Killer Calories (4 page)

But she seemed to be rallying as she rose from the floor and walked on shaky legs over to the table.

“Wow ...” she said, staring wide-eyed at the open chest cavity. She gaped at the flesh that had been peeled back on either side from the large “Y” incision that went from shoulder to shoulder and down the chest to the pubis. “Inside, he looks like ... like ... meat.”

Dr. Liu laughed. “That's exactly what he is. What we
all
are. A little unsettling, huh?”

“Yeah. Gee, I'm glad I'm a vegetarian.”

Savannah sidled up to the table to take a look. “I know what you mean. I don't eat rare steak or barbecued ribs for at least a week after I've watched Dr. Jenny do an autopsy.”

“Oooo, gross.” Tammy was starting to turn green again, so Savannah decided to cool it.

“Have you ever seen a human heart?” Jennifer asked, shoving the organ under Tammy's nose.

“Ah ... no.” Tammy swallowed hard. “It's so small.”

“Only about the size of your fist.” With the scalpel Jennifer made a quick, deft slice through the muscle, opening it for closer inspection. “And here... is a valve,” she added, showing them the thin, pink membrane.

“Really?” Tammy's color was improving as her interest was piqued. “I thought it would be thicker, stronger than that. It's so delicate you can see through it.”

Jennifer laughed. “Don't let it fool you. It's a lot stronger than it looks. If this young man hadn't done something so stupid as ride a motorcycle when he was drunk, this heart and its valves would have worked hard for him another fifty years or so.”

Savannah looked at the lifeless face, trying to imagine how he had looked before, animated, with the spark of life glowing in his eyes. She thought of his parents, of the tragic waste. She thought of her own brothers and sisters ... all eight of them ... and all younger than she. At times like this, she always sent two brief prayers heavenward: one of thanks that they were alive and healthy, and another that they would stay that way.

“So, what's the cause of death?” Savannah asked.

“Head injury. I took a look in his ears and saw hemorrhaging behind the eardrum. That means a probable fracture through the base of the skull.”

“So, why do you have to open up his body,” Tammy asked, “if you know it was his head?”

Dr. Liu smiled her soft, mysterious smile that Savannah found so intriguing. “Because I'm thorough, my dear. I take pride in being thorough. I never do anything halfway.”

Savannah winced inwardly, wondering how she was going to approach the subject of Kat Valentina's autopsy without sounding as though she were questioning the doctor's conclusions. Dr. Jennifer Liu was a great gal with a charming sense of humor, but she wasn't kidding about the professional pride thing. She took her work very seriously and wasn't open to criticism. Long ago, Savannah had decided that she didn't want to offend Dr. Liu, both because she liked her ... and because she was more than a little intimidated by her.

“But ... um ... some diagnoses are harder to make than others,” Savannah said as nonchalantly as possible. “Take drowning, for example.”

Both Tammy and Dr. Liu shot suspicious, questioning glances her way. So much for subtlety.

“That's true,” Jennifer said slowly ... deliberately. “Drowning is a difficult diagnosis. It's usually a conclusion reached by exclusion, taking all evidence and circumstances into account.”

Savannah decided to push a little harder. “And it's probably hard to tell if it's an accident, a suicide, or homicide.”

Jennifer lifted one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “It can be difficult. But most drownings are accidents.”

“Some
are homicides.”

“Very few.”

The two women stared at each other as Tammy watched, fidgeting and looking miserable. The only sound was the hum of the overhead exhaust fan.

Finally, Dr. Liu broke the tension. “What are you trying to tell me, Savannah? Spit it out.”

“I'm not trying to tell you anything. I was going to ask you if there's any possibility that Kat Valentina's death was murder rather than accidental.”

“Anything's possible. Especially where drownings are concerned. But I don't think so.” She returned to her work, removed a slice of the heart and placed it in a labeled, sample jar.

From the corner of her eye, Savannah could see Tammy watching her anxiously, wondering what she would say next. Dr. Liu had obviously dismissed them and this line of conversation.

Savannah cleared her throat. “I've uncovered some evidence ... well ... at least an indication ... that she might have been murdered.”

“Yes, I know. Detective Coulter called me about an hour ago and told me about your envelope full of cash and its cryptic note.”

Jennifer laid her scalpel aside, peeled off the surgical gloves, and dropped them into a nearby biological waste can. “I wish I could help you earn all that money, but there was no physical evidence to support or even suggest homicide.”

