Killer Calories (6 page)

“She must have great eyesight for an old woman.”

“Naw ... but she has a great telescope.”

“Ah. I see.”

“So does she. Everything. And she complains about it all. To hear her tell it, she's living next door to Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“How entertaining. Lucky her.”

“Exactly. As you may have heard, Kat and her friends weren't known for their modesty or self-restraint,” he said with a chuckle, “and they gave the old lady quite an eyeful.”

“They?” she asked him with a mischievous grin that deepened her dimples.

He laughed. “Okay,
we.
I'm not exactly a saint myself.”

A couple of butterflies in her belly fluttered around and did a mating dance. It was an enticing situation, being up here on this beautiful, sun-drenched hill, waist-high in marguerite daisies with an Adonis who admitted he wasn't exactly a saint.

The job did have its occasional perks.

“Hey, I think Miss Phoebe is checking us out right now,” he said, waving cheerfully to the tower.

Savannah peered up at the belfry and caught the glimmer of sunlight reflecting off a small, round object ... a telescope lens? Just for good measure, she waved, too.

A second later, they saw a flash of bright, floral print, then the belfry appeared to be empty.

“She hates getting caught,” he said, laughing. “She ducks down and waits for us to be on our way, then she's at it again.”

“Why get a life of your own, when everyone else's is so much more interesting, huh?”

“Precisely. The old busybody.”

Savannah thought of Mr. Biddle in Dirk's trailer park. Then she remembered her own granny Reid, who was far too busy even to notice, let alone worry about, what others were doing. Not every elderly person was a busybody. And not every busybody was elderly ... as she knew from having the comfortably middle-aged Mrs. Normandy for a neighbor.

“She was a definite pain in the ass, really got under Kat's skin. I wonder if she'll lighten up now that Kat is ...”

His voice trailed away, and Savannah saw the sadness return to his eyes as he gazed out across the vista of rolling, chaparral-covered hills to the shining sea.

“Maybe it's time to start back,” she said gently.

“Yes,” he replied. “Gotta keep moving. No matter what ...”

 

Dion's stimulating company had kept her mind off her body—well, most parts of her body—until they returned. But once they jogged into the central area of the club, Savannah began to feel her fatigue and soreness with a vengeance.

“What's next?” she asked him, trying not to sound as though she were on her last leg, even if it was about to buckle beneath her.

“Massage,” he replied, pointing to a small white cottage, situated in a copse of olive trees beyond the pool house.

“Don't toy with me,” she said. “Really?”

“Absolutely. Not every moment here at Royal Palms is spent working out, you know.”

“Thank God!”

A good massage ... or even a mediocre one ... was her favorite thing—next to chocolate, of course.

“Josef's pretty good,” he told her. “And he'll even give you breakfast first.”

“Breakfast, too! What more could a woman want?”

As soon as she spoke the words, she took a last quick look up and down the wonder that was Dion Zeller, former disco king and now exercise coach. Maybe there were a few more things a woman could wish for.

But one appetite at a time. And right now, what she really wanted was some breakfast and to be rubbed the right way.

 

“This
is breakfast?” She held the tiny cup of green juice up to her nose, took a sniff, and nearly gagged.

“Drink it. It's wheat grass. It's good for you.” Josef Orlet, masseur and green-gunk drink enforcer, towered over her. What he lacked in good looks and charm, he made up in sheer size and presence. His voice was a nasal monotone that grated on her nerves almost as much as his equally dull personality.

At the peak of her karate training, she might have considered taking him on. But, exhausted from the morning run and weak from caffeine withdrawal, she decided it would be easier just to drink the damned stuff and have it over with.

Maybe not.

The moment the liquid hit her tongue, her throat closed and refused to let it pass.

Josef watched her with narrowed eyes, a scowl on his pockmarked face. “Swallow,” he said.

She shook her head vigorously and looked around for a sink or waste can to spit it into. But the tiny “nutrition station,” as they call it, had no such receptacle. They had probably learned from experience to remove such temptations from their nauseous guests.

“I said, ‘Swallow.' ” He reached out and pinched her nose, holding it tightly and restricting her breathing.

As an older sister, she had used the technique herself many times on her younger siblings who had refused to take their medicine. How humiliating to be on the receiving end of such treatment at the ripe old age of forty-something.

He had a firm grip on her nose, and eventually she had to breathe, so ...

“Aaauuggh! That tastes like shit!” she said, shuddering and shaking her head.

“It cleans the toxins out of your blood.”

“So does a good temper tantrum, and that's what I'm going to throw if you ever grab my nose like that again, buddy,” she said, shoving her face into his—or at least, as close as she could, considering that he was nearly a foot taller.

He laughed at her, but it wasn't a particularly mirthful sound with any warmth in it.

No doubt about it. Josef was more than a masseur around here; he was the bouncer, the obligatory establishment goon. And she got the distinct impression that he enjoyed his work.

“Now you get your massage,” he said, nodding toward the open door and the small room with its sheet-draped table. “I'll rub those toxins out of your muscles, so that you can do more exercise this afternoon.”

