Read Online All Natural Murder by Staci McLaughlin - Free Book Online Page B

hands on my shorts, my palms suddenly clammy as I saw an opportunity to question him. “And how are you doing it?” By killing off the competition?
    “Hard work and talent.”
    “Did Bobby Joe have a lot of talent?” I asked, tensing. Would he freak out again at the name?
    But if he was angered by my question, he hid it well. “I guess,” was all he said. He slid his foot off the chair and stabbed a piece of lettuce with his fork. “Now, I gotta eat. I’ve got practice later.” He thrust the greenery into his mouth and stared at the dish while he chewed.
    The couple at the other table was intent on their own salads, but I lowered my voice anyway. “I heard you and Bobby Joe were big rivals.”
    Crusher smacked his lips. “This dressing’s great. Homemade?”
    Guess that was his not-so-subtle way of telling me he wouldn’t be talking about Bobby Joe. “Specialty of the kitchen. I’ll let the chef know you like it.”
    I retreated from the room. In the kitchen, Zennia was slicing the octopus into bite-size pieces.
    “Dana, thanks for dropping off those salads. I can handle the entrée if you want your lunch now.” She glanced at the fridge, where the natto waited. I still hadn’t quite worked myself up to trying the fermented soybeans with probiotics, whatever the heck those were.
    “Gee, um, I really need to run an errand first.” I stared at the tentacle hanging off the cutting board as I tried to think of a believable errand. I rarely had dry-cleaning. I still had plenty of cash from my last trip to the bank. The bills were in the mail. My gas tank was half full.
    Well, half full wasn’t completely full, now was it?
    “Gas, I need gas. You know how busy it gets in the evenings, especially during the summer.” And if I happened to grab a burger while I was in town, who could blame me?
    Zennia gave me a funny look, knowing full well the local gas stations were never busy, but didn’t challenge my claim. “Don’t worry, it’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”
    Yes, of course it would.
    I stopped by the office for my purse, then climbed into my car, turning on the air conditioner before I tuned in to the radio. I roared out of the parking lot and down the lane.
    I’d told Zennia I was buying gas, and that was exactly what I was going to do. And what better place than Running on Fumes, the place Bobby Joe worked right up until he was killed?

8
    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