This last statement finally brought a laugh from the participants, but Janie snorted and whispered (thank God), “More like forty, if you ask me.”
It was a shock that Marcie was so large. I tried to recall what she had looked like on the CBS special on Twyman and thought I remembered that the clips of her had been old ones; the actual statement about her reaction to Twyman’s death had been given by a Bargello spokesperson. I remembered that she had a sweet face, but her blond hair in the television special had given way to a mousy brown color. Maybe when she gained all that weight, she didn’t feel she deserved to be blond anymore.
Marcie continued, “When I first saw Twyman, it was on The Larry King Show. I was so horrified by his obviously deteriorating physical condition that I called in right then and offered my services to help him. Bless his heart, he accepted on the spot. He came to The Bargello the next day, and we gave him the time and privacy he needed to recoup his health. We gave special attention to his dietary needs because of his diabetes. Twyman and I fell in love during the personal motivational sessions and married right here in the garden at The Bargello.
“Our life together was wonderful. He wrote, and I monitored every bite that went in his mouth.”
I thought she seemed a bit defensive when she said the words he wrote, but then since I knew he couldn’t write his way out of a hat box, maybe I was listening for nuances that weren’t there.
“Sounds like a prison to me,” said Janie into my ear.
“Well, this is The Bargello,” I answered softly.
“Unfortunately, when Twyman reentered the real world, we grew apart,” said Marcie.
“And grew and grew and grew,” snickered Janie.
“Although we were not one in marriage any longer, our relationship was a kind, loving, and caring one, right to the end.” And Marcie stopped to sniff back a tear. The ladies in the auditorium sniffed right along with her.
“Wonder if she will admit she served him his last meal.” I could not get Janie to shut up.
“I am now writing a book about my relationship with Twyman, his health needs, and our treatment of him. It will soon be available in bookstores everywhere and certainly here in our gift shop where you can also find all of my other books on diet, nutrition, and weight loss.”
There was more after that commercial, but she ended with, “So you will see me this week, swimming and working out right beside you as I regain my spiritual and physical strength through diet and exercise. To your health and to mine, ladies,” and there was another resounding standing ovation of cheers and applause as Marcie drifted off stage, her blue chiffon toga billowing in her wake.
“I’m going back to my room and have a Hershey bar,” said Janie.
THIRTY–FIVE
Despite her declaration to work out side by side with the other women, I didn’t see Marcie Coleman at The Bargello again until she showed up at the pool with Clover on Wednesday. The spa is a large, rambling building, or rather, a series of buildings, built in a remote section of the piney woods of east Texas, so Marcie could have been there and our paths just didn’t cross.
By Wednesday, Janie and I were used to the routine; breakfast in the huge canopied beds with the slippery satin comforters; facials by appointment; delicate lunches and hearty massages every afternoon. Dinner was a dressy affair with all the participants; a time to show off the new hairstyle or makeup that had been on the schedule for the day.
Although we had giggled over the bidets and Jacuzzis in our bathrooms, Janie and I found we quickly adapted to the luxurious life. Or, as Janie said, “I could get used to being rich.”
Much of the talk in the beauty shop and in the dining room centered around money and how each came to have some.
Janie boasted that our wealth came from publishing; a far cry from the actual converted gas station she had made into a bookstore and my job as a book rep, but the women nodded understandingly and said theirs was from oil, of course, and family money or Fortune 500 companies.
The second topic of conversation was where they spent their money with travel being the number-one money pit. When asked where we had traveled, Janie replied, “Oh, lord, where have we not been?” Although I could have responded with “Nowhere,” the ladies seemed to interpret the question as answered and accepted us as equal world travelers. I was learning that to some, sometimes it’s what you don’t say that is important.
Following the water aerobics on Wednesday, we changed our schedule to include deep heat and oil treatments for our hair that meant heads wrapped in towels for the rest of the day and dinner in our rooms.
“A perfect time to snoop around,” I told Janie.
