Trimmed to Death Read online

  Alyce answered the door at her summons. She wore an apron over tan shorts and a clover top. “Marla! I was surprised when the guard notified me you were here.”

  “Sorry, I should have called first, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I would stop by. Is this a good time?”

  “I’m in the middle of making a vegetable gumbo for dinner, but come on in. I just have to set the timer.”

  Marla trailed her into the kitchen, noting high ceilings, an open flowing design, and a screened-in pool patio facing a lake in the back. She scanned the cluttered countertops and the refrigerator decorated with children’s art work. Her nose sniffed sautéed onions. Instead of appealing to her, the aroma caused her to feel queasy.

  “You have two kids, right?” she asked to get her mind off bodily functions.

  Alyce programmed the timer and then gestured for Marla to take a seat at the kitchen table. “Yes, Jed and Jackie. They’re my pride and joy. How about you?”

  “We don’t have any children of our own yet, but Dalton has a teenage daughter from a previous marriage.”

  “Enjoy the time you have together, because if you have a baby, it changes everything. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?” Alyce pointed to a single-serve brewer on the counter.

  “I’d love one, thanks.” Maybe it would help settle her stomach. “How are you doing since the bake-off contest?”

  “I was having fun until... you know. I’d met a lot of my readers at the fair.”

  “That must have been gratifying. It’s too bad things had to end on such a sad note.”

  “Poor Francine. Has your husband discovered any viable leads in his investigation?” Alyce removed her apron and tossed it onto a vacant chair. She inserted a K-cup after filling the coffeemaker with water.

  “If he has, he’s not sharing them with me. I’m friends with Arnie Hartman who owns Bagel Busters in the same shopping strip as my salon and day spa. Arnie has known Rory Kinsdale since his school days. He says Rory is worried about the farm’s future.”

  “I’d hate to see anything happen to them. They supply organic produce to restaurants in the area. The farm-to-table movement is so important to our country’s health.”

  “I’m familiar with the term, but what does it mean to you?” Marla accepted a mug of coffee from Alyce, who settled in a chair across from her after putting cream and sugar on the table.

  Alyce brushed a wisp of short hair off her face. Her pixie cut looked as though she’d applied mousse and finger-fluffed it. “People prefer fresh fruits and vegetables grown with minimal use of pesticides and chemical fertilizers. Green farmers rely on crop diversity, beneficial insects, and pest-resistant plants to control insects and weeds. Soil conservation is important, too. They’ll use sugar cane as windbreakers, cover crops, and low-impact cultivation methods to prevent erosion.”

  “That sounds better than wearing the land down.”

  “It’s healthier for you, too. Locally raised food decreases the time it sits around before reaching your plate. It has a higher nutrient value and retains its flavor more than items you buy at the chains. Chefs love to buy local when they have a choice. That’s why we have to support independent farmers like the Kinsdales.”

  “So you haven’t heard anything about their farm being in trouble?” Marla asked, wrapping her fingers around the mug. The coffee was rich and flavorful, although her stomach seemed more sensitive than normal. Perhaps this roast was stronger than the one she made at home. She added a tad more cream to dilute it further.

  “Kinsdale Farms doesn’t have any blots on its record to my knowledge. I investigate all of my sources thoroughly, you understand.” Alyce paused to frown at Marla. “Well, there was that one time when a worker vanished.”

  Marla straightened her spine. “What happened?”

  “Rumor said he had a silo accident, but if so, it wasn’t reported. That’s not an uncommon occurrence on a farm. Hazards are everywhere, from silos to machinery to animals.”

  “They don’t raise cattle at Kinsdale Farms,” Marla pointed out. “But when I spoke to Rory’s wife, she was concerned for his safety.”

  “Tractor accidents are the leading cause of deaths and injuries on farms. She should be worried about him. It’s a dangerous place to work, unless you know what you’re doing.”

  “Rory was raised on the farm. I’m sure those boys are well aware of the dangers. But you gave me a good idea. I’ll ask my husband to look into the farm’s accident record.”

