Pumped for Murder (28 page)

Tansi the lizard approached Officer Dorsey tentatively. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m a trainer and a competition bodybuilder. So is my friend Kristi.”

The Alien gave a spooky smile.

“We have some extra tickets to tonight’s East Coast Physique Championships. Would you like one?” Tansi asked.

Officer Dorsey pretended to consider the offer. “I might,” she said, slowly. “What’s it cost?”

“It’s free,” Tansi said.

“The price is right,” she said. “I am curious about bodybuilding. I’m thinking of getting into it myself.”

“You’re fit enough,” Kristi said. “We train novices. We could give you a special deal if you’re interested. Come to the event and see if you like it. We need more serious women contenders.”

“It’s a high-energy crowd,” Tansi said. “People cheer for their favorites. You don’t have to, but we’d like you to cheer for us. We’re in the Women’s Bodybuilding Over Thirty class, right after the Women’s Bikini class. We’re on at eight o’clock.”

“I could do that,” Officer Dorsey said, “but I’d only cheer if I thought you were better than your competition.”

“No doubt about that,” Tansi said. “Want two tickets? Maybe your boyfriend would like to go.”

“No thanks,” Officer Dorsey said. “I’m not inviting him to drool at babes in bikinis. He can do that at the beach. I’ll be seeing you.” She took a ticket, tossed her water cup and went out the door. Officer Dorsey plastered herself out of sight against the wall, next to Helen.

In a nearby mirror, Helen could watch the two trainers search the locker room. “Anyone in here?” Kristi called, raising her voice. “Hello?”

No answer. Valerie and Nancie kept quiet. The camera stayed hidden.

“Good,”Tansi said. “It’s empty. Keep an eye out, Kristi, while I get the oxy.”

Tansi pulled the shower rod off. A rain of tablets was pouring out when Officer Dorsey strolled back into the locker room. This time, she showed her credentials and identified herself as Officer McNamara Dorsey of the West Hills Police Department.

“Interesting medicine bottle you’ve got there,” she said.

Tansi jumped, and a dozen or so tablets hit the tile floor with tiny
tics.
She paled under her fake tan and said, “I have a prescription.”

“Really,” Officer Dorsey said. “Does that give you the right to dispense medication? You gave six tablets to Debbi Dhosset. Add that to the steroids and the fat burners, and you gave her a steroid speedball. Ms. Dhosset died of an overdose.”

“You can’t prove that,” Tansi said.

“Oh, but I can,” Officer Dorsey said. “Our crime scene techs took prints off that rod. We also have a witness who saw you give those tablets to the victim.”

Two shower curtains slid back simultaneously, revealing Valerie and Nancie.

“And there are two more witnesses here today,” Officer Dorsey said.

“Three,” Helen said, stepping into the room.

“We also caught it on camera,” Valerie said, pulling the gym bag with the spy cam out from under the bench.

Officer Dorsey turned to the two stunned bodybuilders. “That should be enough evidence to get a search warrant for your cars. I bet we find some controlled substances. But we can talk about that back at the station. Let me advise you of your rights,” she said, and gave the familiar police chant beginning with “You have the right to remain silent. . . .”

“Now, about those lawyers,” Officer Dorsey said. “You may want to call them, or you may want to talk to me first and then call your attorneys. I can’t make any promises, but I could make recommendations if a person was helpful.

“So, ladies, which one of you is going to sell out your partner, hmm? Let’s make a deal.”

“A
nd now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for Women’s Open Bikini, Over Fifty class,” cried the tuxedoed announcer at the Lauderdale City Auditorium.

Six women, spray-tanned and leggy, paraded onstage in five-inch heels and sparkly bikinis. Helen figured they were wearing more shoes than swimsuit. Each had a white competition number button clipped to her suit.

Helen couldn’t believe these women were more than fifty years old. They had the bodies of twenty-year-olds. No, they were thinner than twentysomethings. The layer of fat under their skin had been stripped off, leaving lean, graceful bodies. They moved like gazelles in stilettos.

The crowd roared. It was only forty minutes into the program, and the spectators at the East Coast Physique Championships were wildly enthusiastic. The grim auditorium was some seventy years old, with stained concrete risers and hard wooden seats. Clouds of grease from the concession stands hung in the air.

This audience was definitely made up of spectators in the bodybuilding world. Most were overweight and getting more so. They stuffed themselves with food forbidden to bodybuilders—greasy pizza, cheeseburgers and fries. The thickset man on Helen’s left was crunching through a tub of buttered popcorn while he watched the underfed women. The hefty teenage boy next to him sucked on a chocolate shake.

