Fit To Be Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 1) (6 page)

I retrieved my curling iron and was splashing my face with cold water when I heard screams.

Forgetting my stiffness, I charged out of the locker room past the entrance desk and followed the cries outside. Members and staff had poured onto the sidewalk and were racing to the farthest exit of the parking garage. When I caught up to them and pushed my way through the crowd, I saw a girl lying across the concrete exit, closer to the street than the garage. A car must have hit her.

Her head swiveled away from me. Blood seeped from it. Her legs were bent unnaturally. I saw black smudges on her thigh. Her left shin appeared to be broken. The contents of her gym bag, including a pair of red socks, were scattered from the force of impact. I was afraid she was dead.

Her blue warm-up looked sickeningly familiar. I strained forward. My hands flew to my face when I recognized the sad little face of Holly Holmgreen.

Eight

People murmured to each other, trying to make sense of what they saw.

“I heard a scream, tires screeching and a thud.”

“Somebody called nine-one-one.”

I whirled away with my hand covering my mouth and acid rising from my stomach and leaned against a concrete pillar. If only I’d walked out with Holly. Whenever I walked past garage entrances, I scanned both directions, leery of cars zooming in and out. Drivers raced in, eager to begin workouts, or they’d finished exercising and were dashing out to start their day. Holly, in her depressed state, must have been oblivious to the danger. I might have seen the car coming and saved her from being hit.

Because I worried about a lousy curling iron and begrudged ten minutes of my valuable time, this girl could be horribly injured. Or dead. Even though I felt sick, I should have walked her to her car or asked her to wait until I felt better. How deeply had I buried everything Aunt Novena had taught me?

I tried to remember where I’d parked my Wagoneer. With tears streaming down my face, I trudged into the parking garage, away from the voices. I knew I should stay. I longed to help Holly, but I panicked. I could still hear voices of people around her.

“Who hit her?”

“Did you see a car leave?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

Just as I reached Albatross, I heard the wail of a police siren. I cringed inside my car. As soon as somebody called 911, SAPD would have dispatched a patrol officer to the scene to secure the area. Nobody would be leaving until he interviewed potential witnesses. I backed Albatross out of its parking space and rolled quietly toward the garage’s second exit. I might have been the last person to see Holly except for her assailant and the girl at the entrance desk. The police would want to ask me a lot of questions. I didn’t have the courage to stay.

As I cleared the exit, I saw a police car swing in and an EMS ambulance screech to a stop near Holly. EMS technicians flew from the van and flocked around her, checking vital signs. Squinting in my rearview mirror, I thought they’d found a pulse because they whisked her into the ambulance and squealed away. They’d make heroic attempts to save her as they raced to the nearest hospital’s emergency room. I prayed for their success.

Driving at a crawl, I saw a second police car and van arrive. An officer, probably from Traffic Investigation Detail, sprang from the car. A team of officers burst from the van carrying cameras, measuring tapes and collection bags. The first patrol officer must have seen the black tire marks on Holly’s thigh and radioed for the evidence team.

With my heart racing, I turned Albatross away from the garage and forced myself to drive slowly so I wouldn’t attract attention. Noises and smells from countless hours I’d spent years before at Chicago’s police station assaulted my memory.

I remembered wild utterances from people whose brains were scrambled from drugs; the rank odor of unwashed bodies; and officers shouting and cajoling over the din, trying to interject calm into chaos.

When Katy and Lee Vanderhoven died, the only thing that kept me from drowning in grief was hanging around Chicago PD and learning about traffic investigations. Since I’d been a friend of Detective Sam Vanderhoven’s family and Aunt Aggie to his daughter, Lee, the officers put up with me when I loitered at the station asking questions I couldn’t ask Sam. They told me the brakes in Sam’s old Mustang hadn’t held on Chicago’s icy roads. Katy and Lee slid into a tree and died instantly.

I couldn’t face another tragedy.

At home, I pulled into my driveway and sequestered myself in the garage. When I pictured Holly on the pavement, a shiver rose up my neck. Once the medical team put her in the ambulance, technicians would swarm the area where she’d lain. I envisioned them shooting photos, gathering fibers, glass, metal and other bits of evidence. Detectives from Traffic Investigation would measure the distance from where she landed to stationary landmarks like the curb to determine the force of impact and probable damage to the hit-and-run car. They’d look for skid marks: Did the driver swerve, brake or accelerate? Did Holly’s shoes mark the concrete at the place where she left the ground? The car that hit her was probably gone, but officers would search the garage for cars with signs of damage.

