Fatally Flaky (23 page)

Even when I’d gone to boarding school as a scholarship student, and we’d all complained about the food, nothing had been as bad as this.

An enormous crash, squealing, and hollering on the other side of the kitchen stopped me wondering about anything. Julian, Boyd, and the sauté pans they were wielding had collided with the plastic vat of fruit cocktail, which in turn had spilled all over the floor.

“Oh, hell, boss, I’m sorry,” Julian apologized. “I’ll clean it up.”

“No, no, I’ll do that,” Boyd said. But then he said, “Wait. Don’t move. Don’t do anything.” He looked a tad ridiculous, I had to say, holding his pan aloft and peering down at the floor, as if he’d seen a giant insect and was about to whack it.

When Victor Lane bellowed, “Everybody out!” I jumped. I hadn’t heard or seen him come in. Nor had the two combatants. Julian had murmured something about looking for a mop, and Boyd was still staring in confusion at the mess on the floor.

“Victor, I’m so sorry,” I babbled. “These two, my, my, er, staff people, that is, were just trying to help me. I’ll clean up the spilled fruit, I promise.”

“Oh, no you won’t,” Victor Lane retorted. His skeletal face loomed too close to mine, and I reared back defensively. “I should have known Yolanda would screw up my place,” he continued angrily. “Appendicitis, my ass. She’s probably visiting relatives. And anyway, she should have let me choose a replacement. There are plenty of cooks out there who could use a job.”

“Sir,” said Boyd, “please—”

“Shut up!” screamed Victor, his back to us. “Get out of my kitchen!” He was at the sink, filling a bucket with water. He ignored Boyd and picked up the full bucket.

Then, to my astonishment, Victor doused the section of the floor covered with fruit cocktail with water. The water, syrup, and about half the fruit were whisked down a floor drain. Victor was cleaning up something? Why? I’d never seen him do anything other than give orders…or criticize.

“Sir!” said Boyd.

“Be quiet and get out!” cried Victor.

T
hat guy is a nut,” said Boyd, his voice low.

“Naw,” said Julian, “more of a legume. A peanut.”

“Guys, you’re driving me bonkers,” I said.

We were sitting outside in my van, the only place we felt safe enough to talk, until we were sure Victor was out of the spa kitchen.

“Maybe he’s a soybean,” said Julian. “Full of protein but bitter.”

“Don’t the two of you start up again,” I warned. They were sitting side by side in the backseat, wearing guilty-little-boy expressions. “I don’t want us to get thrown out of here. Listen, Sergeant Boyd, what did you see in the fruit cocktail?”

He shook his head. “That wasn’t just fruit cocktail. There was something in it. Something that didn’t dissolve.”

“What?” I asked, thinking of the Smoothie Cabin.

“I don’t know,” Boyd said carefully. “But you noticed the clients were only supposed to get small cups of it? One little cup each, no seconds?”

“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “Okay, look,” I began. Then I told them about Jack searching the Smoothie Cabin, and my conviction that something suspicious was going on behind that particular locked door. “I need to get into that Smoothie Cabin,” I concluded.

“We’ll go together,” said Boyd, his voice protective.

“Girls and boys?” said Julian. “How ’bout I take samples of all the food, to get tested?”

“You’re on,” I said. “I’m just wondering if I should warn—”

But I didn’t get a chance to finish the thought, because the person I wanted to warn was Marla, now on a path leading from one of the dormitories. She wore a giant pink muumuu, pink sunglasses, and pink flip-flops. She raised one dramatic hand to her forehead, Tallulah Bank-head style, and waved with the other. When she came a bit closer and saw that Julian and Boyd were with me, her waving became genuinely enthusiastic.

“Three of my favorite people, all in one place!” she cried. “It’s okay for me to be in the van, right? I mean, Victor warned us last night not to fraternize with the help.”

“What?” I squealed.

“My sentiments exactly,” said Marla. “We met all the exercise instructors last night, and not one of them is attractive, trust me.”

“You mean, none of them is an attractive
guy,
” Julian teased.

“Well,” said Marla, fluffing out her hair and peering into the backseat, “none of them is as attractive as, say, Sergeant Boyd here.”

I checked the rearview mirror, and tough-as-steel Sergeant Boyd was indeed blushing.

“I’m going to have to get back to the sheriff’s department,” Boyd said. “Working at this place is proving beyond my capacities.”

“I doubt that,” said Marla, keeping the flirtatious lilt in her voice. “And I certainly hope the three of you have been fixing a marvelous breakfast here. Last night we had an intake assessment and a demonstration of the athletic equipment, which we were all required to be involved in, Victor said, for insurance purposes. What the hell does that mean? If you die after the first night, it’s not his fault? Well, anyway, I about dropped dead, but I didn’t, ’cuz I only walked for ten minutes on that blasted treadmill. So now I’m famished, and if what ever you’re giving us today is as pathetic as the fish and fruit they gave us last night, I’m going to quit now.”

