California Schemin'

by Carolyn Keene

  “Most spas sell their own products,” Bess said. “The Casabian sisters might buy their makeup here.”

  When we reached the front door of the mansion, George whistled through her teeth. “You’d think Brad and Angelina lived here,” she said.

  “They probably did at one time,” I joked.

  After stepping up to the heavy wood and iron door, George pulled a cord that rang the bell.

  “Sounds like wind chimes,” Bess pointed out.

  “At least it’s not some tacky TV tune like the Casabians’,” George said.

  It wasn’t long before a young woman wearing a black tunic and matching leggings pulled the door open. I noticed how perfect her hair and makeup were—lips glossy, eyelashes curled, bangs and layers thick and bouncy.

  “I’m Luna,” the woman chirped. “And you are?”

  Bess introduced herself, then added, “And my friends are Nancy and George.”

  “George?” Luna said, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Is that your real name?”

  “No,” George replied with a smirk. “It’s Henry.”

  “George!” Bess hissed. She smiled at Luna and said, “Her real name is Georgia. But she hates her real name more than she hates—”

  “Spas?” George cut in.

  “Well, the name Georgia is lovely,” Luna said. “Are you here for one of our treatments?”

  “We each have an appointment for the basic manicure,” Bess explained. “I made them about an hour ago.”

  “Then please come in.” Luna made a sweeping motion with her hand to whisk us in. “I’ll show you where to change into your robes and get a glass of fresh pomegranate juice.”

  “Robes?” George asked as we stepped through the door. “For a manicure?”

  “Relax and enjoy,” Bess said.

  Following Luna, we crossed under a huge wroughtiron chandelier and down a long hallway. Candles flickered from iron sconces hanging from burgundy-colored walls. The air smelled like orange blossoms and cinnamon from the scented candles.

  “Mmm,” I said as I closed my eyes to take a whiff. Suddenly—

  “Hot stuff coming through!” a voice barked.

  My eyes snapped open. A guy with sandy-brown hair was coming down the hall. He was wearing faded jeans and a black T-shirt. He walked almost zombielike past us, holding a steaming mug of what smelled like peppermint tea.

  “Cute…but snooty,” Bess murmured. “He didn’t even look at us.”

  I watched the guy as he continued down the hall. Where had I seen him before?

  “Over here, ladies!” Luna stood outside a door farther down the hall. “Here’s our waiting room.”

  Waiting room? I thought.

  WAITING ROOM!

  So that’s who the zombielike guy was!

  BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

  “Bess,” I said. “That’s Brad from the emergency room at Malachite General.”

  “I think you’re right,” she whispered. Vacation or not, I had to find out what was up with Brad.

  “Nancy, where are you going?” Bess called as I raced the other way down the hall.

  “Excuse me,” I said when I caught up with Brad.

  Brad turned around. He cocked his head as if to say, Do I know you?

  “I’m Nancy,” I said with a smile. “I just wanted to see how you were feeling.”

  “Feeling?” Brad asked, stone-faced.

  “I saw you in the hospital earlier with Danielle,” I explained. “You looked pretty sick. Actually, you’re still pretty pale—”

  “I’m fine,” Brad interrupted, making me blink. “I just had…too much sun.”

  Then he slipped into a room off the hallway.

  If he had too much sun, I thought, why is he so pale?

  As I made my way back to the waiting room, I felt the color drain from my own face. If Brad was at this retreat, then that scary Inge probably was too.

  “Well, it’s about time,” George said when I joined them. What a waiting room: low lights, soft music, and water cascading gently down one wall.

  Luna handed me a white terry-cloth robe and matching slippers. “You and your friends can change behind any of the screens,” she said, and then left us alone.

  We talked to one another over the partitions as we changed into our robes.

  “So was that guy Brad?” George asked.

  “Not only was he Brad,” I said, “he seemed annoyed when I asked him how he felt. He said he was much better, even though he still looked pretty sick.”

  “He was walking kind of like a zombie,” Bess remembered.

