Patrice Lyle - Health Nut 01 - Killer Kung Pao

* * * * *

Sign up for our newsletter to be the first to know about our new releases!

Sign up for the Gemma Halliday newsletter!

* * * * *

* * * * *

KILLER KUNG PAO

by

PATRICE LYLE

* * * * *

Copyright © 2015 by Patrice Lyle

Cover design by Janet Holmes

Gemma Halliday Publishing

http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This is a work of fiction and is not intended as medical advice nor a substitute for the medical advice of physicians. The reader should regularly consult a physician in matters relating to his/her health and particularly with respect to any symptoms that may require diagnosis or medical attention.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BOOKS BY PATRICE LYLE

SNEAK PEEK

* * * * *

A Dung Beetle Hair Day

You probably want to know how I solved Mystic Ming's murder, but first I should tell you why I almost killed him myself.

I stepped into the Manatee Inn's elevator and glanced at my hair in the mirrored walls. The words
Night of the Living Frizz Freak
instantly came to mind. Florida's balmy weather may have been great for the skin, but it sure was murder on my hair. I tapped the
close
button and dug through my silver sequined purse until I found my only source of solace.

A package of eighty-percent dark chocolate almond clusters.

I eagerly ripped the foil and popped a chocolate into my mouth.
Yum
. I ignored my reflection and concentrated on the gold elevator doors as they slowly slid shut. Seconds before they finally closed, however, a tiny beringed hand shot inside. The door halted and creaked open. 

"Hold up!" A spry Asian man jumped in. Hot pink hair sprouted from his head, culminating in a giant poof that had been clamped into place with a pink chopstick. He jabbed the
close
button like it was a slot machine. "Hurry! Mystic Ming need to get to show."

The elevator dinged wildly in response, but the doors didn't close.

"Come on. Close, you dumb piece of metal," he said. "Mystic Ming berry late."

To keep from laughing, I gazed at the bejeweled flower painted on my big toe. His accent was as fake as his hair color. Pure Jersey simmered in his voice.

He slammed his palm against the button and let out a slur of cuss words amidst a blast of garlic breath so strong it could have flattened Dracula.

Not one to tell others what to do (except when people paid for my advice as a naturopathic doctor), I leaned against the wall and waited while the man attacked the buttons again. Finally, when the panel lit up like a starry night, I made what I thought was a polite suggestion.

"Sir, if you'd stop pressing the buttons, I bet the doors will close, and we'll be on our way." I flashed him a friendly smile before popping another chocolate into my mouth.

He shot me a look that could have melted my cocoa. "Why you tell Mystic Ming what to do?"

"Who's Mystic Ming?" Then I noticed his tight teal T-shirt adorned with the words,
Mystic Ming, Kick-Ass Psychic.
"Cute shirt. Very catchy."

He slapped the buttons again, but the doors still wouldn't close. "Shirt not meant to be cute. Meant to make sure clients not forget me."

I doubted he needed a T-shirt for that. "You here for the Body, Mind & Spirit Expo?"

"What's it to you?"

"I was just wondering." I reached past him and tapped the
close
button. Surprisingly, it acquiesced, and we began our sluggish descent toward the lobby.

"Mystic Ming not need your help." His words were accompanied with garlic-scented spittle.

Eeww. My poor chocolate.
I stepped back and closed the package. "Sorry, sometimes you just need a woman's touch."

"Woman touch never good."

Oh, please. It worked, didn't it?

He squinted and stared at my head. "Your hair look like dung beetle nest."

My eyes widened while I waited for the obligatory,
Sorry, just kidding
.

He didn't offer those words though. Instead he countered with, "What happen to you? You get caught in typhoon?"

Holy chocolate babka, how can he say that?

"It's the Florida humidity," I said, shocked at his rudeness.

"You should have stayed home where hair not look so ratty."

