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Authors: Laura Levine

BOOK: Pampered to Death
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F
ree at last from Olga’s scrutiny, I sat crouched in my Corolla, wolfing down a somewhat stale blueberry muffin. My taste buds were not exactly thrilled, having been primed for a turkey and swiss, but it was better than nothing.
I’d just licked the crumbs from my fingers and was reaching into the trunk for my emergency can of cat food when I saw a sheriff’s cruiser pulling into the lot.
Hallelujah! The cops were back. With any luck, they’d cracked the case and I could go home!
Shoving the cat food in my pants pocket, I trotted over to get the skinny.
Brangelina were sitting in the cruiser in their starched uniforms and reflective sunglasses, the heady aroma of recentlyeaten burgers and fries wafting from the window.
Fighting back the impulse to ask if there were any leftovers, I greeted them with a cheery smile.
“You guys here to make an arrest?” I asked, hoping they were and that it wasn’t me.
“Not yet,” Angelina said, as she and Brad got out of the car.
“I hope you don’t still consider me a suspect, haha.”
I could see my sickly smile bouncing back at me from their sunglasses.
“We’ll let you know when you’re off the list,” Angelina said.
Ouch. Time for a little self-promotion.
“You should know that I happen to be a model citizen. Ex-Brownie, former member of my high school civics club, and a certified State Farm Good Driver for the past seven years.”
“We’ll keep that in mind,” Brad said.
Desperate to score some points, I followed them as they walked toward The Haven, babbling about how Cathy had seen someone running from the kitchen on the day of the murder and how I suspected it was the killer stealing Olga’s Valium to drug our tea.
Eagerly I waited for their reaction to this late-breaking bulletin.
But their faces remained stony behind their Ray-Bans.
Probably wondering what to order for dinner.
“Just don’t leave town,” Brad warned me, as the two of them disappeared inside The Haven.
Curious to see what they were up to, I hurried to the front door and peeked in the lobby, where I saw them talking to Olga at the reception desk.
“We’re just going out back to get another sample,” I heard Brad say.
Another sample? Of what? Fingerprints, perhaps?
Figuring they had to be going to the scene of the crime, I decided to follow them.
But no way was I going through the lobby. The last thing I wanted was to run into Der Fuhrer and get frisked for hidden cat food.
Instead I scooted around the side of the house. And sure enough, when I got out back, I saw Brangelina making their way over to the Spa Therapy Center. I followed at what I hoped was a safe distance, straining to catch snippets of their conversation.
But all I heard were the words
Jumbo Jack
and
extra cheese
.
See? I told you. They were talking about what to order for dinner!
When they got to the massage center, they did not go inside, but instead walked around to the side of the building.
I sprinted behind a nearby yucca bush, feeling very proud of myself for being such a good shadow. They had absolutely no idea I was on to them.
Crouched down, trying to avoid the yucca’s prickly spines, I watched as they snapped on rubber gloves and started scooping dirt into a plastic container.
Why the heck were they taking dirt from The Spa Therapy Center?
I sat there, ears attuned for gems of info, but they spent what seemed like eternities debating the pros and cons of toasting burger buns.
“Toasting it keeps the bun from getting all soggy,” Brad said.
“But untoasted keeps it nice and soft,” Angelina insisted.
“I’m telling you, toasted’s better.”
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
Finally, when I was
thisclose
to impaling them with a yucca leaf, Brad looked down at the dirt and said, “I just hope there’s some traces of the tea left.”
“Yeah,” said Angelina, “I can’t believe the lab screwed up the first sample.”
And then I realized why they were there. They must’ve found a wet spot outside one of the windows after the murder and figured the killer had dumped the sedative-laced tea outside. Now they were testing the dirt for traces of the tea.
So whose window was it?
Brangelina were crouched under the third window from the front of the building.
I thought back to how we were lined up for our seaweed wraps. Here on this side of the building, I was first, then Mallory, and then, in the third cubicle—Kendra.
