Fit To Be Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 1)

by Nancy G. West

  “Are you sure? You seem nervous.”

  “Go ahead. Tell me about him.”

  “With the children grown, we spent a lot of time together. We noticed the same things. It was eerie, as though our thoughts moved around together. I was forty-eight when we married. Ray was fifty-two. He found good executives to run his insurance company, which gave us time to talk about our earlier lives, read the same books, travel. We were soul mates. Ray filled the holes from my other losses. We enjoyed ten wonderful years together. He’s been gone for two.”

  “Losing him must have been really hard.”

  “Sometimes, when I notice something, I know exactly what Ray would say about it. It’s comforting, as though he’s still here. When I see him again, I think we’ll be pretty caught up on things.”

  “You mean in heaven?”

  “Yes.”

  I hadn’t thought a lot about heaven, although I believed it existed. I was always too busy groping my way through this life. I looked in the rearview mirror and didn’t see Harry’s car.

  Grace giggled. “I guess I haven’t told you … I have a suitor.”

  “A suitor. You mean a tailor … someone who makes your clothes?”

  She burst out laughing. “I guess ‘suitor’ is an antiquated term. It’s a man who chases you, who wants to date you.”

  “No kidding. Who is he?”

  “His name is Elmore Mosley. I met him at church and he called me. He’s sixty-four, a widower.”

  “Do you actually date him? I mean, do you want to?”

  “Not particularly. But he’s called so many times, I guess I’ll go out with him. I can’t leave the phone off the hook or the contraption makes that buzzing sound. At my age, if you don’t answer, the phone company dispatches EMS to your house.” She grinned.

  “Does Elmore drive?”

  “Sure. We’ll go someplace to eat … maybe to a movie at The Quarry. He’s a nice fellow. I’m just not interested in a relationship.”

  I tried to picture their relationship. “You don’t want to marry again?”

  She sighed. “I adjusted my life for three men, and I lost them. I’m not sure I want to adapt to anybody else.”

  “Don’t you get lonely?” Margaritas make me nosy.

  “Sometimes. I met the men at different stages in my life. I was blessed with wonderful husbands, and I grew with each one. Now I have so many things to think about that my loneliness doesn’t last long. I do think about Ray … how he would view something.”

  “You really loved him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. And you know what? Love never stops.” Sam’s face flashed across my mind. I reminded myself that a liaison had to begin before it could continue into eternity. The prospect of anything more than friendship developing between Sam and his daughter’s Aunt Aggie was remote.

  We were driving up my driveway before I realized that Harry Thorne had looked pale—haunted—not at all like the burly manager that I remembered.

  It occurred to me that Dr. Carmody might have discussed more recent studies in class. I checked my watch. It wasn’t 10:00 p.m. yet. He was probably still up and happy to assist a student in need. I decided to give him a call and explain my absence.

  “Professor Carmody, this is Aggie Mundeen. M-U-N-D-E-E-N. I’m in your afternoon Aspects of Aging class …. Yes, I did miss class today … that is correct. I actually missed the first two sessions. It’s my stomach. I think I contracted a bug at Fit and Firm …. Fit and Firm is the health club where I exercise. Yes, the name of the club is intimidating …. You think I should try exercising my brain? That’s what I’m doing. I’ve been studying your material on antioxidants. If I could borrow your notes for the last couple of classes…”

  It could have been a faulty connection, but I think he hung up.

  Eleven

  Wednesday morning I forced myself to return to Fit and Firm. When I wheeled into the parking garage, I was glad to see that no crime scene tape marked the far entrance where the car had hit Holly. Police must have finished gathering evidence. Club employees must be relieved law enforcement wasn’t highlighting the tragedy. As I walked from the garage to the building, I slowed my gait, my skin prickling from anxiety that I was about to have my worst fears confirmed. I queried the girl at the entrance desk

  “Holly Holmgreen,” she whispered, “the girl hit by the car, died.”

  My eyes filled. I felt dizzy. Blinking my eyes to regain control, I silently vowed to find Holly’s killer.