“Geez,” she muttered, dragging her tired body into the appointed room. “You guys are really hung up on this ‘toxin' thing. What's wrong with a little sludge in the system to keep things lubricated?”

She glanced back. Josef the Terrible was staring at her, hands on his hips, biceps bulging beneath his white smock. “Get undressed and lie on the table,” he said in that flat, computer-like tone that she was quickly growing to hate.

“Yes, sir, Sergeant Orlet! Right away, sir!” she said ... and slammed the door in his face.

 

Josef wasn't the best masseur Savannah had ever had, but she had to admit he wasn't the worst either. The oils he used had a pleasant, herbal smell. Although they did remind her a bit of the mud bath that Kat's body had been found in, and that took away some of the romance.

His big hands were gentle, but firm, as they glided over her skin. And, even if she couldn't detect any “toxins” escaping, a lot of her stress was melting away beneath his ministrations.

The New Age jazz playing on the stereo in the corner of the room trickled deliciously along her nervous system, calming and soothing, allowing her to forget that she was a detective on duty. For just a few moments, she was Savannah Reid, pampered patroness ... a fantasy she wouldn't mind indulging.

But her respite was short-lived, interrupted by a brisk knock on the door. Before she or Josef could even reply, it swung open, and a man barged in, a pale and pudgy guy who looked nothing like what he was: the owner of a health spa.

Savannah barely recognized Louis Hanks, as it had been years since she had seen him, and when she had, he had looked much younger and far more fit. The intervening years hadn't been kind.

“Mr. Hanks,” Josef said, obviously as surprised as she at the abrupt, inopportune visit. “Is something wrong?” He stopped the massage and covered Savannah's bare leg with the sheet.

“I need a word with our ... guest,” Hanks said, nodding a curt dismissal to Josef, who seemed to evaporate.

Savannah lay on the table on her stomach, with only a thin sheet to cover her nakedness. She had probably felt more vulnerable at one time or another, but she couldn't readily recall when.

“Excuse me, Mr. Hanks,” she said. “But this isn't really a good time for me. Would you mind if I at least get dressed before we have our little chat?”

“That's exactly what I want you to do, Miss Reid,” he said, his grayish face suddenly flushing an ugly shade of red, mottled with purple. “I want you to get dressed ... and then get the hell off my property.”

S
avannah sat up on the table and clutched the sheet tightly around her. “Excuse me? I just paid a lot of money to attend your charming spa, Mr. Hanks. Are you telling me you don't
want
my cold, hard cash?”

“I know why you're here,” he said, taking a couple of threatening steps closer to the table. His fists were clenched at his sides, and he looked as though he were about to explode.

“And why is that?” she asked, deliberately keeping her voice low and even.

“You're a private detective! I recognized your name and face from the newspapers.”

“That's true. 1 am. But even private detectives find themselves in need of some rest and relaxation, not to mention dietary and exercise guidance.”

“That's not why you're here, and I know it.”

“Do you really?”

She slid off the table, sheet still tucked snugly around her body. But she made certain her legs and feet were free in case she needed to run or land a karate kick in one of Louis Hanks's more vulnerable areas.

“So, if it isn't to avail myself of your world-renowned spa, why am I here, Mr. Hanks?”

“You're investigating my ex-wife's death.”

“The medical examiner's office ruled that Ms. Valentina's death was an accident. What's to investigate?”

He walked up to her and shook a sausage-shaped finger in her face. “Don't play dumb with me. I'm no fool. I know who you're working for.”

Really?
she thought.
Then you're better informed than I am.
But she decided to keep her thoughts to herself and her mouth shut. Maybe she would find out.

“That damned insurance company hired you! I know it!” he shouted. “They want to trump up some crap about it being a suicide, so they don't have to pay me off. Well, let me tell you, I won't stand for it! I won't!”

“Mr. Hanks,” she said, using the conciliatory voice that she usually reserved for hostage situations and rooftop jumpers, “I have no idea what you're talking about. I swear to you that I'm not working for any insurance company.”

He must have believed her, because he seemed to deflate before her eyes. His crimson coloring gradually subsided and his fists relaxed. He actually looked apologetic.

“You mean ... you aren't ...” he stammered. “Oh ... I'm sorry. I ...”

“It's all right, Mr. Hanks. I'm sure you've been under a lot of stress lately,” she hurried to assure him. “It was a natural assumption to make under the circumstances.”

The genuine remorse on his face made her feel a little guilty. After all, he was half-right in his suspicions. Unfortunately, she couldn't salve her conscience by telling him so.

“You're really here to enjoy the spa? To lose weight or—”

She cleared her throat. “Actually, I need to rid my body of its toxins,” she replied with a completely straight face.

“Oh, well, we have lots of ways to do that!”

“So I've heard.”

He turned and walked to the door, where he paused. “Ummm ... Miss Reid ... I hope we can keep this conversation in the strictest confidence.”

“No problem, Mr. Hanks. It'll be our little secret.” She reached up and “zipped” her lips.

He rewarded her with a nervous smile. “Thanks. Enjoy the spa. If there's anything I can do to make your stay more pleasant, please say so.”