Omigosh. Did that mean Kendra was the killer?
“Although who knows if that wet spot we found was even tea,” Brad sighed. “For all we know it was just water from the sprinkler head.”
So much for Kendra’s imminent arrest. But if the lab results showed tea under her window, it sure didn’t look good for her.
By now Brangelina had packed up their things and were starting back up the path to The Haven.
I held my breath as they walked past me. And as I did I heard Brad say, “Watch out for those yucca spines, Jaine. They can be awfully prickly.”
Remind me not to give up my day job.
 
There was a decided nip in the air when I stepped into my spa cubicle. Shawna, my former angel of mercy, had a gimlet look in her baby blues that did not bode well. She handed me my tea in an icy silence, then marched over to the supply table where she started clattering among the bottles of massage oils.
“So how’s it going?” I asked, eager to get the conversational ball bouncing.
“Just dandy,” she snapped.
Before I’d barely had a chance to taste my tea, she snatched it away and pointed to the massage table.
“Hop on,” she commanded, with nary a trace of a smile.
Once I was settled on the table, a towel tossed carelessly across my privates, she slapped on some exfoliating gloves and began sawing away at my limbs like a 2x4 at a lumber yard. Gone was her gentle touch. The woman had morphed overnight from Florence Nightingale to Dr. Mengele.
When she’d finished mauling my epidermis, she tossed aside her exfoliating gloves and began rubbing me down with massage oil. Last time she’d heated it. Now it was ice cold.
My ministering angel was miffed, all right. And I was about to find out why.
“Sven told me you two had a little chat,” she said, rubbing the clammy oil onto my thighs with what I considered a tad too much vigor.
“Oh, that,” I said, with a nervous laugh. “It was nothing, really.”
“Nothing? You practically accused us both of murder!”
“No! Not at all,” I assured her. “I was just asking a few questions.”
“What are you, some kind of detective?”
I figured it was best to come clean.
“Part-time, semi-professional,” I confessed.
“No way, thunderthighs!”
Okay, so what she really said was, “You sure don’t look like one.
“You told Sven,” she then reminded me, “that everybody thinks I killed Mallory.”
Oh, damn. Why the heck had I made up that idiotic fib?
“Not everybody,” I backpedalled. “One or two people may have bandied that theory about, but I’m sure they didn’t mean it.”
She whipped off the cucumber slices she’d slapped on my eyes, and glared down at me.
“I don’t care what anybody says. I didn’t kill Mallory. After I got everyone settled in their seaweed wraps, I went to the gym to have it out with Sven. I was gone at least twenty minutes. Anyone could’ve slipped into Mallory’s cubicle during that time.”
“Absolutely,” I assured her.
“I simply can’t believe people would think I’m the killer,” she huffed, kneading my arms like Julia Child hacking at a wad of sourdough.
“Mallory
was
making a play for your husband,” I pointed out as tactfully as I could. “It’s not hard to see why people might think you’d feel threatened.”
Another icy glare.
“I didn’t need to kill Mallory. I know what kind of man I’m married to. Sven has cheated before. And he’ll cheat again. But in the end, he always comes back to me.”
She lifted her chin defiantly, but behind that confidence I detected a flicker of unease. Maybe Sven had always come back to her before. But Mallory wasn’t your ordinary middle-aged spa guest hoping to drop a few pounds. She was a knockout, a stunner, and a movie star, to boot. I wasn’t so sure Sven would have been able to resist her. And neither, I sensed, was Shawna.
“So,” she said, as she flipped me over on my stomach and began pummeling my back, “which one or two people told you they thought I killed Mallory?”
“I’m really not at liberty to say.... Ouch!”
Good heavens, I’d had mammograms that were less painful than this.
“Just working out the knots,” Shawna snapped. “Now I repeat, which one or two people?”
I suddenly realized that my neck was just inches away from those very strong hands.
