I couldn’t believe I was wearing low risers. I sucked in my stomach and slapped my hand over my navel.
Mickey had a chokehold on the hog when the music stopped abruptly. He threw off the hog in a wild, aimless gesture. It hit Mindy and bounced off, crashed against Knobs and knocked her to the floor. Landing with its backside on her stomach, the hog returned to icy paralysis, its legs splayed skyward and its head swiveled back toward her terrified face.
Everyone froze. After seconds of silence, Professor Carmody glided in, a puff pastry on roller skates. He skidded to a stop and whipped his left skate sideways to the back of his right in perfect T-stop position. He held a baton high and directed invisible musicians who played tinkling strains of medieval music to cleanse the atmosphere.
Ned Barclay materialized at one side of the room. Dressed like a knight in gleaming armor, he parted the crowd. Holly Holmgreen floated in from the other side dressed like Guinevere. Pixie dust surrounded them and floated through the room’s inhabitants, clothing them in thirteenth-century splendor.
I glanced down, pleased to see my chest artfully lifted with a tight corset and my navel covered with gauzy fabric that draped to the floor.
The music changed to a dignified waltz. Ned and Holly led the dancing, gazing into each other’s eyes. A baby in antiquated swaddling clothes popped out between them, nestled on a tiny silk hassock. They smiled at their new attachment and kept on waltzing.
Sarah Savoy appeared at one side of the room, a snarl on her lips. A frighteningly beautiful medieval witch, wearing a cone hat with glittering streamers and a floor-length Prada coat, she raised a wand high above her head.
“Make sure,” she hissed, “you’re good parents. Bad parents will destroy the child!”
“Ohhhhhh,” the crowd murmured, slithering back en masse from the elegant, fearsome creature.
Sarah shrieked at Holly and Ned. “A hex on you! You will be skewered by King Arthur.” She flicked her wand and sprayed the room with evil black sparkle dust.
I woke up gasping for air.
Thirty
I was alone. The black night contributed to my fear. Then I remembered. Somewhere outside in the dark was the police officer Sam had assigned to watch my house. After the gas attack, Sam had instructed him to drive my car home. The clothes I’d put in a locker before the attack lay on top of my dresser. I’d throw them out later. After a while, I felt calm enough to drift to sleep without nightmares.
When I woke up Wednesday morning, I knew I had to get a grip. I must have sniffed too much oxygen up my nose, not to mention Albuterol. That stuff made me crazy. My brain cells were becoming senescent. I practiced deep breathing, brushed my teeth and drank water until I stopped coughing.
I tossed bacon in a skillet and beat three eggs with a fury. With my system free of camphor, ammonia and Clorox, I was starving. Brain food would help me hone in on the creep who was making my life miserable.
Sam and I had agreed that anyone could have substituted bottles filled with liquefied camphor for the club’s deodorant bottles. I’d seen the cleaning woman move bottles between locker rooms. Maybe the killer asked the unsuspecting housekeeper to deliver toiletries to the women’s dressing area. She’d probably re-supply the most accessible primping station first, which was the one I used. Members frequently asked her for refills. I remembered when Mason Jar obtained hair spray for Knobs.
I inhaled the odor of crackling bacon and salted my eggs.
If the murderer knew his victim’s workout schedule, he could have employed another method to deliver poisoned bottles. He could have told a female club member that his wife or friend was out of deodorant and asked the naïve pawn to deliver it to the station he designated. Later, the killer would watch his intended victim. If she looked sick, the killer would know the poisoned bottles had been well placed.
Several people had seen Holly and me appear ill. Pete Reeves probably overheard me say I felt nauseated when I lingered to talk to Holly at Tofu Temptations Grill. Everybody who attended Sheldon’s party certainly knew I was sick. Holly looked unhealthy the few times I saw her. Whoever wanted to kill Holly or me knew his poison was on target.
