Exercise Is Murder

by Bruce Hammack

  “Not exactly. Max is a lazy, lovable lap cat.”

  Steve spoke through clenched teeth. “I hate cats.”

  Heather changed the subject before he could launch into a diatribe against cats. “When do we start going after Ned Logan’s killer?”

  Steve seemed to refocus and said, “So far they’re calling it a suspicious death. The cops’ll do some routine investigating, but won’t be real interested until after the autopsy. The coroner’s always backed up. We should have about a week to wrap things up before we’re told to butt out. I’ve already done some work, but we need to interview the family tomorrow. Can you move in today?”

  CHAPTER 4

  Heather looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and frowned. A wig bearing a striking resemblance to the thatched roof of an English cottage, stiff and tawny, covered her mane of auburn hair. The makeup looked like cheap stucco. Globs of eyeliner and the longest, thickest, false eyelashes the store had to offer partially hid her emerald eyes. It reminded her of a brief flirtation with going Goth between terms at prep-school. She parted her lips and beheld teeth that bore a likeness to her hair, mottled dark-tan and yellow, something Van Gogh might have painted.

  She backed away from the mirror and smoothed the front of a man’s blazer, fresh from the garage sale she and Steve had attended at dawn’s early light, her first garage sale ever. The navy blazer covered a dingy yellow shirt which buttoned on a side her fingers were unaccustomed to manipulating. She rolled her shoulders forward the way Steve had instructed. Sure enough, she seemed to shrink two inches and looked devoid of both ambition and a high school diploma.

  “All I need is a dip of snuff and people won’t know if I’m a man or a woman.”

  With her transformation complete, Heather prepared to make her grand entrance before a man who couldn’t see her. She’d almost made it out of the bathroom when a voice boomed from the kitchen. “Heather! Get your cat out of here.”

  Oh no. What had Max done now? She took quick steps toward the site of Steve’s explosion.

  Her tiger-striped Maine Coon squatted on the countertop, lapping milk from Steve’s bowl of cereal. Max looked up as if to ask, “What?” He dropped his head and went back to lapping two percent from between squares of Frosted Mini-Wheats.

  Steve’s voice dripped with disgust. “I know people who owe me favors. They know people who do bad things. If your cat can’t swim underwater, I suggest you do something with him.”

  Heather gathered Max in her arms and hustled him to her bedroom, stroking his head as she went. She sat him on the bed and thought about giving him a good talking to. He turned his backside to her, stretched, and lay down to clean his whiskers. She wondered if Steve was able to hear Max’s sonorous purrs of contentment all the way in the kitchen.

  By the time she returned to apologize, Steve had dumped the cereal down the garbage disposal. “Sorry,” she offered.

  He responded with a grunt.

  “What time is Mrs. Logan expecting us?” She hoped to change the subject.

  “Ten o’clock. I already told you that. Trying to get my mind off that sorry cat, aren’t you?”

  Heather shot back, “It’s called redirecting. It’s what you do when you have a hostile suspect or witness.”

  She could tell he tried not to, but the corners of Steve’s mouth pulled up ever so slightly.

  It must have been his turn to redirect because he asked, “Are you dressed like we discussed?”

  She glanced down at her outfit. “Don’t you think this is a little extreme?”

  “All part of the plan. Kate Logan is a high-maintenance woman. She wants everything in her world to be perfect. Give her a big smile with those yellow teeth and watch her reaction. The way I have you pictured, she’d count it a blessing if she didn’t have to look at you very long. I’ll keep her occupied and you snoop around.”

  “Anything special I’m supposed to be looking for?”

  “Concentrate on her kids’ rooms. One is out of college and on his own. The girl is a sophomore at Brown. You may not have a lot of time—”

  “Brown? As in Ivy League Brown University in Rhode Island?”

  “That’s the one,” said Steve. “I understand it’s trendy for the nouveau riche to mix with you blue bloods.”

  ◆◆◆

  Heather cringed as soon as she sat in the driver’s seat. “Of all the cars in the world, why did you have to get a police auction Crown Vic? This ragged-out patrol car smells like a drunk tank.”

