All Natural Murder (6 page)

Running on Fumes was located on the opposite side of town. I hopped onto the freeway and bypassed Blossom Valley altogether, much like the tourists hurrying to reach Mendocino and its adorable bed-and-breakfasts, boutique shops, and upscale eateries.

The gas station, painted a shiny white with dark blue trim and red lettering, was located off the last exit before the highway vanished among the redwood trees. According to Mom, the owner, Donald something or other, had opened the place back in the eighties when I was still in diapers. The property included a two-story house behind the station, where I assumed Donald lived.

During the lean times, he’d managed to keep the business afloat by operating a souvenir shop attached to the main mini-mart. I still had the clamshell keepsake box I’d bought with my allowance back when I was ten, tucked away on a bookshelf gathering dust.

I exited the freeway, swung a left onto the side road, and pulled into the driveway. A guy in his mid-twenties came out of the store and approached a beat-up Pontiac, the only car in the lot.

As I eased into a parking space, I noticed the guy had an object clutched in his hand. It was a seashell, painted fluorescent pink and yellow with green polka dots. Man, I hoped that wasn’t for a girlfriend. She might burst into tears when she saw such a hideous shell.

The guy backed his car out as I headed to the store. I smiled at my good fortune. Donald would be much more likely to talk about Bobby Joe without prying ears and curious stares.

I pushed open the glass door, a bell tinkling overhead. The hum of the nearby waist-high freezer, holding an assortment of ice cream treats, reached my ears as I stepped into the mart. The low-wattage overhead bulbs offered feeble light. Several rows of shelves held the usual assortment of chips, candy, and cheap wine. A refrigerated row in the back stocked milk, energy drinks, and beer.

To my right, an open doorway led to the knickknack shop. I could see a display case with arrowheads, wine-bottle stoppers, and necklaces with charms made of abalone shell. On top of the display case, a row of tiny trees in dirt-filled plastic cups sat before a sign that read, G
ROW
Y
OUR
O
WN
R
EDWOOD
.

Behind the counter, I spotted the ugly shells, marked for three dollars and ninety-nine cents. Even that low price seemed too high. I could see a little magnet on the back, but no one would stick that on their fridge.

“Can I help you, little lady?” a gruff voice called from the back of the store. I squinted into the gloom and saw a man stocking Twinkies at the end of a row. I gasped at what I thought was a dead squirrel on his head but realized the fuzzy pile was his toupee. He was in his late fifties, and as he rose to standing, his knees popped, the sound echoing off the linoleum. His beer gut jiggled under his striped dress shirt.

Better to question him outright, or take the roundabout approach? “I’m picking up a few snacks,” I said. I grabbed two Snickers bars, a bag of M&Ms, and a pack of gum from the closest shelf. As I neared the counter with my treasures, I snatched a bag of Funyuns off the display rack on the end for good measure. I hadn’t had a bag of those salty, onion-flavored rings in years, and I had a sudden craving.

Of course, I’d have to hide everything in my car. If Mom caught sight of all this sugar and saturated fat, she’d toss everything in the trash without a second thought.

I dumped my stash on the smooth beige surface, and the man squeezed into the narrow opening at the end of the counter to stand before the cash register. He shuffled the snacks around.

“Guess you’re not watching your figure like most of the ladies I know.”

I snapped my mouth shut before I could reply. I wanted information from this guy, and smarting off wouldn’t help.

“You the owner here?” I asked instead, trying for a casual tone. He looked like a rounder version of the guy who used to run the place, but it had been a lot of years, and I didn’t remember the guy wearing an ugly toupee back then.

“Donald Popielak. This here’s my store. Owned and operated it for thirty years.”

So it was him. I looked around, nodding my approval. “That’s impressive, especially now with the economy so slow.”

“I’m great with money, got a real head for business. Plus I’m careful about who I hire. I want customers to have a good experience when they shop here. That way they’ll come back.”

Just the opening I wanted. I bowed my head and shook it, going for commiserating. “Sure is a shame what happened to Bobby Joe. I heard he was your best worker.” Then again, this last bit of information was provided by Bobby Joe himself, so it might have been an exaggeration.

