Fit To Be Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 1) (2 page)

“Sure.” Sarah probably forgot I was experiencing my first day at Fit and Firm. She rushed back through the women’s locker room, a bundle of efficiency.

I sucked in a lung full of air for the first time in twenty minutes. What happened to the electrical charge when I entered the water? If I’d slipped in minutes earlier, would Holly and I be floating corpses? What would the manager do? An electrical surge could have changed Fit and Firm to Fit but Dead. Not good advertising for a health club. I’d become punchy with relief. I wasn’t thrilled with getting older, but it beat being a corpse.

I didn’t mind staying with Holly. She’d expelled the water from her lungs, and I didn’t think her health was compromised. Besides, only she could answer questions bouncing inside my head. I had to talk fast.

“I guess you didn’t see anybody else in the pool area?” I glanced around. Besides entrances to the men’s and women’s locker rooms, I saw one other closed door. I rubbed my feet together.

“No. Nobody was here. I wanted to join water aerobics, but class had ended. I’m a strong swimmer, so I wasn’t afraid to swim alone.”

“Did something upset you?” I couldn’t help it. I tingled with curiosity.

“Yes. I took Valium earlier. If only I hadn’t...” She began to sob.

My eyes started to fill. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t keep it a secret. I’m not married. I got pregnant and gave up the baby.”

My stomach flipped. Girls were so casual about unplanned pregnancies. A few years ago, unwed mothers kept silent, ashamed. Youth made people do dumb things. Age did have a few advantages. I didn’t want Holly Holmgreen to reveal any more. I’d joined Fit and Firm for self-improvement, and my fitness plan hadn’t included solving somebody else’s problems. I used my problem-solving energy to help people who wrote to Dear Aggie. Yet I couldn’t help but feel empathy for this girl.

We sat motionless, except for my patting her hand when she sniffled. My queasy stomach churned from the agony I knew she felt. If only I could do something to help her.

Sarah returned with three EMS men carrying a stretcher and a load of equipment. While they approached Holly, Sarah taped “Pool Closed for Repairs” signs on the women’s locker room door and pool ladders. She returned and knelt by Holly. The techs took Holly’s blood pressure and asked her questions.

Sarah gave us a report. “The signs are temporary,” she said. “The manager will lock entrances to the pool while he investigates what happened.” I had a sudden urge to talk to the club manager.

Holly insisted on standing. The men reluctantly helped the shaky girl to her feet.

“I’m fine,” she announced. “I’m not going to the hospital. I’ve been there too much lately.”

“They’ll need to check you out,” a technician said.

“I’m refusing treatment,” Holly said.

“We’ll have to give you a form to sign that you’re refusing services,” the technician said.

“Sure.”

He brought her the paper and pen, and she signed it. I noticed her hand was steady. She thanked the men. “I’m ready to go,” she said.

She walked slowly toward the women’s locker room, resolute. I caught up alongside her in case she stumbled. Sarah was on our heels.

“You’ll have to sign another paper saying you don’t fault the club for your accident,” Sarah said. “I’ll have to make a report. It’s a club requirement.”

“That’s fine,” Holly said.

While Sarah ran to get a release form, Holly and I sat in chairs in the ladies’ locker room.

She turned to me. “I’ll take my time getting dressed and make sure I feel perfect before I drive home. I’m sick of hospitals.”

Sarah reappeared with the paper for Holly to sign documenting she’d refused treatment and held the club harmless for her accident. Holly signed.

“We don’t want to frighten the other members,” Sarah said. “If we tell everybody about this, the manager says he’ll have to close the club. You’ll lose your exercise place, and we won’t have jobs.”

Despite my urge to go size up the manager, I offered to walk Holly to her car. “That would be nice,” Holly said.

Sarah appeared skeptical. “Okay...if you’re sure...” She studied Holly.

“I’m fine. I’m okay to drive home.” She smiled at Sarah and me, but her smile was sad. “You two saved my life.”

Maybe I was too suspicious. Maybe somebody wanted to shorten Holly’s life.

Two

After Holly drove off, I went back through the ladies’ locker room to the pool. I wanted to see the “Pool Closed” signs and glance around, make sure no one was about to get in and that no electrical cords were submerged.