  “All part of your disguise and protection,” said Steve. “The guys your dad hired to keep tabs on you are looking for your car, which is hidden under the canvas cover I had delivered. After you got booted out of the Academy, this is the last thing they’d expect you to drive. Besides, this car may look and smell a little gamey, but it has an almost-new police interceptor engine. It may not be able to outrun every car out there, but it can put the rental you said those guys are driving in the dust.”

  “Tell Leo thanks for keeping my father’s minions occupied.”

  “He enjoyed it. It was no trouble considering the low-rent area you were living in. It made waiting an hour for a K-9 to sniff their car plausible.”

  Heather added, “And all the while they watched me pack my car. Detaining them in handcuffs was a nice touch.”

  “Leo loved it when you waved at them as you passed by.” He paused. “Let’s get going.”

  The trip passed without words. The rapid acceleration onto I-45 demonstrated the power of the car and brought back a flood of foot-to-the-floor memories in Boston. The sound of the wheels on pavement changed as they left the interstate. Being around Steve had made her more aware of sounds and smells. She pondered this as they followed a serpentine journey through The Woodlands, a migration destination for those fed up with Houston who had money enough to drive north until they encountered pine trees and less crime. Heather brought the car to a stop and said, “It’s not a villa on the French Riviera, but this home is no slouch.”

  “Ned did quite well for himself after he left the D.A.’s office.”

  “Did he make a lot of enemies when he was an assistant district attorney? If so, this could get complicated.”

  Steve changed subjects, as she was learning he was apt to do. “I’ve been thinking how I want to play this. Ned, Kate, Maggie and I go all the way back to our first year in college. Ned and I stayed in touch, but I’ve only seen Kate a few times since he left the D.A.’s office. People change over time, but not Ned. Kate wanted to run with the country club set, not with me and Maggie. I’ll need you to tell me what she looks like and give me your honest opinion of her. I’ll also want a full description of the home.”

  “You got it, boss. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Make a bad impression on Kate and go do your snooping as soon as you can.” He paused. “By the way, your name today is Pat Beerhalter.”

  Heather let out a snort. “With a name like that I don’t see how I could make a good impression.”

  ◆◆◆

  The opening of the front door produced a visual assault on Heather’s eyes. Steve had warned her Kate Logan leaned toward glitter and gold, but she didn’t know that applied to Kate’s entire world. Even the area rugs, strategically placed on the gold-veined marble floors, set the stage for a Midas-touched mini-mansion. New money and bad taste sprang to her mind but, thank goodness, didn’t escape her lips.

  “Steve,” gushed Kate. “How good of you to come see me.” Kate swept them into her home with a motion of her hand reminiscent of a game show hostess. Steve had not come to see her. That was Heather’s job. The faux pas, along with the attempt to slather her life in gold, set Heather’s teeth on edge. She made a point of smiling widely and revealed a most unappealing set of incisors and bicuspids. Kate’s eyes opened wide and then shifted to Steve, never to return to the lowly Pat Beerhalter.

  “Hello, Kate. I’m so sorry to intrude on your time of mourning,” said Steve. “Are you
sure it’s not too much of an imposition for me to come and offer my condolences?”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s I who have been remiss. I do apologize for not reaching out to you when Maggie—”

  Heather cut Kate off in mid-sentence. “You got a spot I can park Mr. Smiley?” Her Pat Beerhalter accent came straight from a single-wide trailer with a beer-can-infested yard, complete with a 1972 Monte Carlo, tires missing and up on blocks.

  Kate Logan cringed from the tips of her highlighted hair down to her gold house slippers. She made a quick recovery. “Yes, of course. Let’s go to the living room. Follow me.”

  Heather directed Steve to a wing-back chair, pulled out two pillows–gold, of course–threw them on the floor and said, “There you go, Mr. S. You look like a king on his throne.” She turned and examined the room, but didn’t look at the not-so-grieving widow.

  “You got a TV I can watch?” asked Pat Beerhalter. “Mr. S. said he didn’t want me hanging around while he talked with you. I got a habit of flappin’ my gums.”

