Fit To Be Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 1) (13 page)

Twenty

Friday morning I inched across the bed to grab the jangling phone. My pantsuit scratched against the spread. “Hullo,” I croaked. My mouth was dry and nasty.

“Aggie, are you okay?” Meredith said. “You seemed all right when we took you home...just anxious to get to bed. You sure didn’t want anything to eat.”

“No. I mean, yes, I’m okay. I need to soak in a tub and drink water, lots and lots of water. Pure. Out of a bottle. I’m sorry I made a fool of myself and embarrassed you and Sam.”

“You were sick. You should see a doctor.”

I was unable to consume or process nutrients. My immune system was failing. I hadn’t even reached middle age and my hormones were on the skids. Every cell in my body was approaching senescence. It might be too late for a doctor.

“I don’t need a doctor. It’s the club.”

“The club?”

“Something at Fit and Firm makes me sick.”

“It’s that awful Tofu Temptations Grill. Just reading the menu makes me queasy.”

“I thought there was something at the grill. I stopped eating there, but I keep getting sick.”

“Could you be allergic to something? Creams? Sprays? Toilet water? Cleaning agents? Something in the towels?”

“Maybe. I’ll try to figure out what the culprit is. I’m not going to exercise today.”

“I should hope not. Members pack the place on Fridays anyway. Everybody’s trying to burn enough calories to pig out over the weekend. I may go Saturday afternoon when it’s not so busy. Sam didn’t want to wake you, but he wants to know if you’re all right. He says to call him if you need anything. Harry Thorne is home from the hospital, so Sam’s going to visit him.”

I thanked her and apologized again for messing up their evening. Now that she and Sam knew I was recovering, I could set my answering machine and not be disturbed.

Despite feeling disgustingly weak, I dragged myself out of bed and went to my computer to research “What to eat when you’re ill and have to get better.” Everything they recommended made me feel sick.

I thought about the bath salts from Grace’s house. I could pour them in the water and relax in warmth. But I wasn’t sure I’d be able to climb out of the tub afterwards. Easing into the shower, I washed my body and hair in slow motion. Flexing my arms, I was gratified to see my tumor muscles still bulged. To remind myself I’d fully recuperate, I put on workout clothes.

Remembering Sam’s gentleness when he nestled me into the car after Sheldon’s party, I contemplated how to reignite his concern without getting sick. To gain strength, I opened a can of Libby’s fruit cocktail and nibbled.

The best cure for me was to find out who killed Holly. Although she and I were years apart in age, I felt her loss like my own. For some reason I couldn’t quite fathom, I sensed our near-electrocution, her death and my illness were related.

Padding to the living room, I decided to research my symptoms online. Since I’d never suffered from food allergies, I searched household poisons and focused on substances commonly used at the club. In the locker room, opaque bottles with gold-topped atomizers were filled with toilet water, body cream and deodorant. They had similar odors, like perfume tempered with lemon.

Clicking through poisons, I chose Methanol, methyl alcohol, since I’d heard about people dying from drinking moonshine—illegal, raw whiskey distilled from fermented wood. Producers used Methanol in paint varnish, paint remover, antifreeze and perfumes. If swallowed, inhaled or absorbed through the skin, the substance caused fatigue, headache, nausea, vertigo, pain, dizziness and vomiting—all the symptoms I’d experienced. Methanol metabolized into formaldehyde in the body, literally pickling its victim. If a person ingested enough of it, she went blind, into a coma and died. Either I hadn’t absorbed enough methanol, or else I was one lucky duck.

Shuffling to the kitchen, I suddenly craved apple juice. Some scientists thought apple juice might prevent dementia. After I drank it, I wondered if wood from the apple tree could have dropped into the bottle and fermented into methanol.

I trudged back to my computer and read about potassium permanganate, a poisonous violet crystal compound that dissolves in water and looks like bath salts. Hustling to my bathroom, I gaped at the bag of violet bath crystals Boffo had found, the ones Grace said to grab from him. I found a Ziploc bag in the kitchen, scurried back to the bathroom and, with tweezers, dropped the package of crystals into the Ziploc.

After stashing the stuff under my bed, I collapsed on the comforter. Were the bath crystals poison? Did Grace know? Could SAPD be right? Was she a psychopathic killer involved in the health club murder? I held my head. “Dear God, if Grace Livermore can murder people, the world’s gone crazy. Grace Livermore can’t be a killer. Tell me it’s not true.”

Bath crystals were common. Reading about poisons was making me paranoid.

