by Donald Bain
“Your friend’s name, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Of course. It’s, uh, Malorie.”
“And her last name?”
“Muffet.”
“Malorie Muffet?” the woman repeated, incredulous.
“Yes, Malorie Muffet,” I said stiffly, and escaped back to the lounge.
“Jessica, you didn’t,” Meg said, totally surprised and, I could tell, equally pleased when I told her about the appointment.
“Meg, you’re a poster child for a massage candidate. Think of it as a medical necessity. If Seth were here,” I said, raising the image of my good friend and Cabot Cove’s favorite doctor, “he would prescribe it for you.”
“If Dr. Hazlitt prescribes it, then I guess I’d better take my medicine.”
“That’s being a good patient.”
“But if the press gets wind of this—that I was out getting a massage while my foster son stays home waiting to be indicted—they’ll have a field day.”
“Precisely why I made your appointment under a fictitious name,” I said, revealing her nom de massage .
“You told them I was Malorie Muffet?” Meg said, and started to giggle. I was glad to see her mood lighten.
“It was the best I could do under pressure,” I said, chagrined.
A cell phone rang, and it took us a moment to realize the sound was coming from Meg’s purse. The looks of disdain from several of the women seated in the lounge told us that a ringing cell phone was a big faux pas in a spa. Meg hurried to dig it out, pushing aside packets of tissues, an address book, a makeup bag, and a paperback novel, but by the fourth ring, it stopped.
“I can never find that darned thing in here. Jack always says I carry too much in this bag, but I can never decide what I don’t need. When I leave something out, that’s inevitably what I end up looking for the next time.”
Whoever had called either had hung up or was leaving a message. A socialite-type middle-aged woman seated next to Meg reached over and handed her a laminated sign that read, PLEASE, NO CELL PHONES IN THE SPA. THANK YOU.
Meg handed it back to her and apologized. The woman accepted her apology with a nod of her head and placed the small sign back on the end table. I put my arm around Meg and squeezed her shoulder.
Lily entered the lounge with another woman, about the same age, but much taller and a bit overweight. Her name tag read BETHANNE.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” Lily said.
“I could get used to this,” I said, getting up and going over to Lily. It was time for my next treatment.
“See you later,” I said to Meg. “I’ll meet you back here after our massages.”
“Ms. Muffet,” said Bethanne.
No one moved.
“Ms. Muffet,” she said again. “Is there a Ms. Muffet here?”
“Oh! That would be me,” Meg said, blushing a bright red.
“She’s a little distracted today,” I said.
“Yes, I am,” Meg said, giving me a wink as she followed Bethanne from the lounge. “Sorry. I was in another world,” she said to her escort, and to all the other women in the room whose eyes were now focused on her.
Lily placed hot stones on my back as part of the Sonora Stone Massage I was about to enjoy. She explained that the combination of the penetrating warmth of the smooth basalt stones and gentle pressure of the massage was especially therapeutic, and beneficial to the circulatory system.
The heat from the stones felt surprisingly good, and I succumbed to the moody music and gentle kneading, hoping that Meg was getting the same enjoyment from her Swedish Massage. Lily, who was a font of information and gossip once the treatment was over, was a model of silence while she worked. For the next forty-five minutes not a word was spoken. I hadn’t relaxed this much since arriving in Arizona—or during the many weeks and months before my arrival. I had traveled a lot this summer to promote my latest book and then returned home to find the edited pages of my newest manuscript, which had required my immediate attention.
I knew my time was up when Lily started speaking again.
“How did you like this one?” she asked.
“Oh, that was incredibly relaxing,” I said groggily. My stomach growled.
Lily must have heard, because she immediately suggested lunch at the resort’s restaurant. “We have a very healthy menu, and the food is delicious. You have plenty of time. Your next treatment isn’t until two thirty.”
The healthy spa lunch was included in my Day of Beauty package. I don’t usually order from a diet menu. My philosophy is “Everything in moderation,” and it’s worked for me. That, and a morning run when I’m home, a good walk when I’m not. I asked her if there was a “regular” menu available in addition to the spa choices and she laughed and said, “Yes.”
“I’m signed up to give you your next treatment,” said Lily, “but I’ve asked my boss if one of the other girls can do it. I have to leave early today. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. You take off and enjoy yourself.”
