“You did what?” he said.
Chapter Thirty-one
Jake hadn’t actually raised his voice but Clare winced anyway.
“I thought it would be a discreet way to check the place out,” she said, baffled by his reaction.
“You’re not some kind of undercover cop, Clare. You can’t just go marching in and start asking blunt questions about a sensational murder.”
She was starting to get irritated. It annoyed her that he did not immediately appreciate the cleverness of her scheme.
“Give me some credit here,” she said. “Until recently I’ve made a pretty good living detecting frauds and scam artists. I am not a complete amateur at this kind of thing.”
“You may be good with scammers but you’re a total amateur at investigating a murder. I do not want you going to that spa alone.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful,” she said, striving to make her voice soothing. “What could possibly happen?”
“Let me think. Right, I remember now. The last time you went to a spa you nearly got brained with an eight-pound dumbbell.”
She shuddered. “Okay, point taken. But the person wielding the dumbbell is gone, so dumbbells shouldn’t be a problem. Besides, no one at the Phoenix spa knows me. I’ve never been there before in my life.”
“You can’t be sure you won’t be recognized.”
“I booked my appointment under a phony name,” she said, proud of that bit of initiative. “I’m going to pay in cash. No one will see a credit card.”
“I still don’t like it,” he said.
“I appreciate your concern.”
“It’s not concern you’re hearing,” he said. “It’s panic.”
“I’m sure that expensive business consultants do not panic. Look, I just wanted to let you know where I’m going to be this afternoon in case I’m late getting back here. My appointment is at four o’clock. I booked a fifty-minute massage, so what with changing clothes and paying the bill, I should be out a little after five. But it’s a long drive so I might not return until close to six.”
“Book an appointment for me, too,” Jake said flatly. “I’m coming with you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Book an appointment for me, too,” Jake repeated. “Or I’ll do it myself.”
“Okay, okay,” she said. “What kind of treatment do you want? Massage? Steam?”
“I don’t give a damn as long as you don’t sign me up for anything that involves wax.”
. . .
Jake was still in a grim mood when he drove the BMW into the parking lot of the Secret Springs Day Spa.
“You know,” Clare said, “if you’re going to get like this every time I make a decision you don’t approve of, we may have a problem with this partnership.”
“Relationship.” He unsnapped his seat belt, got out and closed the door a little too deliberately.
She scrambled out and looked at him over the roof of the car.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded.
“You called what we have a partnership.” Sunlight sparked dangerously off the black lenses of his sunglasses. “It’s a relationship.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t sure how to take that. “Well, you know what I mean.”
“No,” he said deliberately, “I don’t always know what you mean, especially when you use a word like ‘partnership.’ In my world partnership has serious business connotations. Try another term.” He paused a beat. “Unless, of course, you want to sign a written contract with me.”
She blinked, feeling more than a little flummoxed. Then, out of nowhere, laughter bubbled up inside her.
“Something tells me I’d be a fool to sign a contract with you, Jake. You’re a business consultant. I’m sure that when it comes to wheeling and dealing you’re way out of my league.”
His jaw tightened. His face was now a stony mask. So much for trying to coax him out of a bad mood with a little humor, she thought. She hadn’t had much luck with Myra, either. Obviously she wasn’t going down well as a stand-up comedian today.
Then to her astonishment, the corner of Jake’s mouth edged upward in a humorless smile.
“You can bet I’d enforce every damn clause,” he said.
He delivered the warning in soft, ice-and-lava tones that gave her the exciting little-hair-stirring-on-the-nape-of-her-neck sensation. She could not come up with an adequate response, so she decided to keep her mouth shut.
Jake opened one of the heavy glass doors, held it for her and then followed her into the air-conditioned, artistically lit reception area.
She took off her sunglasses and surveyed the polished stone floors, the long, gleaming granite desk and the two generically beautiful receptionists. One male, one female.
The male receptionist smiled at her, showing perfect white teeth. “May I help you?”
“We’re the Smiths,” Clare said smoothly, moving toward the granite desk. “We have an appointment.”
“Smith?” Jake muttered in a voice that did not reach beyond Clare’s ear. “That’s the best you could come up with?”
She ignored him and came to a halt in front of the desk. Something about the extraordinarily warm, welcoming smile the female receptionist was bestowing upon Jake irritated her. The name on the little bronze and black tag pinned to the woman’s obviously enhanced chest was Tiffany.
“I have you right here, Mrs. Smith,” the male receptionist said. His name tag read Harris. “You’re booked for the Ritual of Renewal treatment, and Mr. Smith will be enjoying the Ritual of Relaxation Massage.” Harris paused briefly, checking his computer screen. “It says here that you requested a female therapist, Mrs. Smith.”
“That’s right,” she said.
Tiffany brightened her smile for Jake. “Do you have a preference, Mr. Smith?”
“Well—” Jake began.
“Mr. Smith wants a masseur,” Clare said quickly. She frowned at Tiffany. “I made that request when I booked the appointment today. I was told that a male therapist would be available.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jake smile benignly. He was enjoying this, she realized.
