All Natural Murder (22 page)

Donald’s hand snaked out and closed around the baggie of pot before I could grab it. The guy next to me muttered, “I’m outta here,” and bolted for the door. Donald and I faced each other.

“Guess this explains why you got upset when I tried to buy a shell magnet,” I told him.

Donald dropped his closed hand behind the counter. For a second, I wondered if he had a shotgun or baseball bat under there to ward off robbers, but his hand came up empty. No weapon and no pot.

“Now before you get all high and mighty, let me say all my customers have medical marijuana cards.”

I laughed. “Is that why you hide their medicine in those ugly souvenirs?” I put emphasis on the word “medicine,” but Donald was sweating so much by this point, the sweat was probably dripping onto his eardrums and he couldn’t hear me.

But he couldn’t miss the fact that I was laughing at him. His face grew red. “You better keep quiet, or I’m gonna . . .” His threat trailed off.

“You’re gonna what? Kill me like you did Bobby Joe? Did he find out about this little operation?”

His flushed face paled at the accusation, and I wondered if I was right. Before I could get too smug, I noticed the empty store and vacant gas pumps, and realized that I was alone with Donald. Maybe I should have kept my suspicions to myself.

Donald moved toward the gap in the counter faster than I’d thought possible for a man of his girth. My previous humor evaporated as panic took its place. I ran for the exit, his footsteps pounding behind me.

I escaped the store and yanked open my car door, glad I’d forgotten to lock it. I threw myself inside, pulled the door shut, and slapped down the lock as Donald stomped off the curb.

He jerked the door handle, putting his other hand on the car to brace himself. He glanced past me and stopped tugging at the handle. I looked over my shoulder and saw a car pull into the driveway and up to the pumps. A man in some type of worker’s uniform, maybe a mechanic or an electrician, got out and unscrewed his gas cap.

I turned back toward Donald, who was a sweaty mess.

“I didn’t kill Bobby Joe,” he yelled through the glass of the car window, the hairs of his toupee swaying in the breeze. “I didn’t kill him.”

Without a word, I dug my keys out of my pocket, started the car, and backed out of the space. I glanced at the man pumping gas and found him staring at us. I wondered how long it’d take for news of our little conversation to travel through Blossom Valley’s grapevine.

As I drove out of the lot, I mentally lectured myself. How many times could I put myself in danger in one day? Somebody murdered Bobby Joe. I needed to take my safety more seriously, or I might meet the same fate as my sister’s boyfriend.

Internal lecture over, I moved on to the next issue. Had Bobby Joe stumbled across Donald’s pot activities, and had Donald killed him to keep him quiet? But that didn’t make any sense. Stump had his own pot business, in which Bobby Joe might have been a partner. Was it some type of turf war?

Maybe I should visit Stump. If I caught him in one of his zoned-out moods, he might tell me all kinds of things. But did I dare go over there alone after what had already happened to me today? First, Todd had pulled a knife when he found me in his truck, and then Donald had chased me out of his store.

I’d just told myself to stop sticking my nose in dangerous places, and I was already thinking about doing it again. If only the cops hadn’t questioned Ashlee a second time. They obviously had no idea who had killed Bobby Joe. If I didn’t work faster, my little sister might be carted off to the big house. No way could she survive those sparse conditions with limited access to makeup and hair-care products. And no way could I survive knowing she was in there.

Besides, Stump was most likely too stoned to hurt me. I could knock on his door and see what kind of mood he was in, then leave if he appeared sober enough to cause harm.

I skipped the street that would take me home and headed for the train tracks instead. All was quiet in the Palm Villa Apartments complex when I pulled into the parking lot.

I knocked on Stump’s door. No answer. I knocked again. Still nothing. A window beckoned from my right, and I stepped off the pavement and into the shrubbery, twigs poking my legs as I moved to the window. I cupped my hands on the glass and peeked in. The blinds were open enough that I could look through the slats into a room empty of furniture.

“He moved out,” a voice said behind me.

I jumped and turned around. Yolanda stood on the path, wearing her same housecoat and a pair of plastic gardening clogs.

“When?” No one had said anything about moving when I’d been here yesterday.

