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Authors: Joan Hess

BOOK: A Diet to Die For
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“Who said we’d closed that investigation?”
“Haven’t you written it off as caused by a potassium deficiency?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“I hear things,” I said modestly. “I think you’re wrong, of course, because you heard Maribeth say she would be more careful not to miss the prescribed caplets. Then again, I suppose you had the lab run a test on the caplets to make sure they were what they were purported to be, so you may be right after all. It’s rather difficult to give Gerald a motive; he’s very interested in Maribeth’s continued well-being until the trust comes to her on her birthday.” Peter was beginning to make rabid-dog noises, so I took a breath and continued. “But if Gerald and Candice were having an affair, then Candice might wish Maribeth was out of the picture, so she could marry Gerald. She certainly had access to the potassium caplets; maybe she substituted them with a placebo of some kind. But that might not play, if you’ve already gotten the lab report,” I gave him a bright, inquisitive look, although somewhere in my soul I knew I was teetering on a
threadbare tightrope in the very top of the tent.
Peter sipped his coffee, wrinkled his nose, and carefully put down the cup, all the while gazing at me through impenetrable eyes. He curled a finger at the waitress, who with Houdini-ish insight came to the table and slapped down the check, then went to the adjoining booth to drone about the specials. He looked at the check, took a dollar from his billfold and tucked it under the cracked saucer, and stood up. “Shall we go?”
“I was only asking,” I muttered as we went out to the car. “If you didn’t have the potassium tested, say so, and I’ll drop the matter.”
His teeth reminded me of blunted icicles as he smiled, and his voice was of arctic origin. “You’ll drop the matter, you say?” He held the car door open for me, waited for me to snuggle on top of the pillow, then closed the door and went around the car and took his place behind the wheel. “I don’t want to cast doubts on your basic honesty, but you’ve said that before, and it hasn’t even played in Boston, much less Cleveland. I realize you’re not going to tell me the source of your information, and we broke the last set of thumbscrews last week”—he was silent until he’d turned the car around and started for the street—“but you might consider the sensation of seventeen splinters of glass in your backside.” He jerked the wheel so that we bounced over a pothole, then glanced at me as I let out a muffled groan. “Meddling can be painful.” He found an asphalt speed breaker and did not brake. “Disobeying the doctor’s orders can be unwise.”
As he aimed for yet another speed breaker, I said, “Will you please stop this, Peter? I am not a child to
be punished for disobedience. I am an adult—at the moment a very angry adult. If you hit that bump, I will get out of this car and hitchhike home.”
He eased off the gas pedal and turned the car back toward the street. “I was trying to make a point, Claire. I can’t count the number of times you’ve had a gun aimed at you, and by a person who had nothing to lose by pulling the trigger. I don’t want to lose you.”
“Not that many times.” I sniffed, my fanny stinging as sharply as my pride. “When I deduced the identity of Azalea Twilight’s murderer, perhaps, and in the lobby of the Mimosa Inn during the mock-murder weekend, and that one time at the theater. I’m surprised you can’t count to three, Lieutenant Rosen; have some of your fingers fallen off when you weren’t looking?” Armed with bravado. I’ll say most anything.
“Not bad for a mild-mannered bookseller,” he said as we left the parking lot. “A mild-mannered civilian bookseller who needs to mind her own business rather than meddling in official investigations.”
“Don’t you ever tire of saying that? In any case, there is no official investigation of Maribeth’s so-called mishap, so there’s no way I can meddle in one, is there? And I promise to stay out of the locker room, so you can’t claim I’m meddling in that one.”
As we stopped at a red light, I noticed my car in the next lane. The driver was exceedingly grim. The front-seat passenger was stoic but blinking several times a second. The backseat appeared to be empty.
“Where’s Jorgeson?” I gasped.
Peter stared at the car. Before he could say anything, a hand appeared from the depths of the backseat
and a finger limply waggled. Caron’s lower lip shot out, and the car squealed away from the light, which, to someone’s mother’s heartfelt relief, had turned green.