  Kate Logan pointed toward a hallway. “The den is on the other side of the hall bathroom. The remote is on the coffee table.”

  “Thanks, honey. Come get me when you and Mr. S are done chewin’ the fat.”

  Heather slouched her way out of sight, then straightened her spine. She retrieved her cell phone, made a quick video of the den, and turned on the television, making sure to keep the volume loud enough to cover most any sound she might make. Her crepe-sole shoes squeaked on the marble floor so she left them by the coffee table and eased her way down the hall. Two closed doors were on her left and a third at the end of the hall. On her right stood another series of doors, all closed. With the kids’ rooms as her main objective, she needed to hurry.

  The first door on her left opened to a game room, complete with billiard table. The second smaller room contained a miniature beauty parlor with wash sink and all the necessary potions and lotions. At the end of the hallway, double solid doors opened to the master bedroom suite, an expanse of wall-to-wall gold carpet and baroque furniture. She made yet another video of the bedroom, bath, and closet.

  Opening the first door on her retreat back to the den brought the corners of Heather’s mouth upward. “Eureka,” she whispered and scurried up a back stairway.

  Upstairs might as well have been on a different planet. The carpet appeared worn and the doorjambs bore the marks and smudges of children growing into adults and fleeing the nest.

  With the turn of a handle she entered the world of a young man, a singularly messy young man. It didn’t take much of a detective to realize most of the lad’s meals had been taken, and spilled, within these walls. The photos surrounding her showed a handsome high school boy involved in football and track. His two prom pictures showed two different girls, both with perfect teeth and afflicted with near-terminal cuteness. She put her phone’s camera to use again, scanning the room and the closet.

  The next bedroom proved to be the polar opposite of the sty down the hall. A girl’s room, no doubt, but a girl of order. Extreme order. The clothes in the closet looked to have been spaced with a micrometer. The toes of all the shoes and boots could have been set along a surveyor’s line. Books on the shelves were arranged in descending order, a singular collection including Gray’s Anatomy and more than a few relating to neurology, kinesiology, Alzheimer’s, and dementia. Even the underwear and socks in closed drawers were folded and stacked with absolute precision.

  Heather wanted to stay and examine everything in more detail, but the minutes ticked away. She didn’t know how long Steve could make chit-chat and she certainly didn’t want to get caught this far away from the TV’s soap opera. She pivoted in the center of the room with her phone’s camera capturing images as she spun a slow three-sixty. Easing the door shut she hastened to the stairway. In her rush to descend, a sock-clad foot flew out from under her. She landed on the bottom step with a resounding thud. No time to check for damage. She sprinted down the hall and into the den. She scaled the back of the couch and stretched her feet onto the coffee table.

  Heather craned her neck to see Kate Logan as she entered the room and issued a tart, “Mr. Smiley is ready to leave.”

  Heather joined Steve, who had risen from his gold throne. He turned to the spot of the scuffing of Kate’s house shoes and asked, “Do you mind if Ms. Beerhalter takes me to Ned’s exercise pool? I don’t plan on coming to the memorial service and it’s the last place he was alive. I’d like to pay my respects there if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course. Stay as long as you wish.”

  Kate pointed the way and Heather led Steve out a back door, past an outdoor pool, and into a glass-enclosed room between the main house and a two-story garage. Once inside Steve said, “Describe it to me.”

  Although there was no need to whisper, Heather spoke in a muted voice out of reverence for the man she knew only from Steve’s description. “The exercise pool is halfway above ground. Bend over and touch it. You can walk all the way around it if you want to. It’s not more than eight or nine feet long and the water is about four-feet deep, four and a half at the most. There’s a pump at the front that forces water against the swimmer.”

  “It’s not very wide, is it?” said Steve.

  “Not more than five feet.” Heather paused, then spoke in a normal voice. “Ned Logan.”

  Steve froze in place. “Bright red,” he said. He hung his head for a moment and mouthed something she knew was not for her. After a near-silent prayer, he said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Heather reached in her jacket pocket and retrieved a glass vial. “Let me get that water sample you wanted.”

