in, studying the storefront as I shut off the engine.

G
ET
THE
S
COOP
arched across the top half of the large plate-glass window, the empty bottom half beckoning me to fill it with bright colors and yummy treats.

I spread the drop cloth on the pavement before the window, set the paint cans on top, and grabbed the stencils. A dog. A horse. A unisex person. Not the widest selection, but I’d have to make it work.

Armed with only a vague idea of what to paint, I stared at the blank windowpane that was no longer beckoning me. Now it was blatantly mocking me. Stupid window. The list of businesses didn’t mention what I was supposed to paint for each, but an ice cream sundae should be easy enough. I used a screwdriver I’d found at the bottom of the box to pop the top off the paint can marked “Pink.”

With a shaky breath and even shakier hand, I dipped in a brush and stuck the paint on the window, smearing it into a circular shape. One strawberry scoop down. As I worked, people walked in and out of the shop. Business was brisk on such a hot day, even before lunch.

I wiped my brush clean, dipped it in the white paint, and painted a circle shape with it next to the pink one, then stepped back.

Not the best scoops. But they’d be more recognizable after I painted the dish underneath and the cherry on top. I crouched down to add the finishing touches.

Down the block, a bell tinkled as someone opened a door. I glanced over and saw Kimmie emerge from For Richer, Not Poorer, the high-end boutique that had opened two weeks ago in the space once occupied by a video store. The handle of a sky-blue shopping bag hung over one forearm as she pushed a stroller before her. As far as I knew, Kimmie didn’t have children. Maybe she was babysitting. I wouldn’t trust her with small children, but others might.

As Kimmie headed in my direction, a battered brown Nissan Altima with that boxy style from the eighties pulled into a parking space and sputtered to a stop. Maria stepped out of the car, dressed in her waitress uniform, the pink matching the color of my ice cream scoop.

I sucked in my breath. The moment I’d been waiting for had arrived. Maria might abandon her work in the middle of a shift or pull a disappearing act in a bathroom, but she couldn’t escape me this time.

Maria was going to answer my questions.

Right now.