As had someone’s mother.
“
T
he police refuse to investigate?” Joanie Powell said, her fork poised halfway to her mouth. “Maribeth had a potassium deficiency, but no one’s mind is inquiring enough to wonder how it happened?” She propelled the fork the remaining inches and chomped angrily.
“That’s about it,” I admitted. I was in my bathrobe and on my sofa, both of which had done wonders to soothe fanny and pride. Joanie’s casserole was helping, too, along with Caron and Inez’s absence, in that they’d grudgingly gone to the youth center near the high school to find out about inexpensive aerobics classes. I could hardly wait to hear their opinions, and I was sure I would—at great length.
“Then what are we going to do?” Joanie asked. “We can’t sit around while Maribeth remains in a coma caused by someone who’s now convinced he or she got away with it.”
Sighing, I said, “Peter never answered my question, but I think we can assume they didn’t run any tests on Maribeth’s potassium supply. According to Sheldon Winder, the supplements were kept in an unlocked
cabinet in the Ultima office, but he, Candice, and Bobbi had the only keys to the center. It’s possible all three of them could have been with clients in the examinations rooms at the same time, leaving the office vacant, but it’d be risky for anyone to sneak in for even a few seconds. If for no other reason, a client might come in the front door and accuse you of peeking at her confidential folder.”
“I certainly wouldn’t want my weight to appear in the campus newspaper gossip column.”
“They contain medical information, too.” I rose and went to the kitchen, moving slowly not only out of consideration for my much abused body but also because something was nagging at me and I couldn’t quite grab it. Medical information, I reiterated mentally. The Ultima Center took medical histories and ran tests before enrolling its clients. But had they run tests on Maribeth? I poured myself a medicinal shot of scotch and went back into the living room, scowling like a copy editor confronted with capricious punctuation.
Once I was resettled, I said, “When I asked Gerald why Maribeth dropped out of college, he was vague, saying only that she’d stayed in the infirmary for several months and missed too many classes. Do you know what was wrong with her?”
Joanie thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, and since it happened while Maribeth was in college, I doubt my daughter would know, either; they’d quit corresponding by then. I guess I could ask her when she calls tonight. Do you think it’s important?”
“I have no idea,” I said morosely. “Maybe Maribeth had some bizarre illness that subsequently prevented
her body from absorbing potassium. Maybe she had something wrong with her throat and could no longer swallow caplets. Maybe I’m making no sense whatsoever.” In that I was holding a glass, I resisted the urge to throw up my hands in the traditional gesture of defeat and instead drank a good inch of scotch.
“I’ll ask my daughter tonight, and I’ll also call Betty Lou and find out when she’s on duty at the hospital; if she’s needed in the wards again, she might be able to take a peek at Maribeth’s chart. But that will help only if she can read the doctor’s handwriting, which makes it a very long shot.” Joanie went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The path must have been fraught with inspiration, because when she returned with a beer, she said, “Why don’t you look at Maribeth’s chart at Ultima?”
“Because the information is confidential.”
“And you’re going to let that stop you?”
“I can think of someone who might be a tad testy if I were caught breaking and entering,” I said. “His thumbscrews may be broken, but his temper’s intact.”
Footsteps thudded up the stairs and Caron and Inez flung themselves into the living room. “Hi, Mrs. Powell,” Caron said, then looked at me and in a grand display of breathlessness, demanded, “Guess what, Mother? It’s such an Incredible Coincidence that you’ll never believe it!”
“Yeah,” Inez said, merely breathing.
“There’s an aerobics class at the youth center? All your friends want to sign up, it costs nothing, it’s a short walk, and it’s being taught by Jane Fonda?”
“Mother,” Caron said in a pained whine, but realized her tone was not likely to win friends or influence
people vested with maternal authority. “The classes at the youth center are impossible. We talked to the woman who teaches them, and she said most of the participants are at least sixty years old and like to work out to ancient stuff like big band music. She’s probably forty herself—which isn’t that old, of course. I mean, you’re almost forty and … you look okay … .” She paused to consider how to undo the damage.
