Dead Lift (5 page)
Jeannie and I stuck to our half-hearted surveillance plan and left, knowing there’d be time to finish searching the house later. We’d driven separately, so I took a few minutes to find the neighborhood skate park Chase had mentioned. The boys were there like they’d said, practicing jumps and tricks. Claire’s younger son sat with another park visitor, a strapping blond guy about my age, and seemed to be indicating something of interest on the underside of his skateboard. Satisfied they were staying out of trouble, at least for the moment, I cruised past on my way to the club.
I wanted to meet Diana’s daughter, the waxer. Jeannie wanted to touch up her roots and schmooze with Houston’s elite. I found a parking spot about a block away from Tone Zone and grabbed an umbrella out of the back seat of my car.
“You look better this time.” At the gym’s door, Jeannie stole another glance at my sleeveless blouse and dress slacks. “But I wish you’d have borrowed an outfit from Claire. I can’t believe you passed up a chance to finally wear some
labels
.”
I ignored her and held the door. She squeezed passed me and flashed her membership card at the desk attendant in an entitled sort of way. I stayed behind, half inside, half out, and shook water from my umbrella before stowing it in an ornate wrought iron rack.
“Meet you in the lounge later.” She splintered off toward the salon.
I followed signs to the waxing parlor. Two private rooms opened off a dimly lit waiting area, vacant except for me. Serene candles glowed on each of four cherry end tables. I eased into a microfiber loveseat and inspected the label on the nearest candle, which was Island Guava.
A Dallas-cheerleaders-type girl in tight white jeans and a low-cut, midriff-bearing top emerged to greet me. Even her glittery, strappy high-heels were sexy.
“Emily?” Her exaggerated, glossy smile revealed suspiciously glorious teeth. “I’m Megan.” She held out a dainty, manicured hand and I took it. She couldn’t have been out of college.
I tried hard not to stare. “Aren’t you the cutest thing.”
I kept noticing more. Her smooth tan extended so low into her cleavage that I had to look away. She’d parted her highlighted brunette hair with a stylish zig-zag, and several shades of silver eye shadow set off deep brown eyes. Megan was unequivocally striking, like her mother.
“Follow me.” She headed toward the room from which she’d appeared. Inside, a salon table was positioned centrally. It was fitted with a satin sheet in a rich shade of brown that seemed to reinforce a slight aroma of cinnamon in the room. A series of what appeared to be crockpots full of various colors of wax waited nearby. I didn’t like the looks of them at all.
Megan consulted a clipboard near her wax pots and slipped on a pair of latex gloves. “Looks like we’re doing your bikini line.”
I’d have been less shocked if she’d said we’d be shaving my head.
She presented a terry-cloth skirt with a slit cut to the waist. “Want a smock?”
I tried not to laugh. When Jeannie mentioned waxing, I’d assumed she’d meant my legs.
I exhaled. “Funny story.”
She smiled. “First time?”
I nodded. “Yes. And no. I mean—”
She giggled.
“My friend set this up,” I said. “And there’s no way in hell I’m getting a bikini wax.”
“Thoughtful friend.”
“You have no idea. Can you do my legs instead?”
“Only if they’re really grown out.”
“That’s gross.”
“We could do your brows, lip, feet, arms, underarms…but there again, only if it’s already grown out.”
“I guess that leaves my arms. People really wax their arms?”
She nodded. “They’ll feel so smooth. You’ll love it.” Perhaps reading my skepticism, she added. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”
She industriously set out a series of wooden sticks that looked like giant tongue depressors, then pulled two chairs forward to either side of the waxing table. I took a seat and placed my first arm across the silky fabric. Megan made small talk while she smoothed a warm layer of freakishly purple wax along my forearm.
“Does this place have personal trainers?” I asked. Paybacks were fair, after all.
Megan’s enthusiastic smile returned. “We have
great
trainers. You should choose one based on your goals.” She pressed the wax into my skin and I felt her pluck along its edges. The plucking was agony. “What do you want to work on?”
“I need a drill sergeant type,” I said. “Someone to really kick my ass.”
Riiiip
.
“Whoa!”
“Natalie,” she said.
“What?”
“Get on Natalie’s calendar.”
