by Laura Levine
“Because,” she replied, lowering her voice to an excited whisper, “I think I may have seen the killer.”
Hallelujah! A lead! With any luck, thanks to Chatty Cathy, we could all be going home by the end of the day.
“You actually saw someone going into Mallory’s spa cubicle?”
“No. It was earlier in the day. I’d just finished working in the organic garden. Frankly, I’m beginning to think Olga’s got a lot of nerve putting us to work like that. You should see the back of my neck. I forgot to put on sunblock and it’s red as a beet. Look.”
She turned to show me her red neck.
Was the woman impossible, or what? Here she was babbling about her sunburn when she’d possibly seen the Spa Strangler.
I tamped down my impatience and managed to summon a sympathetic tsk for her sunburn.
“Getting back to the killer . . . ?” I prompted.
“Oh, right. I was coming in the back door from the garden when I saw someone hurrying down the hallway from the kitchen. At the time I didn’t think anything of it, but now I’m beginning to wonder if the person I saw had been stealing some of Olga’s valium to drug our tea.”
“So who was it?” I said, eager to wrap up this case and be on my way to the nearest McDonald’s.
“That’s just the problem,” she sighed. “It was so bright outside and I’d forgotten my sunglasses along with my sunblock. So when I stepped inside, it took my eyes a while to adjust to the dim corridor.”
“You couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman?”
“It may have been a man, but I can’t be sure. It might’ve been a woman, too.”
“Do you remember what this person was wearing?”
“Not really. It could have been shorts. Or maybe a jog suit.”
Good heavens. Cancel that Quarter Pounder. Helen Keller would make a better eyewitness than Cathy.
By now we’d reached the top of Mt. Olga.
“It’s about time!” Olga clucked when she saw us.
The others, who were sitting on the ground taking a breather, looked up at us with thinly veiled impatience. Kendra had wasted no time in raiding her sister’s closet and was decked out in one of Mallory’s designer jog suits. How she and Harvy had managed to trot up Mt. Olga after their beer toot last night was beyond me.
“Okay, everybody.” Olga gave a shrill blast of her whistle. “Rest period is over.”
“But Cathy and I just got here,” I protested.
“That’s not my fault. Now it’s time to go back.”
Another blast of her whistle, and she was marching downhill, the “A” listers hot on her heels.
“She can blow her dratted whistle all she wants,” I muttered. “I’m not going back down till I catch my breath.”
“Well, I’m not going without you,” Cathy said, hovering at my side.
We stood in silence for the next minute or so, looking out at the ocean, when suddenly we heard a rustling in the woods behind us.
“Omigod!” Cathy whispered, clutching my arm. “It’s the killer come to get me!”
“Don’t be silly,” I said, “It’s probably just an animal.” I took her by the elbow. “Let’s go back down.”
“I can’t,” she said, frozen to the spot. “What if it’s the killer and he springs out from the trees and attacks me like Norman Bates in Psycho?”
If she kept this up, we’d be here until dinner.
“Look, I’ll go scout out the path and make sure nobody’s there, okay?”
“Okay.” She nodded doubtfully.
I started down the path, cursing Cathy for being such a drama queen, when I heard the sound of footsteps stomping through the brush. Now it was my turn to be scared. I told myself it was just some forest critter, that I was being utterly ridiculous, when someone came lurching out onto the path.
Not a forest critter—but a man, holding an axe!
Yikes. Cathy was right! It was just like Norman Bates in Psycho!
“Oh, hi, Ms. Austen.”
I blinked and realized it was Kevin, the teenage chef, now swinging the axe in a wide arc.
Omigosh! Was it possible? Was Kevin some sort of teen serial killer?
I could see the headlines now:
WOULD-BE APPLEBEE’S CHEF SECRET HOMICIDAL MANIAC!
“Kevin,” I gulped, “what are you doing here?”
“Olga sent me to pick mushrooms for lunch.”
“With an axe?”