Inez tiptoed to the rescue. “We found out about a really neat class just for teens, where they play heavy metal and hard rock. The instructor’s young and bouncy, and she says it’ll be so exciting to have us join the class.”
“But it’s not offered through the youth center, so it’s not cheap, it’s not conveniently close, and it’s not being taught by Jane Fonda. Correct?”
“Correct,” Caron said, “but we positively can’t waltz with a bunch of old people. This class is designed especially for our age group, and the instructor is a physical education major who studies bones and joints and stuff.”
“How much does it cost?” I asked mildly.
Caron draped herself across a chair. “I didn’t ask, but the first two classes are complimentary, so I don’t see why you won’t let us try it this week. The class meets at six o’clock for an hour, twice a week. We can go tomorrow, and all you have to do is take us and pick us up.”
“Is that all? Can’t your mother drive one way, Inez?”
Inez shuffled her feet like a toddler in need of a potty. “She has a meeting tomorrow night. The Budgie Fanciers Club.”
Caron snorted. “What’s a budgie, some kind of nickname for a budget? Sounds like a really exciting time, figuring out how to pay the rent and keep the children in shoes.”
I shushed Caron and gazed at Joanie. “I suppose I might drive them to this class tomorrow evening. I could find somewhere to wait for them, couldn’t I?”
“You mean we can go?” Caron shrieked, forgetting about the rent and unclad toes. “Come on, Inez; let’s call Rhonda. She’ll absolutely die when she hears about this.” She started for her room, then stopped and looked back at me. “Could I have a small advance on my allowance? Please? I just know everybody will wear the latest style in leotards, and all I’ve got are gym shorts and a T-shirt. I don’t want to look like some pitiful orphan in Salvation Army used clothes.”
“How would you like to live at the Salvation Army shelter?” I countered sweetly. I maintained the smile until her bedroom door slammed closed.
 
I stayed in bed the next day, partly out of delayed deference to the doctor’s orders and partly because the previous day’s activities had rekindled a few tiny sparks. I amused myself by calling Luanne Bradshaw, an old friend who’d agreed to babysit the Book Depot for a few days. After a mere three or four calls, she heartlessly announced she would no longer answer the telephone. Maribeth’s condition had not changed. The temperature was sixty-three and the time 9:05—and 10:57, 11:14, etc. My accountant was in Hawaii; I took comfort in the knowledge that had he financed his trip by embezzling my money, he would have run out of funds in Muskogee, Oklahoma. Peter was out on a case and Jorgeson had called in sick. The desk
sergeant said his grandchildren were fine but that he needed to take more urgent calls. I couldn’t think of any Lieutenant Columbo-type questions to hurl at anyone, à la “One more thing, Gerald, why did the potassium caplets turn green under fluorescent light?”
I was actually glad to see Caron and Inez, although Caron was quite the martyred orphan in her shorts and T-shirt. If Inez owned a fashionable leotard, she had enough sense not to wear it and was clad in similar rags.
I opted to drive, and we arrived at Delano’s Fitness Center shortly before six o’clock. The door of the Ultima Center had been replaced with a sheet of plywood and the sign hung at a crooked angle, but it seemed it was business as usual, because two clients came out as I parked. I told the girls to go inside the fitness center, then went to the plywood door and, after a stern mental lecture to my trembling hand, opened it and forced myself to enter.
The glass that had comprised the front wall of the office was gone, although the counter, silk flowers, and clipboard were in place. Bobbi Rodriquez looked up from a stack of folders. “Hi, Ms. Malloy. Can I help you?”
“I’m surprised you’re open.”
“It’s been one headache after another, for sure, but we have an obligation to our clients. Some of them are in really crucial stages of the program, and we couldn’t let them down by closing the center and returning their fees, even if we prorated them.”
