Executive Dirt: A Sedona O'Hala Mystery by Maria Schneider

completely untamed, but gave her a soft, feminine glow.  My brown hair was almost always pulled into a messy ponytail that bespoke my laziness. Mom had bright green eyes and a smattering of friendly freckles. My eyes were darker, nearly gray, and I had a tendency to frown a lot, especially lately.
    That changed when Mark moved to my side. Either because his brother had also shown up or just because, Mark put his arm around me and leaned in to give me a kiss.  He left his arm around my shoulders.
    I grinned up at him. “I hope everyone likes tiramisu.  I need to wash up.”
    Mom started pattering and asking mom-type social questions.
    I hurried to change clothes and was just out of the bathroom when Dad came in.
    Mom, ever the smooth social hostess, handled introducing Dad to Steve. Dad hadn’t washed up yet, but he shook Steve’s hand anyway. That was Dad; absent-minded and not too worried about a bit of dirt.  As soon as he spotted me, Dad said,  “Don’t over water, now.”  I helped him finish with, “Just keep the root ball damp.”
    Steve peered around Dad’s shoulder at the backyard.  “You already put in the garden bed? Great!”
    Dad gave a proud nod as he headed to the kitchen sink to wash his hands.  He continued with his instructions.  “You don’t need to fertilize for a few weeks. I made sure to mix molasses in there. I didn’t put in any corn meal because I knew you’d want to plant onions from seeds.  Don’t put the tomato plants out until the nights are above forty.  You can probably get away with slightly cooler, but you know those cold nights will drift in there anyway.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    Mom busied herself cutting slices of tiramisu.
    She handed me a plate.  Her eyes widened.  “You better move the sewing machines.  I’ll finish serving.”
    Dad grabbed two plates from Mom and handed one to Steve, leaving Mark to relocate the machines.
    “Did you boil the eggs?” Dad asked.
    I nodded dutifully. “Yes—”
    He interrupted around a mouthful of tiramisu. “For a minute at full boil.”
    I had probably cheated, but nodded anyway.  I only bothered to boil them when Dad was likely to ask.  Usually I took my chances with raw eggs, but with Dad, the only way to avoid a lecture was to follow his rules.  This time, even my precautions failed to avert the lecture.  He turned to Mark.
    “Food poisoning.  Could die of the shits if you get it bad enough and can’t obtain medical help in time. Hell of a way to go. Of course,” he interrupted himself and faced me, “if you used eggs from a free-range farm, you probably wouldn’t have to boil them.  Did you?”
    Mom blushed a bright red.  Dad was spoiling another of her dinner parties, and at the rate he was spouting, his tab was going to run so high he’d never be able to make it up to her. If I didn’t intervene soon, Mom might make up an excuse to lure him back to the garden and then lock him outside.
    “Uh, no, they weren’t from a local farm.  They were from the grocery so I—”
    Back to Mark, Dad’s original target.  “If a chicken is allowed to peck along the ground and eat bugs and pebbles for digestion, and even some chicken poop from other chickens, it has a healthy digestive tract.  They lay eggs with a protective barrier,” he said.  “You don’t want to wash eggs unless there’s obvious shit on them and then just spot clean them.  The chickens take care of the rest.”
    I smiled weakly at Mark.  Steve inspected the tiramisu with sudden suspicion. I hurriedly reassured him.  “Don’t worry, Huntington. Your egg came from the grocery. That chicken only ate grain right from the feed trough.”
    He glanced up at me before Dad took back over. “It’s a lot healthier to eat the eggs from chickens that roam.  More protein, better natural antibiotics in the system, the whole nine yards.  ‘Course it’s best to nab the eggs right after they are laid or you could end up cracking one and the