My eggs were superb. I’d forgotten how great food tasted. I consumed two pieces of toast, one with butter and one with apple butter. With my stomach full, I could study. Since I’d missed Carmody’s Monday and Tuesday classes for two weeks and didn’t want to be booted out, I had to get busy.
The syllabus said we would discuss heart disease. I recalled some scientists thought if they could eradicate heart disease, they could extend average life span by almost ten years. This was incredible news, yet Professor Carmody had haughtily dismissed it. In addition to reading my notebook, I researched the subject online.
I studied all day, stopping only to devour a small peanut butter sandwich before I showered and dressed for the professor’s Wednesday session of enlightenment.
I drove to University of the Holy Trinity and pranced into class smiling.
“How are you, Dr. Carmody?” I pronounced his name carefully. I was afraid I’d previously called him something else. His eyes widened. My reappearance apparently crushed his hopes.
“Flu bug.” I slipped to my seat, hoping he was too stunned to question my absence. Sitting ramrod straight, I displayed strict control of my faculties in case my demeanor during our last class together had been less than decorous. I flipped through my notebook with intense interest.
Carmody rolled his eyes and looked toward heaven for help. “Today, we’ll discuss heart disease, especially in women. Dr. Jenna Tranham, Director of the Women’s Heart Health Institute, Southern University Medical Center, says cardiovascular disease accounts for nearly fifty percent of deaths in developed and developing countries. The risk of dying from heart disease is greater than the risk from AIDS and all forms of cancer combined.”
He flicked me a sideways glance. I remembered Sam’s saying chlorine gas could have given me a heart attack.
“However, the doctor reports good news. Although more people in our aging population have heart disease, death rates from it are falling. In some cases, doctors can stop a heart attack in its tracks. They can treat heart rhythm problems and heart failure and give people with heart disease many more years of high quality life.” He smiled at everyone in the room, avoiding eye contact with me.
“Dr. Tranham says the number of men who die from heart attacks decreased every year since 1979. But over the same time period, fatal heart attacks among women increased. Nearly one in two women dies of cardiovascular disease.” He stared at me dead on.
That cinched it: I would resume exercising and adopt a healthy diet. I wasn’t about to thrill Professor Carmody by dying. He didn’t know my heart was strong enough to survive ingesting poison and careening down a flight of stairs. He covered some well-known facts and spent the remaining class time blah-blahing about statistics. By the time class ended, my mind had wandered to suspects at the health club.
I cranked up my Wagoneer and drove east on Hildebrand, thinking about my attempted murder in the shower. A woman could have tossed in balloons, but if the killer was a man, how did he enter the women’s locker room without being noticed?
For the club’s Ten Year Celebration, I remembered the staff had left locker room doors ajar so prospective customers could tour the entire facility. They partitioned off changing areas and showers for members by constructing flimsy corridors—standing wood frames with fabric stapled on them. I’d heard visitors speaking through the fabric and felt uneasy walking unclothed to the shower with strangers clomping around on the other side. If somebody wanted to peek around the barrier, he could easily peel back a section of material.
I pictured the killer lurking unnoticed in the foyer among members and visitors, waiting until he saw me enter the locker room. He could pretend to tour the women’s area, slip stealthily through the barrier and head for my shower.
I almost missed my turn onto Burr Road. I wheeled right
at the last minute, thankful nobody was tailgating me.
If the culprit carried balloons, no one would notice. Balloons were everywhere. If someone saw him slip in or out of the partitioned area, he could say he got lost or was curious about the women’s facilities. Harry Thorne could go anywhere without raising suspicion.
When I arrived home, I bounded inside to get my Big Chief tablet. I wanted to make a list of pros and cons for every suspect who could have killed Holly, starting with Harry Thorne. I placed it on the dining table and began to write.
Harry Thorne
Pros
Embarrassed by Holly.
Devastated by Holly.
Wanted kids (Holly’s baby).
Had easy access.
Cons
Capable of killing niece?
Harry & car easy to identify.
Was sick when I was.
If caught, he disgraced his club.
Harry and Holly’s history was so bizarre anything was possible.
