by Camy Tang
He pushed on a half-open door to reveal a small but neat room decorated with more silks on the walls and a few low tables covered with more Thai fabric.
Aside from the facial chair and a small cabinet in the corner, the room was empty, so he withdrew.
He peeked into another room, feeling suddenly ten years old again, visiting his Aunt Gertrude in her Victorian house filled with valuables and history. The statues, the furniture, the ambience—everything screamed both decadence and privilege, similar to the Hollywood spas he’d heard of. Naomi dressed like one of the staff, but this must be an enormous business to run.
They’d finished checking all the empty rooms in the corridor when a door clicked open. Immediately, Naomi scurried to number thirty-five, where a tall woman in her late forties had just sashayed out, absently waving her pink-tipped fingers. At the sight of Devon, she carefully pinched closed the neck of her loosely tied robe, and a pulse blipped at her throat.
“Ms. Fischer, I apologize for bothering you.” Naomi drew the woman’s eyes from burning holes in Devon’s head. “Were you speaking with Ms. Ortiz before your manicure? We’re looking for her.”
Ms. Fischer stiffened her shoulders and sniffed. “She was heading toward the Tamarind Lounge.” Her heavy-lidded eyes drifted away from Naomi’s face.
“Did she mention any of her appointments today?”
“Her massage.”
“Did she mention when or with whom?”
Ms. Fischer’s gaze shifted back to Naomi. “What do you mean? With you, naturally.” She sniffed again.
“Thank you, Ms. Fischer. Enjoy the rest of your day at Joy Luck Life.” With a professional smile, Naomi turned and headed back the way they’d come. Devon hustled to escape Ms. Fischer’s disapproving glare.
Naomi turned down another corridor. “These are the massage rooms. They tend to be the busiest.”
As soon as he entered the hallway he smelled it. Blood. Metallic and harsh. His chest tightened, and he grabbed Naomi’s wrist to keep her from moving forward.
She fought at first, but then she smelled it, too. Her dry lips parted and she scanned the rows of doors, some open, some closed.
“Stay close.” He reached out to ease open the first door, which was halfway closed. Peering in, he saw only a dark, empty massage room with the padded table draped in white linen and ready for the next client.
He didn’t realize he still held her wrist until she gently disengaged it. His palm chilled as if missing her warm skin.
The next open door was on her side of the corridor. She reached out to push it more fully open, but he stopped her. “No, let me do it.”
Her face seemed calm at first, but he noticed a wildness around the edges of her eyes as she peered into the darkness beyond the cracked door. “That’s my massage room.” Her voice was high and strangled.
Her massage room door was barely open, unlike the other doors along the corridor, which were either closed or at least halfway open to show the empty status of the room. He eased it open.
The soft light from the corridor fell on the edge of a dark pool.
His nerves fired like a popping spark plug. He grabbed Naomi’s arm and shoved her against the wall. She didn’t protest—she’d seen the blood.
Chattering voices suddenly tinkled from the other end of the corridor as a client in a bathrobe was escorted by a staff in uniform.
“Stop.” Naomi’s voice shot toward them. Her raised hand trembled. “Lavinia, please escort Ms. Everingham to the Tamarind Lounge.”
Lavinia halted, mouth open, but in the next second, she turned to her client with an overwide smile. “I don’t think you’ve ever been in the Tamarind Lounge, have you, Ms. Everingham? Follow me. It’s normally reserved for Tamarind members only, so you’re in for a treat today.” She continued to chatter as they turned the corner out of sight.
Now that was a well-trained staff. The Grants impressed him more and more.
A low moan issued from the room.
His heart pulsed hard. He pushed open the door.
Blood was everywhere. He’d seen lots of it in his surgeries, but the sight now made his throat tighten. Behind him, Naomi gagged.
A woman lay on the floor next to the massage table, and Devon’s breath stopped a moment at the sight of the platinum-blond corkscrew curls. Jessica.
