Young Ladies of Mystery Boxed Set

by Stacy Juba

  Brooke, the show's twenty-something publicist, jogged over to Cassidy with a clipboard planted against her chest. Circles rimmed her eyes as if she and her pillow hadn't bonded since the show premiered. Cassidy knew the feeling.

  "I've got to get you and Reggie hooked up with the media," Brooke said, breathless. "I've scheduled telephone interviews for you guys tonight and an appearance on the Morning Show tomorrow."

  "You’re kidding," Cassidy said. "They want me on the Morning Show?"

  "Yep, and at the press conference tomorrow, the network is announcing that SOS has been renewed for a second season."

  "Don’t forget to call that reporter, Alison Larson, from the local newspaper," Cassidy's mother interjected. "You promised to remember her when you got off the ship."

  "Not until the important interviews are done, please," Brooke said. "Sorry to make you eat on the run, but let’s go."

  Cassidy told her mother she would see her later and followed the harried publicist down the elevator to the marketing department. Brooke stopped before a door and unlocked it. "You can use the phone in here, and I'll set up Reggie in my supervisor's office. You've got the New York Times, Variety, USA Today and Associated Press on tap. I’ll dial the phone and give you ten minutes with each publication."

  Brooke switched on the light, revealing a normal office except for the mess on the floor.

  Cassidy gestured to the fragrant red roses in glass vases, Godiva chocolate boxes and stuffed animals littering the carpet like a messy Valentine's Day display. "What’s all that stuff? Lovesick boyfriend?" She deposited her plate onto a desk strewn with papers and bit into a juicy roast beef sandwich.

  "It’s yours." Brooke smirked. "Plus, three bags of fan mail. I hope you have room in your car. This stuff has been sitting in the office all week."

  Cassidy choked on a bite of bread. "That's all mine?"

  "Welcome home. I started going through the packages, but it got too overwhelming."

  In the center of the toy zoo, a Raggedy Ann doll stared at Cassidy through shining black button eyes. Red yarn hair crowned her cloth head and a blue frock hung down to a pair of elasticized snow-white bloomers. Cassidy frowned at the white pinafore with its embroidered "I Love You" heart.

  Except for the heart, the doll looked just like a Raggedy Ann her father had given her on her fourth birthday, the last gift before he walked out, never to be heard from again.

  Did they even make Raggedy Ann anymore? Cassidy hadn’t seen one since stowing hers in the attic. Nervous tingling clawed her gut. Could this doll be from her father? Cassidy reached to pick it up and ran her hand along the soft body.

  Assuming he was still alive, her father must own a TV and read the newspaper. Maybe he’d sent her the remembrance to get in her good graces if she became a millionaire.

  Well, if he contacted her, Cassidy would reject the jerk as he’d done to her. More than once, she’d wondered if he watched Sink or Swim. Cassidy hoped he’d seen how strong and capable she turned out – no thanks to him. She hoped he knew about her college degree, a double major in exercise physiology and management, and how she had been in the top five percent of her graduating class despite working thirty hours per week to pay her way through school.

  Of course, it would have been nice to win the million dollars and really have something to show off.

  With trembling fingers, Cassidy tugged off the miniature envelope taped to Raggedy Ann’s dress, the kind of envelope that usually came with flowers.

  "The Atlantic Devil may have docked, but your ship has come in," the card read in typed letters. "Soon we will be together for eternity. We will give this doll to our daughter. Yours Always, Miles."

  It wasn’t from her father. It was from some wacko. First relief, then disappointment and finally confusion, assaulted her.

  "Give this doll to our daughter?" she asked. "Who is this guy? How did he know that I had a Raggedy Ann when I was a kid?"

  Brooke shrugged, yanking business cards out of her Rolodex. Then Cassidy remembered. She and Josh had discussed childhood toys as they scoured greasy pans in the kitchen, following a producer's suggestion for "interesting" dialogue. No one knew reality TV could be called semi-scripted. It was like the kids' game Mad Libs. Writers created topics, contestants filled in the blanks. Cassidy couldn’t believe she’d even mentioned Raggedy Ann, but it was the first toy that jumped into her mind.

