Fit To Be Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 1) (3 page)

Three

I lumbered down to level two, aimed for the corridor of offices and knocked on the door that read, “Club Manager, Harold Thorne.” A box-like man in gym shorts filled the door frame. I felt like a boot camp rookie shoved before the drill sergeant. He looked older than forty. The instant I passed thirty, I sprouted a previously dormant antenna that honed in on sagging skin and body bulges. The picket-fence crew cut on his scalp ran almost to the sides of his square head. He scrutinized me and offered a paw.

“Harry Thorne.”

“Aggie Mundeen.”

His beady eyes opened wide, which lifted his brow and pushed his ears out. “You’re the woman who found Holly Holmgreen in the pool and helped Sarah get her out.”

“That’s me.” Word traveled fast.

“I wanted to talk to you...Sarah’s so ditsy...to get your version of the accident.” His eyes narrowed.

I slipped past him into the office while I described what happened. “You concluded the incident was accidental?”

“Sure it was.” He crossed muscle-bound arms. “I caught those maintenance guys playing their boom box before while they worked at the pool. I told ’em if it happened again, they were history. When Sarah brought me the radio, I knew it belonged to them. They denied taking it near the pool, but I knew they were lying. I fired ’em.”

Harry Thorne didn’t waste time contemplating options. Whatever his motives, he intended to keep the mishap under wraps and not involve the police. Wasn’t he supposed to notify the club’s insurance company so they could file a report with OSHA? Had other accidents occurred at Fit and Firm? If Harry reported this one, maybe he’d lose his job.

It was his call; he was the manager. But as the second potential victim of electrocution, I intended to probe further. I molded my face into a pleasant countenance.

“Do you use the biggest electrical contractor in San Antonio...the one with the huge ads?” I knew zip about San Antonio contractors.

Harry rocked back on his heels, leaned forward, re-crossed his arms and planted his feet. His red socks above spit-and-polish tennis shoes looked silly at the end of his hairy legs. He furrowed his brow.

“We use Stanton Electric. They’re a good little firm.”

I produced a quizzical look and blinked. “I guess it’s hard to find enough competent employees when you run a big place like this?”

“You bet. Maintenance guys are the least of my problems. I have to find muscled-up trainers so amateur body builders respect ’em.” He grimaced. Harry didn’t appear to hold much regard for amateurs. “I gotta get pretty boys for the women. Sheesh.” He rolled his eyes. I thought about Pete Reeves.

“I gotta hire female trainers. I get all kinds in that group.”

“Sarah Savoy seems to do a good job.”

“I gotta hire those good-looking babes, even if they’re airheads. They get guys’ hormones raging around here. Pretty soon, the blockheads are chasing every girl in sight.”

“You mean young girls like Holly Holmgreen?”

“Yeah. Like Holly. But I don’t think her bad luck had anything to do with guys chasing her. Stupid accidents happen. We’ll keep an eye on her.”

Once Harry had learned all I knew, he was ready to dismiss me. My curiosity percolated, so I scanned his office, trying to get a sense of what lay behind his self-assured toughness. On his desk sat a photo of two men boxing in a ring while a referee shouted at them and a crowd egged them on. I saw my opening to initiate a friendlier conversation. “Were you a boxer?”

“I boxed some. My dad wanted me to go professional. He owned the gym. Smelly old place. Nothing but sweat, blows and blood. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I did learn how to bring order to a crummy place. Say, you wanna sit down?” He flipped his mitt toward a chair and whipped behind his desk. He yanked the center drawer open, tossed in the offending photograph, muscled back his swivel chair and surveyed his domain. He seemed to be warming up a bit. I smiled and glanced around, sharing his enjoyment.

“I decided someday I’d manage a club with class, like this one. They say it takes three generations to rise above your family’s status. I did it in two.” He clenched his jaw as if expecting me to dispute his assessment. I kept quiet and pasted congeniality on my face. I’d also heard it took three generations for offspring to squander the fortune of the person who created it. I kept my thoughts on generational advancement and decline to myself.

“I was determined to manage a clean facility and run the place right. It wouldn’t be no dump like my dad’s boxing gym. I’d have a club where people could get in shape without a lot of riffraff mucking up the place—where girls could come exercise without being treated like meat.”

The tops of Harry’s prominent ears turned red. Had someone mistreated a girl in his family? I thought Harry would be fiercely protective of his wife and daughters. “Does your family exercise here?”

“I’m divorced. My wife was one of them featherbrained babes. Couldn’t tell a jewel from a ball of mud. We never had kids.”