Best not to get her any angrier than she already was.
“Kendra and Harvy,” I admitted.
“Harvy???” Shawna snorted in disdain. “That little twerp?
He’s
probably the killer! Now I’m sorry I didn’t report him to the cops.”
Suddenly I forgot my pummeled muscles and perked up, interested.
“What makes you think Harvy might be the killer?”
“Because when I went to his cubicle to give him his seaweed wrap, he wasn’t there. He came hurrying in a few seconds later, said he’d gone to his room to get an aspirin. But why would he do that when he could’ve just asked me for one? I keep them right here in the supply cabinet. Who’s to say he wasn’t across the hall strangling Mallory?”
Good question.
Let’s all give that some thought between chapters, shall we?
I
left Shawna feeling like I’d just done ten rounds with Evander Holyfield and headed over to the jacuzzi to seek relief for my aching muscles.
Approaching the pool area, I saw Harvy and Kendra stretched out on chaises, Armani dozing on a chaise of his own next to Kendra, a hot pink sun visor perched on his pointy ears.
Harvy and Kendra were leafing through some magazines, and if my eyes did not deceive me, munching on what looked like pretzels. Out in the open, in broad daylight!
For heaven’s sake. Was I the only one in this joint who got caught cheating on her diet?
Quickly, I trotted to their side.
Indeed, they were eating pretzels from a bag on a small table between them. The short, thick, stubby kind, which happen to be my favorite.
“Hi, there!” I said, hoping they’d offer me one.
“Well, well,” Harvy sneered. “If it isn’t Nancy Drew. Come to arrest me?”
Kendra, decked out in what was probably one of Mallory’s bikinis, took time out from the
Vogue
she was reading to shoot me a matching sneer.
“Look, Harvy,” I said, eager to make amends, “I’m sorry if I insulted you earlier.”
“You should be,” he huffed, still pissy.
“I don’t really suspect you of murder.”
Which was a baldfaced lie, of course. After what Shawna had just told me, he was practically my number one suspect. And Kendra wasn’t far behind, what with Brangelina digging for sedative-laced tea outside her cubicle window.
But I needed to say something to put an end to the hostilities and nab myself one of those pretzels.
“Honest, I don’t suspect you of anything.”
“Oh, fab.” Harvy wiped his brow with exaggerated relief. “Now I can sleep easy.”
I decided to take the high road and ignore his sarcasm. Instead, I just stood there, eyeing the pretzels, hoping they’d take the hint.
I hoped in vain.
“Anything else you’d care to say?” Harvy asked, clearly waiting for me to make myself scarce.
“I don’t suppose you could spare a pretzel?” I finally broke down and asked.
“No,” he said, biting into one. “We can’t.”
Wow. Some people sure know how to hold a grudge.
“I can spare a piece of advice, though,” Kendra said, looking up at me through Mallory’s designer sunglasses. “You really should be careful, Jaine. If there’s a killer among us, chances are, he—or she—won’t hesitate to kill again.”
Was that a piece of advice I’d just heard—or a threat?
Your guess is as good as mine.
“Well,” Kendra said, dismissing me with a cool smile, “see you at cocktail hour.”
Then, just as I was about to walk away, Kendra put down her
Vogue
and reached for some sunblock. I blinked in surprise. And not at the Swarovski crystals embedded in her dead sister’s bikini top. But rather, at a long gash of a scratch on her chest.
“What happened to your chest?” I asked.
“That damn Armani.” The dog’s ears perked up at the sound of his name. “I wasn’t fast enough feeding Mr. Cranky his doggie treat.”
As if to prove his crankiness, Armani bared his tiny teeth and growled.
“And to think,” Kendra said, rolling her eyes, “the little monster is going to inherit a million dollars.”
I guess I must have still been staring at her scab, because Kendra shot me a glare even more hostile than the one she’d been lobbing at Armani.