Returning to my computer, I tried to remember other items I’d seen at Fit and Firm. The club provided towels and washcloths, so I searched detergents and fabric softeners. Cationic detergents, which were poisonous, were incorporated into ordinary detergents and softeners, but in amounts too diluted to be toxic. It would take a cup or more of fabric softener in a small bath or Jacuzzi to be lethal. The club’s Jacuzzi was at least eight feet square, and I’d never been in it. I didn’t think enough fabric softener could be concentrated in towels or washcloths to be lethal without making them noticeably limp.

So many common substances contained poisons. If a crazy person wanted to murder somebody, they could accomplish the deed at home, in a nursing home, hospital, beauty shop or health club—any facility that stocked cleaning products or toiletries. Judging from my symptoms, I feared such a person was after me. Although I’d survived, the junk that had invaded my system must have aged me. Who could guess my quest for fitness would cause premature aging...or death?

The club stocked other nasties a killer could use: alkalis, ammonia, naphthalene and rubbing alcohol. Tofu Temptations Grill stocked ingestible items, which in certain amounts, were poisonous: table salt, baking soda, potassium and calcium. People taking antidepressants could die from eating wine and cheese.

Live plants decorated the club. I hadn’t even begun to research poisonous plants or pesticides. My gruesome discoveries had already given me plenty of ideas.

If I wanted my Dear Aggie readers to get in shape, I couldn’t tell them about the plethora of poisonous substances at their health clubs. I might suggest they stay out of the hot tub and take their own toiletries since some people have allergic reactions to these items.

I plopped on my bed, stared at the ceiling and mulled over my options. Returning to the club was risky. Somebody wanted to poison me—probably the person who’d killed Holly. If I didn’t find out fast who the killer was, he might bump me off using some other creative method. If he wasn’t successful killing me, he could definitely disrupt my life. I’d waited a long time to start over. I didn’t appreciate having my plans thwarted.

Suppose I told Sam everything I knew and hoped he found the health club killer before he discovered I was Lee’s mother. If he found out, I’d probably lose him, have to forego using the club, be too angry and depressed to study and fail out of graduate school. I’d be alive but miserable.

I’d played it safe for a long time. Now I was ready to make things happen. After I weighed the possibilities, I knew what I had to do.

Twenty-One

When I woke up Saturday morning after a fitful night, it took me a few minutes to remember what I’d planned. Alternatives rushed through my brain. The risky option rammed its way to the front. My fateful day was about to begin.

I was determined to follow through with my scheme, but not eager to start. Meandering around my living room, I gazed at my impressionistic paintings. By painting points and swaths, artists invited viewers to mesh their imaginations with the artist’s vision. Ordinarily I found their blurred scenes captivating. Happily adding my perception to theirs, I could feel breezes blowing and grasses swaying. Today I wanted the paintings packed with realism: I needed definitive pictures to help me proceed. Despite my prayers, God hadn’t told me a thing.

Once I decided to expose Holly’s killer, I thought sleuthing would be a lark: gathering clues, interviewing suspects, mimicking a perky journalist with secret Wonder Woman underwear. I never dreamed some idiot would try to poison me.

I plopped on my serape-striped sofa and caressed the rough fabric. I wanted to remember its scratchiness, its sturdiness against my skin. I rubbed my foot back and forth against the Tabriz rug, grateful for its softness and for the solid wood plank floor underneath. I wanted to come back here. Always.

For strength to carry out my plan, I padded to the kitchen and forced myself to eat a tuna sandwich topped with melted cheese, chewing each bite slowly so my stomach would accept the offering. To wash the food down, I sipped a glass of milk, packed with protein, good for building muscles and enhancing speed. So they said.

It was time to pack. My small gym bag was the perfect size. I tossed in my car keys, driver’s license and a ten dollar bill in case of emergency. Like money would help.

By my computer desk, I found my small magnifying glass and dropped it into the bag. I planned to arrive at Fit and Firm in mid-afternoon when the locker room would be deserted. Before I left home, I wanted to hear Sam’s voice. I dialed his line at the station.

“Hi. It’s me.”

“Aggie! You were really sick last night. Are you all right?”

His strong voice comforted me. I cleared my throat. “I’m okay. Meredith said you wanted to know if I needed anything, and I don’t. I was just wondering whether SAPD has talked with Grace’s children.”

