Pumped for Murder (6 page)

“She’s out of control,” Carla said. “Debbi is going to kill someone. I wish Derek would talk to her about her anger. As the manager, he might be able to get her to listen.”

“She seems to be taking it out on the free weights now,” Helen said. “It’s only six thirty-five in the morning and we’ve already had our first crisis.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” Carla said.

Fantastic Fitness quickly settled back into its regular routine. Men ran nowhere fast on treadmills. Women pumped iron. Helen heard the
tock!
of racquetballs hitting the walls.The workout music pounded. She hoped this distracting medley would shake her sadness. Watching Mark’s final birthday video last night had left her feeling depressed.

So far, Helen had checked in three guests under Carla’s watchful eye. One of them was her client’s husband. Her face didn’t even twitch when Bryan Minars said his name. No wonder Shelby was upset that she wasn’t having sex with her man, Helen thought. Bryan looked rock hard, but his physique hadn’t crossed the line from Gibraltar to grotesque.

He had other endearing qualities: His dark wavy hair formed a question-mark curl over his eyebrow. His trainer, Jan, was putting Bryan through his paces with the barbells. Jan was a fortysomething brunette. She had muscles but still looked softly pretty.

“Come on,” Jan said to Bryan. “You can do it. One more dead lift and then you can do thirty minutes on the treadmill.” The trainer made it sound like that half-hour run would be relaxing.

Carla caught Helen staring at Bryan. “He’s easy on the eyes, isn’t he?”

“Definitely,” Helen said. “Does Bryan have a girlfriend?”

“He doesn’t act like it. No woman’s dropped twenties on me to find out if he’s at the gym. His wife works out here, too.”

Rats, Helen thought. I knew it wouldn’t be that easy.

Suddenly, the
tocking, clanking
and humming seemed to stop. The gym doors whooshed open to reveal a goddess wearing two wellplaced scraps of spandex. The goddess wafted through the front door. Her hair was blond silk. Her breasts were twin cantaloupe halves. Her bottom was two honeydew globes.

“That’s Paula,” Carla said. “Watch Paula’s suckers.”

Paula paraded down the aisle of treadmills, each whirring machine topped by a sweating man. As Paula passed the men, they automatically sucked in their guts and kept running. Even Shelby’s husband pulled in his six-pack of muscle. Helen wondered if Paula was the reason Bryan was killing himself at the gym.

“See how the dudes sucked in their guts when she walked by?” Carla said. “Watch what happens next.”

Paula ignored the men. She made a left at the end of the treadmill aisle and turned into the hall to the women’s locker room. Once she was out of sight, the guts flopped back into place. Fat, red-faced men gave small, relieved sighs. The well-built ones like Bryan relaxed a bit.

“I hope she has the same hypnotic effect on the judges at the upcoming East Coast Physique Championships,” Carla said. “Paula is training for the bikini competition.”

“She doesn’t have muscles like Debbi,” Helen said.

“She doesn’t need them,” Carla said. “Not with that body. The bikini contestants look like regular people.”

Who stepped out of a centerfold, Helen thought.

A trim fiftysomething woman with pretty gray hair waved to Carla and Helen as she headed out the door with a full gym bag.

“Did you check in Evie this morning?” Carla asked.

“Nope, just three guys.”

“Hm,” Carla said. “I didn’t check her in, either. Must be something wrong with her card. Remind me to check it when she comes back. She usually works out in the morning and again before closing. Are you okay?”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Usually after a new receptionist encounters Debbi in one of her rages, she quits.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Helen said. “I like it here. Might even work out on my break.”

“That’s coming up,” Carla said. “You’ll get fifteen minutes. If you’re new to exercising, try riding the bike on a low setting. And don’t be late. When you return, you have to fill in at the Xtreme Shop.”

Helen pedaled the stationary bike for four minutes and felt good, even invigorated. She decided to step up her workout and punched the buttons to the highest setting. Pedaling at that level was harder, but not that hard.

I’m in better shape than I thought, she congratulated herself. She was surprised when the timer dinged and she had to return to the reception desk.

Carla was waiting for her. “Hurry! Kristi is going on break. You have to watch the Xtreme Shop for her.”

“What do I do?” Helen said.

“Ring up the members’ purchases on the cash register. Everyone puts them on their gym account, so you just run their membership cards through the machine. Be careful around Kristi. She’s in training for a bodybuilding competition. She and Tansi are Debbi’s mentors.”