  If Zach had covered up one death on his property, there could be more. And she’d also advise Dalton to check into the hired help to see if they had proper documentation. He should be able to confirm their citizenship status and see who was around on the day of the bake-off.

  Alyce jabbed a finger at her. “Make sure your husband doesn’t jeopardize that farm in any way. We need more places like Kinsdale Farms to grow our food.”

  “Do you think Francine knew something about them that got her killed?”

  “Francine could have riled anyone. It would have been easy to follow her into the fields if that’s where she went to hide for the scavenger hunt. Or maybe she went there to meet someone.”

  Marla gave her a startled glance. That possibility would make her death less of a crime of chance. “Did you notice anyone missing during the game?”

  “No, I was too busy schmoozing. But if you’re looking to cast blame, check out Raquel Hayes. She takes shortcuts on her show and deceives viewers.”

  “How so?” Marla asked in an innocent tone, as though Raquel hadn’t already told her about Alyce’s accusations.

  “She doesn’t make things from scratch or use the products she claims. It’s no surprise, since Raquel couldn’t make it on her own as a chef. She only got this gig by sleeping with the producer. If she doesn’t do something to raise her ratings, her show could be cancelled.”

  Wow, you don’t mince words. “That would upset Becky, the museum curator. Becky likes the publicity when Raquel has her on the show to talk about her new cookbooks.”

  “I’ll bet she does. Sometimes I wonder about those two, at least from Becky’s angle. Raquel may be straight as a page margin, but Becky is still single.”

  Marla’s mouth gaped. “Are you saying Becky has a thing for the TV chef?”

  “Stranger people have gotten together, luv.”

  “I thought Raquel’s show was doing well. She didn’t give me the impression otherwise.”

  “Shows are cancelled on television all the time. If she drops out of favor with the producer, she’s toast. And I wouldn’t count on Becky bailing her out. Her job isn’t safe, either.”

  Were these claims true, or was Alyce merely casting aspersions on others to take the heat off herself? “Becky said she wanted the prize money to buy a collection of artifacts for the museum,” Marla stated. “She must feel her position is stable to be so generous.”

  “That’s a load of hogwash. The curator lied if she told you the cash was meant to purchase a new exhibit. She’s hoping to save the museum from its creditors.”

  Marla stared at Alyce. Had Dalton verified the bake-off contestants’ job status and business plan proposals? The more she learned about them, the less she trusted these people.

  “My husband hasn’t mentioned anything about the museum’s status being in jeopardy,” Marla admitted. “What do you know that we don’t?”

  Alyce pecked at a smudge on the table with her unpainted fingernail. “The city’s budget cuts have hurt the museum. They need to pay back their last construction loan. Otherwise, they could default on it. If Becky filed a business plan that says otherwise, she’s lying to appease her board of directors.”

  “Where did you get this information?” Marla asked with a note of skepticism. Who was telling tales here—Alyce the food blogger or Becky the museum curator?

  “My brother, Steve, is an investment advisor. His firm provided the loan. But I realize Becky means well. She does a good job of educatin
g the public with her lectures. If she’d meant to pay back the borrowed money and save the museum, good for her. Raquel, on the other hand, deserves to be derailed.” Alyce’s lips twisted in a derisive smile.

  Marla had an insight and pounced on it. “Did your brother’s company also provide the starter loan for your husband’s food truck operation?”

  “Yep, and Steve isn’t pressuring us or anything, but that loan weighs heavily on our minds. We’d like to pay it off and move on.”

  “I can imagine so.” Marla floundered for what to say next. Alyce seemed eager to talk, so she should take advantage. Maybe the woman got lonely working from home. She decided to introduce a touchy topic. “You know, Francine was wearing your jacket that day. Do you suppose the killer meant to get you instead? I mean, the woman was hit from behind, and you’d be tough to tell apart with your similar statures and haircuts.”

  Alyce’s gaze hardened. “What are you saying, Marla?”

  “I can’t help wondering if you were the intended target that day and not Francine.”

