Timothy (20 page)

“The most important thing,” he said once I'd closed the door behind us, “is for you to build muscle and burn fat in the most efficient and healthy way possible. You said you've never lifted weights before—have you ever done any kind of physical activity?”

“Outside of walking the dog before you got here—never,” I replied, embarrassed. “I mean, I always used to walk to school when I was growing up, and even to college, Mr. Collins, but—”

“Just call me Brad.” He smiled. “And it's not a big deal—I actually prefer my clients to have no preconceived notions about exercise—people always think they know more than I do, and there's nothing I hate more than arguing with people about proper diet and technique. Just from looking at you, and what you've told me—and what Carson said on the phone about your goals, I don't really think it's going to be that difficult to get you ripped in six weeks. It is six weeks, right?” When I nodded, he nodded. “Okay, let's get your shirt off so I can assess your body.”

I hesitated for a moment, and flashed back to high school gym class my freshman year. It was the first time I'd ever had to change clothes in front of anyone other than my doctor, and I remember one of the football players laughing at me. After that, I always hid somewhere when I had to change.

Brad smiled. “You have a bad experience in school? Yeah, me too.” He shrugged, the muscles in his massive shoulders rippling underneath the skin. “I used to get picked on something fierce, man. I started bodybuilding when I was a junior because, you know, I got sick of getting picked on and never looked back.” He flexed one of his arms, and the biceps muscle peaked. “Nobody fucks with you when you have guns, you know. So, go on, I'm not going to make fun of you. It's just an assessment, so I know what kind of program we need to put together to get the results you want.”

“I don't want to get really big,” I replied, slipping my shirt over my head. I stood there, holding my right elbow with my left hand, shifting from one foot to the other.

He walked around me, viewing me critically. “Well, you've got a pretty decent frame—small, so no, you don't want to put on a lot of muscle, it wouldn't look proportional…” He reached out and pinched the skin at my waist. “You're a bit soft, and you don't have a lot of fat, so with eating properly and exercising with weights, a full body workout, and two days of cardio a week, in six weeks you'll be amazed at the difference in your body. Do you drink a lot of soda?” When I nodded, he shook his head. “You need to cut that out—not entirely, but try not to have more than one a day, and drink a lot of water. Remember when I pinched your skin? A lot of that is water retention—there's a lot of sodium in soft drinks—so you get thirstier the more you drink so you'll drink more. And that sodium makes you retain water, which makes your skin puffy.”

He took me through the entire workout, beginning with a thorough body stretch, using light weights “so you won't get sore, this way your body gets used to the movement and then when you start lifting heavier, you'll be able to get out of bed the next day,” and we finished with several different variations of crunches.

When we finished, he sprang up to his feet and offered me his hand. I took it and he pulled me up to my feet like I didn't weigh anything at all. “You can do crunches every day,” he said. “Your abs are the only muscles you can safely work out every day. You don't have to, but it'll help you with getting your heart rate up—so try to do your abs every day. Now, when do you want to see me again?”

“I'm going into the city for a costume fitting tomorrow morning, and I should be back the following afternoon—do you have anything available?”

He dug out a cell phone from his bag and started searching through it. “What is your costume?”

“It's a secret.”

He looked up and winked. “How about three that afternoon?”

I nodded, and he entered the information into his phone. As I watched him, I realized where I'd seen him before.

He was one of the models for Timothy's prints.

“Carson said you used to train Timothy whenever he had a photo shoot coming up,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual. “Did you know him well?”

He put the phone back into his bag. He looked at me suspiciously. “Well enough, why do you ask?”

“I was in his studio the other day—I was curious, and was going through some of his prints—and there were some where you were the model.” I felt myself turning red as he stared at me.

“Oh, those.” He shook his head. “I'd forgotten about those.” He rolled his eyes. “Look, I don't want any trouble, okay?”

“Trouble?” I gaped at him. “What do you mean?”