  I scrutinized the club layout. Beyond the entrance foyer, the ground floor included Tofu Temptations Grill, locker rooms and the swimming pool. Holly’s killer had attacked on the ground floor of the parking garage and in the pool, areas that provided easy access and escape. I searched for additional entrances and exits but didn’t see any. As I ascended the first flight of stairs, I realized the killer could be working out somewhere in the club.

  Level two housed administrative offices, basketball and handball courts and the weight room. As far as I knew, no crimes had been committed there. When I reached level three with the cardio equipment, exercisers were sweating on mountain climbing machines and scaling revolving steps that didn’t go anywhere. If my legs ever stopped shaking after climbing ordinary stairs, I might tackle those moving steps. In a year or two.

  Maybe I could firm up my arms by pulling bars on the rowing machine. Men weren’t excited by bat wings. But the rowers were pretty far from the TV, and my arms were pitifully weak. I searched for machines I could operate and surveyed the area for people who looked capable of murder. None of the members appeared suspicious. Nobody even glanced at me.

  I spotted Meredith on a Body Trek. Delighted to see her using her guest pass, I grabbed the machine next to hers and set the device to “Manual, Slow.” Nobody was close enough to hear us, so I got to the point.

  “I guess you heard about Holly.”

  “It’s just horrible. Who would hit that poor girl? Makes the pool accident appear less accidental, doesn’t it?

  “Yep.”

  She pushed buttons to increase her speed. “Aggie, you’ve got to call Sam. I know he’s not in Traffic Investigation, but murder is murder.”

  “I’m sure he knows about it. I don’t need to call.”

  Meredith glanced over with one eyebrow raised as if she suspected me of contriving something. I changed the subject. “Did the police interview you?”

  “No,” she said, “but they asked me to stick around. When we ate together at Tofu Temptations, somebody must have surmised we were Holly’s closest friends.”

  “Maybe we were, at least here at the club.” Without thinking, I blurted, “Holly reminded me of myself at her age.” I bit my lip, not about to divulge why. “After I saw her poor lifeless body in the street, I barely made it home before vomiting.” I saw no reason to mention that nausea had plagued me long before I heard screams that drew me outside.

  She studied me. “Maybe you should see a doctor.”

  “The shock of seeing Holly upset my stomach. Besides, at my age, getting in shape takes a toll.” Meredith looked skeptical, but she hated to challenge an old, sick person.

  A man in street clothes materialized at the top of the stairs. His stance was rigid, his stomach was flat and he had short hair whacked by a cheap barber. He swept level three with piercing eyes. I pegged him for a cop. He strode toward us.

  “I’m Detective Steve Garrett.” He showed us his badge and ID. “You ladies knew Holly Holmgreen?” Smiling, he took out his pad and asked for our names and addresses.

  My stomach clenched from dread at discussing details of Holly’s death.

  “Mrs. Laughlin, I’d like to speak with you about the deceased. The club set up a room for us downstairs.” Garrett helped Meredith gently off the machine. Texas police officers are so courteous. Talking with this man might not be so terrible.

  He turned to me, “Where can I find you, Ms. Mundeen, in fifteen or twenty minutes?”

  “I�
��ll be in the weight room, Detective.” Machine Mecca was the last place I wanted to go, but if I was ever going to get in shape, I needed to step it up. I had actually scheduled a trainer.

  I followed Meredith and Detective Garrett down the stairs, and they peeled off toward the administrative offices. As I trudged toward Machine Mania, Mickey Shannon sidled up real close and strolled step-by-step beside me.

  “Hey,” he grinned intimately, “we need to work out together.”

  When we approached an alcove where the wall jutted out, Mickey eased me into the crevice. He put his arm up on the extension and grinned close to my face, blocking my exit. “Did you hear about the Aggie who went hunting and shot two deer? The taxidermist asked if he wanted them mounted. ‘No,’ said the Aggie. ‘Kissing will be fine.’”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle until I saw Mickey’s hand aiming for my chest. I squirmed to wiggle out from underneath his arm. I refused to be one of his health club conquests and was not in the mood for his antics. “I paid for a trainer, Mickey. He’s probably waiting for me. I didn’t know when you’d be in the weight room.”