He dropped to his knees to turn her over.
She gasped a spray of blood. What looked like a blunt-force trauma injury bled from her temple.
“Towels?” he asked.
Naomi darted toward the cabinet in the corner while he looked for anything lying near him. He grabbed the sheet covering the massage table and applied pressure to her wound. Warm liquid seeped through the fabric of his pants, pooling around his kneecaps. The room had a sickening, metallic, vanilla smell.
Naomi kneeled next to him, her arms full of towels. “It’s all right, Ms. Ortiz, you’ll be fine.”
He fumbled in his pants pocket and withdrew his cell phone, but she grabbed it from him. “Keep helping her. I’ll dial 911.”
“Put it on speakerphone so I can talk to the dispatcher. I’ll need to talk to the trauma team.”
Under the blood staining her face, Jessica’s skin was paler than her hair. Half-lidded dark eyes found his.
“Andrea,” she whispered.
And closed her eyes.
THREE
Naomi had never seen someone die before.
Even when her mother had died, she and her sisters had been forced to stay home with Aunt Becca while her father went to the hospital alone. Mom had been killed instantly by the drunk driver, and Dad hadn’t wanted them to see her.
Aunt Becca rubbed Naomi’s arms and patted her cheeks now, as she had done that night. “It’s all right, Naomi.”
“No, it’s not all right.” Naomi had to speak around her chattering teeth. She wore two of the spa bathrobes and still felt as if she’d taken an arctic swim. “Poor Jessica. I’ve been massaging her for years. And now she’s gone.” Her voice cracked.
Jessica had always been friendly, if a little ditzy. Always said something to make her laugh. Had such a sweet, airy smile when explaining why she had to stay in the room longer than she was scheduled for. Jessica had been self-centered, but pleasant about it so that Naomi almost didn’t mind that her client was trying to get away with something.
“How are we going to tell Dad? This is going to make him determined to come to the spa, despite his condition.”
Becca gave her a little shake. “Even though your father’s a stubborn old cuss, your sister Monica is even worse than he is, under all her sweet demeanor. She won’t let him do anything that would hurt himself.” A twinkle appeared in her eye. “Besides, he’s not cleared to drive yet, and I’m pretty sure Monica hid his car keys.”
Speaking of sisters…“Where’s Rachel?”
“She’s still in her lab. She’s in the middle of an experiment—you know how she gets—and she wouldn’t be much use here, so I told her to stay.”
“The detective isn’t going to want to speak to her?”
“Why should he? Even though she’s one of the owner’s daughters, she didn’t see anything because she was in the laboratory in back all morning.”
And Rachel’s rather spacey way of stating the bare, honest truth might get them in trouble somehow.
Aunt Becca pinched her elbow. “Calm down.”
She jerked her arm away. “I am calm.”
“You’re as calm as a wet cat. I thought you’d bite the detective’s head off earlier when he asked if the massage room was yours or not. You didn’t need to tell him he could expect to find your prints all over the room in quite the tone you used.”
Well, that might have been true. “He just seemed so…stern.”
“But he had kind eyes.” Becca smiled a bit dreamily at the thought of the detective.
Naomi didn’t see Detective Carter in such a rosy light. Earlier, he’d only asked her about the massage ro
om, but she’d been blubbering in shock, so Aunt Becca had asked him to come back later. In fact, Devon had kindly stepped in and offered to be interviewed first. Detective Carter would be interviewing her next, she was sure.
Naomi’s attention was drawn to Dr. Knightley, standing with the detective near the receptionists’ desk. Poor man seemed really upset—and why not? He’d come to see Jessica.
And she’d been found dying.
A shadow settled over her. Why had he needed to see Jessica so insistently? She wished she were close enough to overhear his interview with the detective.
Maybe she could arrange to get close enough.
She started making her way toward the receptionists’ desk. Devon’s mouth stretched tight and his words seemed clipped.