“That fool got his head bashed in, from what I heard. Guess he didn’t know jujitsu, like I do. He could have defended himself.” He grabbed my candy bars and ran them over the scanner. “’Course, I don’t know where you heard he was my best employee. My best employee is me.” Donald let out a hearty laugh as he shook out a plastic bag and dropped my purchases inside.

“Still, now you’ll have to replace him. What a hassle.” This wasn’t getting me any closer to finding out about Bobby Joe, but I wanted to keep Donald talking.

Donald let out a growl so deep that for a moment I wondered if he was hiding a pet Rottweiler behind the counter. “Any fool can pump gas. I’ll have a replacement by tomorrow. And any new employee is bound to show up on time more than Bobby Joe ever did.”

Not exactly singing Bobby Joe’s accolades, was he?

I rested my arms on the counter and leaned forward. “Were you having problems with him?”

Donald cocked his head, making the dead squirrel slip down a notch. I kept my gaze fixed firmly on his face.

“Say now, who are you again?”

Oops, too direct. “Um, a friend of Bobby Joe. I’m trying to figure out what happened. Do you know of anyone who would want to kill him?”

Donald pointed to my total on the register, and I scrambled to pull my wallet out of my purse.

“Can’t think of anyone right off, but that doesn’t mean people weren’t gunning for him, especially considering the way he behaved here at work.”

I handed over two fives. “What do you mean?”

Donald held each bill up to the light. Guess his station got a lot of counterfeit five-dollar bills. “Look here, missy, I won’t speak ill of the dead. But I built this business on honesty and integrity, and I expect the same from my employees. Now here’s your change.” He shoved the ones and loose coins into my hand, squeezed out from behind the counter, and crossed to the back of the store, disappearing behind a swinging door marked E
MPLOYEES
O
NLY
.

What exactly had Bobby Joe done to bring such wrath from Donald? And why hadn’t Donald fired him?

I grabbed my plastic bag and left the store, listening to the tinkle of the bell as I went. Out front, a woman not much older than my twenty-eight years smoked a cigarette at the corner of the building, glancing at the door every few seconds. My car was still the only one in the lot, and the spaces in front of the gas pumps were empty, so unless she’d walked here from town, she must work here. Maybe she was Bobby Joe’s replacement.

She watched me approach. She wore a too-tight, tiger-striped halter top that accentuated her ample chest and defined biceps. As I got closer, she tugged up the top at the corners.

“You work here?” I asked.

She held her cigarette down near her thigh and waved at me. “Get over here. Don’t let him see you.”

I glanced to my left at the last pane of the storefront window, but I saw only myself in the reflection cast by the noonday sun. I shuffled forward another two feet until I reached the cement wall.

“Donald will tan my hide if he catches me out here smoking again. Says it’s bad for business.”

“Well, it is a gas station. All those flammable fumes and everything.”

The woman scowled at me. “I haven’t blown anything up yet.”

Let’s hope today wasn’t the day she broke her winning streak. “Are you Bobby Joe’s replacement?”

The woman laughed and exhaled a stream of smoke. “Donald would never let me work. Says he’s the breadwinner, and no wife of his is gonna get her hands dirty with a job. I’m stuck in that house all day.” She jerked her cigarette toward the house behind the station.

I almost dropped my bag when she said the word “wife,” considering she was young enough to be his daughter. How had Donald landed such a young hottie? I tightened my hold on the plastic bag, crushing a Funyun in the process. “You probably knew Bobby Joe, am I right?”

The woman flicked at something on her fingernail. “Bobby Joe was a sweetie. I was real sorry to hear someone killed him.”

“Me, too.” Especially since some people thought my sister did it. “How long did he work here?”

“Lemme think.” She held her cigarette aloft and tapped her toe. “Seems like Donald hired him right before the Christmas season. We get a lot more business that time of year with people passing by on the highway, off to visit folks for the holidays.”

She sounded momentarily wistful, her tone making me imagine a family gathered around a Christmas tree, drinking hot chocolate. I felt a tug at my own heart as I thought of last Christmas, the first year without my dad.