“Fish and fruit?” Boyd asked sharply. “What kind of fruit?”

Marla paused, then looked over the seat again. “Canned peaches! It’s the middle of summer, and we’re in a state that grows peaches, for God’s sake! So why were we having canned peaches, will somebody please tell me?”

“What did Victor say?” I asked.

“Victor didn’t say
nada,
” Marla replied. “Yolanda was the one in charge last night, and she said Victor had done all the calorie calculating, and only canned peaches worked for his careful dietary what ever. Why?” She was suddenly curious, as if I might give her a gossipy tidbit that would get her through exercise class. “I’ll tell you something else, though. The women say the smoothies are wonderful, and make them feel dreamy.”

“Dreamy?” I asked. “How can a smoothie make you feel dreamy?”

“I don’t know,” Marla replied. “But we’re all only allowed one a day, so maybe they limit dreaminess the way they limit calories.”

A rustling emerged from the backseat. Then Boyd reached forward with two zipped plastic bags. “Could you save me some of your fruit cocktail this morning? And some of your smoothie this afternoon? Please?”

“Why?” asked the increasingly inquisitive Marla. “What do you think is in them?”

“I don’t know,” said Boyd flatly. “That’s why I need you to gather some up for me. Preferably when no one is looking, if you can manage it.”

“But you must suspect—,” Marla had begun, when the bell rang for breakfast.

“Look, Marla,” I said, “we do suspect Victor might be putting something in the food. We don’t know what.”

Another bell rang. “Oops, gotta run. Victor said we had one minute after the second bell rang to make it into the chow line, and then the line was closed. That’s what he called it, too, a chow line, like we’re a bunch of dogs who need to—oh, man, I have to run, I’m starving.” She stuffed the plastic bags into a copious pocket of her muumuu, and opened the door. Then she pointed into the backseat with a pink-painted nail. “I’m doing you a favor, Sergeant Boyd, and I’m going to expect a favor in return!”

“Christ,” said Boyd when Marla shut the door. “I wonder if Schulz will take me back now.”

“Victor just left,” said Julian. “We’d better hustle in there if we’re going to help with breakfast.” And off we went.

Inside, I dished out the scrambled eggs, using the little scoops marked
EGG MEASUREMENT
. Julian and Boyd spooned oatmeal into small bowls for the clients who wanted that instead of eggs. Yolanda’s assistants sprayed butter substitute onto whole wheat toast and put little dabs of sugar-free jam on top. The very few male clients—four, to be exact—were stoic, but the women kept commenting that they were ravenous. It made me wish I’d brought some brownies for them.

“Well, well, what are you doing here?” asked Billie Attenborough Miller, the last woman in line.

I was so taken aback to hear her voice that I dropped the serving spoon. Julian came rushing over with another.

“Omigod,” said Billie. “This kid’s here, too? Where’s Yolanda?”

“Sick!” I managed to squeak. Meanwhile, my brain was madly fluttering with questions. Dr. Craig Miller was nowhere in sight. Was he still in bed? Had they even consummated the marriage?

“Ah, the bride,” said Boyd, more smoothly than I could have managed.

“You!” said Billie. “The cop! Why are you here?”

Boyd said solicitously, “I’m here helping Goldy, since Yolanda has appendicitis.”

“Your tax dollars at work!” Billie sang. “Is someone going to use a new spoon to give me some eggs, or am I going to be standing here all day?”

Julian obligingly lifted a new, clean spoon and gave Billie a heaping spoonful of eggs. She eyed it warily. If she complained he’d given her too much, he could take some off her plate. If she complained he’d given her too little, he might say that was all she got, if she expected to lose weight.

“And why haven’t you left for your honeymoon?” Boyd persisted.

“My husband wanted to stay here a few days before we leave for our honeymoon,” Billie replied huffily. “Not that it’s any of your business.” With this, she picked up her plate and strode off.

In the kitchen, the presence of the other workers made conversation among Julian, Boyd, and me impossible. But when the two worker bees announced it was time for them to help the two servers clear the tables, Boyd and I lifted our eyebrows at each other.

I said, “Billie drove me crazy for months, then after changing the date twice, she finally got married, and they’re staying here, eating this food? Is she trying to lose more weight to fit into her bathing suit? I remember now that Craig Miller told me he had to change their tickets for getting to Greece, but why not stay in a hotel?”

Boyd rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know. It’s a good thing I’m helping you, though. I don’t like that woman. Whenever we get somebody who’s real belligerent, we think he or she might have had something to do with the crime. And I’ll tell you what,
she
was like a pit bull when we questioned her after Jack Carmichael was attacked.”

“Tell me about it. And where is Craig Miller? Sleeping in?” I didn’t really want to see either of the Millers, but I did have someone I wanted to talk to. I had the idea of checking the calendar of classes right outside the dining room. When I came back, I asked Boyd, “Any chance you and Julian could finish washing the dishes, and then set up for lunch? I need to go find someone named Isabelle. She works here, and is the only one who might have a key to the Smoothie Cabin, besides Victor,” I added.