“It isn't just the money,” Tammy interjected. Both Savannah and Jennifer turned to see tears running down her cheeks. “Ms. Valentina was a friend of mine. I liked her; I really did. And if somebody killed her, I want to find out who did it and why. Savannah's just trying to help me.”

She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand in a childish gesture that went straight to Savannah's heart.

Apparently, it had the same effect on Dr. Liu, whose expression softened. She reached out and patted the young woman's arm. “I understand how upsetting this must be for you.”

Turning to Savannah, she said, “My report will probably be typed by this afternoon and you can pick up a copy at the desk. I don't think you'll find anything there that will help you, but you're welcome to try.”

“Thanks, Dr. Jenny. That's all we wanted.” Savannah put a hand on Tammy's back and nudged her toward the door.

Jennifer didn't reply until they had nearly left the room. “Hey, Savannah....”

They paused in the doorway. “Yes?”

“If you do ... find anything, that is ... let me know, okay?”

“Don't worry, Dr. Jenny,” she said with a smile. “You'll be the first to know.”

As they left the building and headed across the parking lot to Savannah's Camaro, Tammy said, “Maybe it
was
just an accident.”

She sounded so hopeful that Savannah couldn't bring herself to reply.

“Maybe whoever put that envelope in your mailbox is some sort of nut ... a
rich
nut, who just wanted to start trouble.”

“Maybe.” Savannah unlocked the car and they got inside.

“Do you think that's all it was?” Tammy asked, her heart in her big hazel eyes. “Just an accident. Just some rich nut?”

Savannah hesitated, looking into those eyes that were so much like her younger siblings'. Tammy might be an aggravation sometimes, but she really did love the kid. And she could tell she was in a lot of pain over this. Still ...

“No,” she said as gently as she could. “I don't think that's all.”

Tammy sighed and closed her eyes. A sob caught in her throat. “I don't think so either.”

“
I
'm sorry, Savannah, but I think it was an accidental drowning.” Ryan set his cup of coffee on the table, next to the open file that detailed in clinical, albeit gruesome terms, the physical remains of Kat Valentina.

Sitting next to Ryan at Savannah's dining-room table was John Gibson. “I'm afraid I agree,” he said. “Sorry, love.” He poured himself a cup of Earl Grey from the teapot which Savannah had presented him minutes ago and helped himself to one of the chocolate-coated British biscuits that Savannah had arranged on a small silver tray. She prided herself on giving each of her guests—the charter members of the Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency—their refreshments of choice.

On the other side of the table sat Dirk and Tammy—as far apart as the limited space would allow. Tammy had her ubiquitous bottle of springwater, slices of apple, and celery sticks, and Dirk his plate piled high with pecan sandies and chocolate-chip cookies.

No one went hungry on Savannah's turf; it was an issue of Southern hospitality and Georgia pride.

At the head of the table, Savannah sipped her own cup of coffee, fortified with a splash of Baileys and topped with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles.

Usually, she enjoyed these meetings, her favorite people in the world, gathered around her table, the entire scene lit with the cozy red glow of the Tiffany lamp above them. But tonight, the crimson-tinted light seemed lurid, reflecting on the stark black-and-white of the papers.

And then there were the autopsy photographs.

Poor Tammy. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut from crying. She toyed nervously with the pile of tissues in her lap. The pictures left nothing to the imagination. Her friend, Kat, had been thoroughly bisected, then dissected at Dr. Liu's expert hands.

Dirk shoved another cookie into his face. For him, having a full mouth seemed to be a prerequisite for speaking. “Bloss said, ‘No way,' to reopening the case. He's satisfied with Dr. Liu's ruling.”

Savannah sniffed her disgust. “Yeah, right. I'm sure Bloss's decision not to reopen had more to do with his precious budget and saving man-hours than anything in this file.”

“So, where do we begin?” Ryan asked as he-leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

“What do you mean ... begin?” Savannah grabbed a cookie from Dirk's hand, deciding he'd had enough. “You said you agree with Liu, that it was accidental.”

“I do. But more importantly,
you
don't. And that's enough for me.”

Tammy beamed, gratitude and infatuation shining through the slits of her puffy eyes. Unlike Savannah, Tammy had never given up hope that Ryan might someday be persuaded to join the ranks of womanizers and assorted skirt chasers.

“And for me,” John said, toasting her with his Earl Grey. “If I can be of service in any way at all, dear lady, don't hesitate to call on me.”

Savannah thanked him and turned to Dirk. “Well ... ?”

“Well what?”

