Young Ladies of Mystery Boxed Set

by Stacy Juba

  How did one respond to that? Cassidy tried a little humor. "Well, you’re so thin, there’s not much to pinch. Let's talk about your fitness goals. Would you like to build muscle definition?"

  "I want to do whatever you do."

  "Even if I somersaulted off a cliff?"

  Rhonda Sue giggled as if Cassidy had cracked a joke worthy of Saturday Night Live in its heyday. "I'm sure you'd have a good reason."

  Choking back a laugh, Cassidy strode into the wide open exercise room with Rhonda Sue at her heels. They passed the equipment, all of which was occupied. Very unusual for a summer morning.

  "It's important to find exercise you like," Cassidy said over the blast of Top 40 music. "Some people love aerobics, but hate the Stair Master. Others prefer treadmills."

  "I want to look like you. I even dyed my hair your color. It's not exact, but next time it will be better." Blushing, Rhonda Sue fingered a lock of her streaming cherry mane, worn in Cassidy's loose style.

  This was getting less and less amusing. Please tell me all my new clients won’t be this loony, Cassidy prayed. She walked past the Nautilus circuit of upper and lower body machines. "You should hold off. I’m thinking of going blonde."

  First Miles, the stranger who'd sent Raggedy Ann. Now a kooky girl who wanted a body like hers. Movie stars must deal with this bizarre stuff all the time. How did they stand it? Cassidy supposed you could tolerate a lot if there were enough zeroes pumping up your bank account. She parked Rhonda Sue in a chair beside a computer station, blood pressure cuff and miscellaneous testing equipment.

  "Felicia was a bitch," Rhonda Sue said as Cassidy withdrew the skinfold caliper from her tricep. "Remember the time her team won that luau on deck, and the rest of you had to hula as entertainment? I hated how she rubbed your noses in it."

  "Me too," Cassidy said.

  "She drooled when you guys won the barbecue, though. I loved it when Felicia had to grill and serve all that food. She threw down that bowl of strawberry shortcake so hard, I thought the whipped cream would splatter in your face."

  Cassidy scribbled a minuscule body fat measurement on a chart, tempted to tell her that she had lived the show and didn't need play-by play. She hurried through the Sit-and-Reach flexibility test, offered a rundown of the Nautilus circuit, then dumped Rhonda Sue on the treadmill.

  Cassidy had five minutes between appointments and circled the indoor track to clear her head. She breathed the familiar chlorine scent filtering up from the pool. It reminded her of the last time she'd swum in a pool, during the L.A. auditions. Each finalist had to pass a battery of tests: treading water, back float, front crawl with rhythmic breathing.

  "Hey, Cassie."

  Slowly, she turned to face Howie the Womanizer. His bald head gleamed in the light slanting through the tall windows and a gold stud ornamented his earlobe. Howie slapped the paunch that sagged beneath his sleeveless black tee-shirt. Gray hair curled on his sideburns, arms and legs. "I've been jogging three miles a day. Impressed?"

  That was the ironic part, he worked out as much as he bragged, but couldn't lose the spare tire. It gave Cassidy unreasonable satisfaction. "Good for you."

  "We missed you, gorgeous. How about some racquetball later?" He directed the question toward her chest.

  She was tempted to direct her answer by way of a swift kick to his shins. "I'll have to choose between you and a root canal without Novocain," she said sweetly. "Let me give that some thought."

  Cassidy resumed her walk. Howie trailed her, his fluorescent green Nikes squeaking against the floor. "You brush your hair a lot," he said.

  "I'm afraid to ask. What?"

  "The TV cameras caught you brushing your hair. You must do a hundred strokes. No wonder it's smooth and satiny."

  That decided it. Cassidy would catch up on her TiVo and watch as many episodes as she could stand. She hadn't had a chance, between unpacking, savoring real food and enjoying her mattress. She had to see why everyone was raising such a fuss about the show. About her.

  "Brushing my hair is a weird habit I got into. Gotta run, Howie."

  "Call me," he shouted after her, pinning an invisible phone to his ear.

  "Yeah, I’ll do that," she muttered under her breath. "Right after I give birth to Reggie Elliott’s love child."