“And did Donald like him?” I asked to drag myself from my memories.

The woman didn’t seem at all curious as to why I was asking these questions, but maybe she got lonely, stuck out here.

“At first. But Bobby Joe was friendly. Maybe a little too friendly, if you know what I mean. Donald didn’t like him flirting with me. And lately he was grumbling about his work, saying he was getting ready to fire Bobby Joe if only he could find the proof.”

I crushed another Funyun as I gripped my snack bag tighter and edged toward her. “Proof about what?”

Behind me, I heard the tinkle of the bell that signaled someone was opening the door. The woman immediately dropped her cigarette on the pavement and ground it out with her wedge heel.

“Tara,” Donald’s voice roared behind me. “How many times have I told you not to smoke around these pumps? Get your ass back in here. Now.”

Tara ducked her head and scurried past me. I turned around and watched as she darted past her husband and inside the store. Donald stared at me for a moment, anger clearly showing on his face. He stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him.

Well, great. Donald obviously controlled the relationship. How was I supposed to ask Tara what she’d been about to say without Donald interfering? I debated for a moment whether I should march back inside and talk to Tara, Donald or no Donald. But his face was closed tighter than that door. No way would Tara be allowed to speak to me.

Instead, I got in my car, threw the junk food in the backseat, and started the engine, flinching at the clock on the dash. I tried to keep consistent and brief lunch times, and I’d already been gone more than an hour. Of course, my sister was caught up in a murder investigation, so maybe I could make an exception today.

Still, I hovered over the speed limit as I zipped to work, maneuvering around the lumber trucks and slow-moving RVs. I briefly wondered what Jason was up to. He usually called once a day to say hi, but he must be swamped with work since he was covering Bobby Joe’s death. I’d touch base with him later.

At the spa, the parking lot held two more cars than when I’d left on my errand. The weekend guests must be arriving.

I parked in my usual spot on the side of the lot but decided to enter through the main door in case the new guests needed anything. On my way by the duck pond, I spotted a yellow head bobbing among the nearby grass, well outside the fenced area. I scooped up the wandering duckling and placed it by the edge of the water before entering the lobby.

I found four people inside, two at the counter talking to Gordon and the other two sitting on the love seat, bags at their feet. Gordon strained so hard to smile when he saw me that I worried a jaw muscle would snap.

“Here’s my assistant. Finally.”

Inside, I seethed at the word “assistant,” but I wouldn’t make a scene in front of the guests. “Did you need some help, Gordon?” I asked in an overly perky voice.

Gordon pointed his ballpoint pen at the couple on the love seat. “The Steddelbeckers have checked in. Could you please show them to their room?”

“I’d be delighted.” I grabbed the key from under the counter. “Would you follow me, please?” I said to the couple.

They stood. Mr. Steddelbecker was tall and lanky, his bony knees peeking out from beneath his Bermuda shorts, his ankles hidden under white socks and sandals. An honest-to-goodness non-digital camera, something I hadn’t seen in ages, hung on a strap around his neck. Mrs. Steddelbecker was even thinner than her husband but a good foot shorter. She leaned heavily on an oak cane as she shambled toward me, making me wonder if she was older than the sixty or so that she otherwise appeared to be.

I reached for the duffel bag that rested by the love seat, but Mr. Steddelbecker waved me away. “I can carry my own luggage. Otherwise you’ll be wanting a tip.”

“Good thinking, Horace,” Mrs. Steddelbecker said.

I felt my cheeks heat up. “No tip required, sir.”

“That’s what all these hotel people say, but they always expect one anyway.”

Whatever. If he wanted to carry his own bags, I wasn’t going to argue.

“As you wish.” I led them down the hall and hung a right into the empty dining room. “Breakfast is from seven to nine, lunch from noon to two, and dinner from five to seven.”

“You hear that, Darlene?” Horace said. “We have to wait until seven for breakfast.”

Darlene thunked her cane on the nearest tabletop, and I jumped as the silverware rattled. Yikes. Guess she wasn’t a feeble old lady after all. I’d been fooled by her petite size and need for a cane.