“I'm going to come clean with you, okay?” He took a deep breath. “I'm probably crazy for saying anything, but Timothy—Timothy was an asshole.” His lips tightened. “Yeah, I used to train him. Sometimes whenever he had to do a shoot, yeah, or whenever he thought he'd gained an inch or two in the waist and freaked out about it.” He laughed bitterly. “Almost from the very first time I came here, he was trying to get in my pants, okay? I wouldn't—it's really poor form for a trainer to fuck one of his clients—the word gets out, you know. He wasn't used to being turned down.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I can believe that.”

“So it became like a thing with him. He pursued me.” He sighed. “Look, I'm a gay guy, and he was gorgeous. It's not like I wasn't tempted, you know? Finally, he just gave up. That was that—I figured he got the message. Then after about a year, he starts scheduling appointments with me again. He tells me he's thinking about taking the marketing for his company in a different direction.”

“The underwear?”

He laughed harshly. “Yeah—he was thinking of doing something different. Every underwear company uses lean, ripped models, so he was thinking using a big muscle guy would make a splash, would make his ads stand out.”

“And he thought you could do it.”

He nodded. “I was perfect, he said. It would be a quarter of a million dollar per year contract—who can say no to money like that? I was an idiot. So, yeah, I posed for him. And I let him seduce me, like an idiot. It lasted for maybe two weeks…and then he tells me they're going to go in a different direction with the new ad campaign.”

“So, he just—”

“Used it to get me into bed? Yeah.” Brad threw the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “I wasn't sorry when he drowned, let me tell you. Good riddance to bad rubbish, you know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“All right, man,” he said, his face still flushed from anger, “I'll see you in a couple of days—and I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about that little lapse on my part.”

I walked him to the front door and watched him drive off in his Jeep.

As I went back into the house, I said to myself,
Nell said Chris Thoresson slept with Timothy—and now I know Brad did as well, and wasn't happy about it.

Maybe he
was
murdered after all.

I was so tired I almost fell asleep at the dinner table and could barely make it up the stairs to my room.

It was early, so I tried to stay up, but I could barely focus on the book I was reading. Somehow, I managed to make it until ten, at which point I surrendered to the inevitable, undressed and turned off the lights.

I was asleep almost the moment my head hit the pillow.

I had a very strange dream that night, which wasn't surprising.

In the dream, I was standing underneath the grand staircase, staring out the back door to the beach. Minette ran out between my legs and started barking excitedly by the pool—which I couldn't see from where I was standing. I called to her, but she ignored me and continued barking. Annoyed at her disobedience, I walked out the back doors to the gallery, calling and whistling. My voice died in my throat as soon as I could see the swimming pool. Minette was barking and wagging her tail at a man with his back to me, wearing nothing more than a skimpy bright yellow bikini that barely covered his ample buttocks. The yellow made his deeply tanned skin look even darker, and there were beads of water on his back. His muscular legs were perfectly smooth—no sign of body hair anywhere. His bluish-black hair was wet and plastered to the sides of his head.
But he's dead
was all I could think as he raised his hands over straight over his head, the muscles in his back rippling, bent at the knees, and dove into the pool. He surfaced, shaking his head so drops of water flew in every direction from his curly hair. He smiled and waved me over as he held on to the side of the pool. Hesitantly, my heart in my throat, I walked down the gallery stairs and across the lawn toward the pool. He was even more beautiful in person than he'd been in the magazine ads and the underwear boxes, but I couldn't understand or wrap my mind around the notion that he was somehow still alive. He was smiling at me, but as I got closer I realized it wasn't a nice smile at all—it was more of a nasty smirk.

Did you really think I'd let someone like you take my place? As master of Spindrift? Did you honestly think someone like you could ever replace me in Carlo's bed? In his life? At his side?
He mocked me, throwing his head back as he started laughing.

I stopped, my heart ripping in half, unable to even get the words out to beg him to stop.