I peered at my living room photos. When I’d perused photographs in Holly’s apartment, I focused on the men I knew, but Holly had undoubtedly dated men I didn’t know. I should have studied more faces in her pictures. Somebody captured on film could have been waiting in line at the celebration or working out somewhere in the club. I should have been more observant. I doubted I could riffle through Holly’s apartment again. Sam had probably padlocked the door.
I thought about the men I knew. Holly had dated Mickey, Ned, Sheldon and probably Pete. I knew her involvement with the first three had ended in conflict. If Pete made her suffer using weight machines like he did me, she probably scratched him off her list as soon as she could grip her pencil. I didn’t know enough about Pete to list pros and cons, but I thought his ego paralleled Mickey’s. I knew he lacked patience. Maybe he was impatient with Holly, she flipped him off, and he killed her.
As for attempts on my life, I’d made all the men angry, so it was difficult to single one out. Since I believed Holly’s murder was linked to attacks against me, and we had both associated with Sheldon, I decided to hone in on him. I picked up my pencil.
Sheldon was painfully serious about the magazine he edited, his knowledge of cuisine and his food choices. When I embarrassed him in front of San Antonio’s culinary elite at a party he’d planned for a year, swarming with media, his hatred of me became intense. Not only did I ruin the most important event in his life by becoming ill at the sight of his delicacies, I might have hurt subscriptions to his prized magazine and jeopardized his livelihood.
Remembering his predatory attitude toward me in the elevator, I shivered. To comfort myself, I padded to the kitchen and ate a banana smeared with peanut butter. Did madness hide behind Sheldon’s food fetish?
I thought about Holly. She was basically a sweet little thing, but she didn’t strike me as a girl who had become serious until she was forced to make a life-altering decision. Before she got pregnant, I pictured her as a delightful little waif who loved to dress up, party and date every available man. She worked Harry over because he and Arnold gave her whatever she wanted. I remembered how her closet overflowed with clothes.
I opened the refrigerator and poured myself a glass of milk.
Holly and Sheldon might have used drugs together, judging from Sheldon’s supply. He would have hidden the bad stuff. If Sheldon were into drugs, he would have told Holly what to take, just like he told people what to eat. Once he became seriously controlling, I imagined Holly pirouetted out of the relationship. Sheldon, self-absorbed and positive he was always right, wouldn’t have appreciated her independence.
I thought about the note in Holly’s shoe. I’d assumed that Harry wrote it, but maybe it was Sheldon. Holly probably viewed her dates with him as a lark, whereas I doubted Sheldon took a light view of anything. Did he kill Holly for jilting him? Maybe she’d enraged him by dumping him at a previous Party of the Year. That could have done it.
I strode back to the dining table, reached for my Big Chief tablet and flipped to a clean page. Sheldon roared at me like an angry beast on the grassy slope outside Fit and Firm. Did he roar because I’d ruined his party or because he was shocked to see me alive?
Sheldon Snodgrass
Pros
Controlling food nut who failed to change Holly.
Holly probably ruined his party.
He gave Holly drugs. Did she threaten to tell?
Cons
Would he risk his magazine’s reputation by killing somebody?
Sheldon’s list was lopsided. I was suddenly exhausted from thinking about being murdered by the health club weirdo, assuming I didn’t die first from heart disease.
To rest my mind, I flipped back to Carmody’s notebook. For Thursday’s class, he had scheduled “The Importance of Exercise,” which wouldn’t require much study. Pete, Mickey and Ned could write a dissertation on that subject. Unfortunately, one of them might be trying to kill me.
Thirty-One
First thing Thursday morning, I stuffed toast in my mouth and called Meredith. “Hey, I feel great. What are you doing tomorrow morning?”
“Gee...I don’t know. What are you thinking?”
“I feel fabulous but fat. Want to work out? The club received clearance to reopen Friday morning. They’re giving special discounts to the first two hundred people who show up.”