“Do you have to have a name like a Playboy centerfold to be a female bodybuilder?” Helen asked.

Carla pushed Helen into the Xtreme Shop, a cubicle stocked with protein powders and bodybuilding supplements. “Promotes skin-tearing muscle pumps!” screamed a drum of “muscle amplifier.” A fat bottle declared it was a “pre-contest physique repartitioning compound.”

Sexual metaphors abounded: “explosive strength,” “increases powerhouse pumps,” “extreme stimulation.”

I’ve spent too much time on my honeymoon, Helen decided. I need to get my mind out of bed.

“Extreme” was definitely the word for Kristi. She showed off her muscles in yellow spandex. The grotesque development looked like a set of clothes. Kristi had a shelf of muscle on her shoulders. The sides of her chest were like an insect’s carapace. She was so deformed by her shoulder and upper-arm development, she walked slightly hunched.

A grumpy Kristi glowered at Helen. “You’re late,” she said. “I’ll be back in sixteen minutes.”

“Nothing wrong with that girl a good meal wouldn’t fix,” Carla said as Kristi scuttled to the free weights.

“Wow,” Helen said. “Kristi has some serious muscle.”

“Serious is right,” Carla said. “She and Tansi are going out for the Women’s Muscle title in the upcoming East Coast Physique Championships. They’re training Debbi for the Women’s Novice Muscle title. They think she’s a shoo-in.”

“Do they get paid for mentoring her?”

“No. They get the glory if their protégé wins,” Carla said. “If they rack up enough winners, they can call themselves ‘trainers to the pros’ and make big money. I wish Debbi’s two mentors didn’t start her on steroids.”

“Aren’t those illegal?” Helen said.

“We don’t allow steroids at our gym,” Carla said. “But some of our bodybuilders inject. You can tell who uses them. Take a look at Kristi’s back and you’ll see the telltale acne.

“And talk about ’roid rage. Kristi saw me eating a burger and nearly bit my head off. She said I was deliberately trying to make her lose the competition. I was just eating lunch.”

“Can’t she eat, too? I thought workouts made you hungry.”

“They do,” Carla said. “But right before a competition, some serious builders go into starvation mode to show every muscle fiber. They live on two ounces of chicken.”

“That’s all they eat for one meal?” Helen said.

“For one day,” Carla said. “They eat protein only—no fruit or bread. They avoid carbs the way you’d run from heroin.”

Debbi approached the reception desk. This time, she seemed shy and tentative. “Excuse me,” she said with a small voice. She pushed what looked like a candy bar toward Carla. “That’s for you. It’s an energy bar. Double Dutch chocolate. When I can eat, it’s my favorite. It has no carbs and three grams of protein. I’m sorry I yelled. I tell myself I won’t get mad and next thing I know, I’m screaming. I’m just so angry since my dad died.”

Carla’s face softened. “I’m sorry. That was awful.”

“Nobody’s sorry he’s dead,” Debbi said.

Helen noticed a brief flare of anger, like a lit match in the dark.

“He killed a harmless old lady when he held up that convenience store,” Debbi said. “I’m glad the manager shot him. Except everyone knows I’m the Granny Killer’s daughter.”

“Nobody blames you for what your father did,” Carla said.

“They do,” Debbi said. “I hear them talking about me wherever I go.”

“They are talking about you,” Carla said. “You’re a strong woman. Your trainers say you’ll be a star. You’ll get that trophy.”

“I want it bad,” Debbi said. “I want everyone to know that I’m a champion. I’m not worthless like my father.”

“You’re not, sweetie,” Carla said.

“Are you still mad at me?”

“I’m concerned,” Carla said. “We all want you to succeed. If you yell at a judge, you could be disqualified. Maybe a doctor could give you something so you wouldn’t be so angry.”

“Can’t afford a doctor,” Debbi said.

There it was again, Helen thought. That flash of anger.

“Mom and I don’t have health insurance. But once I win the novice title and the endorsement money rolls in, I can see a doctor. I’d better leave now.”

Debbi bobbed her head good-bye and walked awkwardly toward the door.

“That poor thing,” Helen said. “Starving herself for a trophy. Why do the women do that to themselves?”