“After you left. His folks helped him pack everything into his dad’s truck. He mumbled something about not being able to afford the rent on his own. At least I think that’s what he said. That kid talks like a first grader.”

I ignored Yolanda’s assessment of Stump’s communication skills. “Think he’s moving back in with his parents?” He wouldn’t be the first guy who’d flown the nest, only to flutter back home to the family tree. I’d done that exact thing, although I liked to tell myself it was for my mom’s benefit, not mine.

Yolanda shook her head. “Said he’d be renting a room from his buddy, Donald, the guy who owns that gas station north of town. His folks seemed to think he’d be filling in for Bobby Joe since he got himself killed.”

My face must have broadcast my shock.

“Don’t look so surprised. You knew his roommate got killed.”

That wasn’t the part that had shocked me, but I didn’t feel like explaining to Yolanda. Instead, I said, “I still haven’t gotten used to the idea.” I stepped back onto the pavement. “Guess I’ll be going then. Thanks for the info.”

We walked down the path together until we reached the fork in the sidewalk.

“Let me know next time you stop by,” Yolanda said. “I still owe you that tea. And I’ll make you my famous ambrosia salad.”

The woman must be seriously lonely to keep asking me over. I barely knew her. “Sounds delicious. I’ll be sure to do that.” I headed to my car while Yolanda went toward her apartment. She stopped at her door and turned back.

I waved good-bye and drove toward home, pondering this new bit of information. Why would Stump move in with a drug rival? The only answer was that they weren’t rivals, but partners. Stump must grow or acquire the pot, and Donald distributed it in those painted seashells. Bobby Joe could have been killed if he’d threatened to expose the operation. Either he didn’t approve of their business, or else he had wanted a bigger cut and they’d decided his part in the deal was no longer necessary. I should have pressed Ashlee for more details about Bobby Joe’s possible pot dealings when Yolanda first mentioned it. Shame on me for not following up more.

Another dilemma was what to do about the drugs. Growing marijuana was a profitable business in Northern California, but you couldn’t legally sell it to any pothead who asked. They needed a marijuana card. And the seller probably needed some sort of license as well.

I should tell the police. But if I contacted them now, they might pull officers off Bobby Joe’s case. While they gloated over busting up a drug ring, they’d forget all about finding his killer. Then again, Donald or Stump might be Bobby Joe’s killer, and this new information would help the police prove that. My head started to throb as I tried to sort everything out.

As my house came into view, I decided to worry about my latest discovery after dinner. I never made good decisions on an empty stomach.

I parked, grabbed my keys, and hurried up the walk. When I opened the front door, a waft of cabbage-filled air greeted me. Yeesh, I’d forgotten about the rolls. Maybe I should have gotten takeout while I’d been off snooping.

Ashlee ran in from the living room, fresh makeup on her face, her hair blow-dried and styled. “You’re back. What did you find out?”

Before I could answer, Mom appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. “I was starting to get worried. How did it go?”

I’d been feeling pretty good about everything I’d uncovered in the last hour or so, but now I realized I had little to report. “I’m following up on a couple of things,” I offered lamely.

Ashlee looked like I’d stolen her favorite lipstick. “That’s it?”

“I’m sure you’re doing your best,” Mom said, though the way she scrubbed her hands with the dish towel implied otherwise. “Dinner will be ready in a minute.”

“That’ll give me a few minutes to talk to Ashlee.” I clasped her hand and pulled her into the living room while Mom returned to the kitchen. I didn’t bother cushioning my question. “You said before that Bobby Joe didn’t sell pot. Are you absolutely sure?”

“Positive.” Ashlee puffed out her chest, the picture of indignation. “I’d never date a guy like that. In fact, he was totally anti-drugs.”

“How do you know?”

“Remember I told you that he and Stump didn’t get along? It’s because he found out that roommate of his was dealing drugs and told him he had to stop.”

Now that was interesting. I stepped closer. “When was this?”

“I don’t know, not too long before he got killed. He was sure this truck rally was going to change his whole career. He’d be famous. TMZ would follow him, snapping his picture while he bought frozen burritos at the grocery store. And he didn’t want some drug bust ruining everything.”