A bony hand clawed at her arm. “What are you doing?” Aunt Becca hissed.
She pulled away. “I want to know why Devon Knightley wanted to see Jessica.”
“Leave them alone.” Her aunt’s hand clamped around her elbow this time.
Naomi turned to glare at her. “One of our clients was killed in my massage room. I intend to find out exactly why I found her only minutes after he appeared asking for her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Devon Knightley didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“How in the world would you know that?”
“I know him and I know his family. I’ve worked with his mother on many different charity events. Devon Knightley would never do anything so violent.”
“People do unexpected things all the time in the heat of a moment.”
“I know Devon Knightley. Besides, I’m a very good judge of character.”
Naomi pressed her mouth closed, because she couldn’t really argue when Aunt Becca’s track record on who and who not to hire for the spa had been one hundred percent so far. What if she was right about Devon?
Naomi shook her head. “I can’t just stand here waiting.”
“You’re going to get in trouble.”
“I’m the acting manager of the spa. I can go wherever I please, which includes near the receptionists’ desk.”
Aunt Becca sighed and released her elbow. “You were never this stubborn when you were just head massage therapist.”
“I didn’t have to be this stubborn before Dad had a stroke and put me in charge.”
With that parting shot, Naomi tried to nonchalantly make her way toward the receptionists’ desk. It was a massive marble affair, but hopefully she could stand at one end and still overhear the conversation at the other end.
Detective Carter glanced her way as she approached, but she nodded professionally and then bent her head to fiddle with the appointments computer at the far end of the desk. He turned back to Dr. Knightley without hesitation, so he must not have been upset at her being nearby.
Good.
Except she couldn’t hear a thing.
She stared at the computer screen intently, as if that would make her ears work better. All she could make out were a few random words: “Jessica,” “talk,” “known.” Devon’s voice was louder than the detective’s, so she mostly heard his answers to questions.
How could she get closer without attracting notice?
“I didn’t like her, but I didn’t kill her!”
Devon’s exclamation made her jump. Her hand knocked the computer mouse askew.
Which gave her an idea…
She glanced at Devon and Detective Carter, but neither seemed to notice. Devon’s face had turned a motley shade of red, while the detective coolly surveyed his notebook.
She casually knocked her hand into a holder of pens and sent them scattering across the desk. Immediately she bent to pick up the one pen that fell onto the floor.
She slowly slid her hand with the pen toward her left, closer to the two men. If anyone saw her slithering along on the floor, she could show the pen as her excuse, and the pens strewn across the desk would explain the rest.
She inched her body closer to them and strained her ears. The voices sounded even more muffled because of the desk. Why hadn’t she thought of that? If she got closer…
If she got caught…
Her heart pounded, and she closed her eyes for a brief moment. This wasn’t a smart move, but she didn’t care. She had to find out why Devon had so conveniently showed up, asking for a woman who was already bleeding to death in her massage room.
She crawled as quietly as she could toward the other end of the desk. Devon and Detective Carter’s voices grew louder, but not just from her proximity. It sounded like tempers were rising and they couldn’t keep their conversation low-pitched.
“I told you, Detective, I haven’t seen her in—”
“Then how did you know she’d be here this weekend?”
A minuscule pause. “I spoke to her personal assistant and found out.”
“And why did you speak to her assistant instead of Ms. Ortiz directly?”
“Jessica’s impossible to talk to on the phone, and I didn’t have half an hour to spare to try to keep her focused enough to answer my questions.”
That sounded like Jessica. She loved rambling during her sessions, telling Naomi things she probably shouldn’t know. But Jessica did that same rambling when Naomi had to settle her spa account, too, which had annoyed her.
Naomi bit the inside of her lip. It seemed wrong to remember being annoyed at her. Jessica hadn’t been a bad person. Naomi had even liked her, in a way.
“Detective, you have to understand this is just a coincidence.”