  He dropped his arm and stopped smiling. He’d designated himself physical fitness expert and unofficial flirt for all unattached women. I’m sure it hurt not to be appreciated. “Well, sure, if that’s what you want.” The warmth left his eyes.

  Practicing my southern belle response, I smiled sweetly and patted his arm. “Next time, Mickey, I want you to help me.” He exhaled and seemed to feel better. I feared I’d implied more than I intended. By the time we entered the weight room, he strode jauntily beside me.

  His spectacular face unexpectedly molded into concern. “You hear what happened to that poor little thing...what’s her name?”

  “Holly. Holly Holmgreen.”

  “Terrible.” He shook his head. “Just terrible.”

  “Yes. It was.”

  Ned Barclay was exercising across the room, facing the other way.

  I peeked into Mr. Pilates’ room. Four women lay face up on mats with their legs stretched out and feet perched on top of huge balls. They lifted their backs remarkably high off the floor. It must be a terrible strain to maintain those positions. The female sergeant leered over them. If she worked for Mr. Pilates, he must be a terror. I would avoid that class.

  Since I’m genetically endowed with mechanical ineptitude, the weight room still looked scary. I’d even had confrontations with kitchen appliances. The day I made coffee to celebrate the first morning in my San Antonio home, I forgot to put water in Aunt Novena’s coffee pot. I was standing in my living room when I heard the blast. I thought some Texan had fired a gun. With no water in the percolator, the pressure had built up high enough to shoot those grounds right to the ceiling. The brown stain never did come off. Fortunately, people who came to my house never looked up.

  I was just about to bolt from Machine Mania when Pete Reeves, my scheduled trainer, sauntered over. When Mickey saw he still outsized Pete by three inches and twenty pounds, his charm returned. “We’ll sure plan on working out together, Aggie.” He winked at me and spun around to scan the room for prospects.

  Pete, long, lean and lifeguard gorgeous, immobilized me with his incredible eyes. “We’ll start with your upper body, using machines that work your arms and back.”

  I imagined him massaging my shoulders.

  “I’ll instruct you on each machine and prepare a chart describing each exercise and listing the number of repetitions.” He radiated a smile.

  “Okay, Coach.”

  We stopped at the seated bench press. He said to hold the grips at the sides of my chest, keep my elbows pointed out away from my body and press forward to a straight-arm position. I pressed. The grips didn’t budge.

  Pete rolled his eyes. “Keep trying.”

  Elbows out, I strained against the grips. Nothing.

  He glanced around, his smile plastered on. “Try not to grunt.” He probably longed for one of the young, gorgeous specimens he usually coached. He lowered the weights to thirty pounds. I tried again and managed to shove the grips forward five times. He added five repetitions.

  “Your face is red.” He rolled his eyes up. “Let’s see if we can manage the rope grip extension.”

  Exuding displeasure, he backed me up to a pulley with a handle on the end. He told me to grasp the handle behind my head, point my elbows toward the ceiling and extend my arms up straight. When I pulled, the handle went up three inches. In spite of my obvious inability to control the device, he made me wrench the blasted handle up twelve more times. How did this sadist ever get to be a trainer?

  I spotted Ned Barclay across the room and yearned for his patient approach to exercise.

  “Let’s try some standing bicep curls,” Pete groused.

  With my arms twitching, I followed him to the next station. The handle for this apparatus was on a pulley attached to the floor. At least I could see what I was doing.

  “Grab the handle. From a straight arm position, curl the bar to your chest.” I struggled through twelve repetitions, and he added eight more. My arm muscles quivered so much, I didn’t think I could hold a toothbrush. If only God had made me thin, I wouldn’t have to endure this torture.

  “You’ll like the next one.” Pete unveiled perfect teeth. “You get to lie down on the floor.”

  The thought of reclining was delicious. As soon as I lay down, he handed me a heavy iron bar, told me to place the rod across my chest and push it straight up. After I shoved the bar up five times, he put weights on both ends. I insisted I simply could not lift it. My arms were mush. If I managed to lift the pole and dropped it, the bar would land on my nose, my chin or my boobs.