“Okay, I’m ready for action. I’m beginning to feel like a hothouse flower.” She had already put on the silk Bargello version of a sweatsuit and crept out into the dimmed corridors to case the joint before I had even returned to my adjoining room.
My plan included a prearranged meeting with Minnie, who was going to show me the staff area and hopefully Marcie Coleman’s office. I shucked my white robe and was pulling the elastic waistband of the sweatpants over my hips when she knocked softly at my door.
“I’m almost ready,” I told her as I opened the door and came face to face with Clover Medlock.
“Why do you insist Twyman was murdered?” she asked as she charged into the room with the West Texas stride I remembered so well.
I glanced quickly down the empty hall and closed the door. “You did recognize me.”
“Of course. Even wet, no one else has that pinkish orange colored hair.”
“Did you tell Marcie I was here?”
“Not yet. Now, answer my question about Twyman.”
“That’s fair,” I said. “Remember, I was there when he died.”
Clover sat down on the edge of the flowered chaise longue and I sat on the edge of my bed, trying not to slide off the slippery cover. I hadn’t quite mastered that part of being rich.
“Right,” she said, “and you saw something. Something that made you think it wasn’t a natural death? I want to know what that was.”
I paused, thinking how to word my next statement. “Clover, it wasn’t anything I could go to the police with. Not anything tangible. If Twyman hadn’t asked me how to help him with someone who was trying to kill him, it probably would never have occurred to me.”
“But?”
“But, yes, he didn’t do it right, the dying part, I mean.”
“Pardon me? He didn’t die right?”
“I know I haven’t told you this before, but a little over ten years ago, my father died at the table. Just put his head down—it was the day after my mother had died—and he died. Now that was a natural death. Twyman’s was … different.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’ve been going on? A feeling?”
“Well, it’s hard to explain.”
“Oh, try. There has to be more to it than that for you to run all over the country interviewing starlets and visiting spas. Is this some groupie thing I don’t know about, or do you genuinely think that my ex-husband was murdered? Am I a suspect, too? Don’t answer that. I think I know the answer.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But you did take the blood samples.”
Clover looked astonished. “How on earth do you know about that? I guess the police department has more leaks than the reporters said Ken Starr’s investigation did. Did the police tell you I had taken the vials?”
“Not exactly. It was more that they didn’t tell me that you had taken them, which made me realize—you really did. I mean, if you hadn’t taken them, they would have just said so, but instead, they wouldn’t answer, so I knew,” I said, explaining my logic but not mentioning Silas Sampson by name. “I’m learning that what people don’t tell you is sometimes more important than what they do.”
Clover wasn’t in any mood for my convoluted logic. She had an agenda of her own. “Well, I did take them,” she confessed.
“May I ask why?�
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“It was after we scattered Twyman in the stream. Up to then, I thought it was just his reckless lifestyle that had caught up with him. His time to go, you know? Then you came to the ranch and asked me if I knew who might want to kill him.” She sighed and looked old and tired as she leaned back against the chaise cushions. New wrinkles had crept around her eyes. “I’ve got to tell you, that got me to thinking. So, yeah, I took the blood samples. Hell, it’s my hospital wing, I can take them if I want to.”
That’s another thing I’ve noticed about the rich: the assumed privileges.
“What did you do with the samples? And why did you take them in the first place?”
She snorted the snort I wished I could do. “Told the police I took them so I could spread them with his ashes. Can you believe they bought that one? Thought I was just a grief-stricken, crazy old rich lady. I really took them to have them analyzed without going through the police bullshit.”
“And did you?”
“Yep.”
“And?”
“Strange stuff in his blood. Don’t know if one or the other would have killed him, but the combination … Have you ever heard of propranolol or metoclopramide?”
“No. What are they?” I knew that Clover knew her drugs; knowledge acquired after years of doctoring sick cows and keeping the sound ones healthy.
