7
I returned to the farm’s booth, where Ashlee was flirting with a guy as she showed him various pictures on the easel. As I got closer, she gave him a pig pen and a travel mug, along with her best smile, before he ambled away, clutching his goodies. I noticed he held a strip of paper in his hand, and I had to wonder if one of those goodies was Ashlee’s phone number. She handed her digits out like the sample lady passed out potato chips at Costco.
I moved behind the table. “Thanks for watching the booth.”
“No problem.” She looked toward the parking lot. “Where’d your little friend go?”
“Kimmie? Back to Mendocino.”
“Good. Why do you even talk to her? She’s such a phony.”
“I know she can be annoying,” I said, “but she’s had a rough time. She did find Wendy’s body after all.”
“Tell you what, I’ll be nice to her for the rest of the day.” Ashlee snapped her gum again. “Since she already left, that should make it a lot easier.”
Gee, my sister is the next Florence Nightingale.
George Sturgeon, owner of the Spinning Your Wheels tire shop and leader of the Blossom Valley Rejuvenation Committee, approached the booth. His blue polo shirt and khaki pants looked crisp and new, and his customary crew cut was freshly trimmed. Ashlee and I immediately stopped our banter.
“Ladies,” he said, “we’re shutting down the festival for the rest of the day so the police can look into that woman’s death. We’ll start up first thing tomorrow, no later than 0800 hours.”
“Think anyone will come after what happened?” I asked.
“Some will come out of curiosity. That’ll be our chance to nab them, urge them to take a look at all these booths. I’ve got some brand-new low-rolling resistance tires that’ll help with fuel efficiency to show them.”
Well, if that doesn’t keep the crowds here, I don’t know what will.
“Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I have to let the other booths know.” George marched toward the mushroom-dyeing booth across the street. I wasn’t sure how you dyed things with mushrooms, but the shirts and sweaters the guy was selling certainly looked remarkable.
“Guess I can pack up,” I said.
“I gotta go, too,” Ashlee said. “Those feral cats won’t spay themselves. But that’d be awesome if they could.”
She trotted off toward the parking area. I swept the brochures into a single pile and placed them back into the box. The wind had died down, and I was able to dismantle the booth, including the awning, with little trouble and even less cussing. Vendors at the nearby booths were closing down as well.
I lugged the box of brochures, pens, and travel mugs over to my Honda, opened the trunk, and slid the box in. I slammed the trunk shut and went back for the uneaten corn salad and sample cups. With one last look at Wendy’s tent and the diminished group of gawkers, I climbed behind the wheel and motored out of the lot.
Traffic was light on the freeway, and I reached the turn off for the farm in minutes. Esther had yet to agree to pave the dirt lane. For now, I bounced and jolted along, passing the sign that declared, O’C
ONNELL
O
RGANIC
F
ARM AND
S
PA,
before I pulled into my usual parking space near the side path.
I picked up my box of marketing materials, balanced the salad bowl on top, and walked up the path. My shoes crunched the dry, crisp leaves that littered the ground.
All the cabin doors were closed as I walked past, but I heard people talking in the closest one. We’d had a steady stream of guests over the last couple of months, providing us all with a little more job security and Esther with a sense that her farm might make it after all. We’d recently hired Gretchen, a certified masseuse with experience in facials and manicures. These new spa services, combined with the first-ever green-living festival, had guaranteed a full house this weekend.
Of course, Wendy’s death would definitely put a damper on the festivities now, at least for me. I’d been so excited to participate in the festival, but now everything had changed. How could I celebrate the new services at the farm when I knew my friend had been murdered?
These thoughts weighed heavy on my mind as I rounded the corner and walked past the pool, catching a whiff of chlorine. With the weather so cool on this fall day, no one was swimming, but a man and a woman sat in the nearby Jacuzzi. Their heads were close together as they murmured to each other. I nodded to them as I crossed the large patio, then cut through the herb garden and in the back door. The kitchen was empty, the only sound the ticking of the rooster clock. Already close to three. I left the salad bowl on the counter next to the wheatgrass machine before heading into the office.