“It’s not exactly something enjoyable. Remember I told you about the baseball player who was killed? They’re having a memorial service for Junior Bennett tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Around five or five thirty, I think. But my boyfriend is meeting me here at three. He has an interview with my boss about a job. He worked here as a personal trainer in the off-season last year. That’s how we met. I hope they take him on again. A lot of the players get jobs here and at the other resorts around town.”
“You said he’s coming at three?”
“Yes. Three. That’s why I can’t make your two thirty.” She looked at me quizzically. “Your treatment lasts longer than a half hour.”
“I understand,” I said, thinking that Meg shouldn’t be anywhere near here if one of the Rattlers was going to be at the resort at the same time. Surely Lily’s boyfriend would recognize her.
“We’re leaving right after the interview,” Lily said while tidying up the room for the next customer. “If there’s traffic, it could take more time to get to Mesa, and we have to stop along the way to pick up some of the other guys. We don’t want to be late for the service. They’re expecting lots of people. Hundreds, maybe thousands.”
“That many?” I said. “Where is the service?”
“At Thompson Stadium in Mesa. That’s where the Rattlers play. Then the guys on the team are all going out for dinner to Junior’s favorite restaurant. He loved Italian food, I guess. They’re going to Patsy’s in Phoenix. His father is a very rich man and he’s paying for everyone.”
“Are you invited as well?”
“No. Just the guys. My boyfriend said there’s a bet going around whether or not Ty, the kid accused of killing him, will show up at the service. He’s out of jail because his dad is some big shot in the courts. He better not show his face. Even though a lot of the guys don’t think he did it, my boyfriend said that Junior’s father hates him. Of course, he hated him before the murder. That’s because he was jealous because Ty’s better than his son. It’s so dysfunctional.”
“It certainly sounds that way,” I said.
“Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, you’re all set. Put on your robe and I’ll escort you back to the lounge. You know the drill by now,” she said with a giggle.
“I need to cancel my afternoon treatments,” I said. “I’m terribly sorry, but something has come up.”
The woman at the desk smiled and said, “That’s all right, Mrs. Fletcher. Would you like to reschedule? I can see if we have availability on another day and we can make up what you’re missing. You had two more treatments scheduled for today, the Raindrop Therapy and the Reflexology Pedicure.”
I was especially intrigued by the idea of Raindrop Therapy, whatever that was, and was disappointed to have to miss it. “I really appreciate that, but I don’t know what my schedule will be for the next few days. May I call you?”
“Absolutely. Just give us as much notice as you can,” she said
. “As I’m sure you can see, we’re very busy.”
It would have been pleasant to have lunch with Meg at the Biltmore, but now that one of the Rattlers was due to arrive, I felt it was more important to usher her out of sight as quickly as possible. I walked back to the lounge to see if Meg was there. It was unoccupied. All of the treatment rooms must be full, I thought. While I waited, I picked up a book titled The Zen of Massage. Someone entered the room and I looked up to see if it was Meg. Instead, it was a petite woman in dark-rimmed glasses, her hair wrapped in a turban. She was draped in the same white robe as everyone else and carried a plate of crackers. She sat on a chair, her back to me, but her body language conveyed exhaustion. I resumed turning the pages in the book I was reading and wondered how much longer Meg would be.
“Hi. I’m ready for you,” said Lily.
The woman put down the plate and stood. “Thanks for fitting me in. This is therapy for me and I really need it.”
The voice was familiar and I froze, raising only my eyes to peek at Lily’s customer.
“How are you doing?” Lily asked her, taking her arm. “I’m so sorry about what you’re going through. I’m sorry about Junior.” She spoke quietly, but in the empty lounge her words were audible.
The woman glanced toward me and said to Lily, “Shhh. We don’t talk about that in public.”
It was Karen Locke. Without cosmetics and contact lenses, she was a plain Jane with unremarkable features and acne scars. In front of the camera in full makeup, she was transformed into a very attractive woman.
“Let’s go,” said Karen. “I’m totally bushed.” The two exited the lounge and rounded the corner.
I prayed that Meg wouldn’t burst onto the scene just yet. Timing is everything in life, and in this case, my prayer was too late.
“Mrs. Duffy?” I heard Karen say. “What are you doing here?”
I hurried into the hall and grabbed Meg’s arm, practically dragging her toward the women’s changing room. “We’re just on our way out,” I said.
Locke abandoned Lily and followed us.