But as he laughed and I struggled to say something, anything, two hands came out of the water from behind him and shoved his head under. He cried out in surprise but the cry was cut short as he submerged. I moved closer to the side of the pool, horrified, and screamed for help. My voice echoed, and I knew I had to get into the water to help him, else he would drown, but I was frozen in place, unable to move, as air bubbles rose to the surface and I could see Timothy struggling under the water…and when I finally could move again his struggles ceased, his body floating back up to the surface, face-down and limp, his arms floating up at the sides but his legs dangling toward the bottom. I opened my mouth to scream as the man who'd held him under, who'd killed him, rose up from the water and smiled at me. I couldn't make out his face—he was wearing some kind of mask over it so I couldn't make out his features. He was also wearing a bikini, only his was white, and like Timothy's had left very little to the imagination. He held a finger up to his lips and whispered, “shhhh.” I tried desperately to make out his features through the gauze or whatever it was he had over his face, but couldn't. I couldn't move at all, couldn't do a damned thing as he leaned back over the water and grabbed one of Timothy's limp arms. The man dragged his body through the water over to the side of the pool, and pulled Timothy out of the water like he didn't weigh an ounce. He hoisted the limp, dripping body into his arms and walked toward me. I could tell he was smiling underneath whatever it was that masked his features.

Isn't this what you wanted?
he asked.
He's dead, and now you have no rival. With him out of the way you can have everything.

I couldn't move, I couldn't scream—it was like my feet had grown roots, immobilizing me permanently to that spot in the grass. And as the man carrying the corpse drew nearer, his features became clearer to me despite the mask, which was just some kind of nylon stocking. My heart started racing, and in that moment I knew absolute terror.

And just when I was almost able to recognize him—

I sat up in bed, gasping. I glanced over at the digital clock. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it, and I was dripping with sweat—according to the clock it was about ten minutes to six. I'd set the alarm for six—I had told Roberts we would be leaving for the city at seven, which I figured gave me enough time to shower and grab some breakfast first. There being no point in staying in bed, I stood up, rubbing my eyes. Minette opened her eyes and thumped the bed with her tail, but didn't get up. I walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

I stared into the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot and my hair damp. The dream had been so disturbing—although I shouldn't wonder I dreamed about witnessing Timothy's murder.

“He wasn't murdered. It was an accident,” I said loudly to my reflection. “He had sea water in his lungs—the autopsy showed quite clearly he'd drowned.”

But as I opened the glass door into the shower, I remembered that Spindrift's pool was salt water.

And wasn't it odd that all the servants had been given the night off? How often was Timothy—or anyone, for that matter—ever in this big house all alone?

Resolutely I put that out of my mind and focused on my day.

I showered quickly. I had packed one of my suits, a shirt, and some other clothing into a rolling suitcase the day before. I shoved my laptop and its power cord into a computer bag, and went downstairs, pulling the rolling suitcase behind me. I left both bags near the front door and wandered into the kitchen.

Delia was yawning when I walked into the enormous kitchen. She nodded at me as I walked over to the coffeemaker and poured myself an enormous mug.

Delia Leatherman was in her late thirties, and barely over five feet tall. She always wore flat shoes and sometimes had to stand on a small stool to get into the cabinets. She had dishwater blond hair she always pulled up into a bun, and always had a chef's cap on her head. She was a little on the stocky side and was an amazing cook. Everything she made was amazing—her grilled cheese sandwiches were works of culinary art. She'd trained at the Cordon Bleu, but had told me once she preferred being a personal chef rather than running a restaurant. “This is much easier,” she'd said with a wink.

“I can just eat in here,” I said, sitting down at the big butcher block island in the center of the enormous room. The coffee was incredible—she made the best coffee I'd ever had. “I'm sorry to get you up so early. I could have scrambled some eggs for myself, and made some toast.” I stifled a yawn.