I dumped my box in the corner, the rough cardboard scraping my arms, and pulled Wendy’s brochure from my pocket. Once in the desk chair, I took a moment to stare at the photo of the pigs and wonder if Wendy had thought up this particular project. She’d been so young. What could have happened that someone would want her dead?
With a sigh, I wiggled the mouse to activate the computer monitor and opened a browser, inputting the Web address that was listed on the Invisible Prints brochure.
Photos of lush rain forests and rushing streams filled the screen. A picture of wind turbines reminded me of the miniature models Wendy had handed out at the festival, and I shook my head. She’d been alive a few hours ago. What had happened between the time we’d talked and when Kimmie found her body? If I hadn’t seen her body myself, I still might not believe it.
I clicked on the “About Invisible Prints” link and scanned the brief bio. Wendy had started the company two years ago after visiting Brazil and seeing how portions of the rain forest were still being decimated. Upon her return, she’d found investors and opened for business. The “Carbon Offset” page described how Invisible Prints worked and provided a calculator to see how much energy you wasted each day through various activities.
The premise was a little complicated, and I wondered how successful the company was. Since Wendy had been manning her own booth at the festival, instead of having an assistant do it, I had to assume the company wasn’t yet at Fortune 500 status.
I clicked the “Contact Us” link and saw that the company headquarters was based in Mendocino. Maybe I’d stop by on one of my days off and see what my old classmate had built for herself.
A cough from the doorway interrupted my planning.
“Why aren’t you at the festival? Who’s passing out the pig pens?” Gordon demanded.
My hands froze on the keyboard. Gordon didn’t have a link to the town’s gossip network. He hadn’t heard about Wendy’s death.
“They shut the festival down early,” I said, stalling for time.
“Shut it down? On whose authority? I want names. We spent weeks getting ready for this.”
I wasn’t sure who this “we” was that Gordon mentioned, considering Gordon didn’t belong to the rejuvenation committee. Along with my help, they’d done all the planning, organizing, and ordering, but I let his comment slide. We had bigger problems.
“The police closed the festival early for an investigation.” I wasn’t sure how to couch what had happened, so I didn’t bother. Gordon could handle bad news. “The woman in the booth next to us was murdered.”
Gordon’s face reddened. “Murdered? How? When?” He viciously twisted his pinkie ring. “Tell me, please, that you weren’t involved this time.”
When I’d first started working here, Gordon’s menacing attitude would have frazzled my nerves and had me shaking. Now that I knew his hard exterior was mostly for show, my hackles rose at the implication in that statement. “I don’t go around finding bodies all the time, Gordon.”
“Thank God. I know you helping solve those murders a few months ago hasn’t exactly hurt business here at the farm, maybe even increased it, but pretty soon, people are going to see it more as a circus act. We have to protect the reputation of this place.”
“Don’t worry.” I made a mental note to make sure Jason wasn’t planning to include my name in any articles.
“So that’s it? One dead body, and the festival is over?”
How many bodies did he want? “It’ll reopen first thing tomorrow morning. The police should be done with their investigation by then.”
Gordon rubbed his hands together. “I bet we get an even bigger crowd. People will come down to see where this woman was killed. Right next to our booth, you said? That might work in our favor.”
I cringed at his insensitivity, but he didn’t notice. George had said pretty much the same thing, but not with that calculating smile. “You know, I was best friends with this woman back in school. She was a wonderful person who didn’t deserve to be murdered.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you knew her.” Gordon straightened his tie. “Still, make sure you’re at the festival before it opens tomorrow. People will show up early now. In fact, you need a team member to assist you. Maybe I’ll send Zennia.” Without waiting for an answer, he walked out the door.
