The Naked Truth

by Maggie Aldrich

  We shook hands and made our way to the resort’s spa, walking briskly on the limestone trail, which was no easy feat for her in three-inch Jimmy Choo wedges. I’m a girl who knows my shoes—a recovering shoe addict, if you will. I sighed, recalling the days when a $400 pair of shoes was nothing special. I’ve learned since then. Supporting yourself on a small income and living in an approximately one-hundred square feet space for a year will do that to you.

  Darcy got right down to business, her breath fogging up in the brisk air as she peppered me with questions, seemingly oblivious to her ankle precariously turning each time she stepped on a rock.

  “So, Emily, tell me—have you had any contact with your dad? When did you find out he was an FBI person of interest?”

  “No, I—”

  “What’s his connection to Elkston’s drug runners? Is he a supplier?”

  “What? No! No connection that I know—"

  “Is the FBI responsible for the explosion? Are they working with the local PD?

  “Hang on!” I said, stopping in my tracks. “Slow down.” While I was impressed with her ability to speed walk in Jimmy Choos, her endless questioning and frenzied pace were making me anxious, and I was growing irritated.

  “I will tell you everything I know, but you have to agree to a few things yourself.” She stood there, arms crossed, puffs of breath streaming out of her nostrils like a dragon. “You cannot break this story until I have found my dad and know he’s safe. You cannot compromise his identity. You have to be the one to deal with the backlash from the FBI, if there is any. We don’t know that he has anything to do with that explosion.”

  She raised her eyebrows and frowned.

  “Well, we don’t. He could just be a family deserter for all I know. Maybe he got sick of being a loving husband and father.” I shook my head, knowing this wasn’t the case. “Regardless, you have to tread lightly. All of this could possibly endanger not only his reputation but also his life.” Which was ironic, considering how everyone already thought he was dead. “Please don’t be a typical reporter and only care about ratings. Remember you’re dealing with actual lives here.”

  Her investigative reporter façade cracked a little bit, and her shoulders sagged. “Ugh. I do know.” She sighed heavily. “Sometimes I forget all about why I wanted to be a reporter in the first place.” She laughed quietly, her demeanor changing as we continued walking, our pace slowing considerably. “I used to sit in front of my mirror as a kid and do a skit I called, ‘Happy Happenings’, where I would report to all of my stuffed animals on the exciting things going on in our neighborhood. It was about sharing fun stories, good news, ya know?” I realized that the plastic, brunette, Barbie-like reporter was opening up to me. Maybe my first impression would need to be modified. Time would tell. “Now all I do is go around trying to find the most sensational stories I can, and in this town, that’s no easy feat.”

  “I get it,” I replied, “but please remember—”

  “I know, I know. I’ll back off a little bit. I don’t want to scare you off. You’re the best lead I’ve had in two years.” She gave me a lopsided smile as I opened the door to the spa, a smile that was much more genuine than when we first met. I began to relax a bit. I still didn’t know if I could trust her, but my fears were slightly allayed.

  As we walked into the spa, we were greeted with the delightful scents of lavender and patchouli, just strong enough to be noticed, but not overpowering. Spas always have such a relaxing smell. Unlike most nail salons, this full-service spa did not have TVs in every corner or an overwhelming smell of chemicals. Instead, meditative music played quietly, with the low chatter of women in various stages of nail care in the background. Like the rest of the resort, this had a rustic, log cabin-esque feel with vintage looking manicure stations (though I’m pretty sure manis weren’t a “thing” in the late 1800s). The massage rooms and sauna were farther away in the back half of the building, with a gorgeous reclaimed wood wall separating the two areas. Short half-walls of reclaimed wood also separated each pedicure station, and they were just large enough to make the massage chairs and foot spas inconspicuous. A large coffee and cupcake/muffin bar stood at the center of the space and lent a café-like feel. Soon my stomach growled at the sight of the delectable desserts. I’d skipped breakfast since my stomach was tied in knots, and…other things had distracted me as well.