“For the glory, the awards and the prizes,” Carla said. “Same as the male athletes. Too bad women don’t win as much money. Guys can win ten times more. There’s a lot of discrimination against strong women, but not at Fantastic Fitness. If any of our members—Paula, Kristi, Tansi or Debbi—wins a title, we’ll display their photos and trophies in our Hall of Fame, along with our other winners’ prizes.”

The hall trophy case was just outside the Xtreme Shop. It could have been in any high school hall—if the students were built like comic-book superheroes.

“H
oney, I’m home!” Helen called out the old sitcom line as she breezed into Phil’s apartment. “It’s only two o’clock and I’ve finished work. I even got some exercise, and then I walked home. I—”

Helen saw Phil’s face and stopped her runaway report. “Something’s wrong,” she said. The apartment smelled of burnt coffee. Half-empty mugs were scattered on the table and the kitchen counter. Three cups were on his desk next to the computer, mute testimony to Phil’s frustrated efforts.

“Way wrong,” Phil said. “Our case is dead before I even started. I can’t find any official paper on Mark’s accident. I spent the morning searching for the records in Plantation. There’s no police report, no incident or accident report, no autopsy.”

“Gus was right,” Helen said. “There is a conspiracy.”

“Not necessarily,” Phil said. “Mark has been dead a quarter of a century. Paper trails are easy to lose. Could be the police report was destroyed after all this time. I talked with Barry, an old-timer who retired from the force. Barry doesn’t remember any suicide shooting from 1986.”

“It’s been a while,” Helen said.

“It has,” Phil said. “But Mark’s accident was dramatic, and Barry has a good memory. He was new to the force twenty-five years ago. I checked with Gus again. He insisted his brother’s shooting happened in Plantation. Gus says his sister told him it was there. I need official paper.”

“What about the murder investigation files?” Helen asked. “The murder book, I think it’s called. Don’t the police keep that?”

“Could be the cops never started one,” Phil said. “Barry said they could have closed this case before it became a murder investigation. I spent the morning checking records and drew a blank.

“I called Gus once again and went over the timeline with him. The first day, Mark went to the hospital with a gunshot wound to the head. He was in a coma. The surgeons operated. Mark died two days later. A week or so after, someone told the cops that Mark was bipolar and suicidal, and the case was closed.”

“Wouldn’t Ahmet tell the cops that the day of the accident?” Helen asked. “If the shooting took place at Ahmet’s import-export business like Gus said, I assume the cops questioned the drug dealer after the shooting.”

“The cops wouldn’t take Ahmet’s word alone,” Phil said. “They got confirmation from someone. Gus said Mark died the third day and the police closed the case as a suicide. That’s all he knows.”

“Gus doesn’t want to believe his brother killed himself,” Helen said.

“It’s a typical reaction when a family member commits suicide,” Phil said, “especially if they are Catholic or some religion that has strong prohibitions against it. Gus hung on to his grief for twenty-five years. We’re supposed to exorcise it.”

“I can understand why he’d have trouble with his brother’s death,” Helen said. “I have a hard time believing that gorgeous man is gone, and I only saw him in a scratchy old video. He was so alive.”

“I feel like a fraud taking a grief-stricken man’s money,” Phil said.

“We’ve just started,” Helen said, rubbing his back. “You’ve worked cases before. You know they take time. Why are you reacting like this?”

“At my old job, I mostly did work for rich people or corporations who used me like a servant. Gus isn’t rich like they are. He can get hurt. He’s hurting now.”

“But that was true of that drug case you did so many years ago. That family wanted their daughter found.”

“That was different,” Phil said. “I’m in charge now. I can’t blame my bosses anymore when things go wrong. I make the screwups.”

“We do,” Helen said. “Together. Gus needs us. He needs to know what happened to his brother.”

“Please don’t say he needs closure,” Phil said.

“No,” Helen said, “but he needs to know the facts, and we need to find them. It’s too soon to give up. Maybe you’re looking for the records in the wrong place. Lots of Florida communities are brandnew. Did Plantation exist when Mark died in ’eighty-six?”

“The city has been around since the fifties,” Phil said. “It has an important place in film history. The
Caddyshack
pool scene was shot at the Plantation Golf Course. It’s also a rich city. Mark died July seventh. Plantation has no record of any similar incident for four months either side of his death date. If we can show Gus the official records, maybe he will accept his brother’s death.”