“From what I have found out, propranolol is a beta-blocker and metoclopramide is a cancer drug.”
“Did Twyman have cancer?” I asked.
“No, but I know who does,” she answered without telling me who it was.
“Go on,” I urged. “Who is it?”
“I still don’t have any proof of who did it, so I hate to say,” she said. “And his blood sugar count was way out of line.”
I rearranged the towel that was slipping off my oiled head and said, “But at least we know you didn’t do it.”
Clover surprised me by saying, “I’m not so sure about that. Oh, don’t look that way. I didn’t actually murder him, but I think I started the whole thing rolling.”
“With the memoirs, you mean? You think one of the exes did it? That’s why you’re here to meet with them this Saturday?”
“Saturday?” she asked.
Before I could explain how Steven Hyatt had seen the date in Gabriella’s office, Clover looked at my hand arranging the towel and said, “Aw, you’re wearing the ring. I’m glad.”
Janie and I had decided that the diamond Twyman had bought for Clover was part of our facade in the world of the rich and famous, so I had reluctantly worn it to The Bargello, grimacing every time Janie explained about my engagement to Harry in London. She had made Harry into an earl or a count or something. I took the ring off and offered it to Clover. “I really wish you would take it.”
She was repeating what she had said at the impromptu streamside service for Twyman, telling me that she wanted me to have the ring, when a knock at the door interrupted her.
This time it really was Minnie.
“Ready for an adventure?” my new friend asked as I opened the door. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”
“I’m just leaving,” Clover said as she heaved her way off the chaise lounge.
“No, don’t go,” I protested. “I can meet with Minnie later.” I didn’t even bother with introductions. “I want to hear the rest of your story.”
Clover patted me on the shoulder. “It will keep, Honey. And anyway, it’s almost over.” She nodded to Minnie as she went into the hall. “I really do like you, Honey. Keep safe.”
My nod to Minnie told her I would be right back, and I chased Clover down the carpeted hall. “Clover, one more thing. You won’t tell Marcie about me, will you?”
“No,” she said. “This is just between me and the girls now.” She cautiously looked around before pulling the white hood further over her head and scurrying off.
THIRTY–SIX
Minnie and I went out to check on Bailey in his canine version of spa luxury sans the bidet, but with his own huge meadow tucked away in the pines. We took him for a romp among the ubiquitous yellow wildflowers that grace Texas in the summer, and we both agreed it felt good to breathe fresh, albeit humid, air.
When I had first checked on Bailey the Monday evening we had arrived, he had been one sad dog, but since then, although he was always eager to see me, he had settled down. And, I didn’t hear his howls follow me as I went back to the main building.
Minnie laughed when I told her about the dog’s change in attitude. “Guess The Bargello gives new meaning to the phrase it’s a dog’s life.”
“Either that or he likes his new clothes,” I agreed pointing to the bright blue bandanna tied around his neck. “He is now on a special diet. Has had two … make that three … obedience sessions. No, don’t laugh. I’m trying to remember what else the vet told me. Oh, yeah. A hair and skin conditioner bath, toenails manicured, teeth brushed, and something else. Oh, I forget, but he’s certainly getting my money’s worth of attention.”
“I’m sorry I interrupted you and your friend, Lydia. I wouldn’t have minded waiting,” Minnie apologized again.
“For the last time, silly, it’s okay. I’ll catch up with her later. But how did you know she’s my friend?”
“She kept calling you honey.”
“Right,” I remembered. “People call me that a lot. Reckon it has something to do with my red hair?”
“Which reminds me, I liked it straightened.”
“Yeah? I think it’s not really me. Wonder what they will do with it after this oil treatment.”
We rambled on across the field, aimlessly following wherever Bailey’s nose took him, talking for real the imagined girl talk I always thought I would have with a friend my age. I liked it.
When I arrived back at my room, Janie was waiting for me. “Don’t know that I have much to add to the notebook,” she confessed. “I spent most of my time in the kitchen.”
