Murder by Manicure (2 page)

He winked, making Marla regret her flirtatious glance. She didn't need any amorous complications right now, not when Detective Lieutenant Dalton Vail was getting more possessive about their relationship. It didn't matter to him that commitment wasn't in her vocabulary at this point. She remembered the reason why every time Stan showed up to harangue her. After Dalton met her ex-spouse, he understood the basis for her fierce independence, but it didn't undermine his determination to pursue her. Unfortunately, every time their paths crossed, a murder was involved.

Focusing her attention, she concentrated on Keith's instructions as he introduced her to the StairMaster and Life Cycle machines, treadmill, and simulated rowing device.

"That looks like fun,” Marla said, pointing to a Tectrix Virtual Reality bike. Like a computer monitor, a viewscreen mounted in front of the bike showed an animated scene of a road snaking up a hilltop.

"You can choose your own scenario. I like Tank, a military combat game. How fast you go depends on how fast you cycle, and you've got to steer around obstacles."

She raised her eyebrows. “I'll give this machine a try when I'm here Sunday with my friend. At least you have something to watch while you're pedaling.” Reluctantly she admitted to herself that this might not be so bad after all.

"You're entitled to join any of the classes,” he said, handing her an aerobics schedule. “Dancercize is popular with the ladies and not as strenuous as some of the other techniques. Now if you're interested, I can get you started with the body fat analysis."

"Sure, why not?” Marla knew she had nothing to worry about on that score. Tally was the one who always complained about her weight, even though the girl had a perfect figure to model the stylish clothes in her boutique, Dressed to Kill. Her friend's downfall was a craving for chocolate, whereas Marla's vice was caffeine. At least hers didn't add calories.

"This is the circumference method,” Keith said, approaching her with a tape measure. “When you come back next time, ask Dave to do a bioelectrical impedance test. The fat machine, as we call it, is more accurate. Lift your chin."

Marla held still while he measured her neck. He stood awfully close, leaning inward until she could smell his lime aftershave. His face hovered a few inches away, his mouth teasingly within kissing distance. The hairs on her arms prickled. Did she just now realize they were alone together, and barely anyone else was in the building?

She held her breath until he finished, then squirmed when he wound the tape around her waist, tightening it at the back so his fingertips rested on her derriere.

"Shouldn't that be placed a bit higher?” she squeaked when he aimed for her hips. He'd twisted the tape around the biggest part of her butt. That wasn't her hip measurement, was it? And why was he pinching the tape so tight in front while staring down at her bared thighs?

"You're a thirty-four waist, thirty-seven hips, and thirteen neck,” he stated, unabashedly ogling her.

Get real, pal! I'm not that big. You don't know what the hell you're doing.
“So what's next?"

He put the tape away. “Take your shoes off and we'll get your height and weight on the scale."

Feeling oddly vulnerable in her tank top and shorts, she followed him to a corner and stepped onto the unit. His hand accidentally—or not—brushed her breast when he reached to move the lever.

"Watch it, pal. My boyfriend is a police officer,” she muttered.

"Sorry.” His grin displayed his lack of concern. “Five feet, six inches, one hundred and twenty pounds."

"Wait a minute, my scale at home says I weigh one-eighteen."

"This one may be better balanced."

Marla put her sneakers back on while he did the calculations at his desk. He seemed to take an overly long time, confirming her opinion that this wasn't his customary job. Maybe he was faking it just for an excuse to put his hands on her.

"Your body fat percentage is thirty-one,” he said, glancing at her. “The recommended percentage for a woman is twenty-two. What's your activity level at home?"

"I take my poodle for walks and work in a salon all day."

"Any regular form of exercise? Aerobic workouts?"

"That's been enough for me. I don't have time for anything else."

A frown creased his brow. “Would you say you walked your dog for thirty minutes, three times a week? I'll put you down for a moderate activity level then.” At her nod, he did a further analysis. “Your lean body mass is eighty-three pounds, meaning you need to eat ten blocks a day."

"Huh?"

"One block contains ten grams of carbohydrate, seven-point-five grams of protein, and three-point-three-three grams of fat. It translates to about one hundred calories."