I got out of my car and forced my legs to carry me into the kitchen. How would the police know whether a careless driver had screeched from the garage, hit Holly, panicked and driven off? Or whether someone had heard Holly say she was leaving, waited until she stepped across the exit and raced toward her at full speed before she could reach the other side? Was this another accident? The day after Holly was nearly electrocuted? I didn’t think so.

Throwing my workout bag onto the dining table, I sank into a chair. If EMS couldn’t save Holly, the emergency room physician would pronounce her dead. The hospital would notify the Bexar County Medical Examiner. Because of Holly’s age and the circumstances, he’d order an autopsy to verify the cause and manner of her death. Everything was so clinical. So tragic. So final. In minutes, a girl full of life would be reduced to an object of study.

Stumbling to the sofa, I collapsed. I’d lost so many people I loved: Lester. Aunt Novena and Uncle Fred. My baby girl. Then Katy and Lee. When Sam fled Chicago to escape the pain of their death, I lost him, too
.

I’d grieved silently with Holly over the loss of her child. And the loss of my child. No wonder protecting Holly meant so much; I was also protecting myself. Now, Holly might be gone. She wouldn’t even have the opportunity to grow old.

My sculpture of bronze runners stood poised on the coffee table. They were strong, free and leaping forward, the way I wanted to live. Instead, I felt like Grace’s shattered tiles, immobilized by grief, waiting for passersby to step on me and crush me into smaller bits.

Pushing myself off the couch, I wandered aimlessly and gazed at my paintings, the impressionistic watercolors I loved. Now they looked amorphous—littered with broken bonds like the formless path of my life. I felt such sadness for Holly, for Sam’s misery, for aborted relationships, for my own weaknesses. I peered through the window at cars cruising up and down Burr Road. Golfers played on Ft. Sam Houston’s course, even in January. How odd. Life continued unaware.

Thankfully, SAPD wouldn’t send Sam to investigate this crime. Sam’s Murder Squad in Homicide didn’t handle traffic investigations. When someone discovered a body other than a traffic fatality, SAPD assigned Sam’s unit to investigate. Murder was so alien to Sam’s nature, I supposed he could deal with it objectively. But it would be agonizing for him to deal with this young girl’s death. Fortunately, a detective from Traffic Investigation would work the case. I peered through the window and gazed down the street, amazed at how normal everything looked.

Although officers had questioned people at the scene, tomorrow they would interrogate the club’s staff and members, trying to determine what time Holly exercised and who her friends were. I dreaded the interview. It was bad enough to have helped save Holly from drowning only to see her lying still on the concrete. The police would require me to relive every detail.

I raced to my bathroom and lost the last of my lunch. I’d eaten very little breakfast. After Sheldon’s dissertation, I’d only picked at my sandwich. After I brushed my teeth, I trudged to the front door, made myself scrape the mail off the floor and opened a letter.

Dear Aggie,

My adorable baby is a year old. I, however, am not adorable, having gained thirty pounds since he was born. The fatter I get, the more depressed I become. The more depressed I become, the more I eat. Can you help me?

Fat in Pflugerville

It was hard to think, but I started writing.

Dearest Mom in Pflugerville,

You’re not alone. One study showed 14-25% of women are at least eleven pounds heavier one year after delivery. Postpartum depression is common (10-15%) and this can act as a barrier to weight loss...

I put the letter aside. Stats wouldn’t help. Pflugerville Mom knew she was depressed and overweight. I was in no condition to give advice.

I staggered to bed for a nap. My last thought before falling asleep was that, having missed Dr. Carmody’s second class, I’d probably fail Aspects of Aging and chalk up an F.

Nine

When I woke an hour later, I lay on my leopard bedspread and gazed at streaks the afternoon sun cast on my ceiling. The fading light made me think of Chicago’s winters.

