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Authors: Joan Hess

BOOK: A Diet to Die For
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Caron snorted. “I figured as much. This popcorn and grapefruit diet is much faster, and it doesn’t involve any exercise. Why, in three weeks we could lose as much as thirty pounds, although naturally I’ll only need one week and Inez …” She stopped and coolly appraised her cohort. “No more than two weeks, max.”
“I don’t need to lose twenty pounds!” Inez said, allowing a rare tinge of outrage to creep into her usually monotonal pronouncements.
“It couldn’t hurt.”
“You’re the one they refer to as Miss Thunder Thighs.”
“It’s not my fault you have gym class third period, Pudgy-Wudgy. If moronic Louis Wilderberry had seen you thudding under the volleyball net like a hippopotamus—well, who knows what he might have thought.”
“Louis Wilderberry can’t tie his shoes without reading the directions.”
To everyone else’s relief, the two departed, the sound of their bickering wafting after them like a mist of acid rain. Once they’d cleared the portico, I sighed and said, “Please forgive them, Maribeth. After all their miracle diets, they’ve put on pounds. I heard Caron telling one of her friends on the telephone that she couldn’t find any new jeans in her size that weren’t too tight. If you think I suggested a bigger size, you seriously underestimate my will to live.”
“I hope they don’t resort to any diet pills,” Joanie said. She gazed sternly at Maribeth. “And I assume you wouldn’t even consider them. They’re addictive and dangerous.”
Maribeth stared at her, the blotches on her face beginning to throb angrily. Before she could sputter a response, I said, “We’re done with this rack, Maribeth. Will you please use the calculator in my office to add up all the columns? I’m planning to call in an order tomorrow morning and I need the totals.”
“All right,” she said. She snatched the clipboard from my hand and stalked toward the office.
“I simply don’t know what’s happening to her,” Joanie said, scowling at me as if I’d throbbed and sputtered and snatched and stalked. “Maybe we should speak to Dr. Winder or Candice.”
“There’s a family support meeting today at five,” I said helpfully.
“What a pity. I’m having dinner with a girl from my pottery class, and then we’re going to a lecture on Japanese firing techniques at the school. The lecture’s at seven, so there’s no way I can make it to this meeting. Poor Maribeth seems to be degenerating at an alarming rate; by next week she may be in serious trouble and beyond any help we might give her.” Her sharp look made it clear who would be responsible should that happen.
“You started this,” I protested. “You’re the one who’s the producer and director of the show, but every time someone needs to do something, you conveniently remember a previous engagement.”
“Just look at the time! If I don’t get the chicken in the oven, Violet and I will be late for the lecture. Tashimo Kokata is one of the best Japanese potters of the decade.”
I realized I was outmanuevered once again and ungraciously wished her rubbery chicken for dinner and terminal tedium at the lecture. After she left, I picked up the newspaper and sat down behind the counter to see what the local citizenry had done for my amusement. I recalled Joanie’s remarks concerning the dead athlete and turned to the sports page—a first in my present lifetime.
It was well worth the adventure into the unknown. The football player, Greg Smollenski, a sophomore from some small town in Kentucky and a brilliant linebacker (whatever that was) had indeed died from an acute myocardial infarction, better known as a heart attack. An autopsy, however, had indicated the boy had been using—or more accurately, abusing—anabolic steroids and corticosterioids for several months. The former I’d read about and knew were
taken to increase muscle mass and strength, frequently resulting in heart problems and other unpleasant complications. The latter, according to the article, were used to increase aggression and mask pain and fatigue while busily causing gland dysfunctions that led to kidney problems. Neither was legal. Both were common.