“Detective Sammis went to Enid, Oklahoma, to interview Kim. She didn’t have much to say about Charlie Livermore...only that her father was alcoholic and his death was tragic. She said he didn’t really want to go out that night, but because she and Grace were going to a birthday party, he and Linda went out for dinner.”

“What did she say about her stepfather, George Ball?”

“That they loved him, especially Grace. His having a heart attack crushed everybody. She couldn’t imagine why George would mix up his pills. She said she never touched them and was positive nobody else did.”

“According to Sammis, Kim is a real Martha Stewart. While he was there, he started sneezing from fresh flowers she’d arranged all over the house.” Sam laughed. “Her bathrooms smelled like perfume factories. She covered her countertops with perfumed soaps shaped like flowers and put bath crystals by the tub.”

“Bath crystals?” My stomach flipped.

“That’s what he said. Why?”

“I don’t know. Soaps shaped like flowers seem the prefect touch for a Martha Stewart type. Did Sammis fly from Oklahoma to California?”

“No, he had work to finish here. He’ll fly to LA tomorrow to interview Linda Livermore and George Ball’s sons. Another SAPD detective learned something here, though, which may be more important.”

“What?”

“Detective Green interviewed Grace’s neighbor on the other side, Anna Holcomb. She’s eighty-five and has an incredible memory. Anna said when she was sixty—she was positive about her age—Charlie Livermore got drunk and came after Anna’s twelve-year-old granddaughter, Martha. Anna and her husband were still helping their son John raise his daughters, Martha and Lettie. When they found out what happened, the Holcomb men confronted Charlie Livermore. They told him if he came near either girl again, they’d kill him. Anna said Charlie had a reputation for chasing young girls when he got drunk.”

I willed my tuna and cheese to stay down. “Did Grace know what Charlie had done?”

“Anna and her family concluded it was kinder not to tell her. But she could have known anyway.”

Poor Martha Holcomb. Charlie’s drunken advance could have affected her whole life. Poor Grace. If she knew what Charlie did, how did she feel when he died?

“They released Harry Thorne from the hospital and told him to rest at home,” he said. “I’m going to see him today.”

This was great news. I needed to check something in Harry’s office and wouldn’t have to worry about Sam’s poking around the club and catching me.

“I guess you’ll be resting today,” he said.

“Um-hmm.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. See how you’re doing.”

“Great.” I hung up while I still possessed the fortitude to implement my plan. I had dawdled long enough. I reached under my bed for the package of bath crystals, slipped it into my gym bag and slung the bag into my Wagoneer.

It was too early for me to arrive at the club, so I decided to enjoy a leisurely drive past Fort Sam Houston. I meandered down Burr Road and looked out over the forty acres San Antonio had donated for the Army Post in 1870. The base employed thousands of military and civilian workers, which undoubtedly included a passel of smart, available men. I’d volunteered to help organize one of the parties they planned to give for the city’s military and civilians.

The post hospital, Brooke Army Medical Center, rehabilitated thousands of men after every war. Since the post also had its own workout facility, the men had no reason to join Fit and Firm. Maybe I should mention to Harry if he offered military discounts, retired doctors and officers might join. I needed to expand my options. Once Sam found out what I was up to, I feared our relationship would be kaput.

I considered running an ad in the Ft. Sam Houston
News Leader
: “Patriotic grad student wants to meet eligible officer.” I sounded like a groupie panting over a man in uniform. One aspect to consider was that officers were accustomed to giving orders, and I wasn’t used to taking them. I’d revise the ad when my mind was less cluttered.

At 3:00 p.m. Saturday, I pulled into the club’s parking garage wearing a T-shirt and tights and carrying a small gym bag like the ones members used when they came for quick workouts and intended to dress at home. My bag had another purpose.

As I expected, the women’s locker room was empty. The area looked clean and elegant, swathed in calming blue and green walls. With perfectly arranged toiletries and towels, the rooms resembled a spa where nobody broke a sweat. I went to my primping station, swooped a bottle of each product into my bag and replaced them with random bottles from other stations. I checked to see that all products appeared undisturbed. Then I stuffed a couple of washcloths in my bag.

Once I pilfered those items, I scooted to the hot tub and scouted for purple bath crystals. I spotted them in a cellophane bag tied with a purple ribbon, perched on the ledge of the tub. Mindy, nearly submerged, inhabited the vat with her eyes closed. I tiptoed over and reached for the crystals. Just as I snatched them, she opened her eyes. “Hey! I was about to use those.”

“My friend left them here,” I lied.