  Kate met them at the back door and led them through the living room and into the foyer. The front door opened before Heather could reach for the handle. A young woman wearing, of all things, a poodle skirt, saddle oxford shoes, a starched white blouse, and a pink bandanna passed through the portal and came to an abrupt halt. She tilted a cloth-side, wheeled suitcase upright and stared at the unlikely duo of strangers.

  Kate made a shoes-to-hair examination of the girl and grimaced. “Carey, dear, please tell me you don’t dress that way at Brown. I thought we agreed you’d not wear such garish costumes.”

  Carey rolled her eyes. “Mother,” she said with chin raised, “who are these people?” Her voice held the sharp edge of suspicion.

  “You remember your father’s college roommate, don’t you? This is Steve Smiley.”

  The young woman summoned a tight smile. “Of course. Please forgive me for not recognizing you. Father spoke of you frequently.”

  “How are you Carey?” asked Steve. “I came to offer my condolences. Your mother tells me a memorial service will be tomorrow. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  An awkward silence fell. Steve broke it by saying, “Goodbye, Katherine. Goodbye, Carey.” He turned and said, “Are you ready to take me home, Pat?”

  “Ready, willin’, and able, Mr. S.”

  Three steps down the sidewalk Steve said, “You need to be more careful on stairways. That crash you made sounded like an elephant jumping off the high dive.”

  She came right back at him. “If you hadn’t insisted I wear stretched-out socks, I wouldn’t have slipped.”

  “Did you get a good look at Carey?”

  “Yeah. Five foot four, one hundred and ten pounds. Straight black hair touching her shoulders. Obsessive-compulsive and unhappy in the extreme. Upper-middle-class girl wishing she were somewhere else doing something else.”

  “I guess you can spot ’em,” said Steve.

  “She’s miserable. Carey was dressed like she’s going to a sock-hop, not a wake, or whatever you do down here. She’s in denial about her father’s death, but there’s more to it than that. That outfit she has on is a plea for help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “I’d say she’s seeking attention, but what do I know? I studied finance and law.”

  “Don’t sell y
ourself short. You know a lot more about twenty-year-old women than I do and you have great instincts.”

  “Thanks; same back at you.”

  Steve’s cane tapped the side of the car. He made no move to get in. “I have a good camera with a telephoto lens. Everyone on my list will be at the memorial service tomorrow. Let’s get close-ups.”

  Heather nodded and reached for the door handle. “Did I hear you call Kate ‘Katherine?’”

  “Yeah.” Disappointment seasoned his words. “She goes by Katherine now.”

  “A gold-gilded name if I ever heard one.”

  “She’s not the woman I once knew.”

  “Has she changed enough to be the killer?”

  Steve took in a deep breath and released it in a huff. “I don’t know. I can’t rule her out. Let’s go.”

  “Hold on a minute. A lawn maintenance truck is pulling into the driveway.” A tall, slender man in his early thirties climbed out of a three-quarter-ton truck. She scanned the contents of the truck’s bed: garden implements, bags of mulch, an orange five-gallon water cooler and a large ice chest. The lanky, dark-haired man walked to the side door of the home and entered without knocking.

  “Now can we leave?” asked Steve.

  “Yeah. Chinese for lunch?”

  CHAPTER 5

  “Heather!”

  Steve’s summons came from his bedroom at daybreak. She threw back her covers and scurried to his room. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Get your cat off my bed. Put him in your room and keep him there or I swear, I’ll…”

  Heather scooped up Max. “I told you I can’t. If I close the door he’ll tear up the carpet trying to get out. He has to have run of the entire house. Besides, he likes you.”

  Steve sat up in bed, mumbling something under his breath. He slumped back and threw up an arm over his face.

  She tried softening her voice. “Steve, I’m sor—”

  “Don’t! Don’t say it.”

  Heather allowed an awkward amount of time to pass before her Boston accent and Scottish temper joined forces. “Get dressed, you grumpy old man. I’ll cook you an omelet.”