  Cassidy led another fitness orientation, this time with a college boy who she knew was mentally undressing her, and then retreated to the locker room. She studied her harried reflection in the bathroom mirror, fingering her ponytail. Smooth and satiny. Maybe Clairol would hire her as spokeswoman.

  She’d only been here a couple hours and already Cassidy wanted out. Not a good thing, since with her new popularity as a personal trainer, she could easily find herself here 60-70 hours per week. How did that leave time for Deniz Jewell’s opportunities? For creating a business plan to open her first club? Cassidy splashed cold water over her face as mounting pressure knotted in her chest.

  Calm down. We’ll just see what happens. Do the best you can.

  Rhonda Sue stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a short white towel, and interrupted Cassidy’s thoughts. "I memorized the exercises you told me. I'll have muscle tone like you in no time." She flexed her reedy arm into a bicep curl and the towel slipped to the black-tiled floor. Rhonda Sue stood buck naked.

  Cassidy averted her pained eyes from the flash of freckled skin. Was Reggie getting these fruit loops? Josh? Felicia? Anyone?

  "Do you think I'm too thin?" Rhonda Sue hiked her bare leg onto the bench.

  Cassidy concentrated on the line of blow dryers, anything but Rhonda Sue's non-jiggly thigh. It took all her will power to keep from bolting. "You’re fine, really. I’ve got to go, I’m late for an appointment."

  She exited the locker room in a less than dignified manner and leaned against the cinderblock wall outside. What a day.

  And it was only the beginning.

  Chapter Four

  New Jersey

  Reggie Elliott lurched on the back staircase outside his parents’ dark house, fumbling for his key. Shadows veiled the door of his in-law apartment. His grandmother used to occupy the apartment, but when she transferred into assisted living a few years back, Reggie moved in. His parents gave him a pretty good deal: low rent, home-cooked meals and they looked the other way when a girl stayed over.

  Reggie swiped the key at the doorknob. Damn thing wouldn't fit in the hole. What was the matter with it? Maybe he'd drank too much. Swearing, he leaned against the railing and flipped to another key. Reggie squinted in the glow from the crescent moon winding through the trees. Yeah, this was the right one. Down the street, his neighbor’s cocker spaniel howled.

  Reggie stumbled into the apartment and groped for the light. A framed photograph of his smiling parents greeted him on his oversized stereo speaker. He hoped Mom and Dad hadn’t heard his humiliation on the radio, but nothing would have kept them from listening. His mother had kissed him before he left for the interview and gave him a roll of cherry Life Savers.

  Unfortunately, his throat didn’t have a chance to get dry. He'd barely opened his mouth. The callers had done the talking, firing questions about Cassidy Novak.

  "What's Cassidy like in person?"

  "Will you stay in touch?"

  "Do you really think you deserved to win or Cassidy?"

  "Is she as pretty in person as she is on TV?"

  Damn radio program. Reggie had gone bar-hopping after the taping. No one recognized him, except some jerk who'd begged for Cassidy's phone number.

  Muttering under his breath, Reggie pulled a beer bottle out of the refrigerator. Thanks to his mother, the shelves were fully stocked with Tupperware containers of lasagna, chicken rosemary penne, a package of nectarines and a Saran-wrapped slice of chocolate pudding pie. She did his grocery shopping, beer and hard liquor excluded, and gave him all their leftovers.

  Reggie played his messages, nodding as his mother's warm voice filled the living room. She'd called at 8:30 p.m. "Hi, ho
ney, you sounded fantastic. If you get back by 9:30, come over for a snack."

  He'd call her in the morning, after he slept off his hangover. Reggie staggered to his hand-me-down vinyl couch and dropped onto a cushion with a long gash in the center. Almost everything in this apartment had belonged to Gran, including the bookcases, armchair and coffee table. The secondhand stuff had been okay for awhile, but now he was rich.

  Reggie smirked. Take that, Cassidy. He was rich – R-I-C-H. As soon as he found a place outside Hollywood, he would buy a black leather sofa, water bed, wide-screen television and Jacuzzi. His pal Gabriel Collins had promised to show him the club scene and celebrity hot spots. Gabriel was an old dude, but he partied with young babes.

  Reggie gulped another swallow of beer. This winter, he'd send his parents out to California for a couple weeks. By then, he might have a movie role.