He looked at Tiffany. “Whatever Mrs. Smith says.”
Tiffany did a little eye-rolling, signaling her sympathy for his plight as a henpecked husband. Clare gave serious consideration to climbing over the granite counter and throttling her.
“I’ll have someone show you both to the dressing rooms,” Harris said. “You will begin your rituals by changing into robes and slippers.”
He pressed a button behind the counter. A few seconds later an attendant appeared.
“Please follow me, Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” the attendant said.
Chapter Thirty-two
The therapist’s name was Anya. She was built like a Viking goddess. Her English was accented with traces of a language that had its roots in a country that had once taken directions from Moscow. She was very powerful.
“Easy,” Clare gasped, sucking in her breath as the woman leaned into her work. “Not so hard, please.”
“Perhaps madam is not accustomed to exfoliating treatments.” Anya stroked heavily down Clare’s right leg. “It is necessary to use force if one wishes to obtain the greatest benefit.”
“I think you may be removing an entire layer of my skin.”
“That is the whole point, madam.”
“It feels like you’re scrubbing me with sandpaper.”
“When I am finished, you will feel like a new woman,” Anya promised. “Your skin will glow.”
“In the dark?”
“Hah, hah. Madam has a sense of humor.”
Anya went to work on Clare’s other leg, lathering on the salt rub mixture before massaging it heavily into the skin. Clare gritted her teeth and tried to focus on the reason she was subjecting herself to the torture.
“Have you, uh, been at this spa long, Anya?”
“Five years, madam.” Anya’s voice ra
ng with pride. She scraped the salt concoction off the back of Clare’s calf. “I was among the first therapists hired.”
“Really? Impressive. I have always heard that there is a high turnover in your profession.”
“That is true but I am happy here. This spa has an excellent reputation.”
“I know all about the spa’s reputation. In fact, I’ve been looking forward to this experience for months, ever since I made plans to come to Phoenix.”
“Madam is not from around here?”
“No. I’m visiting from San Francisco.”
“You have picked the wrong time of the year. It is very hot now.”
“I noticed.”
She felt Anya take hold of her right foot. She cringed.
“You should come back in the winter or early spring,” Anya said, kneading the sole of Clare’s bare foot with her knuckles. “The climate is much better then. Perfect, in fact.”
Clare inhaled sharply, wondering if Anya had broken something in her foot. When the pain eased she tried to get back on track.
“But during the high season it would probably be very difficult to get into this spa, let alone book the services of an expert such as yourself,” she said. It wasn’t easy staying chatty through the pain.
“This is true,” Anya said, pulling hard on a toe. “Madam’s feet require much treatment. I recommend that you purchase some of our excellent foot rejuvenation cream before you leave today.”
“Thanks.” Clare gripped the edges of the bed, hanging on for dear life as Anya went to work on the other foot. “I got the name of this spa from a man I met at a business conference several months ago. He said he came here frequently. Once a week, in fact.”
“We do have many regular clients here in the Phoenix area. I told you, this is a very well-respected spa.”
“Maybe you know the man I’m talking about. His name was McAllister.”
Anya’s hands stilled on Clare’s foot. “Mr. McAllister? That does not sound familiar.”
“I’ve got a picture.” Clare had left her spa robe within reach. She dug the photo of Brad out of one of the pockets. “This is him.”
Anya peered at the photograph. “Ah, that is Mr. Stowe.”
Disapproval rang in the words.
“Was he a client of yours?” Clare asked.
“No. He always requested another masseuse.” Anya went back to work on Clare’s foot. “I did not care for that man. He was a terrible womanizer.”
“Did he hit on you?”
“Absolutely not.” Indignation flared in Anya’s face. “I do not allow my male clients to hit me.”
“I mean, did he take liberties with your person? Did he insult you with sexual advances?”
“Ah yes, I understand now,” Anya said. “As I told you, I never had him for a client so there was never an opportunity for him to ‘hit on’ me. But I promise you that if he had tried such a thing I would have gone straight to my manager. I am a professional. I do not tolerate professional insults.”
Clare did not doubt that for a moment. “If he was the type to insult professional therapists, it’s a wonder he was allowed to come here on a regular basis. Or was the management always careful to make certain that he had a male therapist?”
“I told you, Mr. Stowe always requested one particular therapist. He took his treatments from her and no one else. And if you ask me, what went on during those sessions was not at all professional.”
. . .
“So, what are you?” Rodney studied the photo that Jake had handed to him. “Some kind of private investigator?”
Rodney was a pro, Jake concluded. The masseur was in his late thirties. His thinning hair was shaved very close to his skull and the arms that extended beneath the sleeves of his crew-necked T-shirt rippled with the kind of muscles that come from endless bodybuilding. When Jake made it clear that there was some serious tip money in the offing, he had proved ready, willing and eager to talk.
“Not exactly,” Jake said. He got up from the massage table and pulled on the spa robe. “I’m an heir tracer.”
“What’s that?”