A man in red swim trunks emerged from the men’s side accompanied by a male instructor decked out in the club uniform. While the trainer posted another “Pool Closed” sign, I calculated Red Shorts was a six-foot-three mesomorph with a stomach like a washboard. He would never need anti-aging tips.

Aware of his scrutiny but too unnerved to attempt southern chitchat, I called over my shoulder, “Don’t get in the pool. It might be electrified.” I tromped toward the women’s room.

Red Shorts followed. “Hey! Wait a minute. What’s goin’ on?”

I wheeled around. Determined not to stare at his fully revealed six-pack, I studied his face. Except for his black curly hair and purple eyes, his resemblance to Tom Selleck was startling.

“They’re closing the pool for repairs.” I fingered my dripping hair. “Something about electricity.”

“That’s right up my line. I run an electrical bidness.”

Did he say bidness? I must have appeared puzzled.

He leaned forward and squeezed my hand. “I started the company out in West Texas before I came to the big city.” His eyes penetrated mine. “Mickey Shannon. Glad to know you.”

“Uh, same here. Aga...Aggie Mundeen.” Why didn’t my Irish mother bless me with a lyrical name like Emily or Beverly? Mickey Shannon ambled closer, his gaze washing down to my feet and back to my flushing face. I’d picked a lousy time to wear my ratty blue-green swimsuit.

“What’s the problem with the electricity?” When he leaned toward me and grinned impishly, I knew I was about to endure an Aggie joke. When I came to San Antonio, I had no idea what Aggies were. Everybody called Texas A&M University’s students and graduates “Aggies,” so my name spawned a barrage of jokes. But Aggie was preferable to being called Agatha, which sounded like somebody gagging.

“Did you hear about the professor who asked the Aggie what would happen if we didn’t have electricity?” He looked eager. “The Aggie said we’d be watching TV by candlelight.” He exploded with laughter.

I might have snickered if we hadn’t just hauled Holly from the water. My face tightened.

“Somebody left a radio by the pool, and it fell in. They need to check the electricity before allowing anyone in the water. They’re going to block access to the pool.”

“Well, now, that sounds reasonable.” He winked. “Wouldn’t want a bunch of fritter-fried members, would we?”

Fritter-fried? His cavalier attitude irritated me. Then I realized he didn’t know a girl had almost drowned or that somebody might have caused her accident.

I produced a southern-sweet smile calculated to induce him to share superior knowledge. “Since you own an electrical company, where do you think the circuit box is for the pool?”

He evaluated my face. “They probably installed it in an equipment storage room around here. Maybe over yonder.”

Wherever that was. Was that how they gave directions in West Texas?
He pointed to the closed door near the women’s locker room.

“Since you’re an expert, why don’t we check it out?” I strode toward the door.

“Well, now, wait. My company doesn’t service this club. The manager should be the one to...”

He hesitated, but curiosity propelled me toward the door. I grabbed the knob and strained to turn it, but the fixture wouldn’t budge. Somebody had locked the room.

“Well, see? It’s not something for us to get into. The club will handle the problem just fine.”

“I suppose so.” My urge to meet the manager escalated. The accident, if it was one, was a serious error. “If someone dropped a radio into the water, could the current electrocute a swimmer?”

“Shouldn’t. Not if everything works right. Outlets installed near water have GFCIs, built-in shutoffs. When an electrical charge hits the water, the circuit breaks.”

“No electricity would go through the appliance?”

“Right.”

“Could a small amount of electricity pass through, enough to stun a person unconscious before the circuit broke?”

“It’s possible. Especially if a person was close to the electrical source. Or there might be a short somewhere.”

“A short. What would cause that?”

“Faulty wiring, maybe. But that’s pretty unlikely. They take a ton of precautions in a club like this. You goin’ to the weight room? I could show you how to use the machines.”

Was my mechanical incompetence that obvious? Pain shot up my leg into my right bun, the result of churning through water at mach speed. I wished this man would stop grinning like Tom Selleck.

“Maybe tomorrow,” I said.

“I’ll look for you. You work out the same time every day?”

My schedule was growing more definite by the minute. “I might come in the morning.” I smiled and bustled toward the women’s locker room before Mickey Shannon’s violet eyes could pierce my Ross Dress-For-Less swimsuit.