Harry deflated in his chair, possibly regretting his lack of children. He must fancy himself the “jewel” his wife didn’t appreciate, which was a hard concept to reconcile with his steamroller appearance. I felt sorry for him. It must be frustrating to project an image to the world so different from your perception of yourself. I glanced at the other photograph on his desk. He followed my gaze.

“That’s my brother, Billy. He was a year younger than me. Died in Vietnam at twenty-two. One of the last soldiers killed when we evacuated Saigon.”

“I’m so sorry.” I wished I hadn’t focused on his brother’s picture. Yet, he seemed relieved to share his grief.
He shook his head as though he still couldn’t believe his brother had died. Head down, he remained quiet a few seconds.

Then he
peered up at me and wormed his brows together. I think he was beginning to wonder why I was perched in his office. The last thing I wanted to do was rile Harry Thorne.

Our chummy chat had ended. I stood and offered my hand, a significant gesture in Texas. “It sure is nice to meet you, Harry. I’m glad Holly wasn’t injured. She’s a sweet girl. It’s nice to know you’re keeping everything under control. You operate a wonderful club here.”

He didn’t smile, but he seemed complacent when I stepped into the hall.

My brain throbbed. The headache had materialized when I held my breath waiting for Holly to spurt pool water. The pain increased when I realized we both could have been electrocuted. Clinging to the Body Trek had exhausted me. My tension grew while I sat in Harry’s office wondering whether he’d eject me. I didn’t think he’d told me all he knew. Trying to decipher answers without having all the facts drained the last of my energy. It was time to go home.

When I started down the steps, something made me glance back. From his office doorway, Harry glowered at me. When our eyes met, he whipped inside.

Four

I staggered out of the club with my head pounding. The air was crisp with the sun shining. Driving home, I perched forward on the seat to take pressure off my contracting derriere muscles. I eased Albatross into the garage, swung my aching legs from the Wagoneer and clomped through the kitchen door into my bungalow. Except for my rigid posterior, I felt rubbery. To gain stamina for my 3:00 p.m. class, I tried to eat. The food stuck in my throat and I upchucked the measly breakfast I’d consumed hours earlier. I’d registered for Aspects of Aging to learn how to avoid decrepitude. Now I was too debilitated to attend class.

After brushing my teeth, I summoned enough energy to retrieve mail from the floor, where it had landed when the postal carrier sailed it through the slot in my door. There were a couple of bills, lots of junk, and a letter to Dear Aggie. I tore it open.

Dear Aggie,

Since you said the first step to avoid aging is getting in shape, I bought “slim-with-no-gym” workout clothes from a catalog to rein in my bulges so I’d look good enough to join the health club. The “shaper” tunic and pants have built-in spandex liners. These suckers are tight. Should I send them back and forget it?

Miserable in Milwaukee

Despite my current state of weakness, I picked up a pen.

Dear Miserable,

If you can’t breathe, you can’t exercise. At the health club or anyplace else. That spandex probably cost as much as a month’s fitness-club membership. Send those pinchers back, join the nearest club, wear whatever decent workout clothes you have lying around and don’t worry about other people. They’re worried about themselves.

Agonizing with you,

Aggie

I didn’t have more letters to answer so I decided I might as well hit the books. I actually enjoyed studying. I was pathologically curious—about everything except banking. For my Dear Aggie column, I researched every aspect of how to avoid aging. To house my research, I’d bought the perfect antique cabinet at Broadway Antique Auction and kept it in my bedroom.

For years, I’d wanted to study liberal arts. Even though I’d missed my first class, I could keep up if I mastered the material. After waiting so long to attend graduate school, I wasn’t about to fail. I picked up the notebook that Dr. Carmody, my professor for Aspects of Aging, had compiled for us and plodded to the sofa. His syllabus said we’d start by studying normal aging in disease-free individuals. Perfect. I could learn how to stay young and share the information with my readers.

The first section discussed maximum life span: “In the absence of disease, maximum life span is one hundred twenty years—the longest, documented time anyone has lived.” Fantastic. I had time to get my body in shape and scout for a good man. If nobody electrocuted me in the pool.

“Even without disease, genetics, and lifestyle affect aging.” I leaned back and gazed at the ceiling. They forgot to mention life experience. Club Manager Harry Thorne was probably under fifty, but weighty pockets under his eyes made him look older. His body was in phenomenal shape, but losing his brother had aged him. Maybe he had a gene for baggy eyes. Or maybe he was stressed out from trying to hide an attempted murder.

I watched winter light seep through the front window and make pale dots on the living room wall. I wished I knew something about my genetics. After my parents died when I was a baby, Aunt Novena and Uncle Fred raised me in Chicago. I lifted their photograph from the coffee table. We never discussed genetics; nobody wanted to suggest our piecemeal family wasn’t perfect. Fred and Novena looked so dear, huddling together, their hair gray by the time I turned twelve. Their moral principles still supported me. I returned their photo to its place of honor.