“Law firms representing large estates hire me to track down lost heirs. If this guy is the one I’m looking for he’s got some money coming from a recently deceased relative he probably never met and may not even know existed.”
Rodney snorted. “If you ask me, the last thing Stowe needs is more money. You should have seen the guy’s clothes. Those jackets had to come from Italy. Shirts and shoes, too, probably. He drove a Porsche.”
“That’s how it goes. The rich get richer, usually because of inheritances. You said the man’s name is Stowe?”
“Yeah.” Rodney gave him an odd look. “Why?”
“There seems to be some confusion,” Jake said. “The name on the paperwork I was given is McAllister.”
“Well, all I can tell you is that the guy in that photo is Stowe. No mistaking that jacket. I lusted after that jacket.”
“Maybe he changed his name for some reason,” Jake said easily. “People do that sometimes. Is Stowe a regular here?”
“Used to be. But he stopped coming around about six months back.” Rodney chuckled. “No coincidence there.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Stowe always requested Kimberley Todd. The two of them went at it like bunnies back there in the Ocean Garden Room. Everyone on the staff knew what was going on. After she left, he never returned.”
“People in your line get hit on a lot?”
“Hazard of the trade.” Rodney assumed a philosophical air. “But it’s not so bad here at Secret Springs. It was a lot worse at the spa where I worked in Vegas. You wouldn’t believe some of the things the clients did there.”
“Vegas is Vegas. Some people think anything goes.”
“Tell me about it.” Rodney looked knowing. “Here in Arizona, people tend to be better behaved. Most of the time, that is.”
“You say Stowe stopped coming here about six months back?”
Rodney nodded. “Didn’t see him again after Kimberley quit. My guess is he followed her to wherever she went after she left this place.”
“Todd moved to another spa?”
“We all assumed that’s why she quit. It’s the usual reason. Massage therapists move around a lot. Here in the Valley there’s always a new high-end spa opening up, often in conjunction with a new resort. First thing a new operation does is lure away the top therapists from other spas.”
“Better money?”
“The more upscale the spa, the bigger the tips. In this business, that’s what it’s all about.”
. . .
Rodney watched the Smiths drive out of the parking lot. After a few minutes he went back into the empty therapy room, took out his personal phone and called the number he had been given.
“Is the offer still good?” he said.
“Someone asked about Kimberley Todd?”
“Not more than twenty minutes ago. Two people. A man and a woman.”
“Did you get a description?”
The curt question was laced with tension.
“Sure,” Rodney said. “And a license plate.”
“The money will be waiting for you in an envelope that will be left at the front desk in the morning.”
“Five hundred?”
“As promised.”
Rodney gave the descriptions and the license plate and ended the call.
In this business, it was all about the tips.
Chapter Thirty-three
Clare picked up the notepad and pen and settled deeper into the pool lounger. The blast furnace the locals fondly referred to as the sun had finally been extinguished for the day. The seductive desert night had descended. She could get used to being able to wear sandals and a T-shirt after dark, she thought.
“All right, let’s see what we’ve got.” She tapped the notepad with the tip of the pen. “For starters, we have a name for the woman Brad was seeing on a regular basi
s while he was married to Elizabeth. Kimberley Todd.”
“Who just happens to have quit her job at the Secret Springs Day Spa right around the time Brad got killed,” Jake said.
“Convenient.”
She watched him put a tray down on the patio table. Arranged on the tray were a bottle of chilled Chardonnay, two glasses and several small dishes containing a variety of interesting tidbits. The selection included three kinds of olives, crackers, some artichoke and Parmesan dip that Jake had made the day before, a hunk of rich, crumbly English cheddar, radishes, raw snow peas and some crusty sourdough bread.
The one thing that all the items had in common was that none of them had required cooking. Neither she nor Jake had felt like going to the trouble of preparing a meal after returning from the spa, so they raided the refrigerator and the pantry together.
“I dunno.” Jake poured wine into the glasses. “Some might see Kimberley leaving her job as a reasonable response under the circumstances.”
“Brokenhearted lover plunges into despair upon learning of the death of her boyfriend, quits job and goes back to wherever she came from? Maybe. But my instincts tell me there’s more to the story.”
“So do mine.” Jake handed her one of the glasses of wine.
“We really need to find Kimberley Todd,” Clare said.
“It shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Unless she’s trying to hide because she is a potential witness or maybe even a suspect in an unsolved murder.”
“That could complicate things,” Jake agreed. “But I know someone who is very good at tracking people online. I’ll give him a call tonight.”
“Someone back at your home office?”
“Sort of.”
When he did not offer anything further, she decided to move on to another subject.
“Elizabeth and I are going to talk to Dr. Mowbray tomorrow,” she said. “He was the one who treated her during her so-called depression episode.”
“Did you make an appointment?”
“No. I thought we might have better luck if we surprise him. I don’t want to give him time to prepare. If he saw Elizabeth’s name on his schedule, he might be worried that she’s contemplating some legal action for the lousy diagnosis he gave her and call his lawyer.”
White Lies Page 19