I yanked open my locker, peeled off the damp tube and tossed the flimsy garment into the trash. I sprayed sticky deodorant under my arms. Most of the members had cleared out. The only person left, Monica-with-the-doorknobs, reclined nude in the glass-enclosed steam room with one arm stretched ballerina fashion over her head, knobs pointed skyward. Obviously an arranged pose. My giggle erupted before I could squelch it. I didn’t think Knobs heard me from inside her bubble, but Mason Jar jiggled through the room and gave me a dirty look for cackling at her friend.

She tapped on Knob’s glass cage. “Here’s the hair spray you wanted. I got it from the janitor.” Knobs waved thanks, and Mason Jar set the bottle on a vanity shelf. As she left, I fingered Mason Jar a wave to make peace.

Back in my T-shirt and tights, I felt bedraggled. I knew my chin-length hair lay flat and dripping and my cheeks were flushed. With the turquoise suit gone, my saucer eyes probably vacillated between blue and green. If I weren’t so disheveled, some might find me pretty. Actually, I was closer to interesting. During my frantic years at the bank, I spent time working my way up, not dwelling on my appearance. After work, I’d rush home, throw the nearest edible morsel down my throat and freshen up for a stimulating night class featuring accounting or statistics so I could earn my BBA. After class, I’d trek home, read letters to Dear Aggie and think up ways to help readers (and myself) avoid aging.

Somehow, I’d managed to blast my way from eighteen to way past thirty without taking stock. Now that I didn’t have to work—thanks to my wildly appreciating bank stock—I could focus on personal improvement. I eased in front of the mirror. Everything on my five-foot-four-inch body seemed proportional. With a few pounds gone and some muscle tone, I might look presentable. I might even discover I had mesomorphic tendencies.

As for aging, I would count on my professor at University of the Holy Trinity to provide some answers. Even before I left Chicago to start over, I, Aggie Mundeen, had decided that thirty-something was old enough. The prospect of catapulting into middle age decrepitude terrified me. I knew I was obsessing about approaching forty, but the milestone signified my diminishing chance at happiness.

To get my mind on a more pleasant subject, I thought about my friend Sam Vanderhoven. He wouldn’t gape at me like Mickey had, although Sam’s benevolent eyes never missed anything from behind his tortoise shell frames. He might gawk at the rare sight of me in a swimsuit, but then the corners of his mouth would turn up, and his salt- and-pepper hair would flop toward his glasses. He was slim and six to eight inches taller than me. He said a detective needed to stay in shape, but I couldn’t picture him in workout clothes. I hadn’t decided about his body type. He wore khaki shirts and slacks and garish ties splattered with random patterns. By age forty-five, his taste in clothes was, unfortunately, pretty well established.

Since my heart had stopped slamming against my ribs, I decided to peruse the facility. When I emerged from the locker room, Pete Reeves was leaning against a wall six feet away. He was apparently determined not to let a prospective member escape. His smile curved around teeth gleaming like a whitewashed fence.

“Ready to take the tour?”

“Sure.”

“Then let’s stroll upstairs.” As he hopped up to level two, I tried to keep pace and not trip. He led me by handball courts, administrative offices, and past a basketball court toward the weight room. I dissuaded him from showing me how to operate the equipment.

We hiked up another flight to level three. What was I, Aggie Mundeen, former vice-president of a Chicago bank, doing in sneakers, tights, and a teenybopper T-shirt, scaling stairs to exercise? By the time we reached the third floor, I’d counted forty-four steps, was breathless and my leg muscles were in spasm. I wasn’t about to complain.

“We have every machine imaginable for your cardiovascular workout: treadmills, stationary bikes, rowing machines, Body Treks, mountain climbers...” He made the contraptions sound like nirvana. I gulped air while exercisers bounced around on alien equipment and beamed at Pete. Everybody appeared young, but some had skin that looked a little tucked up. At least they weren’t perfect.

My nose twitched at the odor of healthy sweat. The motion of people and machines reminded me how inactive I’d been, physically and emotionally. I doubted I could conquer the devices, but the muscles rippling across Pete’s spandex boosted my enthusiasm.

“You can warm up here.” His voice was seductive. “Then stretch before going to the weight room.” He unveiled his teeth.