  Pete said he had an appointment. “Forget the other arm strengthening machines. You can finish with leg extensions.” He flipped his hand toward the machine that Ned Barclay had chivalrously repositioned for me. When he removed the torture bar from my chest. I wondered how long it would take me to get up off the floor.

  Having endured the longest thirty minutes of my life, I scraped myself up, dragged my body to the leg extension machine and slumped in the chair, not bothering to check the settings. I gazed to a faraway place outside the building and pondered how my abused limbs could possibly lift one more frigging bar.

  I held my breath and hoisted my legs with all my strength. They flew up like twin rockets. Ned Barclay, bending over me, was about to speak, but it was too late. My foot hit him full force between the legs.

  His smile contorted into a grimace, then to fury. He stumbled away in reverse, cradling his crotch behind a towel. He bobbled backwards across the gymnasium, straining to keep his knees from buckling. His face was crimson. Every person in the weight room and basketball court gaped at him. His eyes were fixed on me in horror. I wondered if he’d ever walk normally again.

  Twelve

  How, in a split second of self-absorption, had I managed to alienate, and perhaps injure, a really nice man? My full-force upswing in a short vertical space could be disastrous. Did I rupture the poor fellow? Change his voice? Shorten his life span?

  Of all the people I could have walloped, Ned Barclay would take it hardest. He’d never believe my blow was accidental, not after Mickey practically chased him out of the weight room, and I did nothing to prevent it. Not after I made him blush by calling to him in the lunchroom when I sat perched between two guys. After the lunch incident, I’d intended to find Ned and apologize, but I never did. Considering what I’d just done, an apology wouldn’t cut it. My best option was to flee. Slipping off the seat, I slinked at top speed, head down, across the other side of the basketball court.

  Once Detective Garrett found out I’d skedaddled from the weight room, he would probably elevate me to number one suspect as Holly’s killer. I needed to work on my social skills. If I irritated every man at the club, including the investigator, how could I work undercover to solve Holly’s murder?

  Detective Garrett would have to wait. My immediate problem was
reaching the women’s locker room without running into Ned. With him writhing in pain and thoroughly embarrassed, this wasn’t an opportune time for us to meet. If he turned out to have a horrible temper, I could be facing an abbreviated life span.

  Instead of creaking down the stairs, I opted to jump into the rarely used elevator. I pressed “one” and cringed in the corner. A pair of red socks stepped into the elevator cage. Fortunately, they weren’t attached to Ned Barclay. They belonged to Sheldon Snodgrass, the picky eater who’d latched on to us at Tofu Temptations Grill. His eyes bulged above his Ichabod-Crane smile. The mere sight of him made me long for something soaked in butter.

  With no food signs in the elevator, Sheldon focused his attention on me. He inspected me from top to bottom. His eyes lighted on my Lycra pants and bugged out. “You know the party I’m having? The one Thursday night?”

  He slithered over, blocked me in the corner and smiled down at my T-shirt. He wasn’t issuing a general invitation a person could avoid by remaining silent. For a vegetarian, he looked downright carnivorous. When the elevator door opened, I considered screaming until I realized he was handing me a card. I had the distinct impression he wouldn’t let me escape until I read it.

  Food, Fitness and Euphoria

  Sheldon Snodgrass, Editor-in-Chief

  The printed card included his address and the party’s date and time. He waved his arms. “This is Euphoria’s party of the year. All the food buffs come—restaurant owners, chefs, the press—it’s a big bash.”

  There are times when one must lose gracefully. Who knew? I might discover a savory, life-prolonging new dish to describe in my column. I might even pick up clues about Holly’s murder.

  I tried to match his excitement. “You’re so kind to invite me.” I nearly gagged on my southern inflection. “I’ll remind Meredith Laughlin of your invitation. She’ll be delighted to come.”

  No way would I enter Snodgrass’s healthy habitat alone. “Sam Vanderhoven might like to come, too. He’s a good friend of ours.” Without mentioning Sam was a detective, I let Sheldon know we had a male protector.