  Someone had listened to the exchange that closely? What other nutcases had tracked her down?

  "Don't worry," Brooke said. "All celebrities get this type of attention."

  Celebrity. Was that what she was now? Cassidy didn’t know why the word surprised her. She’d gotten hints all night that her fifteen minutes of fame might last longer than anticipated.

  Brooke was probably right. Miles was harmless. But, one thing nagged at Cassidy.

  He had picked up on one of the few personal tidbits she had shared about herself. Cassidy glanced around at the dozens of bears, dogs, kittens, helium balloons, chocolates and flowers.

  No one else had.

  Chapter Three

  After a handful of telephone interviews, Cassidy stood and stretched while Brooke rushed into the next office to check on Reggie. Adrenaline pumped through Cassidy’s body as she strolled a few feet. Amazing, how eager these reporters were for a quote.

  Alison Larson, the staff writer at her hometown newspaper, must be going frantic waiting to hear from her local "celebrity." Cassidy returned to her desk and dialed Alison’s phone number. She may as well squeeze in this interview now before Brooke loomed over her again with a stopwatch.

  Cassidy connected to the newsroom and a weary-sounding man put her on hold. She fingered a stack of network letterhead and twirled an engraved SOS pen.

  Alison had interviewed Cassidy once before. She’d written an article chronicling the audition process, which for Cassidy had begun with sending the producers a video of herself at the gym and ended with a group audition in Los Angeles. According to Cassidy’s mother, the paper had published multiple follow-up pieces in her absence.

  "Cassidy, congratulations!" Alison bubbled. "Thanks for calling. I’ve been leaving messages with the PR department all day."

  "Sorry I couldn't get in touch sooner. It’s been crazy."

  "I can imagine. What are your thoughts on coming in second?"

  "I wish it had been first, but at least I made it to the finals."

  "According to Internet polls, eighty percent of fans wanted you to defeat Reggie. What's your reaction to him taking home the million?"

  Cassidy bit her tongue. Just like any reporter, Alison would love a snarky quote. She’d have to settle for a diplomatic one instead. "Eighty percent? I’m flattered, but Reggie won fair and square. I don’t begrudge him the victory."

  She wondered if Alison could possibly believe it.

  "I don’t know if I could be so gracious in that situation."

  Cassidy didn’t respond to the bait. She wouldn’t want Reggie to badmouth her, so he deserved the same courtesy.

  "So … what are you most looking forward to about returning home?" Alison asked.

  "Real food, my bed, and no more struggling to stay awake on watch duty."

  "Are you returning to your job at the gym?"

  Cassidy had asked herself the same question and determined that she had no choice. Her scrapbook was thickening, but newspaper and magazine clippings wouldn’t pay the bills. Until real money came her way, Cassidy needed a job. Her current one had flaws, but she’d worked her way up to full-time assistant manager and part-time staff personal trainer. It was easy and familiar.

  "You bet. I can’t wait to go back to Spike’s Muscle Madness. Everyone was so supportive when they found out I was competing on the show."

  Not exactly true. Her boss Spike had been peeved, but he’d held her job – supposedly because of the publicity the television show might generate, but the fact that Cassidy knew more about running his health club than he d
id probably affected his decision.

  In the background, Alison’s computer keyboard clicked. "I have one more favor," she said. "My editor wants me to follow you around in your daily life and write a series about how you readjust. Would you let me and a photographer tag along with you for a couple weeks?"

  "Sure, that would be fun," Cassidy said.

  Of course, having her every move tracked could get on her nerves, but all the publicity fueled her bigger plan. The longer Cassidy stayed in the limelight, the more likely Deniz Jewell could negotiate killer deals on her behalf.

  "How's Garrett?" she asked. "What kind of welcome can I expect?"

  Alison laughed a little darkly. "If you don't want to sign autographs at the grocery store, you'd better buy a wig."

  ***

  Later that week, Cassidy walked around the gym and exchanged greetings with the members and co-workers populating the club at 7 a.m. There were more of each than she remembered – double the clients and double the staff.