  “He spoke like one too,” I said. “Which makes the whole thing even weirder.”

  The three of us stepped out from behind the screens at practically the same moment. The sight of us in those plushy white robes and slippers made me smile.

  “Nancy, I just thought of something,” Bess said. “If Brad is here, I bet crazy-lady Inge is too.”

  “I thought that too, Bess. But we don’t know why she wanted Brad to leave the hospital,” I said.

  “Maybe Brad got sick from a spa treatment and they want to cover it up,” Bess gasped.

  “I think we should look for Inge and ask her some questions,” I said.

  “No way!” George was furious. “Nancy, didn’t you say we should take a break from mysteries while on vacation? You don’t even know who these people are!”

  “But how can we not get involved after what happened to you on the beach?” Bess asked.

  “You said we need to come here to relax,” George said. “So let’s just relax!”

  Bess and I looked at each other. George was right. Taking a deep breath, I poured myself a glass of pomegranate juice, secretly hoping it wouldn’t make me sick.

  We sat quietly, sipping juice and listening to the gentle gurgling of the waterfall. As amped up as I was, the room did have a relaxing effect on me.

  “Ladies?” Luna said softly as she stepped into the room. “Your hand specialists are ready for you now.”

  “Hand specialists?” George asked. “Are you sure we’re getting manicures?”

  We followed Luna into the hall. She opened a door and held it as we filed through. Three women dressed in white suits with the yellow starburst logo stood behind neatly arranged manicure tables.

  “Come right in,” one said cheerily.

  “You bet.” I smiled as I walked to a table.

  Here I was in Malachite Beach, about to get a pampering spa treatment. Life was good, even if it was a little crazy sometimes.

  After we were seated, the manicurists introduced themselves: Lotus, Ivy, and Cinnamon. NO kidding.

  Ivy studied George’s nails and asked, “When was the last time you had a manicure?”

  Bess and I traded looks that said, Uh-oh.

  “The last time,” George said slowly. “Let’s see…it was…about…never.”

  “No problem,” Ivy said perkily. “We’re not here to judge at Roland’s Renewal Retreat and Spa.”

  Lotus gently placed my fingertips in two bowls filled with soothing warm water. “Ivy is right,” she said. “This retreat is not only about outer beauty but inner beauty as well.”

  “I never saw myself on the inside,” George said.

  I felt the stress of the last two days slowly melt away. Instead of focusing on dirty hypodermic needles, drama queen sisters, and crazy ladies in white suits, I focused on the scent of the rose water. Leave it to Bess to ask, “Is there a woman named Inge working at this spa? A tall blond woman with a European accent?”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Cinnamon said. “But we can’t talk about other employees.”

  But Bess wouldn’t give up. “Do you know Mia? Mia Casabian? I heard she’s a guest here.”

  “We can’t talk about the guests, either. But we can tell you everything we know about the retreat,” Lotus said.

  “Okay,” I said while Lotus dried my hands with a fluffy white towel. “I’d like to know why they call it a
retreat as well as a spa.”

  Lotus smiled and said, “Roland’s Renewal Retreat and Spa is a place for people to retreat from everyday stress and life’s challenges.”

  “Who is this guy Roland?” George asked while Ivy worked hard at digging dirt from under her nails. “Or are we not allowed to talk about him, either?”

  The manicurists beamed on hearing Roland’s name.

  “Oh, yes!” Lotus exclaimed. “We’re happy to talk about Roland.”

  “Roland is not only the owner of the spa, he’s an incredible teacher,” Ivy said.

  “What does he teach?” Bess asked.

  “Roland teaches his students how to connect with the light that shines from within us,” Cinnamon said.

  “And to cleanse the mind of negative, harmful thoughts,” Lotus went on.

  So…Roland was a kind of New Age motivational speaker. There was nothing wrong with teaching people to think positively. The question was, how did someone like Inge or that zombie Brad fit into this philosophy?