The NCAA was not happy with the deceased player or with the Farber College Athletic Department, which was required to randomly test its athletes for signs of abuse. I ordered myself not to envision rows of brutish hulks clutching little bottles in their oversized paws and continued through the article. The football coaches swore they had no idea where the Smollenski boy had obtained the drugs, and muttered about ways to avoid detection in tests. The basketball coaches said there was none of that going on among their players. The wrestling coach had gone out of town indefinitely. The head of the department had played misty at the press conference and bemoaned the loss of such a fine, upstanding, Christian athlete with such golden opportunities ahead of him. His plea for a thorough investigation to put an end to such abuse among the fine, upstanding, Christian boys who gave their personal best for the Fighting Frogs had reduced the author of the article to tears, or so he claimed.
The final paragraph noted that the DEA and the NCAA were assisting the Farberville CID in the investigation.
Despite the unsavoriness of the story, I must admit I was grinning just a bit. Ol’ Super Cop had almost been right when he smirkingly said that I’d never read about his case, not because it was hush-hush, but because
he knew I never so much as glanced at the sports page.
The grin was still in place when Maribeth came out of the office and gave me the clipboard, saying, “I’m sorry I was so sensitive earlier, Claire. This program is so totally vital to me, and I don’t want Joanie to do something that might result in my being sent back to that dreary house to do nothing but stare at the walls and stuff my face. It’s done wonders for me, both physically and emotionally. I can almost believe someone might like me … or even love me. Once I gain control of the trust, I might go back east to finish my degree, and after that, use some of the capital to open a small art gallery somewhere.”
“With Gerald?” I asked quietly.
“He’s a loser. For years he’s been convincing me that I was the loser, that I was fat and stupid and boring and unworthy of friends. All of a sudden he’s become solicitous and attentive; last night he said he had a long conference with Candice about what he calls my ‘mood exaggerations.’ He brought me an extra bottle of potassium caplets.”
“Which I hope you’ll take.”
“Oh, I’ll admit I’ve been a little giddy, but it’s not from any organic imbalance. Gerald tried to tell me I was going through a predictable stage and would change my mind, but I assured him that the only thing I was going through was a divorce. There are men who might someday love me.”
I suspected she had a candidate in mind, and I could only hope she wasn’t too desperate to remember she was soon to be a rich young woman with battered self-esteem. “I’m sure there are lots of men,” I said, stressing quantity.
“Your friend seemed nice,” she said. “He’s very attractive.”
“And due for a surprise.”
She gave me a coy smile and left for the Ultima Center and her session with the sadist in the adjoining facility. I sat and debated with myself for thirty minutes, then grimly drove to the center for the family group. Young love might be the root of Maribeth’s mood swings, or exaggerations, as Gerald quaintly called them, but fainting was an acceptable side effect only in Gothic romances, where it was more the order of the day.
As I parked, Bobbi Rodriquez came out of Ultima and stopped beside me. “Ooh, this is so exciting!” she squealed.
“That I can park without assistance?”
“Just that you’re here. Did you come for the group, or for an aerobics class? Jody said you didn’t seem to enjoy the one you went to a couple of weeks ago.” She tilted her head and put a finger on her cheek. “You’re not in bad shape for your age,” she continued, fluttering her eyelashes at me. “I bet you were bored with the beginners’ class; it’s so incredibly easy that it’s not very challenging. Do you want to try one of my classes? You can come once for free, and I promise we’ll just work out until we’re ready to drop right there on the floor.”
“It sounds wonderful, but perhaps some other time.
“It is some other time,” she said, fluttering harder. “It’s at seven on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Oooh, here’s my ride. I’ll be so excited if you come tonight, or another night, if you’re busy as a bee.” She waggled her fingers at me and scampered over to
a rusty red sports car, which was, I noticed without interest, driven by the sullen boy I’d encountered in Jody’s office. He glowered briefly in my direction, then pulled out of the lot in a spew of gravel, barely missing a station wagon and a pair of pudgy pedestrians.
I went across the sidewalk to the glass door, relieved that I did not have to produce an alibi for the evening. The pudgy pedestrians crowded behind me, and after a few awkward moments in the doorway, squeezed past me and headed down the corridor. They looked as if they might be related to an Ultima client, and for lack of anything better to do, I trailed after them, peeking curiously into small dark examination rooms with professional scales and padded tables covered with pristine white paper.