I was thoroughly warm, and a room jam packed with weight machines was definitely out. Pete said aerobics classes met on level four, but I wasn’t eager to scale more steps to start jiggle jumping. I wasn’t sure I could do strenuous aerobics.

“Why don’t you stroll around for a while?” He grinned. “I’ll be downstairs near the front desk if you decide to join.”

What confidence he had. His leaving gave me a chance to conclude I couldn’t tackle a mechanical contrivance before tripping downstairs to fill out membership papers. I was signing my check at the desk when Pete waved at me and vaporized. He was probably scurrying to the business office to apply for his commission.

Having written a substantial check, I decided to return to level three and attempt to exercise. A few people padded on treadmills in front of the TV, watching soap operas. Throbbing music reverberated overhead, boosting their exercise frenzy. A news anchor railed about the obesity epidemic. Fit and Firm’s clients sweated toward perfection, oblivious to the fact that an almost-fatal accident had recently occurred on the premises.

The Body Trek machines looked safe. Next to a springy-haired girl, a machine identical to hers was unoccupied. I studied her contraption. The foot pedals moved back and forth at variable speeds, handgrips pumped her arms, and she could grab the stationary rail if she panicked. I had no reason to feel jittery, even though my total life experience at the bank and at school had been mental, not physical.
Just get on the Body Trek, next to the waif who looks somewhere between pubescent and twenty-nine, and act nice.

She appraised me. “Do you come to the club often?”

“This is my first time. I’m supposed to work up to four days a week.”
In my next life.

“I do three days of cardio and two days in the weight room. I’m Patricia Drexel.”

Patricia had a perfect figure, flawless skin, and auburn hair that shone with every bounce. Despite the obvious benefits of the weight room, I doubted I’d set foot in it.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Aggie Mundeen.”

“So, are you an Aggie? We have a slew of them around here.”

“So I’ve heard.”

I arranged my noodle-flat feet on the pedals, eyed the computer display and forged a death grip on the rail. The board flashed various options. The “Cardio Workout” button reminded me of rehab patients, so I punched it and grasped the handles. The foot pedals revolved slowly.

Every couple of minutes, the speed increased. The pedals whirled faster and faster. When the handles started yanking my arms forward and back, forward and back, I morphed into a praying mantis. Patricia might have giggled. I didn’t have time to check. Hoping my feet wouldn’t slip off the pedals, I lunged for the stationary bar. The display board flashed and beeped, oblivious to my terror. With my knuckles white from gripping the bar, I concentrated on slowing my legs until I could stand almost straight.

Patricia had reduced her speed and was surveying the far end of the room. I determined I was able to turn my neck and followed her gaze to a man in red shorts popping up the stairs. I recognized Mickey Shannon and turned away, too agitated to flirt.

Patricia hopped off the Body Trek and swished her hand at me. “That’s enough cardio. Time to do weights. See you later.” She streaked toward Mickey, caught up to him, bumped him accidentally and beamed up a beguiling smile. He gazed down, obviously enjoying his good fortune. They bobbed downstairs together, probably to the weight room.

Fit and Firm might be the perfect place to meet people, but I didn’t fit in with these specimens. I needed time to master the machines without disabling myself and more time to study their southern etiquette. My flirting arsenal had rusted. Plus, I had either witnessed a careless accident or an attempted murder. All in all, not a good start.

If Sam were around, he could quiz Mickey about the electrical system and accompany me to meet the manager. When Sarah took him the radio, did the manager call the police? Or did he play down the incident, intending to root out the culprit himself so he could keep the club open?

Thankful that I hadn’t shattered a bone, I slipped off the Body Trek, quaked to the water fountain and slurped. The muscles in my legs and derriere contracted like they’d been poked with a cattle prod.

Even a health club held secrets. Holly’s secrets were painful. Her revelations might be dangerous to the resilient psyche I’d primed to match my soon-to-be-buff body. I’d prepaid for a three-month membership, so I’d have a hard time avoiding Holly since the pool incident linked us together. And I might be the one person who could help her.

My watch showed 1:00 p.m. The manager was probably back from lunch. I could pay him a visit and have plenty of time to get to my 3:00 p.m. class. I freshened up. I’d fought enough machinery for one day. My itchy feet were trapped in socks and Adidas. This was the perfect time to meet him.