“I didn’t get it strangling Mallory, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
But of course, that’s exactly what I was wondering.
 
Okay, class. Let’s pause to consider. Did Kendra really get that scratch from Armani? Or had she been clawed by Mallory, fighting for her life on the massage table? And had Harvy really zipped off to his room, as claimed, for an aspirin? Or had he been the one wringing that kelp around Mallory’s neck? And what about Shawna, the welterweight masseuse? Had she made a murderous pit stop at Mallory’s cubicle between seaweed wraps?
I was soaking my aching muscles in the jacuzzi, pondering these questions and wishing I’d been able to nab a pretzel or two, when I gazed up and saw Clint Masters approaching.
“Hey, there!” he said, throwing off his spa robe and tossing it on a nearby chaise.
Crammed as he was into a tight red Speedo, just about every one of his jumbo muscles were on display, spray tanned to bronzed perfection.
“Mind if join you?” he asked, flashing me his pearly whites.
“Of course not, come on in.”
At last, a friendly face.
A little too friendly, as things turned out.
“How’s it going, June?” he said, immersing himself in the bubbles.
Before I had a chance to reply, he inched closer to me and cooed, “Anyone ever tell you you look mighty fetching in a bathing suit?”
(His eyes, I might point out, were nowhere near the ghastly loaner bathing suit I’d donned, but rather on my bobbing cleavage.)
“Only my mother,” I said, sidling away from him, “and I was seven at the time.”
“Ha ha,” he said, closing the gap between us. “I love a self-deprecating woman.”
Frankly, I was surprised he knew the meaning of self-deprecating.
“After we finish our little soak,” he asked, flashing me his idea of bedroom eyes, “how about we head up to my room for a shower?”
Yikes. The guy was about as subtle as a sledgehammer.
“So what do you say, June?”
“I don’t think so,” I demurred.
To be perfectly honest, he wasn’t my type. As you well know from my encounters with Darryl, I much prefer a sensitive sweetie to a musclebound gym rat whose idea of foreplay is looking at his own head shots. And even if Clint were my type, I try never to have dipsy doodle with someone who can’t remember my name. Call me wacky, but that’s usually a deal breaker.
I scooted away a few inches. And once more, he wasted no time closing the gap between us. By now we’d made a full circle around the jacuzzi and Clint was beginning to get ticked off.
“Don’t you understand?” He pouted. “I’m giving you the opportunity to make world class love with a major motion picture star.”
“Really? Who?”
Okay, I didn’t really say that. It’s just that when I think of major motion picture stars, I think of guys like George Clooney and Cary Grant. Not the steroid-injected lunkhead who ran around in a loin cloth in
Revenge of the Lust Busters
.
“Actually, I’m very flattered that you want to, um, ‘take a shower’ with me, Clint, but I can’t. I’m just too upset about Mallory’s murder. I practically discovered her body, you know.”
Suddenly he remembered he was supposed to be in mourning.
“Oh, right.” He slapped on a suitably soulful expression. “Poor Mallory. Strangled with a piece of seaweed. What an awful way to go!” He shook his head in faux sorrow. “Such a great gal. Although,” he said, doing surreptitious leg kicks in the water, “she really did have a habit of making enemies. Not me, of course,” he hastened to add. “I always loved her.”
Man, this guy was one heck of a stinky actor. I’d seen better performances from the clown at the Jack in the Box.
“Do you have any idea who might have done it?”
“None whatsoever. Like I told the police, I was in my room the entire time.”
“So you saw nothing and heard nothing?”
“All I heard was Shawna and Sven arguing in the gym.”
“You heard them from your room?”
“Oh, yes. My balcony faces the back of the estate and their voices carried.”
So The Aerobic Twins hadn’t been lying about being at the gym at the time of the murder. That still didn’t mean Shawna couldn’t have taken time out to strangle Mallory, but it certainly shoved her a bit lower on my suspect list.