“Well, get out your pen, I have mucho to tell,” I said and told her about Clover’s visit to my room.
“Wow,” Janie said when I finished. “Guess that makes my Marcie and Twyman news look like second-rate stuff.”
I took the notebook from her. “What is grazer?” I asked.
She blushed and said, “Oh, no. Not that page. That’s for my Bargello notes. That’s what they call someone who is a vegetarian. Don’t you love it? Look at the next page.”
“MRC. All is not what it seems. What does that mean?”
“Means the story she put out about Twyman, the one she told Elaine Madison, was not actually true. Marcie and Twyman had remained friendly. At least he thought so. She talked to him constantly by phone and fax about his diet and exercise and other health stuff. But the kitchen staff knew Marcie really hated him for leaving her for Babe. That’s when Marcie got so fat.”
“You did find out some things, Janie. Why do you feel so guilty? This information kind of fits in with what Clover told me.”
“Maybe it was because it took three pieces of chocolate cake before I finished interviewing the staff. There was this shift change … and, well, I was hungry.”
I read on in the notebook. “Why do you have the word Babe with a question mark?”
She was excited as she remembered and told me, “Yes, yes. Babe. Although Marcie hates Babe, talks ugly about her all the time, she had started talking to her on the phone a lot. Something about a special diet. The chef thinks Babe might be sick.”
“Tired maybe. Babe looked exhausted when I saw her in Vegas, but I don’t think sick.” I yawned and complained, “I’m really tired of this towel around my head, but the plastic cap looks awful by itself. Is your head beginning to itch?”
“Take a nap. You have time before they deliver dinner.”
“I think I will. I’m glad we don’t have to go to the dining room for dinner tonight. And I guess you’ll be too full to eat what they deliver.”
“I reckon not. Wait till you see wha
t they are fixing for us. I watched them make up the supper. Oh, and the staff made me take this bottle of wine to go with it.”
I fell asleep on the satin comforter while Janie related The Bargello box supper menu.
THIRTY–SEVEN
Reckon the unaccustomed schedule of exercise and massages plus the strain of living a lie finally clicked in. It was like, Hello, body to Honey. You will sleep now. Sleep right through the most expensive box supper you never ate in your life. Sleep right through a bottle of contraband wine and your play-pretend mother’s attempts to wake you and share it with her. Sleep. Sleep.
When I awoke, it was dark, and I was disoriented and thirsty. I longed to tear the plastic cap off my head and wash the oil treatment out of my hair, but I didn’t seem to have the energy to move. Flashbacks of the vivid dream that had finally awakened me kept interfering with my ability to think and move. Finally, I literally rolled off the bed onto the floor and crawled to the mini-fridge in my room. I gulped one of the bottles of orange juice. Eventually, visions of cows with sick eyes faded from my thoughts, and I rose and staggered into the bathroom.
The hot shower revived me further, and the vigorous towel drying I gave my hair finished the job. Looking in the mirror, I saw that my hair had stubbornly returned to its natural curly state, although it now felt soft and silky as I ran my fingers through the drying strands. Suddenly the warm, steamy air of the bathroom made me feel claustrophobic. I longed for fresh air.
The wide, carpeted hallways were dim and silent as I padded barefoot down the hallway, The Bargello robe covering my body and head.
Vaguely, I thought of finding the twenty-four hour gift shop where guests were encouraged to use the honor system in purchasing gifts and health-related items in addition to a full Bargello designer wardrobe.
A customer would just take what they wanted and fill in a sales slip on one of the dozens of clipboards on the counter. You marked the items you had picked out and signed your name. No hassle of dealing with nasty money or plastic credit cards. The daytime clerk collected the slips from the bright yellow plastic box and graciously added them to your bill. Somehow it made all the merchandise seem free, so you just bought and bought and bought. Which, of course, was the idea. I had noticed that security cameras in the store backed up the honor system, though.
The Complete Honey Huckleberry Box Set Page 33