I said a silent thanks that he hadn’t volunteered himself to help run the booth before I returned to the Invisible Prints Web site. I clicked on a few more links, but I’d probably found out about all I could from the site. I checked my e-mail and found a message from Kimmie with Wendy’s address, as well as that of her brother Kurt. She also let me know she’d attached a status report form I should use, but I didn’t open the file. I jotted down both addresses for later reference and tried to get my mind back on my day job.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon, what was left of it anyway, fleshing out a brochure I’d been working on about our new massage offerings and trying not to think about Wendy and who might have killed her.
After an hour, I gave up and clocked out early. Kurt lived here in town, and I was ready to talk to him. I could only hope the police had already notified him about Wendy’s death. I’d hate to be the one to break the news to him, even if they hadn’t been getting along.
I put on my windbreaker and made a quick side trip out back to see Wilbur and the other pigs in their pen. I tried to check on them at least once a day, though it wasn’t technically part of my job. I just liked the pigs.
As usual, most rooted around, looking for random scraps of food, while two slept on their sides. I patted Wilbur’s pink-and-brown back for a moment before I headed down the vegetable path to my car. The temperature still hovered around the mid-sixties, but the wind had a bite. I pulled my windbreaker tighter as I unlocked the door and slipped inside.
According to Kimmie’s e-mail, Kurt lived on Honeysuckle Street, in the older part of town. I jetted down the freeway, exited at Main Street, made a few turns, and slowed to a crawl as I turned onto Honeysuckle. Most of the curb numbers were too faded to read, so I inched along and tried to find house numbers on the mailboxes or porches. The address Kimmie provided belonged to a two-story house, which had a newer coat of paint and a large garage in back down a long driveway. The lawn was a couple inches too tall, and overgrown bushes blocked most of the windows. Apparently, Kurt wasn’t a fan of gardening.
As I started to pull to the curb, I spotted a blue Taurus in front of me and groaned. Oh no. If that was Detective Palmer’s car, how would I explain my presence? That I was offering condolences to a brother I barely remembered of a woman I hadn’t seen in ten years? Maybe I’d wait a few minutes.
I flipped a U, parked on the opposite side of the street, and sat in my car, watching the street activity, or lack of it. A butterfly fluttered around the lawn, a cat wandered across the street, and the occasional early-autumn leaf blew by. Even with the cool weather, the interior of the car was starting to warm up. I opened the door and inhaled the outside air. If that was the detective’s car, what was taking him so long? Was he merely notifying Kurt about Wendy’s death, or was he questioning him about any enemies Wendy might have had? Either way, he should be done by now.
After another minute, I got out of the car, crossed the street, and stepped onto the sidewalk. From where I stood, I could see a line of windows running down the side of the house and the garage at the far end of the driveway. Maybe I could take a peek in one of the windows to see if the detective was wrapping things up. Otherwise, I’d go home and come back later in the evening.
I walked partway down the driveway and stopped at the first window, peeking through the bush, which I hoped would block me from anyone inside the house. The first room appeared to be the living room, with a couch, a recliner, and a large-screen TV. No one was there. The next window was small and high, and probably belonged to a bathroom. I was leaning forward to peer through the glass of the third window when someone behind me said, “What are you doing?”
With a shriek, I shot forward, throwing my arms out as I hit the bush and bounced back. I whirled around.
Detective Palmer stood before me. There was a grim set to his mouth. “Care to explain why you’re spying on the people in this house?”
Blood rushed to my face. I straightened out my jacket and brushed off a leaf clinging to one sleeve. “I came to offer my condolences.”
Detective Palmer reached up and plucked a twig from my hair. “Ever tried knocking?”
“I didn’t want to intrude during such a terrible time, so I was looking in the windows to make sure he was up for company.” Man, what a lame story.
“So you think having a giant face pop up in the window is less intrusive than ringing the doorbell?”
I ignored the fact that he had called my face “giant,” considering the position he’d caught me in. Instead, I wondered if I could get him to share anything with me. “How did Kurt take the news of his sister’s death?”