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Authors: Staci McLaughlin
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her age with no job.
That left me. At least for however long my marketing skills were needed after a man had been murdered at the farm.
The next morning, I studied the clothing options in the closet. I pushed all the business clothes from my last job to the side and grabbed a green-and-white-striped hoodie. Done with dressing, I dug around the pantry for my usual box of Fruity Pebbles, then gave up and put on the kettle to make a package of instant oatmeal. Sugar-free oatmeal. Yech.
While I waited for the water to boil, I flipped open the morning paper. MURDER AT O ’CONNELL F ARM AND S PA screamed back at me in bold black letters, Jason Forrester listed in the byline. I read the article, my stomach clenched in anticipation. Jason started right off with the murder itself, mentioning the dark pool of blood on Maxwell’s shirt that, thank God, I’d missed, the hands clutching the wound, the yoga pants. My mind immediately flashed back to the scene and I wondered if he’d managed to sneak in and see the body before it was taken to the morgue.
The one bright spot in the article was that while Maxwell was indeed a Hollywood producer, low-budget horror films made up the bulk of his credits with an occasional attempt at more dramatic fare. I’d even seen one or two of his films, but hadn’t recognized his name when he’d checked in at the farm. With any luck, he’d merit a brief article on Entertainment Weekly ’s web site before the latest Mel Gibson or Lindsay Lohan antic displaced him; people would soon forget that Maxwell had been killed at my place of employment.
With a sense of relief, I finished the article, noting my name was absent. Jason had only written that a staff member had found the body. Granted, everyone in town knew I was the staff member, but until I saw my name in print, I’d live in denial.
The kettle whistled as Mom entered the kitchen.
“Oh, good, you found the oatmeal. I threw out that disgusting cereal you insist on eating. All that sugar is horrible for you.”
I poured the hot water into the bowl and stirred the oatmeal mix. “I like that cereal. I finally collected all four glow-in-the-dark yo-yos.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, a free yo-yo isn’t worth your health.” Mom dropped a piece of whole-wheat bread into the toaster and pushed down the lever.
I carried my bowl to the table and flipped through the rest of the paper. The bowling alley was adding new arcade games. The mayor’s cat, Milly, had produced a litter of eight kittens. Applications were now being accepted for entry into the Fourth of July parade in six weeks. Would the madness never end?
“Did you sleep okay? No bad dreams from yesterday?” Mom asked.
I folded up the newspaper and set it on the table. “Nope. ’Course it helps that I didn’t know Maxwell.”
Mom grabbed the paper. “Sue Ellen called this morning, snooping for information, so be prepared for questions from people. But I imagine you’ll stay home today after what happened.”
“Actually, I’m off to the farm as soon as I’m done with this oatmeal. See if I still have a job today. All the guests may have fled overnight, forcing Esther to let the staff go.”
Mom walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, Dana, do you think you’ll lose your job? It took you so long to find one.”
She didn’t need to remind me of that. I was well aware of my lengthy unemployment.
“We’ll see what Esther says. My contract is almost up anyway, but I was hoping to stay on for a bit longer.”
I scarfed down the rest of my oatmeal, then rinsed my bowl in the sink and put on my Keds. Might as well get this over with.
On my way to the farm, I spotted the sign for the Daily Grind and swung into the lot. One packet of oatmeal was not enough sustenance for me to face Zennia’s cooking. I might suffer a weak moment and eat one of her wheatgerm muffins.
With the nearest Starbucks fifty miles away, the Daily Grind had a steady business. I
That left me. At least for however long my marketing skills were needed after a man had been murdered at the farm.
The next morning, I studied the clothing options in the closet. I pushed all the business clothes from my last job to the side and grabbed a green-and-white-striped hoodie. Done with dressing, I dug around the pantry for my usual box of Fruity Pebbles, then gave up and put on the kettle to make a package of instant oatmeal. Sugar-free oatmeal. Yech.
While I waited for the water to boil, I flipped open the morning paper. MURDER AT O ’CONNELL F ARM AND S PA screamed back at me in bold black letters, Jason Forrester listed in the byline. I read the article, my stomach clenched in anticipation. Jason started right off with the murder itself, mentioning the dark pool of blood on Maxwell’s shirt that, thank God, I’d missed, the hands clutching the wound, the yoga pants. My mind immediately flashed back to the scene and I wondered if he’d managed to sneak in and see the body before it was taken to the morgue.
The one bright spot in the article was that while Maxwell was indeed a Hollywood producer, low-budget horror films made up the bulk of his credits with an occasional attempt at more dramatic fare. I’d even seen one or two of his films, but hadn’t recognized his name when he’d checked in at the farm. With any luck, he’d merit a brief article on Entertainment Weekly ’s web site before the latest Mel Gibson or Lindsay Lohan antic displaced him; people would soon forget that Maxwell had been killed at my place of employment.
With a sense of relief, I finished the article, noting my name was absent. Jason had only written that a staff member had found the body. Granted, everyone in town knew I was the staff member, but until I saw my name in print, I’d live in denial.
The kettle whistled as Mom entered the kitchen.
“Oh, good, you found the oatmeal. I threw out that disgusting cereal you insist on eating. All that sugar is horrible for you.”
I poured the hot water into the bowl and stirred the oatmeal mix. “I like that cereal. I finally collected all four glow-in-the-dark yo-yos.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, a free yo-yo isn’t worth your health.” Mom dropped a piece of whole-wheat bread into the toaster and pushed down the lever.
I carried my bowl to the table and flipped through the rest of the paper. The bowling alley was adding new arcade games. The mayor’s cat, Milly, had produced a litter of eight kittens. Applications were now being accepted for entry into the Fourth of July parade in six weeks. Would the madness never end?
“Did you sleep okay? No bad dreams from yesterday?” Mom asked.
I folded up the newspaper and set it on the table. “Nope. ’Course it helps that I didn’t know Maxwell.”
Mom grabbed the paper. “Sue Ellen called this morning, snooping for information, so be prepared for questions from people. But I imagine you’ll stay home today after what happened.”
“Actually, I’m off to the farm as soon as I’m done with this oatmeal. See if I still have a job today. All the guests may have fled overnight, forcing Esther to let the staff go.”
Mom walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, Dana, do you think you’ll lose your job? It took you so long to find one.”
She didn’t need to remind me of that. I was well aware of my lengthy unemployment.
“We’ll see what Esther says. My contract is almost up anyway, but I was hoping to stay on for a bit longer.”
I scarfed down the rest of my oatmeal, then rinsed my bowl in the sink and put on my Keds. Might as well get this over with.
On my way to the farm, I spotted the sign for the Daily Grind and swung into the lot. One packet of oatmeal was not enough sustenance for me to face Zennia’s cooking. I might suffer a weak moment and eat one of her wheatgerm muffins.
With the nearest Starbucks fifty miles away, the Daily Grind had a steady business. I
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