"So you're saying I need a diet with one thousand calories? I'll starve!” His numbers couldn't be accurate. She wasn't fat! Added to the insult, Sharon the receptionist's remark surfaced in her mind:
Is that your natural color?
Fighting an impulse to dash to a mirror and check for gray hairs, Marla managed a demure smile instead.

"I don't think you measured me correctly. I'll see what Dave says when he uses that machine you mentioned."

His eyes flickered momentarily with an emotion she couldn't identify. “Regardless of the recommended blocks for your diet, you need to be aware of proper eating habits, such as avoiding foods high in arachidonic acid. Giving guidance in this area is
my
sphere of expertise."

Rummaging in a drawer, he selected several papers, which he handed to her. “Make an appointment with me for next week, and we'll personally roam over the details of your diet plan."

His eyebrows rose suggestively, giving Marla the impression he wanted to roam over her person rather than discuss her health. Given Gloria's rude behavior earlier, she wondered if personnel problems were par for the course here.

"I'll be coming with my friend next week. Perhaps you can advise us both together.” Compressing her lips, she scanned the pages detailing foods to avoid, which naturally included many of her favorite snacks, foods to include on her targeted diet plan, and sample recipes. She liked the one for spinach pie since it used ingredients that were easy to buy, unlike the energy bars that required fructose, nonfat dry milk, and soy protein powder, among other uncommon components. Maybe it was healthy for her body, but not for her purse. She wasn't about to stock items that weren't normally on her shelf.

Glancing at her watch, she cleared her throat. “I didn't realize it was so late. Guess I'll have to wait until Sunday to try this stuff,” she said, gesturing at the exercise stations.

Keith turned on a smarmy smile. “Do you want to grab a bite to eat somewhere with me? We can begin discussing your diet plan tonight. I know a great natural food restaurant where we can get the best veggie platters."

"No, thanks. I think I'll pick up a Big Mac on the way home. With a large fries and a chocolate milkshake. Yum!"

Grinning at his horrified expression, she whirled around and headed for the stairs. She was halfway there when a blood-curdling scream from below halted her dead in her tracks.

Marla raced down the stairs, nearly stumbling over her own feet in her haste to find the source of the terrifying screams. Arriving in the lobby, she noticed Sharon gesturing wildly from the pool deck. Careful not to slip on the wet tiles, she rushed inside the aquatics area. The receptionist's face resembled the color of an overdone bleach job.

Marla skidded on the damp floor. “What's wrong?"

Her teeth chattering, Sharon pointed at the whirlpool, which gurgled and frothed like a witch's cauldron.

As though in response, a flaccid hand bubbled to the surface and then sank.

"Someone's under there,” Sharon wailed.

Not again.
Marla's vision blurred as past events collided with the present in her stunned mind.
Get a grip. This isn't little Tammy. That tragedy happened fifteen years ago.

She glanced up as Keith bounded into the room. “There's a body underwater. You've got to do something!” she told him.

Turning to the receptionist, he ordered, “Sharon, call nine-one-one."

Covering her mouth, Sharon fled from the aquatics section. A few minutes later, Marla heard an emergency announcement broadcast on the PA system: “Code Six in the wet area!"

Keith kicked off his shoes. “Whoever it is may be trapped by the drain. I'm going in.” Charging down the steps into the seething water, he grimaced as the heat enveloped his legs. It wasn't that deep—four feet according to a marker—so the water only reached his ribs. Slogging through the swirling current, he stopped suddenly and reached down.

A few moments later, a woman's limp form rested by the side of the pool. Marla felt the blood drain from her face as she recognized Jolene Myers.

"She couldn't have been under long,” Keith said, “or her skin would have sloughed off from the heat. She's not rigid yet. There's a chance.” Dripping onto the deck as he knelt beside her still body, he began performing CPR.

"Can I help?” Marla asked, wringing her hands. Jolene couldn't be dead. She'd just talked to her in the locker room! Maybe she had slipped and bumped her head and could still be revived. If only her skin didn't have that bluish tint. It reminded Marla of the Barbicide liquid she used at the salon to disinfect her combs.

"Go find Slate. He's in the massage suite,” Keith said, perspiring from exertion.