I took a calming breath and Megan applied a new layer of wax. “Some call her a sadist, but she gets results.” She pressed the fresh layer of wax into my skin, then plucked its edge. I hoped Jeannie and Natalie would be very happy together.
“How long have—”
Riiiip
.
I collected my thoughts. “How long have you worked here?”
She turned, threw the wax strip away, and came back with a freshly dipped applicator stick, twirling the wax around and around, waiting for it to cool enough to apply. I had the routine down now. Press. Pluck. Pain. Repeat.
“We opened in January and I started then, on account of my mom,” she said. “She’s the manager.”
This was news to me, another of Claire’s baffling omissions. As manager, I figured, Diana could certainly access membership files. She could also determine the pattern of Claire’s visits. I thought about the anonymous locker-note that led Claire to the murder scene. Diana could easily learn Claire’s locker number.
Megan was still talking. “Before this place opened, I was a few blocks away at Beautiful Impressions. Less money. Nicer clients.” She caught herself. “Present company excluded, of course.”
“If you had it to do again, would you choose the people or the money?”
She looked embarrassed. “The money.”
“What’d your mom do before the club opened?”
Megan planted a hand on her slender hip. “Have you
seen
my mom?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Names and faces aren’t my strong suit.” It was only a half-lie.
Megan went back to pressing wax into my shocked and abused skin. “Before I was born she was a big time runway model. New York, London, Paris. That’s how she met my dad.” She started plucking the edges of the hardened wax.
“Travelling?”
She shook her head.
Riiiip
.
“Aging. My dad’s a cosmetic surgeon.”
Like Claire, Megan’s mother had been a patient-turned-lover of Chris King. I didn’t know anything about medical licenses but was pretty sure sleeping with patients was against the rules.
“An aging model married to a cosmetic surgeon,” I said. “Handy.”
She twirled soft wax around another applicator stick. “When she got too old to model, she switched to agenting. I met a lot of famous people in L.A. because of her.” She dropped a few names I pretended to recognize.
“Are you a model too?”
Her smile told me I wasn’t the first to ask. “I’m going to be a teacher,” she said. “Waxing helps pay the tuition.”
I imagined Annette reporting to a teacher who looked like Megan and the thought made me bristle. Then I checked myself. Tone Zone rejected me on appearance alone. Had that taught me nothing? It was also strange that Megan’s loaded parents weren’t paying her tuition, but I couldn’t think of a polite way to ask about that.
She ran a finger lightly over her work and turned my arm slightly to inspect it. “This looks pretty good.”
“It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would,” I said. “But I’m still not a fan.”
I withdrew the assaulted arm and replaced it with the other. Megan gently returned the original arm to the table.
“Not done yet.” She produced a pair of tweezers.
“You’re kidding.”
“Afraid not.”
Megan left to prepare my bill. Even though the waxing room was windowless, I knew from a persistent, overhead hiss that it was raining harder. I dressed, grabbed my purse, and stepped into the waiting area. Megan, at a discreetly positioned cash register, wasn’t alone.
Poised on the loveseat, wearing a fetching sundress, was her mother. Diana cradled a cell phone and pressed buttons with the tip of a long fingernail. Her picturesque hands made dialing look ethereal. She glanced at me, smiled politely, and raised the phone to her ear.
“Your total’s eighty,” Megan said.
So wax pain came in two forms: physical and fiscal.
I set my bag on the counter and dug for my billfold.
“That’s my mom,” she said.
I feigned surprise.
“We’re having lunch.”
In my purse, my cell phone’s display was blinking. I’d silenced it for the appointment and had missed two calls. While Meghan ran my credit card, I checked the phone’s log. Betsy Fletcher had called first. That was disappointing because it meant I’d missed a chance to talk to Annette. The next call had been from Richard, but since I still felt edgy about the Mick Young situation, missing that one was a relief.
Diana spoke up behind me. “Aren’t you the new gal here? The one thinking of doing some work?”
I turned, stunned that my cover story had spread through the club so fast. Diana dropped her own phone into an enormous paisley tote and Megan handed back my card.
“I’m sure it was you,” Diana said. “At the funeral.”
“You were at the funeral?” Megan asked, clearly surprised.
I nodded and tried to piece things together.
“Natalie said you were a new patient of Wendell’s. Said you might give Chris a call.” I didn’t like her casual mention of a dead man or her pushy way of getting in my business. She stood, smoothed her skirt, and joined us at the counter. “That’s my husband.”