From the little I’d known of Bobby Joe, he’d had enough inflated delusions to make this kind of thinking possible. “What did Stump say when Bobby Joe demanded he stop selling pot?”

“He said no. Boy, was Bobby Joe pissed. But Stump said that he’d gotten himself a partner and expanded, so he was making too much money to quit now.”

I wondered why Stump was moving out of the apartment now if he was flush with cash. Maybe he figured it’d be easier to live with Donald, who could package the stuff for sale that much faster, and was using the money excuse to satisfy his parents’ curiosity.

“Couldn’t Bobby Joe kick him out?” I asked.

Ashlee shook her head. “Stump’s parents signed the lease, so Bobby Joe would be the one to move. And he’d put all his money in that truck of his.” Ashlee pursed her lips at the mention of this, as if remembering all the fancy dates she’d missed because of her broke boyfriend. “He figured he’d start making tons of money after a scout spotted him this weekend.”

Man, I wished I lived in Bobby Joe’s imaginary world. I bet it was so nice right up until he was murdered.

“So he was biding his time until he could afford to move,” I said.

“Right. Like I said, once he got his sponsors lined up, he knew he wouldn’t be living there much longer. He already avoided Stump because Stump spent all his time smoking weed. Bobby Joe only used the apartment to sleep and shower.”

“Dinner!” Mom called from the kitchen.

Ashlee bounded down the hall to eat. I trailed behind her, wondering all the while how any of this related to Bobby Joe’s death and wishing Ashlee had told me these details earlier. Maybe tensions had run so high those last couple of days that the two had argued, and Stump had killed him. Or maybe Bobby Joe had found out Donald was the new partner and tried to get him to quit since Stump wouldn’t. If Donald tried to fire Bobby Joe to get him out of the way, Bobby Joe could rat him out to the police as retaliation. Donald might have decided the only way to handle Bobby Joe was to kill him.

And what about the missing money Donald accused Bobby Joe of stealing? Was that a cover Donald had invented to make Bobby Joe look bad, or was he really a thief? Keeping that truck ready for a rally must have been expensive, but would Bobby Joe had stolen the cash, even if Ashlee swore he wouldn’t?

I plopped down in my usual spot at the table and eyed the casserole dish resting on the crocheted hot pad. The limp, green cabbage rolls lay there, nestled in a pile of beige sauerkraut. I fought back a grimace as Mom spooned a pile onto her plate. I added a significantly smaller stack to my own plate, earning a disapproving frown from Mom.

“What did you do today?” I asked her before she could lecture me on not eating enough.

“I visited your father this morning, and then had lunch with Martha so we could go over some bunco strategy.”

I put my fork down. “I didn’t realize you were visiting the cemetery. I wish you’d told me.”

Mom dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “Sometimes I like to visit by myself. I don’t expect you girls to go with me every time.”

I had to wonder if she’d gone out there because of her upcoming date with Lane, to tell Dad about her decision. “I haven’t visited in a while. I should probably go,” I said.

Ashlee twiddled with her fork and stared at her plate of sauerkraut.

Mom shook her head. “You should only go if you want to. There’s no right or wrong number of times to visit.”

Truth be told, I preferred to remember Dad through the photos around the house and the medallion around my neck. I found the cemetery too impersonal.

With our talk about Dad’s passing and my thoughts on Mom’s upcoming date, my gut already felt heavy and I hadn’t even eaten any cabbage yet. I switched topics.

“Tell me about this bunco strategy. I didn’t realize strategy was actually involved.”

“Well, it is mostly luck, but Martha and I are going to try different dice-cup-shaking techniques to see if we can change the results.”

We chatted about whether that qualified more as cheating than strategy while I nibbled on a cabbage leaf and tried to figure out a way to hide the rest under my napkin or beneath the plate rim. Too bad we didn’t have a dog. Sure, I was a grown adult who could decide whether or not I wanted to finish my dinner, but Mom worked hard to make us healthy meals. The least I could do was pretend to eat it.

In the end, I managed to eat enough of the roll that she didn’t comment. Ashlee remained noticeably quiet during the meal, probably still worried about the cops. A second visit was definitely a bad sign.