After Aunt Novena and Uncle Fred died, I was on my own. Lester and I had planned to marry, but when I got pregnant, he skipped out. I was eighteen, penniless and alone. The one flimsy barrier between me and starvation was the bank job I’d recently secured. How could I care for a baby? My bank didn’t provide childcare at work. I managed to transfer to a branch bank in the suburbs where I worked until my daughter was born. Then I placed her for adoption.

I rose and paced the room, my heart aching again from giving her up. When she was fifteen, I learned she’d died in a freak accident. Clutching the windowsill, I blinked wet eyes at the disappearing sun. I’d done my best for my baby girl, giving her life and sacrificing my heart to place her in a loving environment. But I’d never see her again. I banged my fist against the sill.

Holly had suffered a senseless catastrophe. I couldn’t blame myself for her or my daughter’s tragedies, but what happened to them made me look hard at my life. I tried to help Dear Aggie’s readers stay healthy and young, but was that enough? I criticized egocentric club members, but hadn’t I been totally consumed with improving my own body? My motivation to help others grew largely out of my fear of growing old.

I flopped on the edge of my bed. Maybe I should stop dwelling on myself. Aunt Novena would have reminded me that focusing on my shortcomings led nowhere.

Curiosity usually got me into trouble, but maybe I could put my inquiring mind to good use. Wasn’t seeking truth a higher calling than helping people stay young? Wasn’t seeking truth the same as sleuthing? With a little snooping, maybe I could find out who wanted Holly dead.

My feet itched. With my determination rising like floodwater, I clomped to the bathroom and scoured my teeth. I would find out who’d wanted to kill Holly Holmgreen. If I had to socialize with perfect women and egotistical men and punish my body on metal machines to smoke out the person who wanted to kill that girl, my agony would be worth it.

I marched to the living room and paced around the sofas. Holly had suffered more than enough. If I could unmask her attacker and uncover his motive, I could find redemption for the sad girl who made questionable choices but harbored no malice. Exposing Holly’s enemy would be therapy for me. My monument to my daughter. The quest might even revive my faith.

I felt ready to help the depressed mom who’d written me.

Dearest Pflugerville Mom,

Tell your favorite doctor you’re depressed. They have great medicines for postpartum depression that increase the efficiency of the chemical messenger, serotonin, in your brain. These meds lift your mood. You’ll feel hopeful enough to begin exercising. A side effect of exercise is WEIGHT LOSS. You go girl!

Been there,

Aggie

Writing Pflugerville Mom made me feel better. Before I could concentrate on sniffing out Holly’s killer I had to get my mind off my grief. I was too distraught to attend class, but I simply couldn’t fail Aspects of Aging. Grad school was my chance to start over. I had to study.

I plopped on the sofa, yanked the binder from the coffee table and flipped to Theories of Aging regarding Mr. Izumi’s 120-year lifespan. If he hadn’t succumbed to illness, could he have lived longer? Or had he approached some built-in, biological limit?

Scientists split into two camps: Programmed Theorists believed Izumi had a biological limit. His cells either stopped dividing and died, or his immune system or hormones declined, leaving him susceptible to disease and death.

I was already worried about my hormones. I cuddled the sofa’s throw pillows. Maybe the other group of scientists had a cheerier outlook. I straightened up and leafed through pages.

Error Theorists thought people aged from wear and tear on vital parts of their cells and tissues. Quitting my bank job had undoubtedly helped me avoid wear and tear.

These scientists also said that the faster an organism used oxygen, the shorter its life span. So I stood, inhaled and walked around breathing slowly to regulate my oxygen consumption. I grew bored and floated back to the couch.

Error Theorists worried about cross-linked proteins and genetic mutations. Poor Mr. Izumi: his cells were subject to a variety of glitches. None of the scientists understood how he reached 120 years, but once he did, they agreed something was bound to get him.

Maybe he’d planned to live 119 years and take a year to repent.

Sinking back into the sofa, I flipped listlessly through the notebook, searching for keys to delay aging, and stopped at antioxidants. Some researchers thought vitamins C, E and beta-carotene fought oxidative damage, which hardened people’s arteries and led to heart disease. But other studies showed that when antioxidant vitamins invaded cells, cells stopped producing their own antioxidants, leaving free radical levels unchanged. Cells were stubborn. I might as well forget about taking antioxidants and stick to eating decent food.