“Well ... you're the one who wolfs down most of the goodies at these little soirees. Are you going to earn your keep, or what?”

He sighed and shrugged. “I'll do the cop stuff. Check records, junk like that.” Nabbing a couple more chocolate chippers, he added, “And how about
you?
What are
you
going to be doing, Van?”

Savannah looked over at Tammy and saw her friend's pain and desperation, the pleading in her eyes. Reaching deep inside her character, summoning every ounce of self-sacrifice and nobility she possessed, she opened her mouth and spoke those fatal words:

“I never thought the day would come when I would have to do such a thing. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Lady and gentlemen ... I, Savannah Reid, hedonist extraordinaire, am going to join a health spa!”

 

“Ms. Reid, your body-fat percentage exceeds the recommended ratio by quite a bit.”

“Really ... imagine that.”

“It appears you have been consuming an excess of calories.”

“Ah, huh ...”

“And possibly leading a sedentary lifestyle.”

“Hmmm....”

“Here at Royal Palms, we will light the way to a brighter, healthier future for you.”

“Yeah, great....”

“You will learn the value of nutrition, of exercise, of becoming one with your body, mind, and spirit.”

“Oh, wow....”

“Wholesome food, physical and spiritual cleansing—that's what we're all about here at the Royal Palms Spa. Welcome.”

The scrawny, anemic-looking receptionist in the gauzy Royal Palms toga, who couldn't have been a day over twenty, extended her bony hand. Savannah forced herself to shake it, solidifying the contract.

On the office walls hung color posters of other equally skinny bodies, slender to the point of emaciation. Quintessential glamour.

In one area near the water cooler hung a collection of pseudocelebrity photos, pictures of the famous and infamous guests who had frequented the Royal Palms Spa in its heyday. The recently departed hostess, Kat Valentina herself, occupied center stage in most of the shots.

The unspoken promise delivered by such advertising: Royal Palms can turn even
your
flabby, out-of-shape body into one of these lean, mean machines!

Savannah could hardly wait.

For the next two weeks, Royal Palms would starve her, subject her to the physical tortures of a chain gang, deny her every creature comfort that she held dear ... and for this dubious pleasure, she would pay them a large chunk of the money she had received in the infamous envelope.

Oh, joy.

Where the hell was Tammy, anyway? Savannah wondered, feeling the walls of the office closing in around her. Wasn't this the time when she was supposed to provide the preplanned diversion?

Like an answer to prayer, a soft knock sounded on the door, and Tammy stuck her head in. “Hi, Bernadette, can I talk to you for a minute ... out here?”

“Well, I'm in the middle of my initiation with Ms. Reid but—”

“That's okay, Bernadette, really,” Savannah interjected. “I have to read these papers over before I sign them anyway.”

Bernadette looked distressed. “They're just standard release forms that say—”

“I know, but I never sign anything without reading every word. See, my cousin's first husband's brother, the one from New Jersey, well, he was a lawyer, and he always told us to—”

“Okay, okay.” Bernadette bounded out of her desk chair—everyone seemed to bound or bounce or bop around here, Savannah noticed. Maybe there was something to this health kick after all. “I'll go see what Tammy wants and get right back to you.”

“No problem ... take your time. I read slowly.”

Bernadette left the door open a crack, so Savannah could hear the trumped-up question Tammy was asking her in the hallway, something about scheduling problems between herself and another aerobics instructor.

One quick glance around the three-desk office told Savannah that this was a fairly organized establishment. She was sitting at Bernadette's enrollment/initiation station. The other two desks, fortunately unoccupied, were marked by small brass plaques as: Sandra Cummings—Bookkeeper and Louis Hanks—President.

With a quick glance toward the doorway, Savannah hurried across the faded red carpeting to Lou Hanks's desk. No doubt it would yield the juiciest secrets. Or at least, it would have, if it hadn't been locked.

Although she was an expert in the fine art of lock-tumbler manipulation, Savannah decided she didn't have time to pick it. So, she scuttled over to the bookkeeper's desk.

Fortunately, the top two drawers were unlocked. The first drawer contained the usual office supplies. But in the second, she found a pile of unpaid bills. Having gone through a time of financial struggles herself this past year, getting Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency on its limping feet, she knew grossly overdue notices when she saw them.

Some were from the Internal Revenue Service and threatened dire consequences if large sums weren't paid within the next ninety days. Apparently, some sort of federal lien had already been placed against the Royal Palms Spa.

She would have loved to scour deeper, but she could tell by the tone of the conversation in the hall that their talk was coming to a close.