  Alyce shot to her feet and raked her fingers through her short hair. “That’s absurd. Who would want to do me in? Francine had her share of enemies.”

  “Like who? Do you have any suspicions besides the people you’ve already mentioned?”

  “Steve’s firm manages Tony Winters’ accounts. Steve has hinted there’s something fishy about Amalfi Consolidated. I have an idea what it is, but I need evidence. Maybe Francine got wind of it and threatened to expose them.”

  “Can you tell me what this involves?”

  Alyce’s lips pursed. “Not until I can back up my theory with hard proof.”

  Marla, sensing a dead end in that direction, changed tactics. “How does Carlton Paige feel about your blog? Aren’t you two rivals for the same audience?”

  “That pompous ass blows a lot of hot air. His reviews are questionable, if you get my drift. If anyone’s job is in jeopardy, it’s probably his.”

  “He gave a high rating to The Royal Palate. Dalton and I ate there over the weekend. Their menu items were too eclectic for our tastes. Tristan was kind to give us a tour of his kitchen and a taste of his desserts.”

  “Tristan suspects the truth but he’s afraid to say anything. The restaurant’s ads claim they buy their ingredients from sustainable resources. That’s baloney. Lots of restaurants claim they buy from environmentally-friendly green farms. Maybe they start out that way, but then they go for cheaper choices. They have to offer food at a price consumers will pay, while buying the best ingredients they can afford. But soon it becomes buy low and sell high.”

  “Like seafood that’s mislabeled? I’ve read about that. It’s a common occurrence.”

  “You’re buying a cheaper brand, and you don’t know it. Same goes for locally grown heirloom tomatoes that are really from Mexico, or chickens supposedly raised by humane methods. How can you, as a diner, tell where your food really originated? And do you care?”

  “It’s clear that you do.”

  Alyce gave a firm nod. “That’s my job. I’ll actually call the source when a restaurant or food market makes a claim that seems doubtful. That Florida blue crab you might enjoy? It likely comes from the Indian Ocean. I’ve discovered farmed trout from Idaho, beef from Colorado, and yellowfin tuna from the northern East Coast. They’re from as far away as you can get but restaurants claim they are Florida-sourced. I even once found Parmesan cheese bulked up with wood pulp.”

  “Eww, that’s gross. So how can we know what we’re eating?”

  “You can’t. I have a friend who works in a lab. He does DNA testing for me. Plus, I trace bills of sale back to their origins. Restaurant owners and market vendors lie in their ads all the time. Take wild Alaskan Pollock, for example. In one organic market, it was actually made from frozen Chinese fish treated with preservatives. Their Florida-caught shrimp? It came from a fish farm in India. The homemade chocolate cake that looked lip-smacking good? Out of a box you could buy in the supermarket. And let’s not forget the drinks. One fancy restaurant I know refills their Evian bottles with tap water and has a house wine that’s a dump from leftover bottles.”

  “I think I’ll eat at home for a while.” Marla would have to subscribe to Alyce’s blog. It appeared she did a service to consumers, but how many providers had she offended along the way? Did she inadvertently ruin someone’s business without being aware of the damage she’d caused? Dalton should view the comments on her blog to see if any of them were particularly vitriolic.

  Alyce had given her much to think about, but her brain was getting too addled to sort it all out. With a stretch, Marla rose. Her limbs had gone stiff, and she had other errands to do.

  The timer on the range chose that moment to beep its conclusion. Alyce bustled over to turn off the burner. “Wait, Marla. How about a taste of my vegetable gumbo? It’s a healthy main dish.”

  “Okay, sure.” She had to admit to being curious about Alyce’s cooking skills. Did she offer recipes on her blog?

  Alyce handed her a bowl. Marla accepted a spoon and dug in. She detected baby corn, onions, peppers, red kidney beans, and zucchini among other ingredients.

  “It’s delicious,” Marla said, but before another word came out, her stomach revolted. “Excuse me, can I use your bathroom?”

  She put the bowl down and rushed in the direction Alyce indicated. Her stomach heaved but nothing came out. Great, she must still have a virus in her system. Or perhaps she’d developed a food allergy.