  “Good morning, ladies.” A tall, lanky woman with waist-long brown hair approached us speaking perfect English, a rarity in some nail salons, per my experience. “My name’s Wisteria. I’ll walk you right over to your stations.”

  Darcy and I sat in our massage chairs, side by side, separated by our little half-wall while Wisteria took our coffee and muffin orders. I placed my purse on the floor next to me, making sure I’d have easy access to my phone in case Michael called.

  “Coffee. Black. Is it organically, fair trade, shade grown?” Darcy asked Wisteria. “Because if it’s not, I’ll just take water. Mineral. Assuming you have that.” She saw my pointed glare and quickly changed her tone. “Um, you know, scratch that. Whatever kind of coffee you have is fine. And, uh, no muffin, thanks.” I could see her gaze longingly at the cupcake and muffin spread, calculating calories.

  “Sorry,” she whispered to me as Wisteria walked away. “I’m used to—oh, never mind. Sorry.” She got herself settled in her chair, and fiddled with the back massage remote, pressing the different buttons. “Ooh, that one tickles. Ouch—what the? Oh yeah, that feels nice.” With a satisfied look, she turned to face me.

  “So. Are you ready to talk?”

  “Hold on,” I said, still trying to get comfortable myself. Two small Asian girls who looked no more than thirteen came up and started filling our foot spas. I rarely go to nail salons anymore without my mom around. And when I do, I get so uncomfortable wondering about the ages of the young girls that work there. Are they even of legal working age? With the propensity of young Asian women that don’t speak English working at nail salons, I always wonder if they’re part of some illegal trafficking ring. I find myself scanning them for bruises or any other signs of abuse and praying they are just girls that are fortunate enough to look ten years younger than they truly are.

  “Hi,” I said, looking at my nail tech, “how is your day going, uh, Mary?” At least, that’s what her nametag said.

  She looked up at me with a blank stare. “Color?” she asked quietly and with an accent, handing me the sample palette. “Gel? Super Deluxe?” What were the other options? It wasn’t exactly clear, and with no prices posted, I had no idea what I was going to be shelling out, though at this place, it couldn’t be cheap. My year spent living frugally made me about as cheap as they come (Michael loves it when I say that). But this time? What the heck. It’s my honeymoon. I’d just charge it to the room, or cabin, as it were.

  I nodded my assent and pointed out a color. She nodded and carefully placed my feet into the warm, bubbly water. I wiggled my toes, luxuriating in the scent and feel of the bath bomb she dropped in. My feet felt tingly, and the water began to turn a beautiful shade of pink. The massage chair worked its way down my back, kneading out all of the tight spots, and the heat slowly began to radiate through the leather.

  Wisteria brought my muffin (chocolate cappuccino) and our coffees (both black) and set them down on the divider. “Enjoy, ladies.” She walked off, leaving us to our possibly underage nail techs who may or may not speak English.

  “Hey,” I whispered, turning to Darcy and offering up the muffin, “you want a bite?”

  “Oh, God, no. Not vegan, I’m sure, and definitely not on my diet.” She patted her nonexistent belly. “And why are you whispering?” She waved her arms around and spoke loudly to make her point. “They can’t understand you.”

  My eyebrows shot up in embarrassment. I looked around uncomfortably. “How exactly do you know?”

  “Hellooo? They just…can’t. Watch.” She turned to face her nail tech, coughing to get her at
tention.

  “So, my boyfriend got his balls shaved the other day, right? Right before he dressed in a tutu and ran screaming around town. Can you believe it?”

  The nail tech just looked up and nodded, then went right back down to scrubbing Darcy’s feet. I nearly choked on my muffin.

  “Okay, fine. I believe you,” I said, once I could speak again. “They can’t understand us. But still, let’s try to keep it down.” I looked around at the other people getting treatments, most of whom were staring at their cell phones and not paying attention to anything else. Nobody had even looked our way.

  “Of course.” Darcy nodded.

  “You’re not recording this, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Taking notes, then?”

  “Up here.” She tapped her head. “I have a photographic memory, but for words.” She winked.

  I’m not sure that’s a thing, but I let it go.