  Alison hadn’t been kidding. Even people Cassidy didn’t know slapped her on the shoulder. Not surprising since Spike had converted the place into a Sink or Swim shrine. Her photograph, blown up to poster size, graced an easel at the front entrance. Although the attention flattered her, a funk dropped over Cassidy at being back.

  She’d worked here since freshman year in college. Cassidy had loved the idea of the free membership awarded to employees, however her excitement diminished as the place took on the atmosphere of a frustrating job. She wanted to teach people better health habits, while Spike wanted to increase his bottom-line.

  Cassidy found it hard to watch members fry their skin in the tanning beds or receive minimal education from the fitness staff. Most of the floor trainers were college kids with no background in exercise science. They could demonstrate the equipment, but knew nothing about stretching or meeting a member’s individualized fitness goals. That’s where she came in as personal trainer, but her services weren’t included in gym membership and were used by a fraction of clients.

  Cassidy stopped before a bulletin board display in the cardio room. Blue and gold push pins dotted a ship diagram and construction paper letters spelled out, "Summer Fitness Incentive Program: Sink or Swim." The poster borrowed symbols from the TV show, red flags marking the goals and circles representing completed tasks.

  "Hey, Spike, can you say ‘raise?’" she muttered under her breath.

  That was the last motivation she needed to backtrack toward the foyer and enter a glassed-in room behind the front desk. Spike, who was hanging up the phone, sprang from his rolling swivel chair. Gel cemented his graying black crew cut and a tight muscle shirt outlined his artificially tanned upper body. His biceps and quads bulged from years of weight lifting, but he couldn’t open a can of soup without Cassidy’s help.

  He sucked down the last bite of a power bar, crumpled the wrapper into the trash and pumped her hand. Granola flecks pressed from his palm into Cassidy’s and she resisted the urge to brush them off. "If it isn’t the superstar! I thought you had first place nailed, but I’m glad you didn’t win the million or else you wouldn’t have come back. I own the place and I wouldn’t have come back."

  His left eye twitched in a nervous jump. "You are coming back, right? You’re here to work, not to visit?"

  Cassidy lowered herself into an extra chair. He seemed even more apprehensive than she’d imagined. "That depends. Everyone’s saying how crowded the place has been and I met three new employees on this shift alone. All the SOS hype has put the gym on the map. You know I could get a job anywhere, right?"

  Spike’s Adam's apple waggled as if it were having a seizure in his throat. Redness seeping into his face, he grasped onto a stash of paychecks on the desk awaiting his illegible signature. "What’s that supposed to mean? You can’t walk out on me now. I’ve held your job for three months. Besides, do you have any clue how many new members signed up because they want to meet the hot babe from Sink or Swim?"

  This was going just as she’d hoped. If he wasn’t in such good shape, he’d be going into cardiac arrest. Cassidy leaned forward with her cool trademark smile and started talking off the top of her head. "I don’t want to leave, Spike, but look around at all your signs and photographs. I’m being used. Assistant managers don’t make much money and you keep a lot of my personal training profits. This arrangement isn’t working for me anymore. You know what you need around here? A fitness director."

  "But I’m the fitness director." His dark beady eyes blinked a couple times.

  "You’re also the owner and have a hundred other things to do. Give me a salaried position as fitness director in charge of trainers and aerobics staff – which of course, would include a significant raise and the authority to lead educational workshops for employees and wellness seminars for club members. I’ll still continue as staff personal trainer, outside of all that, with our same agreement."

  As assistant manager, Cassidy spent her days giving tours, compiling membership databases and scheduling staff, leaving little room for teaching. More fitness-oriented responsibilities would at least make her time here more tolerable. Spike’s brow grooved as if he were in deep thought. He didn’t get that pensive look often. He’d go along with it. She knew he would. Her promotion was long overdue, but Cassidy had to be honest about one thing.

  "I have a stipulation, though," she went on. "I’m signing with an agent who’s trying to get me public appearances, endorsements and exercise videos. That type of occasional outside employment has to be agreeable. In exchange for flexibility with my hours, I’ll drop your name into all my interviews."