The moment her rear hit the chair, Bernadette bounced back into the room, toga aflutter.

“Well?” she asked, nodding toward the release forms. “Would your cousin from Jersey approve?”

Savannah thought of the days ahead—the grass-drink concoctions, the unflavored yogurt and tofu, the unnatural and miserably uncomfortable yoga positions, the sweaty aerobics classes at the break of dawn, the agonies of withdrawal she would suffer going cold turkey off Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream.

She glanced over to the door and saw Tammy standing there, gazing at her with doe eyes, begging, pleading.

She sighed, shoulders slumped, a defeated woman. “All right, all right ... where do I sign?”

 

Dr. Freeman Ross was a quack. That was Savannah's assessment after he gave her the quickest physical examination in ancient or modern history. Until he pronounced her perfectly healthy—excess fat ratio not withstanding—and then she decided maybe she had judged him too hastily.

“You're in great shape, Ms. Reid,” he told her as he lowered himself onto the tiny, rolling stool beside the examination table where she sat, shivering in a blue-and-white paper gown.

“Thanks. I always thought so, too.”

“So, why are you here?”

Yes, she liked Dr. Ross, very much. If he kept this up, she might propose. He
was
kinda cute in a Clark Kent sort of way, somewhere in his mid-forties, with perfectly waved dark hair and round, tortoiseshell glasses. He wore jeans and sneakers along with his formal, white doctor's smock. A nice look.

And he hadn't complained about her weight.

“Why am I here?” she said. “That's a good question. It's just that ... well, you know ... I've been taking a lot of heat from friends about those extra pounds.”

“And which pounds are those?”

“The ones on every chart I read.” She sighed. “According to those, I'd be the perfect weight ... if I were only six-foot-three.”

He chuckled as he scribbled notes on her chart, which was lying on his lap.

Nice thighs, too,
she decided. They certainly looked hard, muscular, well rounded. Ah, well, maybe this wasn't the best time to think about hard, well-rounded male anatomy.

“What are you hoping to gain during your stay here at Royal Palms Spa?” he asked.

She thought fast, but nothing came to her mind—which still seemed to be occupied with bulging jeans and such.

“Ummm ... I guess I hope to lose a little and tone up.” There. That had been delivered with just the right amount of conviction. She hoped.

Maybe not. He was studying her through those tortoiseshell-framed lenses, a look of serious doubt on his Doctor Hunk of the Month calendar face.

“If you don't mind me saying so, Ms. Reid—”

“Please call me Savannah.”

“Okay, Savannah.” She liked the way he caressed the vowels in her name. In fact, she decided he could caress her vowels anytime. Her consonants, too, for that matter.

“As I was saying,” he continued, “you don't seem all that motivated to be here at Royal Palms.”

Think fast, airhead,
she told herself.
You're blowing this on account of some bulges.

“I'm just a little concerned,” she said, venturing into dangerous waters, “about the safety of the spa. You know, with what happened to poor Ms. Valentina and all.”

Warm and friendly before, his manner changed abruptly. If an arctic blast had whipped through the tiny office, the atmosphere wouldn't have turned any more frosty.

“What happened to Ka ... Ms. Valentina, was a tragic accident,” he said, rising from his stool and snapping her folder closed. “You have nothing to worry about concerning the safety of this facility.”

If he was going to have an emotional reaction, she might as well fuel the flame and see how high it would burn. “I just don't want to drown in any mud bath,” she said.

“You won't,” he said as he turned his back to her and headed for the door.

“But I just—”

“Ms. Reid,” he said, cutting her off and demoting her from a friendly “Savannah” with one verbal blow, “there's absolutely no reason to worry. I'm sure you'll enjoy your stay with us. If you have any other questions ... about your own health and well-being, that is ... please feel free to consult me.”

He jerked the door open, passed through it, and slammed it behind him, leaving her sitting there in her wrinkled paper gown.

“Hmmm ... interesting,” she mumbled as she pulled the ugly thing off and wadded it into a ball. Tossing it into the nearby waste can, she evaluated the unexpected information that she had just collected.

Dr. Freeman Ross had been in love with Kat Valentina.

Savannah had seen it in his eyes when he had defended her “accident.” No doubt about it; a woman could read these things.

As Savannah pulled on her underwear, sweater, slacks and loafers, she considered what this new revelation might mean. Maybe nothing at all. But then, she had learned long ago that if you peeled back layer after layer of a murder, more often than not, you uncovered a love affair or two ... or at least, some hot sex.