  The door to the salon opened, and I looked up to see Savannah walk through, giving me a tiny wave as she saw me. I was happy to see they had made it back from the hike yesterday, but she looked exhausted. Her hair, however, was still as perfect as ever. She walked over to quickly say hi and leaned over to see what color I’d selected. We briefly chatted and I introduced Darcy as a friend of mine. She then got seated in a chair not far from us, promptly put in some earbuds and closed her eyes. I was very relieved we wouldn’t have to worry about her trying to join our conversation.

  I crossed my fingers that Darcy had a code of ethics and would report information cautiously, and spent the next thirty minutes quietly filling her in on my dad’s disappearance, presumed death, the scandal surrounding his estate, and the subsequent revelation as an FBI POI. Between gasps and exclamations, she did eventually get out a small notebook and begin jotting down notes. Mary looked up once or twice, but mostly only stared at my feet. I was pretty sure she couldn’t understand what we were saying, but I felt uneasy nonetheless. I had a paranoid feeling that someone was listening in.

  I told Darcy how I had contracted with Fritz again, and explained our history together, and that Michael was currently picking him up from the airfield.

  “I absolutely must meet this guy,” she said, nodding her head quickly. “He’s going to be a treasure trove of information. He’ll be able to get his hands on all kinds of dirt.” I could see her forming headlines in her mind.

  “Did you bring the footage I need?” I asked.

  “Oh, of course.” She dug in her purse and handed me a small USB drive. “It’s all on there. The video was taken around five yesterday afternoon, and of course, you know the location.” I nodded. “The fire marshal is still looking into the cause.”

  “I thought a gas main leaked?”

  “Right, but they’re trying to determine why the gas was on, and if the leak was accidental or intentional.”

  “See, you have no proof my dad’s involved at all.”

  “Hmmm, no, I don’t. But my money’s on him. Being involved somehow, at least,” she added at my look of annoyance. “He might not have blown it up, but he’s involved. Did he, uh, happen to have any drug offenses or consort with any known felons?”

  “Wha—No! Are you kidding me? He was your average run-of-the-mill dad. He was president of our neighborhood organization, coached my soccer team, volunteered at church, played tennis at the country club.” I nearly growled in frustration. Mary looked up briefly and then quickly averted her gaze. “And,” I continued, “I haven’t spoken to him in alm—”

  “I know,” Darcy interrupted, “almost two years.” She sighed and tapped her pen on her notepad in frustration. “There’s got to be a connection.” She eyed the remainder of my muffin sitting on its plate. It was so deliciously rich, I had to eat it slowly.

  “You want a cupcake or a muffin? I’ll get you one.” I figured I’d pay for everything anyway since Darcy’s local reporter job most likely paid pennies. “We can ask if they have a vegan one. This is Colorado. I’m sure there’s a locally sourced, hemp seed cupcake made with beet sugar and…fake butter and…some egg-like product.” I gagged a little just envisioning it.

  “You know,” she sighed, her eyes narrowing, “being a female reporter sucks.” She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms, an angry look on her face. “We all have to be perky with perfect bodies and perfect hair and have incredibly big boobs. I’m still paying these off,” she said as she looked down at her ample chest. “I have to watch everything I eat. It stinks. And not only that, we’re supposed to be wicked smart with a killer instinct. But we can’t be too forward, or we’re thought of as ‘hard to work with.’ But a guy can be a jerk and he’s just considered ‘diligent.’ Whatever.” She exhaled loudly and closed her eyes. “I just want some chocolate.”

  I signaled to Wisteria that we’d take another chocolate cappuccino muffin and turned to Darcy. “You know, that double standard doesn’t just apply to female reporters.” She laughed quietly and nodded. “It pretty much applies to all females in general, sadly.” I recalled several of my sorority girls and their sagas of going to formals. They would buy a new, expensive dress and shoes, get a spray tan, and pay to get hair and makeup done. Their dates would show up in khakis, a polo, and sneakers, often already half drunk. Why do guys get off so easy when we are supposed to be ‘perfect’ and ‘sweet?’ And why do we, as women, perpetuate it? I thanked God for the millionth time that Michael wasn’t like that. He loves me as I am. Flaws, crazy hair, occasional pissiness, and all.