“Well, well, well,” she said, her voice steeped in irony. “Your son has been arrested for murder and you’re out getting a massage.” She pulled a cell phone from her pocket. “I can’t believe my luck.” She stalked toward the lockers where Meg and I stood, all traces of her fatigue vanished.
“Ms. Locke, please,” I said. “This is neither the place nor the time.”
Ignoring me, Locke addressed Meg. “You’ve been avoiding the press all week, Mrs. Duffy,” she said, punching a number into her phone. “Some people might think you’re feeling guilty. Do you believe your son is a murderer?” she said.
“Of course not,” Meg said.
“Here’s your opportunity to set the record straight. Tell the public what you think. Inquiring minds want to know.” She thrust the phone toward Meg. “My editor will record whatever you say.”
“This is completely inappropriate, Ms. Locke,” I said. “Being a reporter doesn’t give you the right to intrude on someone’s personal tragedy.”
“It’s okay, Jess,” said Meg, defeated and visibly trembling.
“I don’t agree, Meg. It’s not okay,” I said.
“No one’s private life is sacred in a murder investigation,” Locke said to me. “The public has a right to know what the mother of a suspected murderer is thinking.” She held the phone out to Meg. “They want to hear your side, Mrs. Duffy. They want to know what a mother feels when her only son is arrested for a brutal murder. They want to hear from you how hurt and worried you are.”
“If the public is so hungry for news,” I said, “why don’t you tell them if the baby you’re carrying is Junior’s?”
Karen snapped the phone shut and glared at me. “How dare you. That’s no one’s business. Who told you I’m pregnant?”
Lily joined us in the locker room. “Karen, let me take you to the massage room. Come on.”
“Didn’t I just hear you say no one’s private life is sacred in a murder investigation?” I said. “In that case, why haven’t you reported that you were dating Junior Bennett? Could it be because it’s a conflict of interest to cover a baseball team when you’re dating one of the players? Rumor has it you two had a big fight the night he died. Where were you when Junior was killed?”
“Of all the nerve,” Karen huffed. She turned on her heel and walked swiftly out of the locker room, Lily right behind her.
“Inquiring minds want to know,” I said as the door closed softly behind them.
Meg sank onto a bench.
“I’m sorry, Meg,” I said. “I just couldn’t stand by and let her exploit you.”
Chapter Ten
It took quite a while for Meg to calm down after we returned to the house. The confrontation with Karen Locke had shaken her to the core. She spat out condemnation after condemnation of the press in a constant, staccato monologue. I occasionally tried to intervene, but my efforts were minimally effective, at best.
Finally, after a large glass of wine, her emotional energy waned and she slumped on the couch, her face an ashen mask of anger.
“I know how you feel,” I said as I sat next to her, “but the reality is that Ty’s arrest and Junior’s murder are big news here, maybe the biggest news story they’ve ever had. I’ve had my run-ins with the press, and there have been times when I was angry, too. Today, for instance. But I also realize they have their job to do, as unsavory as that may be at times.”
“I know, I know,” she said. “You’re right, Jess. Jack always says that no matter how the media abuses its power, it is the best hope we have for a true checks-and-balances system in government.” She managed her first smile since leaving the spa. “How did you know that she was pregnant, Jess?”
“There have been a number of clues, nothing definitive, but it turned out that my putting two and two together was correct. Sometimes it isn’t. Look, Meg, I have a feeling that things might begin to fall into place shortly. At least, I hope they will. The answer lies with the team and—”
“The team? Do you think one of the other players killed Junior?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I just have this feeling that the answer could come out of the team, maybe the Bennett organization, maybe not. But I’m determined to start aggressively pushing now. The team is gathering after tonight’s memorial service for Junior at the stadium.”
“That’s right,” Meg said. “At Patsy’s in Phoenix. They always go there.”
“I wish I could go, too,” I said, “to pick up on the interaction between players and management.”
A small smile played on her lips. “Knowing you, you could probably wangle an invitation.”
“I doubt that very much,” I said, laughing. “But I may be able to get close enough to see something that would add another piece to this puzzle. I have an idea.”
“You never seem to be without one,” she said.
“I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or not,” I said. “Tell me about Patsy’s. Is it a big restaurant?”
“Not very big, but with a nice dining room. Jack and I have been there several times. The food is hearty Italian, the atmosphere very lively. The bar is lovely, too.”