“I’m supposed to get kindling wood for the fireplace, too.”
For the first time I noticed he was carrying a muslin sack in his other hand.
“Look,” he said, opening the sack, which I saw was stuffed with mushrooms. “They grow like wildfire here.”
He bent down to pick another from the ground.
“Although I keep forgetting which ones are poisonous. Don’t worry, though. Olga almost always knows the difference.”
“How comforting.”
“Well, see you later, Ms. Austen. Gotta get the kindling wood.”
As he waved good-bye and disappeared into the woods, I made my way back up to Cathy.
“Thank God you’re still alive!” she cried when she saw me. “What happened?”
“It was just Kevin, picking mushrooms and getting kindling wood.”
“How do you know he didn’t just say that? How do you know he’s not the killer?”
“Because if he were the killer, we’d be dead by now.”
“You’ve got a point,” she conceded.
“Try not to worry, Cathy. I’m sure everything’s going to be okay. Maybe whoever you saw running out of the kitchen wasn’t even the killer.”
“You think?” she asked, a ray of hope in her eyes.
“Of course!” I fibbed, not at all certain Cathy hadn’t witnessed the Spa Strangler on the run.
If only the impossible woman had worn her sunglasses!
When at last we’d staggered down from Mt. Olga, Cathy told the Diet Nazi she had a migraine and asked to be excused from the rest of the morning’s activities.
Amazingly, Olga gave her permission, and I filed away that handy dandy migraine excuse for future reference.
“Do you really have a headache?” I asked Cathy before she started back to her room.
“Nah. I just want to keep my distance from the killer. I’m going to lock myself in my room, and I don’t intend to answer the door for anyone. Not even that awful maid. Do you know she tried to sell me a Snickers bar for twenty-five dollars?”
“Wow. I didn’t know Delphine sold Snickers.”
“You’re not thinking of buying one, are you?” she asked, suddenly remembering her self-appointed role as my diet buddy.
“Of course not,” I lied.
She shot me a dubious look.
“Well, see you later,” I said, eager to avoid a diet lecture. “And try not to worry.”
“I’ll be okay,” she assured me with what I sensed was a bit of false bravado. “I’ve got my mace—and an exercise bar I stole from the gym.
“But if I’m not down for lunch,” she added, “call the police.”
Chapter 17
Cathy wasn’t the only no-show in aerobics class. Harvy came trotting into the gym a good twenty minutes late.
“Sorry,” he said to Sven, “I had an errand to run.”
Depositing a check at the bank, no doubt.
Once again I marveled at how perky he was after all the beer he’d knocked back at the pizza parlor. I guess one hundred grand in the bank will do that to a guy.
He hurried over to join Kendra, breathless with gossip.
“Guess what, Ken? I picked up a copy of the Times while I was in town, and Mallory’s obit was buried all the way back on page eighteen!”
Kendra’s eyes lit up with glee.
“Mallory would be so ticked off!”
“And they used a picture from before her nose job!”
“How delicious!”
Kendra had changed from one of Mallo
ry’s jog suits into one of Mallory’s body-revealing workout ensembles. And I was amazed to see she had quite a hot bod to reveal. I’d never noticed it before, hidden under the baggy clothes she’d worn. Without Mallory around for unflattering comparisons, Kendra was really rather pretty.
Sven, I saw, was eyeing her with newfound interest.
Good heavens. With Mallory dead less than twenty-four hours, was he already poised to make a new conquest?
Poor Shawna. I sure didn’t envy her that marriage.
Shawna wandered among us now, giving half-hearted pointers, a haunted look in her eyes.
Was she still reeling from the trauma of having discovered Mallory’s body? Or from the trauma of having killed her?
True, it would have been foolish of Shawna to kill Mallory during the seaweed wrap, when she’d be the most obvious suspect. But maybe she’d acted on impulse in a moment of rage. Maybe Mallory had been bragging about her affair with Sven, and Shawna had snapped, strangling the life out of the woman who was out to steal her man.
