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

working yesterday when it happened?”
    “No, I must have been on my lunch break. But I was here all morning before that.” He watched a couple making their way down the street, and I leaned in to draw his attention back to me.
    “Then you must have heard the argument between Wendy and that man.”
    “Sure, anyone within fifty feet couldn’t help but hear,” he said.
    “I heard part of it myself, but couldn’t figure out what they were fighting about. Any ideas?”
    He straightened up and looked me over. “Hold up now. Did you say you were part of the festival or part of the police department?”
    I really need to be more subtle with my questions. People are so darn suspicious these days. I put a hand to my heart to prove how trustworthy I was. “Festival. In fact, I helped organize this event, and I hate to see all that effort go to waste.” My answer didn’t really explain why I was asking questions, but he immediately nodded.
    “Boy, I hear you on that.” He held up a pot, with the flower merrily bobbing. “I spent a ton on these knickknacks, and now no one wants them.”
    “We’re in the same boat, except I’m stuck with pens that oink.”
    He gave me a funny look, but I didn’t bother to explain.
    “So, did you hear what they were arguing about?” I asked again.
    “Some. The guy who was yelling kept asking where the money had gone.”
    My skin prickled. “Money? What money?”
    “How should I know? He asked what the lady running the booth had done with it. That’s about all I heard.”
    This information certainly held promise and once more supported Kurt’s comments. He’d said Wendy had a knack for deceiving people into giving her their money. Had this guy been a customer of Invisible Prints who felt swindled, or had this been a personal matter?
    “Guess I’d better get back to my booth,” I said. “Thanks for the info.”
    “You betcha. And if you get any customers, send ’em my way when you’re done.”
    I offered my hand and he shook it. “Deal,” I said. His mention of customers added a little speed to my step, but I was wasting the effort. No one waited at the table, and no brochures or pens were gone.
    With no customers in sight, I walked across the street to the mushroom-dyeing booth. Clotheslines were strung across three sides of the booth. Sweaters and T-shirts colored various shades of yellow, green, and red hung from the lines. Price tags were pinned to their fronts. The table held more shirts, folded, and a basket full of scarves, along with stacks of flyers and coupons.
    I’d briefly met Jim during the initial planning stages for the festival. In his thirties, he was tan and buff. Right now, he looked about as bored as I felt as he sat on a stool near the silent cash register.
    He raised a flyswatter. “Want to borrow this to beat the crowd back? I see you’re about as swamped as I am.”
    I shook my head. “This has to get better before the day’s over. Right?”
    Jim ran a hand through his blond hair. “That’s why I haven’t packed up yet.”
    I gestured toward a T-shirt covered in rusty red and orange swirls. “Beautiful colors on that shirt. How does this mushroom dyeing work?”
    He practically bounced off the stool, clearly glad to have an audience. “Different types of mushrooms create different colors. The woods near Mendocino have a variety of species that I collect. I toss each one into a pot with a few other ingredients, add the shirt, and—voila—the colors leach out of the mushrooms and dye the cloth.”
    “That’s so creative. I’ve never seen anything like that before.” I picked up a coupon for a mushroom-foraging class and stuffed it into my back pocket. Might be an unusual way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
    Jim adjusted the scarves. “Most people haven’t.” He glanced around as if afraid of eavesdroppers, but the closest person was over at Wendy’s booth. “You get questioned by the police yet?”
    Here I was wondering how to circle