“I promised your husband I wouldn’t let you out of my sight,” said Boyd.

“Then look out the front kitchen windows,” I said. “I’m going to pause out there, where Jack was attacked. Then I’ll be walking along a highly visible path to the gym, which is a highly visible structure, where Isabelle is.”

“Boss,” said Julian, “we should really start fixing lunch as soon as we get breakfast cleanup done. Any chance you know what Yolanda wants us to make?”

I showed him the kitchen computer, then booted it up, entered the password, and brought up the screen with monday lunch.

“Thanks, guys,” I said. I removed my apron, and walked quietly outside, while behind me, Julian shrieked, “That’s it? That’s disgusting!”

The area where Jack had been hit was surrounded by tattered yellow police ribbons. Since I’d already picked up my godfather’s Rolex and been bawled out for it by Tom, I knew better than to go into the cordoned-off section of lawn and garden, even though the absence of police probably meant they’d finished investigating this place. But…had they found anything out? I wondered if Tom would tell me. I took off for the gym.

Isabelle was more energetic than I expected. She was not attractive. Her freckled complexion was blotchy, her brown hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and her too-thin ankles and wrists all canceled out any femininity quotient. But she knew how to move to a beat, and maybe her lack of prettiness gave the guests confidence, in a perverse way. I was amazed when she convinced even the most recalcitrant of the bunch—always in the back row, just like elementary school—to step up and wiggle their behinds. Billie Miller was right in front of the room’s big mirror, so I ducked behind an exercise bike to avoid being seen by her.

“What are you doing here?” Victor bellowed from in back of me. I was so startled I crashed over into the exercise bike, toppling it noisily to the floor. I tried to right it, but was too weak. Victor did it one-handed, all the while giving me a scalding look. I had to wonder: did this guy have an invisibility cloak that prevented me from seeing when he was sneaking up on me?

“I, I need to talk to Isabelle?” I proffered, scuttling around to put the newly upright exercise bike between the spa owner and myself. If Boyd was bothered by Billie’s bellicosity, I was giving the Hostility Prize to Victor.

“If you have so much time on your hands, away from the kitchen, that you need to sneak around my spa—”

“I’m not sneaking around!” I protested. “I was waiting for Isabelle. She was practically the last person to see my godfather alive—”

Victor smirked. “Then get into her class, Goldy! Look, there’s an empty spot right there in the front row—”

“The hell you say,” I retorted.

Victor pointed. “You want to talk to Isabelle? Go exercise with her.”

Omigod, why was this spa so popular? It just had to be one of those cases where the owner was nice to the clients, but hell on the help. Still, I was in no position to argue, because truth to tell, I
had
been sneaking around. Problem was, wherever it was I was intent on sneaking, Victor always seemed to be a step ahead of me.

Isabelle gave me a very sympathetic look. The class wasn’t half bad, moving as it did from the cha-cha to a kind of rock-and-roll step that I managed to keep up with. Of course, I looked ridiculous in my black catering pants and white shirt, which stood out painfully against all the brilliant hues spandex had to offer. But for the most part, the clients really were overweight, so it wasn’t as if we were at the Aspen Meadow Athletic Club, with its high-voltage classes and even higher-voltage clientele.

“You wanted to see me?” Isabelle asked quietly, once we’d gone through a stretch routine that was so relaxing I almost fell asleep. “I don’t have a class for another hour.”

“Yes, please.” I paused to take a drink of water from the conical cup Isabelle offered. “Thanks.” I tried to think of how to pose the questions I knew I needed to ask. “My godfather, Jack Carmichael—”

“I heard he died. I’m sorry. He was a nice man. And funny, you know? Not funny peculiar, but funny ha-ha.”

“Right. I saw you two in the Smoothie Cabin, and then dancing together at the reception.”

Isabelle blushed. “I don’t know why he wanted me in the Smoothie Cabin. I mean, he said it was for ‘cover,’ what ever that meant. He was searching for something.”

“What, do you know?”

She shook her head. “He said the less I knew, the better. That’s what I told the cops when they talked to me.”

“Please, Isabelle,” I begged. “He must have given you some idea of what he was up to.”

Isabelle cast a furtive glance around. We were alone. “He did ask me—” She stopped. “I don’t want to lose my job. I mean, it’s a crap minimum-wage job, but I need it.”

“If he didn’t ask you to do anything illegal, then you’re fine. You saw how well Victor Lane and I get along, which is to say that we don’t. So I’m not going to be talking to him about what you tell me.” Meanwhile, I was thinking,
A crap minimum-wage job
? If Victor didn’t buy high-quality foodstuffs, and he didn’t pay his people anything, what was he doing with all the money he made from the spa? Maybe those insurance costs he’d mentioned at the meeting Marla went to were particularly onerous.