She displaced a lot of water floundering after me. Before she could stand up, my protein kicked in and I skedaddled out of there.

I scrambled up the stairs, scooted past the administrative offices and skittered down the side of the basketball court to get close enough to the weight room to see who was there. Machine Mecca was packed. Mickey, Ned, Sheldon, Pete, Patricia and Sarah pumped iron. Even Knobs pushed and pulled a machine. As I whirled to leave, hoping nobody would spot me, several people glanced up. Their antennas were perpetually poised for possible encounters with members of the opposite sex.

As I retreated back past the basketball court and through the administrative corridor, I noticed that Harry Thorne’s office door was closed. No light filtered underneath. I remembered Sam said he was going home.

A plainclothes police officer sauntered up and down the passageway, watching guys play basketball. Making a mental note to find a reasonably priced barber for the rookie police officers, I walked up to him and smiled. He checked out my T-shirt and tights.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Samantha Eggars. Detective Vanderhoven is visiting manager Harry Thorne at his home and asked me to bring them a photograph from Harry’s office. Do you mind opening the door for me?”

“Well...uh, sure...if Sam...”

“Sam and I are old friends. I know he’ll appreciate your helping him out.” I batted my lashes and bathed him with a southern smile. He unlocked Harry’s office. Before he could follow me inside, I reached between us to close the door. “It might take me a while to find the photo. Will you guard the door from outside?” I batted again for good measure, hoping I didn’t develop a tic.

He grinned. “I’ll stand guard.”

I flew to Harry’s desk and yanked out the photograph he’d tossed inside the drawer, the one showing the boxers and referee with the crowd behind them. When Harry had slung in the picture, I thought it symbolized his disgust with life at the gym. The next day it dawned on me that Harry didn’t want me to see the photograph.

I hunched over the photo with my back to the door, slipped out my magnifying glass and passed it slowly over the boxing fans. Just as I thought, the small spectator in the front row whom I’d noticed before was a young girl about three years old. Somebody had dressed her like a Shirley Temple doll and propped her on a metal folding chair. I moved the magnifier over her face. She had big eyes and a head full of ringlets. I moved the glass to where her feet dangled a foot off the floor. She wore Mary Janes on her tiny feet—patent leather flats with straps across the instep. I’d bet the cost of a three-month membership the child was Holly Holmgreen. Even though Harry said he didn’t have children, I’d wager a fat stock dividend that he and Holly were related.

Turning the photograph over, I read, “B’s crash. H, 3.” Underneath, someone had scribbled, “1975.” “B” could be Harry’s brother, Billy. “H” could be Holly. I’d have to decipher the rest when I wasn’t in a rush.

The officer pounded on the door. Since I didn’t have time to stash the photo in my bag, I raced to the door, slung it open and shoved the photo near his face. “Harry used to be a boxer.” I batted my lashes. “He and Sam are reminiscing. Harry wants to show him this picture.”

He smiled at me as though I were Mother Teresa. Hoping I looked pious, I returned his smile and scooted toward the steps, slipping the photograph into my bag with the other evidence. My feet itched ferociously. What did the connection between Holly and Harry Thorne have to do with her murder?

I bustled to level three to see if Meredith was on a treadmill. When I didn’t find her, I decided to hustle away with my loot. I wasn’t about to get trapped in the elevator with murder suspects or contraband, so I aimed for the stairs. I bounced down the steps with my right hand on the rail and my left clutching the bag to my chest. As I reached the landing and started to descend the flight to the first floor, I felt a shove. My evidence bag got away from me and tumbled down the stairs. Grabbing the rail with both hands, I managed to hold on most of the way down. I landed on my left side at the bottom of the stairs, hard. Shoving booty back into my bag, I craned to look up the stairs. A red sock and white tennis shoe disappeared from the landing where somebody had pushed me. Before I could determine whether the shoe belonged to a man or woman, the spectacle vanished.

Meredith appeared and tried to help me up. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I think so.” I stretched gingerly. “No broken bones. And I’m much too young for osteoporosis.”

Pete Reeves, the trainer, materialized beside her. He scowled at me, then at my bag. “What made you fall?” He didn’t seem particularly surprised that I’d sprawled down the stairs.

“I tripped over my own feet. Meredith can drive me home...Come on.” I pulled her along, hoping Pete didn’t notice her stunned expression. I didn’t like the way he focused on my bag.

“What’s going on?” Meredith whispered from the corner of her mouth.

“Can you drive me to the San Antonio Testing Laboratory? We need to learn about poisons.”