A larger room at the end of the corridor was lit. Half a dozen people sat on folding chairs, and Candice was serving coffee on a tray. Gerald was not there, but by this point I wasn’t overcome with surprise.
Candice gave me a warm smile. “How considerate of you to come to help Maribeth. She’s doing so well, and I think, despite these minor setbacks, that she’ll reach her goal.”
“Edwina sure won’t,” opined an elderly woman who weighed no more than seventy pounds and whose feet dangled several inches above the carpet. “Edwina thinks she’s foolin’ me, but she ain’t. I hear the icebox door a-openin’ every night ‘long about midnight. She tries to open it real slow and sneaky so I won’t hear it, but it squeaks like a hog gettin’ castrated every time.”
The discussion went downhill from this point. Each of the members of the group had a long, involved
personal anecdote about his or her beloved dieter and was encouraged to ramble on in considerable detail. Candice listened to all of them, making reassuring remarks and suggestions about how best to handle—in a supportive and nonjudgmental way, of course—the midnight prowlers, closet chocoholics, and other miscreants who were straying off the straight and narrow (a.k.a. eight-hundred-calorie) path. The two pudgy pedestrians both turned out to be clients, and we listened forever while they accused each other of unspeakable sins against the program. When my turn came, I considered relating each and every detail of Caron and Inez’s fight against the flab but thought better of it and wanly gestured to the next speaker.
At five forty-five Candice stood up and congratulated us on our deep commitment to our family members and friends fighting the battle of the bulge. Everyone laughed politely and departed, chattering like kindergartners on a field trip. I waited until the last was halfway down the corridor, then said to Candice, “As I told your husband last night, I’m concerned about Maribeth’s behavior, especially in the last few days. At times she’s vague, and then she abruptly flies into a rage. Today she fainted in the bookstore, although she claimed it was due to missing two potassium caplets yesterday.”
I expected a bit more than a raised eyebrow, but I was expecting in vain. “You spoke to my husband last night?” she said with a small laugh. “And how could you have done that?”
“I knocked on the door and he unlocked it, although he was in the middle of a physical examination. He looked through Maribeth’s chart and said the supplements were adequate. I wasn’t convinced, and
after today’s episode I’m even more concerned.”
She went to the coffeepot in the corner and turned it off, then loaded the tray with plastic cups and other paraphernalia. Turning back, she said, “I’ve noticed a few unusual reactions from Maribeth, and I suggested that she increase her potassium and add an extra protein supplement or two daily. However, I think we must all try to ignore these minor outbursts and encourage her to stick with the program. I’m worried that her obesity might lead to serious systemic problems, and I know Gerald shares my concern. He’s promised to monitor her very closely.”
“Then you think she’ll be able to remain on the program?” I persisted. “What about this bout of dizziness?”
“Our records are highly confidential, but since you’re her closest friend, I’ll try to explain what may have occurred. As I mentioned earlier, she’s been forced to deal with several setbacks recently. Nothing of significance, but a stray pound popping back on when she claims to have stayed legal. She and I both know she’s telling little white lies to cover up her indiscretions, but she refuses to admit it. This kind of denial can lead to a great deal of inner turmoil, and it’s not uncommon for someone under that kind of pressure to feel a bit unsteady on her feet. I’ll make a note of this incident on her chart, however, and try to help her face the reality that we all can slip at times.”
“Setbacks?” I echoed. “She’s never mentioned that.”
“But she wouldn’t, would she? Thanks again for coming by.” Candice smiled at me and went out of the room.
I walked slowly down the corridor and through the reception room to the door. I’d never been intently involved in a diet that I perceived would change my life, but I couldn’t understand how Candice’s version of denial and inner turmoil could lay anyone out cold on the floor. As I opened the car door, Maribeth came out of the fitness center, a canvas bag in her hand and a strange expression on her face.

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