As far as I knew, I was healthy. I felt good and was optimistic and inquisitive—some might say nosy. Despite pain, I was exercising. I craned to see my reflection in the window across the room. I looked younger already.

Flipping through the notebook, I discovered information about biomarkers. When pinpointed, these key biological signs could measure an organism’s aging status better than chronological age. I was going to love this course. Being way past thirty didn’t matter. I could hardly wait to tell Meredith and Sam they had biomarkers.

My sixty-year-old neighbor, Grace Livermore, must have indestructible biomarkers. Whenever I had a petty concern or felt old, I visited her. Even though I didn’t know much about her, I sensed she was wise and could help me put things in perspective.

A sound jerked me from my musings. The knob on my back door rattled. I strained to listen. When I came home and parked Albatross in the garage, I had pulled down the overhead door and come into the house through the kitchen. Once the garage door was down, no one could see me enter the house. Was someone trying to break into a house they thought was empty?

The phone was on the other side of the room. I could sprint to it and hope nobody shot me as I leaped across open space to dial nine-one-one. Or I could scream. My throat tightened just as my legs froze, so I perched and listened. When the knob rattled again, I screamed so loud I scared myself. I thought I heard footsteps pound away outside. Paralyzed, I pondered what to do while I waited for my heartbeat to return to normal. Did the footsteps outside have something to do with the incident at the pool?

If I called SAPD now, Sam would find out about the pool incident. I wasn’t ready to discuss what had occurred there.

Unable to think of anything else to do, I creaked to a standing position, slithered along the wall and tiptoed toward the kitchen. Nothing looked different. I flipped off the ceiling light and crept toward the back door. It remained locked, thank goodness. The outside light was on. Peeking through the top half of the door, I peered down at the concrete landing. I saw no mud, no footprints, nothing but dried grass flattened around the stoop.

Trekking to every window in the house, I peeped out. Everything looked normal. Locks fortified my windows and chains secured my doors. I padded back to the living room, reasoning with myself. Somebody had tried to loot an empty house, heard me scream and took off to find an easier target.

Grabbing the phone from its cradle, I set the handset on the coffee table within arm’s reach and sank onto the sofa. Having the phone close by calmed me. Despite witnessing a scary pool accident and having a burglar rattle my door, I absolutely had to study.

Curling into the cushions, I picked up the binder and found the next section, “Organs and Organ Systems.” Organs declined at different rates, I learned, even within a single individual. Today’s events undoubtedly aged some of my organs. I forced myself to focus: this was the perfect opportunity to assess the status of my innards.

“Heart: Grows slightly larger with age, but cardiac output stays almost the same because the heart pumps more efficiently.” This was encouraging since mine had just skipped a few beats. I wished I could watch somebody’s heart inside their body. Had Sam’s heart atrophied from suffering?
Could it ever recover? When I lost my child and my faith wavered, my heart felt hammered, then bruised. Did it shrink? When I was near people who had suffered loss, I felt my heart expand.

“Lungs: Maximum breathing capacity declines forty percent between ages twenty and seventy.” I grabbed a pencil. My calculations showed my breathing capacity had already declined thirteen percent. Peachy. I held my breath to expand my lung volume.

“Brain: Loses cells with age but adapts by increasing connections between cells—synapses—and by re-growing branch-like extensions that carry messages in the brain.” If my gray matter kept working, even with modifications, I should be all right. My oversupply of curiosity probably stimulated my brain. I chewed on my pencil. I sure didn’t relish the thought of losing brain cells while my fat cells lived forever. Maybe I could shrink them with exercise. Then annihilate them. Overall, my physical condition appeared satisfactory.

“Personality: After about age thirty, personality is stable. Sudden changes in personality can suggest disease.” Sam, although saddened, seemed basically the same as when I knew him in Chicago. He evaluated situations before plunging in. He was even-tempered except when grief overcame him. He’d maintained his sense of humor and was trustworthy. His critical traits seemed intact.

When I picked up the photograph of him with his family, tears pooled behind my eyes. They were so beautiful. Despite Sam’s calm exterior, I feared that, without them, he must have changed. I put down my pencil, closed the notebook and vowed not to tell him what had happened at the pool. Connecting him to another young girl’s suffering would cause him more pain. I had less reason to mention the minor, inconsequential rattling of my doorknob.

I scratched my foot. What I needed to do was return to the club, find out who knew Holly Holmgreen and inconspicuously snoop around.