I gasped and bravely peeked at my hair in the mirrored walls, hoping for a miraculous change in the last couple of minutes. Nope. I was still a frizz ball, despite the shine serum, leave-in conditioner, and anti-frizz cream. How could I give my natural health presentation looking like a lightning-strike victim?

Or, as Mystic Ming had so clearly articulated, looking like a haven for dung beetles?

Whatever they even were.

My cheeks burned as a memory from freshman year in high school tumbled forth in my mind. A rich kid had called me a
pizza-faced,
blonde
Little Orphan Annie
in front of the honors biology class. I could still hear the peals of laughter reverberating off the lab's linoleum floor.

But before I descended into Code Red hair panic, I inhaled another chocolate and recalled my favorite quote by Charles Swindoll, the one I shared with each one of my patients.

Life is ten percent what happens to you. Ninety percent how you react to it.

In honor of Mr. Swindoll, I tossed my wayward ringlets over my shoulders and glared at the pink-haired psychic. If I let Mystic Ming's rude-itude get the best of me, I wasn't following my own advice.

I lifted my chin as if I hadn't a care in the world. "I adore dung beetles."

"Why? They live in crap house."

He wasn't making this easy, but I would persevere. "One beetle's dung is another beetle's sequined purse."

"Lady, crap is crap."

How exasperating. "Have you ever tried being nice?"

"I'm a psychic. Not a frigging Hallmark greeting card."

Interesting how he lost his accent along with his temper.

He glared at me for a long moment, and then shut his eyes and lifted his arms. His bony fingers wiggled around, sending zippy flashes of light from his rhinestone rings dancing across the mirrored walls.

"I get message from spirit guide." His voice was somber.

Oh, for the love of chocolate ganache.
I believed in the possibility of otherworldly things, but this was over the top.

He suddenly dropped his hands, and his eyes popped open. "Spirit guides say you need to take garlic daily. Good for heart."

I knew about garlic's many healthful properties, but I didn't personally take it every day because it caused a serious social concern.

Breath Reekage Factor.
A condition that definitely afflicted Mystic Ming, but I'd keep that diagnosis to myself.

"What's good for my heart is
not
being told my hair looks like a dung beetle nest. Seriously, that was out of line."

He waved his hand as if he were batting away an annoying fly. "Spirit guides have another message for you."

"Thanks, but after that hair comment, I'll pass."

The universe must have had other plans for me, however, because the elevator lurched to a halt. I braced my hand against the wall while my pulse skyrocketed.

Had I made the
other side
mad?

Mystic Ming pursed his lips. "Not good when Spirit has to stop elevator to make you listen. Pretty important message. You want to hear now?"

Obviously, I was supposed to. My arm hairs rose, and I nodded.

"Spirit say you eat too much chocolate. Not good for naturopathic doctor image. You supposed to be healthy role model. You eat carob instead."

Carob?

My arms tingled as the familiar word settled over me like a spritz of my favorite perfume. How could Mystic Ming have possibly known? My mind flashed back to the last argument I'd had with my boyfriend, Floyd, when he'd told me the very same thing.

You should switch to carob. You're a naturopathic doctor now, not some teenybopper scarfing chocolate with her BFFs at a slumber party.

Wasn't that rude? Dark chocolate was loaded with anti-oxidants, and I loved it. Carob was hideous. I should have dumped Floyd, but the one time I'd tried he developed a huge stye in his left eye that impeded his final exams and took weeks to go away. Plus I couldn't bear to deal with the reality of joint custody of our three-year-old, twenty-pound, miniature potbellied pig, Brownie. He was the light of my universe.

Especially with his new rhinestone collar.

I didn't want Floyd to have him every other weekend and half the major holidays. I couldn't buy enough dark chocolate almond clusters to survive an incident like that.

Despite another attempt at taking Swindoll's advice, Mystic Ming's jab drilled into me like a worm into an apple. Would I be a better role model for my patients if I stopped eating chocolate? I peered at my frizzy reflection and contemplated LWDC.

Life Without Dark Chocolate.

What would I snack on? Dried fruit? Kale chips? Then I realized something.