“And you have to understand, Dr. Knightley, that in my business, coincidences don’t happen very often.” The detective’s voice had deepened, grown more gravelly.
“I had nothing to do with her death.”
“Why did you need to speak to her now?”
“My sister’s wedding is in six weeks.”
“Why didn’t you try to contact Ms. Ortiz before this?”
“I did, but she wouldn’t take my calls.”
“And so you decided to force a confrontation in a public place.”
“I hoped she would be reasonable in public.”
“Any particular reason you picked this place?”
“I thought she’d be in a better mood here. She’s always happy to come here.”
“But she’s not happy, Dr. Knightley. She’s dead. Your ex-wife is dead.”
“What do you mean, you knew?” Naomi stared at her aunt as they stood on the other side of the foyer.
“Of course, I knew. I wouldn’t be a very good hostess if I didn’t know things about my clients’ personal lives.”
“Why would you need to know that?”
Aunt Becca gave her a hard stare. “Think about it. I might stick two mortal enemies in sessions at the same time so they’d meet in the common lounge, or in session rooms next to each other. The spa prides itself on giving high-profile clients a relaxing experience. Meeting someone you don’t like is not a relaxing experience.”
“But knowing things like that…Isn’t that gossip?” She had a hard time believing her religious aunt would stoop to something like that.
“It’s not gossip. I get my information from the clients themselves or the people involved.”
As acting manager, maybe Naomi ought to know these things as well. “Am I the only one who didn’t know he’s her ex-husband?”
“No, I doubt it’s common knowledge. I found out from Devon’s mother at a charity event we attended together last year.”
“How long have they been divorced?”
“At least two years. Before Jessica started coming to our spa.”
“Ahem.”
Detective Carter stood in front of her. Her heart slammed into gear like a revving truck engine.
“Miss Grant, could I speak to you alone?”
Naomi glanced at Aunt Becca, but her darling aunt, the woman who had protected and raised her since Mom died, threw her to the wolves. “Why certainly, Detective. I’ll just be over there.�
�� Aunt Becca pointed to the receptionists’ desk several yards away. And then she was gone.
Could the detective smell fear? His “kind eyes” penetrated her sharply. Did he know she’d overhead part of his conversation with Dr. Knightley? His penetrating gaze made her struggle not to look away guiltily.
“Your father is the owner of this spa, but where is he?”
“At home, recovering from a small stroke he suffered a few months ago.”
“By himself?”
“My younger sister, Monica, is a registered nurse, and she left her hospital in San José to come home to nurse him.” And wasn’t too happy about it, either, but Naomi had to give Monica credit for making the sacrifice.
“Your mother is…?”
“She passed away when I was in junior high school.”
“I’m truly sorry.”
His sympathy made her blink harder. Mom’s death still felt like pinpricks in her heart, and Jessica’s death revived the old ache. She missed her mother’s murmuring endearments to her in Japanese, softly so Dad wouldn’t hear and complain he couldn’t understand.
“Do you have any other siblings?”
“My older sister, Rachel, is a dermatologist who does research in a laboratory facility built into the back of the spa. She develops the skin treatments we use. She was in her lab all morning and didn’t know about any of this, so we didn’t ask her to come out here. Did you need to see her?”
“Probably not.” He consulted his notes. “So Ms. Ortiz was a regular client of yours?”
“Yes, she came to the spa every few months. Her last visit was about four months ago.”
“Your staff mentioned that she always requested you for her massage.”
The way he said it was almost as if he’d caught her in a deliberate omission. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“You were with Dr. Knightley when you found Ms. Ortiz?”
“Yes.” Images of poor Jessica, weak and dying, made her press her lips together.
“Describe what happened for me.”
She told him in a low voice. She didn’t really want to go over it again.
“You mentioned that the massage room is yours. Do all the objects inside the room belong to the spa, or are some of them your personal items?”