A dozen suggestions flooded her mind: New York cheesecake, sleeping until noon, massages without the obligatory exercise classes, and no green gunk in little cups.

But, instead of stating them, she simply smiled, and said, “Thank you, Mr. Hanks. I'll keep that in mind.”

After he had left the room and closed the door behind him, she sat on the table and contemplated her latest revelation.

So ... Louis Hanks had taken out a life insurance policy on his now-dead ex-wife. And it must have been a pretty sizable sum, considering how hot under the collar he had been at the thought of having the payment delayed.

He was in financial trouble—she had already known that—and was probably hoping for the insurance money to bail him out.

Yep,
she thought.
Very interesting.
That sounded like a motive for murder if she had ever heard one.

 

Mercifully, the remainder of her first day at Royal Palms went by quickly for Savannah: a morning meditation class in which she learned to sit cross-legged and hum “in harmony with the universe,” a lunch of some strange, gray, pulverized drink mixture, a salad and a soup of “purifying greens,” afternoon aerobics with Tammy, a sauna, a basket-weaving class “to teach discipline and balance,” dinner, which was another blenderized concoction, more veggies, and an evening dip in the pool. Or at least, Savannah had intended it to be a dip, until she found that Josef, the enforcer, expected them to take three laps around.

Exhausted, she climbed the hill back to their dormitory, her body atingle with more oxygen than it had experienced in years.

“What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger,” she told herself as she trudged along in her swimsuit and cover-up, her wet hair wrapped in a towel. “And if this doesn't make me stronger, I'm going to kill Tammy for getting me into it.”

The sun had set an hour before and she had to pick her way carefully among the overgrown shrubs that lined the narrow rock walkway. Apparently, Royal Palms had been forced to cut their landscaping budget, too.

Although lanterns had been strung along the way to provide light, they were the flickering variety that added more ambience than illumination. And nearly half of them weren't lit.

She stubbed her toes several times on the rocks, her beach thongs doing little to protect her feet from the uneven walkway. Next time, she vowed to return from the pool before sundown to avoid this obstacle course.

Just as she was nearing the long, low building which served as their dorm, she thought she heard something move in the shrubbery off to her left.

Yes, there was a distinct rustling in the oleander bushes. And it wasn't just a rabbit or cat. Whatever it was, it was big. Big enough to cause a problem.

She stopped, ears perked, eyes searching the dark bushes with their pink and white blossoms.

“Who's there?” she asked, instinctively knowing that no one was going to answer. Whoever it was, they were hiding and probably intended to stay hidden. Or was that just wishful thinking on her part?

“I can see you,” she lied. “Come out of there right now before I come in after you.”

The bushes were deathly still, but she could feel someone there, watching her, evaluating her.

She stepped out of the feeble light cast by the nearest lamp and into the shadows. Dammit, if she couldn't see them, they weren't going to see her.

“Come on out and show yourself, chicken shit,” she said, mentally rehearsing the karate moves she might use if they did.

Just as she suspected. No answer.

Finally, she was tired of the game and beginning to run low on adrenaline. “Okay, just stay there,” she said. “I didn't want to look at your butt-ugly mug up close anyway.”

She waited a moment longer, thinking she was going to feel like a first-class idiot if somebody's poodle or Labrador came waltzing out.

When no humans, lions, tigers, or bears appeared, she decided the best thing to do was continue on her journey. But she did so with one eye looking over her shoulder.

The door to the dormitory was, thankfully, only a few yards away. She hurried inside, eager to leave the eerie experience behind.

But she didn't really feel safe until she had entered her and Tammy's room and locked the door behind her.

“That was weird, Savannah, ol' girl,” she whispered as she flipped on the light and turned around. Her relief at being “home at last” quickly vanished.

Someone had been here before her, someone extremely untidy. Everything in her drawers and Tammy's had been dumped onto the floor as well as their clothes from the closet. The beds were stripped, the linens lying in a heap in the middle of the room. Savannah's suitcase lay open and empty. Her nightcase, too, with her toiletries strewn across the counter.

At first, she thought they had been robbed. But then she saw that the small amount of jewelry she had brought and her wallet were among the rest of her things in the pile. So was her cell phone ... a pretty toy for any self-respecting burglar.

She hadn't been robbed; she had been searched.

For what, she wasn't sure. But, whoever they were, they hadn't found anything. She wasn't stupid enough to leave anything behind that had anything to do with her investigation.

Lou Hanks came to mind first. But she was pretty sure he had believed her denial earlier that morning. And she had returned to the room after dinner to change into her bathing suit. Everything had been in order when she had left it.

Someone jiggled the knob on the door, and her heart leapt into her throat. A key turned in the lock and it opened.

She positioned herself in a karate stance beside the door, wishing she was wearing more substantial shoes than some flimsy beach thongs. But it was only Tammy.

Walking into the room, she took one look around, her mouth fell open, and her eyes bugged. “Wow! You're a messy roommate,” she said, gazing at the chaos. “What on earth happened?”

Savannah sighed and sank onto the bare bed, suddenly feeling the fatigue of the day overwhelm her. “Sorry,” she said, “but I guess I just got carried away with the unpacking. I couldn't find my toothbrush.”