  She winked and threw in an extra incentive. "As a matter of fact, a reporter from the Garrett Daily News plans to follow me around for a couple weeks. Of course, I’ll bring her by the gym."

  Spike fanned himself with the paychecks, a thin layer of sweat dotting his forehead. "What if all that stuff messes up your work schedule and you’re never here?"

  "I think we both know the answer to that, Spike. If my career takes off, then at some point I’ll have to quit." Cassidy shrugged. "But, who knows when or if that will happen? In the meantime, we can both benefit from SOS."

  He was silent for a long moment. Finally, his voice cut through the quiet. "Okay. I think you should be visible in the fitness center and play floor trainer for a few weeks, even though I’ll pay you as fitness director. Everyone wants to see you on the floor, and that way, you can recruit more members as PT clients."

  Cassidy nodded, struggling to keep a poker face. Spike’s suggestion would give her a perfect opportunity to develop a rapport with the new members. She’d feel guilty about leaving clients behind if she had to quit in a few months, but Cassidy had to put her own needs first. For now, she’d work hard and be the best fitness director/personal trainer these people had ever seen.

  "Remember your contract," Spike went on. "If you ever quit, you can’t solicit business from current or past members for six months."

  "Got it. Thanks, Spike."

  Jill, the teenage receptionist who spent way too many hours in the tanning booth, poked her sun-bronzed head and shoulders through the doorway and announced that someone had arrived for a tour. Cassidy pushed back her chair and followed her boss out to the counter where a father and his pre-teen daughter milled before the front desk. For now, she ignored the wide-eyed stares and plastered smile of the girl, whose chin rested in the steel ring of a scoliosis back brace.

  Spike grinned at the father, a mustached blond in a suit and tie. "You probably recognize our fitness director, Cassidy Novak from Sink or Swim. Cassidy can give you an orientation and do some fitness testing, which is included in your membership. You can even hire her as your personal trainer and work one-on-one with her a couple times a week."

  The dad nodded, donning a smile as bright as his daughter’s. "We’re fans. That’s why we chose this gym."

  "I’m thrilled you watched the show. And a little embarrassed. I still have
n’t seen any episodes and I’m kind of dreading it," Cassidy admitted, shaking his hand. With his firm grip and broad shoulders, she'd peg him as a former football player.

  "Are you kidding? It was terrific. I'm Ned Lowry, by the way. My daughter Deanna is your biggest fan. She has scoliosis, a curvature of the spine, and her physical therapist said swimming would be good exercise." He drew Deanna in front of him and tousled her sandy blonde waves.

  "Hi, Cassidy," Deanna murmured with a shy grin. She reached up and tugged her father’s arm. "Can Cassidy be my personal trainer, Daddy? All my friends will be jealous. So will Laurie. That’s my little sister," she added for Cassidy’s benefit.

  "I don’t think you’re old enough to need your own personal trainer," her father said with a laugh, "but I’m sure Cassidy could give you a couple pointers."

  Cassidy squatted down to Deanna’s level. "He’s right, you’d be bored on all those machines. I’ll tell you what. I’ll bring my bathing suit one day and show you some fun exercises to do in the pool. It’ll be awesome."

  Deanna’s downcast expression lit up. "Really? That’d be great, Cassidy!"

  Spike clapped his hands with his usual high-strung enthusiasm. "Come on, let’s go check out that pool. If you decide to join, we’ll come right back and put you on Cassidy’s appointment schedule for orientation."

  Cassidy stayed behind as the others headed down the carpeted staircase. She reached for a clipboard. If Spike wanted her on the floor, she’d better take the next appointment, which would start any minute. She noticed a beanpole redhead in her early twenties hovering near the desk. The girl carried a thermos stamped with "SOS" and a long white Sink or Swim tee-shirt billowed halfway down her black cotton stretch pants.

  Cassidy grabbed a blank workout sheet under the counter. "Are you Rhonda Sue?"

  Bug-eyed, Rhonda Sue Vanelli straightened the tortoise-shell glasses glued to her head with an exercise band. "You ... you said my name. Oh, my God, Cassidy Novak said my name. I feel like I should pinch my cheek or something. I must be dreaming."