Megan introduced us and I suffered through a one-sided handshake, high on my list of pet peeves. Diana’s limp, disinterested grip suggested I should be flattered to touch her.
I turned to Megan. “Natalie, the personal trainer?”
“Yep.”
Not only would Jeannie endure a blistering ass-kicking, she’d get it with Smoothie Nag’s bitchy smile.
I signed my slip. Megan put it in her register and locked it. Then she slid a placard onto the counter that said “Back at 1:30.”
Her mother reached elbow-deep into her vast bag and came up with a business card, which she pressed into my hand. “I’ll tell Chris you might call.”
They sashayed away, Diana’s posture impeccable.
“Stay dry,” I said to their backs, but neither seemed to hear.
***
“Waxing is a mind over matter thing,” Jeannie said. “If you don’t mind, it don’t matter.” She twisted the lid off of a can of Ragu and dumped it into a sauce pan on my tiny gas range. “After a while, it doesn’t hurt as much.”
“It was totally inappropriate for you to sign me up for a bikini wax.” Beside her, I sliced cucumbers and carrots for our salads. Outside, the rain persisted, and now there was thunder too. “Are you completely impervious to social boundaries?”
“It was an exercise in foresight.” She angled an open pasta box over a pot of boiling water and slid the spaghetti noodles into the bubbles, where she arranged them somewhat symmetrically. “You and Cowboy could hit the sheets any day now. I knew if I told you ahead of time, you’d never go.”
“I got my arms done instead.”
“Yeah, that’ll turn him on,” she muttered.
“I’m ignoring that.”
She rinsed out the sauce bottle. “Facials are next. Tomorrow at nine.”
“I signed you up for something too.”
She clapped. “Yay!”
“Got lucky. There was a cancellation so you get to go
today
.”
“A spa double-header. I love it!”
“I hired a trainer.”
The lights flickered, but Jeannie didn’t seem to notice. Her smile faded. “That doesn’t sound relaxing.”
I smirked. “Mind over matter.”
“Fine,” she said. “Turnabout’s fair play.”
I ripped a few leaves of romaine, sliced a yellow bell pepper, and heaped the veggies into our bowls. “If you drop me at Claire’s on your way to the club, I’ll probably be finished searching by the time your workout ends. We could do something fun afterward.”
“The Galleria?”
I shot her a look. “Do I look like I want a hundred-dollar blouse?”
“Humor me.” She pulled two plates from my cupboard and slid them onto the kitchen table. My phone rang, and with no hesitation, Jeannie answered.
“It’s Richard.” She held the phone out toward me. I reached for it and she snatched it back. “Hey,” she said to him suddenly, “What if we split Tone Zone’s membership fees fifty-fifty?”
I heard his unequivocal “no” from several feet away and gestured for the phone. Nothing good ever came of a debate between a cheapskate and a spendthrift.
Jeannie shoved it into my hand with a pissy expression I knew was meant for him. “Your boss is cheap.”
It was true. He was. But he’d reimburse her the same way he would have reimbursed me had my membership request been approved. He was messing with her. I let it continue because it amused me.
When I finally had Richard on the line, he went straight to the point. “Platt tried to talk to the police a week ago.”
I didn’t ask how he knew this. Richard was tied to law enforcement like Jeannie was tied to dress shops.
“Platt’s home owners’ association hires an officer to patrol their streets every Friday and Saturday night,” he said. “I asked enough questions and finally got in touch with the guy who was out there last weekend.”
“But the murder was Thursday.”
Jeannie gave me a sideways look and stirred the pasta.
“I wanted to cover all the bases,” Richard said. “Find out if any unusual traffic had been going through the neighborhood, any suspicious activity.”
Of course, I thought. Once a cop, always a cop.
“This officer knew Platt from the neighborhood. Last Saturday, he pulled up alongside him while Platt was out for a walk. They got to chatting. At one point Platt said he’d like to get a policeman’s opinion about something. About that time, a complaint came in so the officer cut the conversation short. He told Platt to follow-up with a call to the department.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “He never called.”
“Right. So I asked this guy, ‘Did Platt say
anything
to suggest what was troubling him?’ And the guy says, ‘He thought somebody was being swindled out of a lot of money.’”