I needed to get her alone to question her. But when the class was over, she hurried away before I could stop her. So I lingered behind to talk to Sven.
“What a tragedy about Mallory, huh?” I said, as he gathered up our exercise bars.
“Indeed,” he nodded solemnly. “She was a wonderful woman, and a fine Golden Globe-winning actress.”
He dropped the exercise bars in their container and turned to me, clearly waiting for me to make my exit.
“I guess we’re done,” he said, “unless you want to get another body fat measurement.”
He pointed to the god-awful Fat Vat in the corner.
“Thanks,” I shuddered, “but I think I’ll let my fat stay unmeasured for the time being.”
“Then if you’ll excuse me,” he said, all brisk and businesslike, “I’ve got some work to do.”
He started for the small office at the side of the gym.
Not so fast, buster.
“I know you were boffing Mallory,” I called out.
He stopped in his tracks, as I knew he would, and whirled around to face me.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Come off it, Sven. I saw you going into Mallory’s suite wearing nothing but a smile and a Speedo.”
Okay, so I hadn’t actually seen him going into her suite, but he didn’t know that.
He paled under his perfect tan.
“Would you believe I went there to give her a therapeutic massage?”
“No, I would not.”
“Okay,” he shrugged, “so we were fooling around. Is that a crime?”
“Sort of, if you’re married, and especially, if you’re the killer.”
“Why on earth would I want to kill Mallory?”
“Maybe you fell madly in love with her and wanted to spend the rest of your life with her. Maybe she laughed at you and told you to take a hike, and you got angry enough to wring the life out of her with a piece of kelp.”
“That’s ridiculous! I had every reason to keep Mallory alive. She promised she’d get me in the movies.”
“And you believed her?”
“Sure, I believed her. She was crazy about me. Most women are.”
Wow. If those two had hooked up, they would’ve needed walk-in closets for their egos.
“I hate to disappoint you, sweetheart,” he said, with what was meant to be a beguiling grin, “but I’m not the killer.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But there’s a rumor going around The Haven that Shawna is.”
Okay, so once again, I exaggerated just a tad.
“That’s not true!” For the first time, I saw fear flicker in his eyes. “Shawna couldn’t have strangled Mallory. After she settled everybody in their seaweed wraps, she was here with me in the gym the entire time.”
“What was she doing in the gym?”
“Yelling at me. She’d found out about me and Mallory and was raking me over the coals like she always does before she forgives me and takes me back.”
“She forgave you? Already?” I figured she’d banish him to the sofa for at least a couple of weeks.
“Like I told you. She always does.”
Talk about your poster couple for Cheating Bastards and the Women Who Love Them.
“Look,” he said, “I feel terrible about hurting Shawna, but I couldn’t help myself.”
At least he had the good grace to look ashamed.
“I know my wife, and I know she’s not capable of killing anyone. I swear she was with me the entire time the guests were soaking in seaweed.”
Not necessarily the entire time. Shawna could have easily taken a minute or two to strangle her rival in romance. I remembered the look of fury in her eyes when she’d seen Mallory locking lips with her husband.
For all I knew, Sven was lying through his teeth to save his wife’s well-toned fanny.
Harvy and I were on Pruning Patrol, hacking away at some hibiscus bushes, the hot sun blazing merrily on our backs.
I, of course, was a virtual Niagara Falls of sweat. But Harvy, in cutoffs and a spanking white sleeveless tank, was enviably moisture-free.
“I never sweat,” he boasted. “It’s something in my genes.”
“Lucky you,” I said, wiping a bucket of the stuff from my brow.
He lifted his designer glasses to peer at me.
“Sweetie, do you know what you need?”
“A Mochaccino Smoothie with extra whipped cream.”
“Heaven forbid. One more calorie and your hips will have their own zip code.”
Well, harty har har. Someone had just promoted himself to Person I’d Like Most to See Behind Bars.