“Heavens no,” I said dryly. “I was hoping I might have a brief look at Maribeth’s file, Bobbi. She’s still in the coma, and I think there might be something in the file that might explain certain things.”
“But it’s confidential,” Bobbi said, her eyes wide with astonishment.
“She wouldn’t mind, especially if it improved her condition.” I leaned over the counter and studied the name tags on the pile of folders. “Isn’t that hers near the bottom? If you’ll let me have ten seconds with it, I swear that no one will ever find out and you’ll have helped Maribeth.”
Bobbi nibbled on her lip, then frowned at her wristwatch and said, “Oh, gee, look how late it is! I’m going to run back and change into my leotard and tights. Would you please wait here in case some late client shows up?” With the expression of a novitiate on the way to vespers, she left the office through the back door.
I grabbed Maribeth’s folder and opened it. The top forms involved liability should the party of the second part suffer any ill effects from the program offered by the party of the first part. Her daily record noted the date of each consultation, weight status, ketone level, and blood pressure. The last recorded visit had been the day of the accident, obviously, and the notation indicated she’d gained a pound, putting her at a running total of minus fourteen. Her blood pressure had gone up. Her weight loss had been consistent and occasionally dramatic for the first twelve days, but after that she lost no more than half a pound a day, and as often gained weight.
I flipped the record aside to read her history, which contained nothing more exotic than mundane childhood diseases, a tonsillectomy, and an allergy to ragweed. All the other boxes in the No column were checked, from appendectomy (give date) through whooping cough.
Disappointed, I looked for the results of the EKG and the blood work ordered when she first enrolled. I found myself looking at the back cover of the folder. I shuffled through the loose pages once again, but I’d seen all there was to see, and I was sliding the folder back into the pile when Bobbi came back to the office, now wearing a shiny black leotard with a diagonal scarlet stripe, matching tights, wristbands, and a headband. She paused to allow me to admire the overall effect, and said, “Ooh, I’ve got to lock up this minute and go next door. We have a teen class now, and it’s so much fun. The girls just can’t get enough; sometimes they even wear me out by the end of the class.’ She herded me out to the sidewalk, took a key from her purse, and locked the door behind us. “Did you find what you needed in Maribeth’s folder?”
“No,” I said, still perplexed. “I thought Ultima did blood work and an EKG on every client, but I couldn’t find any records in Maribeth’s folder.”
Bobbi waved at a group of girls going into the fitness center, then gave me an uncomfortable smile. “It’s part of the program, but, you see, Dr. Winder and Candice had to use all their capital, down to the last penny, to lease the building and put in the examination rooms and remodel and everything. They were using the current fees to finance the EKG machine and the lab equipment, but none of it arrives until the middle of next month. Until then, we’ve been requesting that clients have the tests done by their personal physicians and give us copies for the file. That way we know clients don’t have any medical problems that might cause them to be unsuitable for the program.”
“Did Maribeth do this?”
“She said she’d had the tests done, but she kept forgetting to bring us the copies. Candice and I reminded her almost every time she came in for a consultation, and she always promised she would. But then she’d walk through the door empty-handed every darn time. It was kind of a joke in the office.” She looked at her watch again, squealed, and said, “Bye now, Ms. Malloy. The girls are probably going nuts to get started.”
She trotted into the fitness center, leaving me on the sidewalk to wonder why Maribeth had been so determined to forget her test results. One very logical answer came to mind: she hadn’t been able to afford the tests and was frightened to ask Gerald for the cash. It was so overwhelmingly logical that I went over to my car and sat down (very gingerly) on the hood, mentally patting myself (very softly) on the back.
It was a pleasant evening, the temperature mild and the street quieting down now that the good citizens of Farberville were home for dinner. Except for my car, the parking lot in front of Ultima was empty, and only a few cars were parked in front of Jody’s place of business. The windows of the offices beyond were dark, and the spaces in front of them also empty, except for one lone car at the far end. In my balmy philosophical mood, it struck me that no matter how late the hour or remote the parking lot, there is always at least one car parked in every lot.

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