In the lobby, Marla confronted Sharon. “Keith needs assistance. Where's Slate? He must not have heard your bulletin."

Her chin quivering, Sharon opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her. She lifted a trembling finger and pointed to the right.

Reaching the massage area, Marla faced an empty check-in desk and two closed doors. Rapping loudly on the closest one, she fell back when it abruptly swung open. A tall young man wearing a staff shirt and shorts strolled out, his cool amber eyes assessing her. Marla got a quick glimpse beyond of a voluptuous blonde sitting on a treatment table adjusting her green knit top with the club logo. From the way it fit, she didn't appear to be wearing a bra. A pair of long legs showed below matching shorts.

"What can I do for you?” the man asked, plowing a hand through his short, disheveled brown hair.

"Are you Slate?” she asked.

"Yeah, what's up?"

"There's an emergency, and Keith needs your help by the pool. Didn't you hear the Code Six announcement?"

He glanced over his shoulder at the blonde. “Sorry, I was distracted. Amy, I gotta go.” Without wasting another word, he darted off.

The girl slipped on a pair of tennis shoes and sauntered from the treatment room. Her overly made-up face expressed curiosity. “What's going on?"

"A woman had an accident in the whirlpool. She's unconscious, not breathing."

"Who?"

"Jolene Myers.” If Jolene was a regular, the staff member might know her.

"Hah!” Amy chortled triumphantly.

Marla gave her a sharp glance.
Why are you so pleased, pal?
“I gather you know Jolene."

The girl gave a curt nod. “I manage the juice bar. She bought a shake and a sandwich earlier. Maybe she should have let the food digest.” Her gaze cooled. “I'm Amy Gerard. And you are?"

"Marla Shore. A new member. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to see what's happening.” Her ears picked up the wail of sirens outside, getting louder.

Beside the pool, Keith and Slate attempted to revive Jolene. They jumped aside when rescue personnel thundered through the front door and were directed by Sharon into the aquatics section. While the paramedics performed their patient assessment, a uniformed police officer approached Marla.

"Excuse me, miss,” he said. “Can you tell me what happened here?"

Marla glanced uncertainly at the club attendants. “Sharon is the lady at the reception desk. I was upstairs when I heard her screaming. She found Jolene in the whirlpool. That's Jolene Myers.” She pointed to her client. The officer scribbled in a notebook while she spoke.

"Do you work here?"

"No, I'm just a temporary member.
They
work here.” She indicated Keith, Slate, and a couple other staffers who had joined them, including Gloria, whose supercilious expression had been replaced by one of mingled confusion and fear.

"Just a minute, please.” The policeman strode away to confer with the paramedics, who had attached various devices to Jolene's prostrate form. Their faces were intent as they worked on her without apparent success. When they called for a stretcher, Marla's desire to flee struggled with her sense of morbid curiosity. Frozen limbs glued her to the spot until the rescue truck departed with Jolene aboard, and the officer returned to resume his questioning.

"Shouldn't you be talking to them?” she croaked, her voice hoarse. Now that the action was over, she felt an intense urge to sink down in a corner and cover her face with her hands. It might not blot out the images of Jolene's unconscious body from her mind, but she needed to crawl away to recover her composure. She'd started to shake—doubtless a delayed reaction. And the chicken wings she'd eaten on her way here were creating havoc with her stomach.

"Are you all right? You don't look so good,” the officer said, his tone suddenly solicitous. “Say, haven't I seen you before?"

Marla gave him a closer examination. Her eyes widened when she recognized his ruddy face and kindly, pale-blue eyes. “Bless my bones, you're one of the guys who came to my house with Detective Vail after I had that break-in several months ago. I'm Marla Shore."

Light dawned in his expression. “Of course, you're the lieutenant's ... friend. My name is Barkley."

"Well, listen, Barkley. Is it possible Jolene slipped and cracked her head on that ledge inside the whirlpool?"

"Medics said there were no signs of a head injury, ma'am. How well are you acquainted with the woman?"

"Jolene Myers is one of my customers at Cut ‘N Dye Salon."

The stocky officer took notes while she spoke. “Does the lady have family nearby? Where does she work?"