“No, doll,” he said. “What you need is a good conditioner and a decent hair cut.”
And without even asking my permission, he pulled out the scrunchy from my mop of curls and let my hair fall to my shoulders.
“Omigod. It’s worse than I thought. What are you cutting your hair with? A chainsaw?”
Of all the nerve! I happen to pay perfectly good money for my Supercuts.
Definitely time to change the subject and do a little Suspect Grilling.
“Have any luck in the kitchen yesterday?” I asked, as casual as could be.
Once again, he lifted his glasses and peered at me, this time with more than a hint of suspicion in his eyes.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Cathy said she thought she saw you hurrying down the hallway from the kitchen.”
A tiny fib, but all in the interests of justice.
“I was nowhere near that kitchen,” he snapped. “And nowhere near Olga’s Valium, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Gosh, no!” I replied, very babe in the woods. “I thought maybe you were raiding the fridge.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, whacking a hibiscus branch with a vengeance. Then he glared at me, suddenly very Perry Mason. “Hey, how do I know you didn’t take that Valium and put it in our tea? How do I know you’re not the killer?”
“Me? Why would I want to kill Mallory?”
“She insulted you in public, didn’t she? Said you weren’t a real writer.”
“So you’re the one who told that story to the cops!”
“I may have mentioned it in passing,” he sniffed.
Nope, I sure wouldn’t have minded seeing him behind bars right then.
“Plenty of writers have wanted to kill Mallory. The screenwriter on Revenge of the Lust Busters once came after her with a machete. Of course, it was a prop machete, made of rubber, so she wasn’t hurt. Much to everyone’s regret. But you writers are all nuts. So for all I know, it was you.”
“Well, it wasn’t.”
We clipped in silence for the next minute or so, before I added, “Although I have to admit, I can’t get Mallory’s murder out of my mind.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s strange. Right before I drifted off to sleep during my seawee
d wrap, I thought I heard a man’s voice in Mallory’s cubicle.
Another fib, which, as you’ve no doubt noticed, happens to be a specialty of mine. But I needed to provoke the guy.
And it worked.
“Are you accusing me of murder?
He turned to face me, his knuckles popping as he clutched his gardening shears.
“Not at all!” I fumphered, suddenly uncomfortable at the thought of being within hacking distance of those shears. “It was probably just a crazy dream. I have them all the time. I once dreamed I was arm wrestling with the Pope.”
“I can assure you,” he said, not the least bit interested in my sleep history, “I didn’t kill Mallory. I may have hated the Mad Cow, but I didn’t strangle her. If you heard a man in her room, it was probably Clint Masters.”
“Clint?” I asked, as if I hadn’t seriously considered that possibility myself.
“I’ve done his hair and seen his dressing room. The man’s got enough Klonopin to put all of Malibu in a coma. It would have been a piece a cake for him to drug our tea.”
I often find that in these situations, the less you say, the more your suspects talk. So I just went on clipping the hibiscus.
“You don’t really think Clint was in his room, napping, do you?” Harvy went on, as I’d hoped he would. “I, for one, think it’s awfully suspicious that he’s the only guest who didn’t show up for the seaweed wrap. Mallory had some hot dirt on him that she was going to use in her memoirs. She said it would destroy him. He could’ve been lurking in the Spa Therapy Center men’s room, just waiting for the chance to strike. He wouldn’t have been the first movie star to kill for his career.”
Or the first hairdresser, either.
Chapter 18
Cathy never showed up for lunch.
And although it was lovely to enjoy a chatter-free meal for a change, I was worried about my missing tablemate.
Had she indeed seen the killer racing from the kitchen with a fistful of Olga’s Valium? More important, had the killer seen her and decided to get rid of her?
I slogged through lunch impatiently, barely touching my motley plate of mushrooms and arugula tossed in Pine-Sol Vinaigrette. As soon as Olga cleared away our dishes, I passed on dessert (three slivers of kiwi—no great loss) and set out to find Cathy’s room.