  “Oh, dear,” Ivy said, interrupting my thoughts. She was leaning over to look at George’s bandaged ankle. “What happened to you?”

  “I stepped on a piece of glass,” George replied.

  “There was trash all over our beach this morning,” Bess explained.

  “We’re not totally sure where it came from,” I said as Lotus massaged my hands. “We just have a theory.”

  The manicurists smile. They seemed to share a lot of little secrets.

  “We know where the trash came from,” Cinnamon said.

  “You do?” Bess asked, practically rising from her chair. “Where?”

  George and I leaned forward. Did the manicurists know things about the Casabian sisters?

  “Well,” Ivy said as she began filing George’s nails, “chances are you willed that trash on the beach.”

  “Willed?” Bess, George, and I chorused.

  “Through what Roland calls ‘garbage thinking,’” Ivy said a little too excitedly.

  “Garbage in,” Cinnamon said with a little shrug, “garbage out.”

  The three of us slumped back in our chairs. Back to square one.

  “Silly us,” George said sarcastically. “Next time we’ll think of bunny rabbits and unicorns.”

  “It’s all in Roland’s book, You Are That,” Lotus went on. “It’s attracted many followers—I mean fans.”

  “Can we meet Roland?” I asked.

  “What for?” George mouthed to me.

  Lotus shook her head and said, “Sorry. Only those who check into the retreat for intense renewal get to meet Roland.”

  “But you can look at his portrait,” Cinnamon said. She nodded her chin at a gold-framed portrait hanging on the wall. It showed a towheaded guy sitting in a red velvet chair, surrounded by flowers. His hands were gently folded in his lap as he smiled serenely.

  “Long live the king,” George said.

  Roland’s portrait did look pretty regal for a guy who owned a spa. But the way the manicurists gazed at his portrait told me he was a lot more than that.

  “Roland lets us do his fingernails and toenails sometimes,” Cinnamon said. “If we’re lucky.”

  Ivy jumped to her feet and wheeled over a cart filled with nail polish bottles.

  “Go ahead and choose your colors,” she said, sweeping her hand over the cart. “May I suggest choosing a shade to match your aura?”

  “How about one to match my keyboard?” George laughed, grabbing a bottle of grayish-beige polish off the cart.

  Bess finally picked a funky aquamarine shade, and I went with a cool coral. We were at a beach, after all.

  We totally relaxed while Lotus, Ivy, and Cinnamon worked their magic on our hands. By the time we said good-bye and left, even George was admiring her nails.

  “I think I can get used to manicures,” she admitted. “At least once every few years.”

  We returned to the waiting room to change back into our regular clothes.

  “This spa definitely does good work,” Bess said, pulling on her sandals. “But you have to admit that whole Roland thing sounds bizarre.”

  “What’s bizarre is how the manicurists weren’t allowed to talk about Inge—or anyone else,” I pointed out. “Not even tell us if she works here.”

  “It’s like Roland is some kind of rock star,” George said.

  “More than that,” I said. “It sounds like he has some kind of power or influence over everyone here.”

  By now I was really curious about the retreat. Maybe we could talk some more to Brad or even find Mia. I glanced at the clock over the juice cart and said, “We don’t have to leave yet. Why don’t we check the place out before we go?”

  “Sure,” George finally agreed. “I’m kind of curious now too.”

  When we asked Luna for a tour of the retreat, she shook her head. “The retreat is in the west wing,” she said. “Only those who sign up for the intense renewal get a tour.”

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed.

  “But I’ll be happy to sign you up for more treatments,” Luna added perkily.

  Great, I thought. How were we going to see the retreat now?

  “Um,” George blurted. “I think I forgot something in the waiting room. Come on, Nancy, Bess. Help me find it.”

  “Okay,” I said, knowing that George never forgot a thing.

  We left Luna in the foyer. But instead of heading to the waiting room, we continued down the hall. We passed more treatment rooms, some marked WAXING, MASSAGE, and EYEBROW THREADING.