“I can’t believe you want to go back there. Does Sam know about this?”
“Not exactly. When he sees us there, he’ll know we’re fine. In the meantime, he has this patrol officer driving by and lurking outside my house to protect me. It’s driving me crazy. I really need to work out. It’ll be therapeutic after all the stress.” I coughed.
“Agatha, you’re impossible. Have you forgotten you almost got killed over there?”
“No, but whoever did it won’t try that stunt again. No balloons. It’ll take the creep a while to come up with something new. Just think, we might get a cheap six-month membership. This is our chance to maintain our workout routine. My body is just beginning to firm up.”
The “firm” part wasn’t exactly true. I hadn’t eaten much except peanut butter for a week and was probably aging from malnutrition.
“Why don’t we wait until the police find this crazy person and Holly’s killer and then go back to the club?”
Meredith relied on logic. She couldn’t help it. Sometimes her logic was really a pain. “Because we’ll have to wait forever and pay full membership price.”
“Yes, but...”
“Look. Police will be swarming the place. The balloon creep knows they’re searching for him and so does Holly’s killer. They’re not about to try anything. This is the perfect time to go.”
“Well, I don’t know...”
“Okay. Think about this: We sign up and get the discount, then we leave. Or I find Sam or a police officer, tell him we’re there, and we go ahead and work out.”
“Well...”
“While you’re thinking, let me tell you how we can slip past this cop and get to the club...”
I had deliberated about how to elude Sam’s police officer and reach the club without being followed. It occurred to me Boffo might help, so I’d powered up my computer and searched through dog sites until I found “Earthdog Startup Training.” It was exactly what I needed. I put my Big Chief tablet nearby to make notes. I clicked to a history of terrier/dachshund combinations like Boffo that explained how to train them to become good earthdogs. Boffo would have the opportunity to exhibit his proud heritage.
“Even an older dog,” I read, “whose instincts have never been challenged, but lie beneath the surface waiting for that special moment to arrive, may prove to be the finest working terrier or dachshund in the kennel.” There it was in black and white. Boffo had the chance to be a star.
The article described how to train a dog to develop his instinct to chase vermin through tunnels, route them out of burrows and capture them. It said the trainer should start the dog off
by tantalizing him with a rat in a cage. “An adult dog, depending on the strength of his instincts, may easily accomplish cage training in one or two sessions.” I had personally witnessed the strength of Boffo’s genetic inclinations. He was about to fulfill his destiny.
I hopped into my Wagoneer, drove to the Austin Highway pet store and bought a laboratory rat, an 8” x8” x6” cage, rat food and doggie treats. The rat was kind of cute. I named him Addison. I took him home in his new cage, set it just outside my front door and threw in a few rat treats. My feet itched ferociously. After stuffing doggie treats in the pocket of my jeans, I bounced over to Grace’s house and knocked on her door. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“No. I’m trying to keep Boffo quiet so I can play the piano.”
He flopped over my tennis shoe and growled, chewing the laces. I wondered if my insurance covered dog attacks. “If you put his leash on, I’ll take him for a walk.”
“Would you do that? That would be great.”
“Sure. Before we go, I wonder if you have any clothes I can use for the military-civilian party at BAMC in March. I volunteered for the committee. We thought it might be fun to dress like people did during World War II. I know you were a child then, but I thought maybe you saved something from a relative.”
“I kept a couple of items from Aunt Justa’s war years. How about her boxy shoulder-padded jacket? I might even have one of her skirts.”
“Perfect. Do you have one of those big hats they wore? The kind that covers your hair?”
“You bet. Aunt Justa kept a knitted snood women wore to keep their hair from tangling in machines when they worked in war production factories. She also had a big, floppy hat she called her ‘nineteen forty-two’ hat. You can use those. I don’t have any shoes, though. I threw them out. Wait, I know. What about wearing Charlie’s old Army boots? I saved a pair. I’ll trap Boffo in the bathroom, and we’ll have a look.”
Fit To Be Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 1) Page 18