Mystic Ming was a sham. And I wasted no time in telling him.

"You're a fake psychic." I pointed to my nametag that read,
Dr. Piper Meadows, Naturopathic Doctor.
"This is how you knew my profession." Then I lifted my dark chocolate clusters. "And this is where you got the chocolate part."

"Me a fake? You the fake. Eating so much candy and pretending to be healthy." He raked a rude gaze down my dress. "You lucky because too much chocolate can turn lady fat."

I froze. Not the
F
word. That was something else my boyfriend had said.

You better lay off the chocolate before your body fat increases.

Barbs of anger shot up from my silver shoes, past my pink-sequined outfit, all the way to my iridescent taupe eye shadow. How dare this rude man insult my hair and my
joie de vivre
? And what did a man with pink hair staked together by a chopstick know anyway?

"I've loved dark chocolate ever since freshman year." I didn't tell Mystic Ming about the high school drama that had cemented my love of dark chocolate and my future in natural health. That was none of his business.

But from age fourteen to now, dark chocolate had given me the one thing I needed most.

A major boost in self-esteem.

"It's not about what you love." He pressed a narrow, teal platform boot with purple waves across the toe—okay, those were adorable—against the wall. "Learn from spirit guide. No one take naturopathic doctor with bad hair who pork out on chocolate seriously."

Again his words were eerily reminiscent of my boyfriend (except for the hair part). "I have a growing practice where I'm helping lots of people get healthier."

"You'd be smart to listen to Mystic Ming."

Who did he think he was? "Not every naturopathic doctor has to eat kale twenty-four-seven."

"Argue all you want, but you know Mystic Ming right. Other NDs not douse themselves in glue and roll around in a bed of chocolate chips."

Actually, minus the glue part, that sounded kind of fun.

"Whatever. I don't want to waste my energy on this negative discussion." I reached over to tap a few buttons, but before I did the elevator car resumed our descent. I leaned against the wall and tried to regroup, despite a tiny voice inside warning that this expo was jinxed.

Even the elevators were off. The Manatee Inn left a lot to be desired, starting with the stench of marijuana that had greeted me in the lobby during check-in. Not to mention the broken bathroom fan. Or the hideous lighting that made me look like a hepatitis patient. Finally, we stopped. The bad news was it was the seventh floor. The good news was we were getting closer.

The doors inched open, and a tall woman with enviably sleek burgundy hair pulled into a ponytail stepped in. Blue, green, and red gemstone stud earrings lined the edges of her ears. Mystic Ming turned and inspected the corner. She tapped her blue Birkenstocked foot against the grubby tile floor and hit the lobby button.

We began our descent at the speed of frozen chocolate syrup trying to drip out of a bottle.

"These elevators still suck, but the rooms are way better this year." The woman leaned toward the mirrored wall to check her hair. She was straightening her ponytail (as if her sleek hair needed fixing) when her gaze landed on Mystic Ming.

She dropped her hands to her side and stiffened. "Charles said you weren't coming."

"Charles a moron who should no eat so much bang bang pork," Mystic Ming said, his garlic breath steaming the mirrored corner.

Her jaw tightened, and her eyes flashed with annoyance. "You've got some nerve being here after everything you put me through."

The poor woman's face reddened, and her hands trembled. Whatever Mystic Ming had done upset this woman terribly. Bet it wasn't just criticizing her hair and diet.

I retrieved a chocolate cluster and held it up. "You want one? Chocolate always makes me feel better."

"Candy not help whack jobs." Ming turned and let out a sarcastic laugh. "Garnett too crazy for that. She need drugs and lots of them."

"Thank you for your kind offer," Garnett said to me. "But what I need is to get away from here. This space is filled with bad juju."

"I sense evil when you got in elevator. You the bad juju."

Garnett's face twitched, and she slapped all the buttons. The elevator dinged like a jackpot as we lurched to a stop at the next floor. I considered taking the stairs, but the doors wouldn't budge.