  “Screw this,” she said when Wisteria brought the muffin over. She took a giant bite, mashing it almost up her nose. “After this, let’s go meet up with this Fritz guy and that hubby of yours, and we’ll get some lunch. Forget the smoothie today. I’m starving.”

  I smiled. Maybe Darcy wasn’t so bad after all.

  ●CHAPTER 13●

  AFTER OUR PEDIS WERE FINISHED, we slowly made our way to the restaurant, me in my own flip-flops, Darcy in her millimeter-thick ones provided by the salon. The Jimmy Choo slide-on wedges weren’t optimal for newly painted nails.

  I thought long and hard about our conversation. I had revealed so much about my dad’s situation at the salon and was feeling uncomfortable about it. I had this sense that someone else was watching and listening in, though I saw no indication that anyone was. Maybe I was just being paranoid. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had said too much.

  “Did you get the feeling those nail techs were listening to our conversation?” I finally asked Darcy. I hesitated before I continued. “Whenever they whispered to each other in their native language, I felt like they were talking about us. Do you think they could understand us?”

  “Oh, heck no. They don’t speak English any more than I speak Chinese…or whatever.

  “Could these flip-flops be any thinner? Geez, this hurts!” She cursed the limestone trail and, after about fifty feet of struggling, decided to switch back to the wedges, leaning on me while she carefully changed shoes.

  “I actually think it was Korean,” I muttered under my breath.

  “What was Korean?”

  “I think they were speaking Korean. I had a friend that did mission work over there and taught me a few phrases. Anyway,” I shook my head, “never mind. I’m sure it’s nothing.” But still, I had a nagging feeling someone heard more than they should have.

  “Right. Hey,” she said, one hand on my shoulder, precariously balanced on one foot while she slid the other into the wedge, “check out that guy. Am I wrong, or is that Santa Clause walking around with some hot elf? Damn. I’d take that for Christmas. Mmmm hmmm.”

  I looked up to see my husband and Fritz walking toward us. Michael towered over Fritz, but what Fritz lacked in height, he made up in girth. I opened my arms wide, leaving Darcy to topple a bit before regaining her balance.

  “Fritz!” I exclaimed, giving him a big hug as he walked up. Relief rushed through me and I again realized just how anxious I’d become.

  Frit
z was dressed in his usual attire of a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts with flip-flops. His shirt was red with scattered white flowers. Combined with his snowy white hair and beard and ample belly, he looked like a tropical, jolly old Saint Nick.

  “Hey there, kiddo. Where’s that snarky reporter?” I had filled Michael in on some of my early morning phone call with Darcy, and he had apparently passed the conversation on to Fritz.

  “Excuse me, who are you calling a ‘snarky reporter?’” Darcy asked, taking a step forward. She tore her eyes from Michael, planted her hands on her hips and cocked her head.

  “The same person who called him a ‘hot elf’ and me ‘Santa Clause.’” Fritz grinned. “Not that I haven’t heard it before.” He laughed and gave Darcy a hearty slap on the back. “I’m just giving you shit. Fritz McSchatz,” he said by way of introduction, sticking out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  I could see Darcy hesitate at the name and bite her tongue. Thankfully, she composed herself like a true professional and returned the handshake. “I’m very happy to meet you, uh, Mr. McSchatz.”

  “Oh, God no. It’s Fritz. You dare call me Mr. McSchatz and it’s off with your head,” he grumbled as he turned to face me. Darcy’s smile froze and Michael broke in.

  “Michael Drake, or, uh, Mr. Emily Drake,” he said with a wink in my direction.

  “Oh.” Her face fell. “Omigod, you guys are too cute,” she said in a slightly annoyed voice as he leaned over to give me a kiss. “Sorry about the hot elf comment, I guess. Yes, it’s lovely to meet you both.”

  Fritz reached for my arm. “Emily, I got a phone call this morning from the lab in Houston.” We started down the path to the restaurant, Michael and Darcy following a few paces behind us.