  Did the gumbo contain olive oil? Maybe a batch of imported oil had become contaminated and should be recalled. But then a lot more people would have gotten sick, wouldn’t they?

  “I’m sorry. It wasn’t your food. I must still have a touch of a stomach bug. I’d better leave,” Marla said to Alyce upon her return to the kitchen.

  Alyce showed her to the door. “Take care of yourself. And Marla, let me know if you learn anything more about Francine. It makes me nervous to know a killer is running around town.”

  That’s understandable, Marla thought, especially because the murderer might have been after you.

  Chapter Ten

  Marla pulled into her driveway just as her neighbor Susan was bringing her kids home from school. The Feinbergs lived two doors down on the east side of the street. Susan drove a silver model SUV, had a smoky-colored cat that detested the outdoors, and baked the best brownies on the block. A twinge of envy hit Marla. They were the same age, and yet Susan was way ahead of her in the children department.

  Wait a minute. Susan worked as a consulting editor for a women’s magazine and she wrote a blog. Could she be acquainted with Francine or Alyce by any chance?

  Marla rushed inside her house, greeted the dogs, and let them out into the fenced backyard. Then she hurriedly refreshed herself before exiting once again. The mild October air entered her lungs. Soon it would get cold by her standards, and she’d freeze as soon as she walked out the door. Any temperature below seventy qualified as chilly.

  She should be enjoying the drier weather instead of running to and fro like a mad hatter. Dalton had told her that expression originated from the days of early hat makers. They had used mercury to stabilize wool during the felting process and didn’t realize exposure to these vapors could be toxic. They’d suffered neurologic impairment as a result. That part didn’t apply to her, but she certainly felt frazzled.

  Outside, she paused on the sidewalk to admire a pink bougainvillea bush across the street. Was it really her business to chase down suspects? Dalton appreciated her input but could get by without it. Shouldn’t she focus on the things that mattered most, like family?

  Brianna would be going to college soon. What would Marla do if having children wasn’t in her cards?

  An empty future yawned in front of her. While she kept occupied with her salon and day spa, she’d cast aside her ambitions to become an educator. Her dreams of traveling could become a reality, but Dalton wouldn’t be able to retire fo
r a number of years. In the meantime, shouldn’t she assist him in every way possible so he would have more quality time for family events?

  In a thoughtful mood, she turned toward Susan’s house. The woman wrote a blog filled with wisdom and inspiring messages for other housewives. Maybe Susan could offer some advice.

  “Hey, Marla, how are you?” Susan said upon greeting her at the door.

  Marla’s glance rose to Susan’s hair, layered and wavy at shoulder length. She came to Marla’s salon for her highlights every other month. “I’m good, thanks. I know you just got home, but do you have a few minutes to talk? I can follow you around if you have things to do.”

  “No problem. We’re eating leftovers tonight, so I don’t have to fix dinner. Come on in.”

  Their cat sidled up to Marla as she stepped inside the house, which smelled from lemon furniture polish. Susan led her past the kitchen into the family room.

  “Donny and Jess, come say hello to Mrs. Vail,” Susan called. The children, ages ten and seven respectively, dutifully obeyed. Then Donny and his sister ran off, chasing the cat.

  Marla took a seat on the sofa as indicated and refused an offered drink. She folded her hands, her posture stiff. Although comfortable chatting at the salon with the woman, she felt awkward here. “I’m helping my husband with another case,” she began, sticking to safe ground. “You’ve heard about the fall harvest festival at Kinsdale Farms?”

  Susan nodded, her brown eyes regarding Marla shrewdly. “You found another body, right? I can’t imagine how you keep doing that and stay so calm.”

  Marla wove her fingers together. “I’m not, really. It bothers me each time, but I put it aside in another part of my brain so the images don’t haunt me.”

  “I’m still haunted by Alan Krabber’s death next door.”

  “Me, too. It doesn’t seem to bother the young couple that moved in there. Are you friendly with them?” Marla had only exchanged polite words with their new neighbors.