  “This is still the spa part,” Bess whispered. “I wonder where the west wing Luna was talking about is?”

  “The ocean in California is west,” I said. “I would think the west wing is on the beach side of the mansion.”

  “Which would be toward the back,” George said, pointing ahead. “Forward march.”

  We walked farther and reached a set of double doors, which led to another hallway. Along this hall were closed doors, and at the end, a spiral staircase.

  “Let’s see where that leads,” I said.

  Quietly we climbed the stairs to a large, open room.

  “Wow,” George said.

  Wow was right. The room was dark, with only a small lamp giving light. Scattered all over the floor were colorful pillows, large enough to be used as seat cushions. At the back of the room was a small stage, and on it was the red velvet chair from Roland’s portrait.

  “This is probably where Roland speaks,” I said, keeping my voice low.

  Then I heard voices that seemed to be coming from behind a door near the stage. Walking closer, I saw a door with a small brass sign nailed to it.

  “‘Therapeutic Healing Room,’” I read aloud.

  “Healing for what?” George whispered.

  The voices grew louder as people began to shout:

  “You’re fat!” “You’re pathetic!” “You’re a loser!” “Loser, loser, loser!”

  Fat? Pathetic? Loser? I couldn’t believe my ears.

  What was therapeutic about insults?

  WAVES AND WARNINGS

  “That’s not healing,” I said with a frown. “It’s verbal abuse.”

  We were pressing our ears against the door, when a frosty voice made us jump.

  “May I help you?”

  Bess, George, and I whirled around. A tall woman with blond hair loomed over us.

  Omigod! Inge!

  “What are you doing here?” Inge asked.

  I stared at the emblem on Inge’s jacket, close enough to see that it was the retreat’s yellow starburst logo.

  “We just had manicures,” Bess replied. She wiggled” her freshly polished fingers in front of her. “We wanted to know what else the spa offers.”

  Inge nodded at the closed door. “I’m afraid this is not part of the spa package, ladies,” she said.

  “Yeah, we figured that,” said George.

  “May I see you out?” Inge asked.

  I star
ed up at Inge, who was about three inches taller than me. “We know the way, thanks,” I replied.

  Inge remained by the closed door as we hurried down the spiral staircase and out of the west wing. Luna was nowhere in sight after we paid for our manicures and headed back to Stacey’s.

  “That place may give good manicures,” Bess shivered. “But it also gives me the creeps.”

  “Me too,” I said. “All that yelling upstairs must be part of the ‘intense renewal.’”

  “A whole week of being called a pathetic loser?” George cried.

  “Maybe renewal means different things to different people,” Bess suggested.

  “I suppose,” I said. “But do you think that’s what Mia Casabian is a part of?”

  “Stop worrying,” George said. “If Mia’s the sensible sister, I’m sure she’s fine.”

  George had a point. What we’d heard behind that door was definitely disturbing, but we’d never actually seen what was going on.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Okay, you two, let’s forget about the last two days and get back to some serious vacay.”

  “Why don’t we change into our suits and head down to the beach? It’s too late to sightsee anyway,” George said.

  “But Dr. Viola said no swimming for the next day or two,” I reminded her.

  “Who needs swimming?” George said as we approached the house. “I’ve got my laptop with me.”

  It didn’t take long for us to change. The beach was clean again, but we spread our towels in a totally different spot, just to be safe.

  As I lay down on my towel, I realized how tired I was from such a frenzied morning. And after a long winter, the sun on my face felt awesome.

  George opened her laptop and searched for things to do in L.A. “How about the La Brea Tar Pits?” she asked. “They have giant prehistoric mammals covered in tar.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I replied, too relaxed to answer. I could feel myself drifting off to sleep when—

  “Yo!” a voice shouted. “Dudes!”

  “Huh?” I said, my eyes snapping open.

  Two guys were walking along the shore, carrying surfboards. “It’s the Casabian sisters’ boyfriends,” I whispered.

  Bess shaded her eyes with her hand. “It is Ty and Devon,” she said excitedly.