“You should have heard Shawna reaming into Sven. She said she was sick and tired of his fooling around and that she couldn’t believe he was stupid enough to get involved with a woman like Mallory. Sooner or later, she said, Sven was bound to get hurt.”
Women are amazing, n’est-ce pas? Here Shawna was worried about Sven getting hurt when she was the one who’d just had her heart broken!
“Then Sven said he couldn’t help himself, he was overcome by desire; and then he promised he’d never do it again, and that everything would be okay.”
“You heard all that from your room?”
Was it my imagination, but was there just a hint of hesitation in his reply?
“Sure,” he said. “They were both talking pretty loud. And the sound really carries around here.”
Not really.
Those of you taking notes will no doubt recall my hellish stint working in the organic garden, the day I heard Clint begging Mallory not to spill the beans about his ladies lingerie fetish. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Not at first. I’d had to scoot closer to the house to listen in.
Maybe Shawna and Sven had been shouting loud enough for the sound to carry.
Then again, maybe Clint just happened to hear them as he walked past the gym on his way back from strangling Mallory.
 
All that chatter about Mallory’s murder must’ve taken the starch out of Clint’s Speedo, because he soon bid me a hasty farewell and returned to his room, presumably to shower alone.
I looked around the pool area and saw that Harvy and Kendra were gone, too.
I was tempted to haul myself out of the jacuzzi and see if they left behind any pretzels, but I was too lazy to move. All that hot water was making me sleepy.
And before long I drifted off into a most delicious doze, starring me and my favorite dream co-star, George Clooney.
This time George and I were lounging beachside in a tropical paradise, George as stunning as ever in sedate but sexy swim trunks, me in a string bikini, my thighs miraculously thin.
And here’s the best part: George was hand-feeding me pretzels dipped in Chunky Monkey ice cream!
It was heaven. Sheer heaven.
And then, abruptly, as things tend to happen in dreams, Darryl of Darryl’s Deli came racing up to us on the beach.
“Jaine, what are you doing here with George Clooney?” he asked, a look of consternation in his definitely-hazel eyes.
“She’s eating ice cream and pretzels, buddy,” George said. “Want to make something of it?”
“I sure do,” Darryl cried. “You can’t stay here, Jaine!”
“Sez who?” George said, getting up.
“Sez me, that’s who!” Darryl replied, fire in those hazel eyes.
Oh, wow! Geo. Clooney and Darryl of Darryl’s Deli were fighting over me, Jaine Austen. This was even better than the ice cream and pretzels. Almost.
“C’mon, Jaine,” Darryl said, pulling me up from the sand. “You’ve got to get out of here.”
“Why? Can’t you two keep fighting over me just a little while longer? At least until I run out of pretzels.”
“Don’t you remember what happened the last time you were in a dream with George Clooney?” Darryl said. “Someone got murdered!”
Omigosh, he was right.
“You’d better wake up ASAP.”
I tried to force myself awake, but I was trapped in the dream. And what’s worse, George and Darryl had vanished. Suddenly I was no longer on the beach, but in the ocean, under water, the waves churning around me. I tried to push up to the surface, but something was holding me down.
And then I realized this was no dream. This was really happening!
I was still in the jacuzzi, and someone was trying to drown me!
I thrashed and kicked to no avail. Oh, God, the water was coming up my nose. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the hands that were holding me down released me.
Coughing and gasping for air, I came bursting up out of the water.
After I’d finally managed to catch my breath, I looked around to see who’d attacked me. But whoever had done it was long gone.
I stumbled out of the jacuzzi and wrapped myself in my spa robe, shivering in spite of all that hot water I’d been soaking in.
On shaky legs, I headed up the path to the main house.
For a minute I wondered if maybe I had dreamed the whole thing, after all. Had I simply fallen asleep and slipped underwater?
No, it couldn’t be. I’d felt those hands on my head, pushing me down. They were real, all right.
And that could mean only one thing.
The killer had struck again.

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