  A family trip would have made him sound decent on the radio, but the announcer hadn't asked how Reggie planned to spend the money. The guy had been more interested in Cassidy Novak. Reggie left his bottle on the Wal-Mart-special coffee table and stalked into the dim bathroom, needing to relieve himself of the six-pack he'd had earlier that night.

  He reached for the light switch over the sink.

  The blue shower curtain rustled.

  He wasn't alone.

  His hand froze on the wall. "Who's there?"

  Silence.

  After a few seconds, his shoulders relaxed. He must have brushed against the curtain himself. Of course. He was drunk. Reggie flicked on the light and started toward the toilet.

  He heard sudden shuffling. In one fluid movement, the curtain peeled back, someone grabbed his throat from behind and knocked him to the floor. Reggie yelped as his head smashed against the tile.

  He squirmed, trying to turn despite the black spots spinning before his eyes and the intense pain gripping his temples. "Who ... what’s going on ..." he stammered.

  A knife pressed against his Adam's apple, the edge sharp and cold.

  Reggie stopped struggling, terror ripping through him. "Take ... take what you want," he mumbled, spread-eagled on the ceramic tile. "Really. There's a gold necklace for my mother … a TV ... Look, I've got a DVD player still in the box. There's money in the bedroom drawer. Anything you want, man. Any- "

  As his vocal cords were severed, pain sliced through his neck. He saw his blood spurt everywhere.

  Reggie talked no more.

  Chapter Five

  Cassidy leaned over the computer desk in her living room as her brother clicked onto another section of the official SOS web site. She squinted at the digital photograph of herself in a backwards baseball cap, spooning runny Sloppy Joe meat onto a wilted hamburger bun. Someone had caught her on the bad hair day from hell. Sweaty bangs matted her forehead like misshapen red spiders.

  Good thing Spike hadn’t picked that masterpiece to hang in the gym.

  "Nice picture, sis," Bo snickered.

  She rolled her eyes and stepped away from Bo’s swivel chair. "I’ve seen enough. Come on, we’ve got a job to do."

  "Yes, ma’am," he said with a mock salute.

  As Bo shut down the computer, Cassidy reluctantly approached the piles of fan letters, candy boxes and stuffed animals spilling over the hardwood floor. She was paying her brother five bucks an hour to help her sort through this mess. She would have shelled out more, but he didn’t have to know that.

  They spent the next hour hunkered down, organizing stacks of ‘needs a response,’ ‘no return address’ and ‘perverted.’

  "Hey, Cass, listen to this," Bo said, holding up several stapled pages. " ‘Cassidy, we are soul mates, two halves of a whole. Soon we will be together forever. I promise.' Pretty freaky, huh?"

  He passed it over and Cassidy skipped to the end. She stared at the signature in cramped handwriting. Miles, the guy who sent her Raggedy Ann.

  A chill feathering up her spine, she scanned the jumble of stuffed animals blocking entrance to the kitchen. Cassidy caught a glimpse of the doll’s shining black eyes.

  During their last conversation, Deniz Jewell had advised donating the toys to children's hospitals and homeless shelters, and inviting the media for photo ops. Cassidy hadn't pursued that avenue yet, but she knew one thing. Raggedy Ann was leaving first.

  She flipped over the envelope. Anaheim, California postmark. 3,000 miles west. At least that was reassuring. He was harmless. Just a fan who’d gotten a little carried away.

  "What's the matter?" Bo asked. "You look spooked."

  "I heard from this guy before. He sent me a Raggedy Ann doll, like one I had as a kid."

  "That’s lame. Too bad he didn’t send cash instead."

  "If he had, I’d throw it out."

  "You’d get rid of money?"

  "If it came from a freak, yes. I need a break." Cassidy switched on the television as a knock thudded on her door. Probably her stepfather, Glenn, here to pick up Bo for dinner. Still, Cassidy checked the peephole before opening the door.

  "Hi, Glenn! I missed you," she said, ushering her stepfather inside.

  Glenn maneuvered himself into the apartment, at least ten pounds heaver than Cassidy remembered. She’d have to nag him about his diet again, but not tonight. She hadn’t seen the guy in months. Now she just wanted a hug.

  As if reading her mind, Glenn scooped her into an embrace, his full brown beard tickling her chin. "Hey, sweetheart. I watched every episode. You did terrific."