“Whoa,” I said. “That could be huge.”
“I think so too,” he said. “Maybe blackmail.”
“Or fraud.” I felt Jeannie’s eyes on me and looked up. She poured the spaghetti into a colander waiting in the sink. “If Diana killed Platt,” I said, “The scandal he uncovered probably involved her or her husband.”
“He might have told someone else what was going on. You follow up with his neighbors,” he said. “I’ll try his family.”
“Sure,” I said. “I have a path to Chris King too.”
“Good. What is it?”
I told him about Diana’s bizarre recruitment. “She thinks I want a nose job and says her husband’s the man to do it. I could wiggle into a conversation about Platt while having a rhinoplasty consultation with King.”
Richard was quiet.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “I’m wondering how long it’ll take to get an appointment. Might be faster to approach him personally.”
I considered that. It did seem unlikely King’s office would squeeze in a sudden consultation for an elective procedure.
“But I don’t have a credible reason to approach him personally.”
Jeannie brought the colander to the table and used her bare hand to move a pile of spaghetti onto each of our plates.
“You’re right,” he said. “Go for the appointment.”
Talking about Chris King reminded me of our earlier conversation regarding life insurance policies on business partners. I scribbled “insurance” at the bottom of my grocery list, which had been shoved to the farthest edge of the kitchen table.
“I’ll let you know what his neighbors say.”
We said goodbye and I pulled the phone away from my ear as Richard suddenly spoke again. It was too late. My finger was already on the End button and I’d disconnected.
Jeannie came over, sauce pan in hand, and spooned Old World flavors over our pasta. She craned her neck to read my reminder note. “Insurance?”
I stood, brought the shredded Parmesan from the fridge. “I want to find out about life insurance for business partners.”
My phone rang and this time she passed it to me. Richard again.
“Listen, Emily,” he said, uncertainly. “I should have told you we were working for Brighton and Young.”
The mention of it fired me up again, but I appreciated his effort toward making amends. Despite our irresolute professional relationship, I didn’t want to lose him as a friend.
“You should have taken your wife’s advice.” I heard more rebuke in my tone than intended. “But I understand why you didn’t.”
“I’m taking her advice now.”
“You don’t deserve her.”
“No argument. So are we okay?”
“Don’t do it again.”
We started to hang up. This time I made the last minute addition. “That wasn’t all about you. My anger toward Mick Young, I mean.”
“I know.” He hesitated. “It might help to talk to somebody.”
Across the table, Jeannie began eating without me. She was one of my “somebodies.” Jeannie stayed up late with me and paid exorbitant long distance bills so I could self-analyze and cry. She even sent text messages to check on me, her long-distance substitute for wasting time at the office together like we used to before I’d moved to Texas for Annette.
She caught me watching her chew. “What?”
“Like a professional counselor,” Richard was saying. “If you don’t let some of this go—”
“I hear you, but I need to get there in my own time.” The truth was, I’d been seeing a therapist since March.
“Understood,” he said. “We’re here for you.”
“Thanks for the call.”
We hung up and Jeannie opened her mouth to say something, but I held up a hand to hold her off. “Sorry,” I said. “I have to call Annette first.”
When separated from my baby, even for hours, I functioned in a state of mid-level anxiety I knew wasn’t healthy. It stemmed from an ever-present fear of losing her again and peaked with certain emotional triggers.
“Hi, baby,” I said, after Betsy put her on the phone. “You having fun?”
“I rode a horse today. His name was Leo.” Her voice sounded so tiny on the phone. Delicate, like innocence.
“Leo sounds wonderful. Are you having fun with your grandma and grandpa?”
“Grandpa can move his teeth around in his mouth.”
I laughed.
“He makes them look funny.”
“Give him plenty of hugs while you’re there. Grandma too.”
“She has a lot of fingernail polish and she shares.”
“I share too.” It still felt like a contest. The Fletchers in one corner, me in the other. “I’ll get a new color for you when you come home. What do you think? Pink or red?”
She thought a moment. “Sparkly magenta.”
“Sparkly magenta it is.”
“Can I go outside now?”
“Sure, sweetheart. Have fun. I love you.”
“Love you too. Bye, Emily.” She hung up.
My name pierced like a barb. I wondered if I’d ever be Mom.
