Green Living Can Be Deadly (A Blossom Valley Mystery) by Staci McLaughlin Page A

“The bowling alley? The tractor collection at the fairgrounds? I have no idea yet.”
    “Good luck with that.” I patted my stomach. “And I’ll give you a full report on the delectable eggs Benedict I’m planning to eat.” I reached for the door handle. “For now, I’d better go in.”
    “I’ll walk you up.”
    We strolled to the door, fingers linked, and stood on the porch for a moment. The porch light glinted off Jason’s reddish brown goatee as he leaned in for a kiss. I closed my eyes. Before our lips met, the front door opened.
    “I thought I heard a car door,” Mom said. “How was your evening?”
    “Great, Mom,” I said, trying to stifle my irritation as I pulled back from Jason. This wasn’t the first kiss she’d interrupted. “And yours?”
    “Marvelous. Lane took me to the most wonderful restaurant. You two should try it some time.” She turned to Jason. “Would you care to come in? Have some coffee?”
    He gave Mom a half bow. “Thank you, Mrs. Lewis, but I’ll pass this time. I have an early day tomorrow.”
    “Next time, then,” Mom said.
    I opened the screen door, but I twisted back to face Jason, my gaze lingering on his lips. “Good night.”
    “I’ll call you,” he said, and then he walked down the path.
    I followed Mom into the house, realizing once more that I really needed more privacy.
     
     
    The next morning saw the start of another cool fall day. I donned black slacks and a cream-colored blouse, adding a simple faux-pearl necklace and earrings. I even whipped out my curling iron and spent more than the usual two minutes on my hair. Knowing Le Poêlon was one of the most popular dining spots in the area gave it more weight than when I ate at the Breaking Bread Diner, Blossom Valley’s homey cafe.
    Mom was already up and reading the paper when I entered the kitchen. While we chatted, I nibbled a piece of toast to quell the hunger pangs, then retrieved my purse and headed out. I skirted the downtown, which was blocked off for the festival, and merged on the freeway behind a motor home.
    Several cars headed west along with me, although the traffic would reverse once afternoon arrived and weekenders left the coast. I pressed the gas pedal down to push my Civic up a long hill. As I coasted down the other side, the road transformed into a series of twists and turns. Redwoods sprang up on either side, making me feel like a Lilliputian in a land of giants.
    I flipped on my headlights against the deepening gloom and followed the motor home toward the coast. After thirty more minutes, I crested another hill and could see the ocean off in the distance, a layer of clouds hovering above it. Good thing I’d thrown a sweater in the backseat. A few minutes later, the tang of salty air reached me through the car vents.
    At the junction, the motor home swung a left, and I headed right. Following the highway along the coastline, I drove past cypress trees bent so low they almost touched the ground, years of steady wind twisting their trunks.
    I neared the edge of town and pulled into the parking lot for Kimmie’s restaurant. The redwood walls blended in with the natural surroundings, as if the place belonged there. An oversized cast-iron skillet, with the name of the restaurant imprinted on it, hung near the door. I knew I was in the right place, but what I didn’t know was whether Kimmie had forgotten our meeting. My Honda was the only car in the lot. The inside of the restaurant looked dark and closed up.
    Still, I locked the car and walked to the front door. I rapped on the glass, then cupped my hands around my face, and peered in. Through the gloom, I could see a figure heading toward the door. I drew my head back.
    A moment later, I heard the lock turn, and Kimmie swung the door open. Looking at her pencil skirt and skintight blouse, I wondered how she moved around without feeling like she was trapped in saran wrap all day.
    “Oh, good, you’re on time,” she said. “Let’s