  Cassidy tugged the brim of his Sink or Swim baseball hat. "Not you, too. You’re an SOS fan?"

  "I’m a Cassidy Novak fan. No offense, but reality shows aren’t my thing." Glenn trailed her into the living room, accidentally kicking a stuffed cat with the toe of his sneaker. "Opening a toy store?"

  "Fan mail. Know anyone with little kids? I’m trying to unload this stuff."

  "Sorry, there's no little kids in my building."

  Bo stared down at his feet and toed his unlaced sneakers against each other. His long Boston Bruins tee-shirt extended to the hole in his faded jeans. Cassidy touched his elbow, bruised from skateboarding. The divorce had been tough on both of them.

  She'd given Glenn a hard time when her mother brought him home fifteen years ago. She had expected another dimwit, like husband number two, the unemployed artist. Instead, she'd found the person who escorted her to father/daughter dances and taught her to drive.

  Cassidy knew the marriage wouldn't last, but it survived longer than she anticipated, until last winter. Glenn liked quiet nights watching TV. Her mother dragged him out dancing and bowling. If he wouldn't join her, she found friends who would. Sometimes five nights a week.

  Glenn tossed a few envelopes onto the coffee table. "You had mail in your slot. Just what you need, huh, more reading material?"

  "You should see some of it, Dad," Bo said, yanking the Miles note away from Cassidy and passing it to his father. "These people are whacked. Check out this one. This weirdo has written to her before and he sent her a doll."

  "Knock it off, Bo," she said. "It's no big deal."

  As he read, Glenn's bushy eyebrows curled downward. "You should show this to the police."

  "Why?" Cassidy asked. "He doesn't know where I live. He went through the network."

  Chewing his lower lip, Glenn turned the page. "Addresses aren't hard to find. This guy sounds obsessed. If you want, I'll go to the police with you."

  Her stomach flip-flopped. She trusted Glenn’s judgment, but if she planned to remain in the limelight, Cassidy couldn’t race to the cops every time an oddball made her a little uncomfortable. Especially if the oddball lived across the country.

  "It's just one letter and a gift," Cassidy said.

  "So far."

  "I can take care of myself. If I have to call the cops, I will, but they won't take me seriously if I overreact."

  Cassidy declined Glenn’s invitation for pizza and a movie, feigning a headache, but truthfully she didn’t relish strangers interrupting her m
eal. She needed to unwind, not to put herself on public display.

  "I’ll come back tomorrow," Bo called over his shoulder as he followed his father out into the corridor. "See you."

  After they left, Cassidy surveyed the letter chaos. No way could she return to this drudgery without him. As she tried to motivate herself to read a few more letters, a female voice on television jarred her thoughts.

  "Shocking news out of New Jersey. Reggie Elliott, million dollar winner of the hit reality-based game show Sink or Swim, was found stabbed to death this morning in his apartment."

  Transfixed, Cassidy gaped at the six o'clock news. The image switched from Reggie's smug picture to a blonde standing before a white house.

  "Reggie Elliott, the bad boy of Sink or Swim, lived in the apartment over his parents' garage. According to police, his parents became concerned when Reggie did not answer his telephone or repeated knocks on the door. His mother, Karen Elliott, discovered the body around noon. Right now, police claim they have no leads."

  Cassidy faltered, hot numbness sweeping over her face. She had hated Reggie, but she didn't want him dead. She couldn't even imagine him dead. He was crass, aggressive ... alive.

  A shiver rippling through her, Cassidy swallowed the sour taste in her mouth. Maybe he was selling drugs and a deal went bad. Cassidy wanted to believe it, but didn't know if she did.

  Sink or Swim staff had screened contestant backgrounds. If there had been any questions about his past, he wouldn’t have made it on the show.

  Maybe it was a botched robbery attempt. Yet … what if Reggie had attracted his own stalker? If he had, could something like this happen to her? Was Miles as crazy as Reggie’s killer?

  She started as the phone rang. Cassidy turned down the television and answered her cordless phone with forced calm.

  "Did you hear about Reggie?" Alison Larson, the local reporter, asked. "It's all over the news."

  "Yeah, it’s awful."Cassidy paced the living room, Alison’s familiar voice grounding her. Her situation had nothing to do with Reggie. Why waste energy worrying when everything would turn out fine?