On Helen’s right were Carla and the Fantastic Fitness gang. Carla sipped bottled water. Next to her, Beth and Jon lived on love. The cheating couple stared into each other’s eyes and held hands under their programs. Logan, the super salesman, was telling red-haired Heather about his Testarossas. She looked bored.

In front of them, Bryan sat between his trainer, Jan Kurtz, and “What a Waste” Will. Where was Will’s trainer? Helen wondered. Was Bryan here to meet his trainer tonight? Or get closer to his gay friend,Will? Or neither one? The situation definitely needed watching. Maybe now that Bryan was away from the gym, she could catch him with his honey. She needed a report soon.

Tansi and Kristi, the overconfident bodybuilders, were not going to collect their trophies tonight.They were detained at the West Hills police station by Officer Mac Dorsey. Poor Evie was still in jail. Who else was missing from the Fantastic Fitness group?

The day manager.

“Where’s Derek?” Helen asked Carla.

“He’s manning our membership table in the lobby,” Carla said. “He volunteered to take the first shift.”

“But he won’t be able to cheer for Paula.”

“Sure he will,” Carla said. “He’ll stand at the entrance and see the show. Nobody’s going to sign up now, and no one will steal our membership forms. I’ll sit there after Paula’s bikini competition.”

Good, Helen thought. After Paula struts her stuff, I can go home. That’s enough teamwork.

“Look what I brought for Paula.” Carla showed Helen six red roses stashed under her seat.

“Nice. What happens if she doesn’t win?” Helen asked.

“She will,” Carla said. “If not, then I have a bouquet.”

“Forty-two! Forty-two! Forty-two!” the crowd chanted as a long-haired blonde posed in front of the judges in a sparkly hot pink suit and clear high heels.

“Quarter turn to your right,” the head judge commanded, and Number Forty-two turned to the side. She was so thin, her midsection looked concave.

“That’s my wife, Jasmine,” said the popcorn cruncher on Helen’s left.

“I can’t believe she’s over fifty years old,” Helen said. “She looks fantastic.”

“Seven percent body fat,” her husband said proudly. “She really knows how to flare her lats.”

“Face the back,” the judge said in a flat voice.

Number Forty-two gave the judges her back view. She pulled up her long blond hair to show her shoulders and thrust out her haunches as if she wanted the judges to mount her. Those weren’t her lats, were they? Helen wondered. No, those were glutes. Sweet Gloria Steinem, why was this woman letting herself be judged like horseflesh?

“Great ass!” shouted the chocolate-shake guzzler.

“My son is proud of his mother,” Mr. Popcorn said.

He was cheering for his mother’s rear end? Helen didn’t want to think about that. “Amazing,” she said. It seemed the only word to describe the scene.

“You should have seen Jasmine last week,” Mr. Popcorn said. “She was perfect. Then she started drinking water. She knows better: no carbs and no water before the competition. Too fattening and bloating. But she wouldn’t listen. I caught her sneaking downstairs to the kitchen at two in the morning to suck ice cubes. I should have put a padlock on the refrigerator. Now she looks like she walked to Lauderdale.” He stuffed his mouth with more popcorn.

“I think she looks terrific,” Helen said.

“Not when you see her through my binoculars,” he said. “The judges don’t look at her the way you do.”

Helen peered through the glasses, focusing on the emaciated beauty bending her body into absurd poses in her skimpy, sparkling suit. She wanted to kidnap Jasmine, take her out for a good meal and then give her a body-image lecture.

“She’s not smiling,” her husband said.

“She looks good,” Helen said. The audience seemed to agree. They yelled “Forty-two! Forty-two! We want Forty-two.”

“Now turn and face the judges,” the lead judge ordered. Jasmine smiled, bowed and walked off the stage to thundering cheers.

Jasmine was definitely the crowd favorite. They were indifferent to Numbers Twenty-eight and Thirty and actively hostile to Thirty-three, another gazelle in a gold sequin suit with a pearl pendant between her globular breasts.

The crowd heckled the poor creature with cruel taunts: “Eat a potato chip!” “Two words: Olive Garden!”

“Get a Twinkie!” yelled a woman whose massive breasts nearly wobbled out of her tube top. She’d obviously followed that advice many times.

“Bring back Forty-two,” the crowd screamed.The judges brought back all six contestants for one more turn around the stage, then retired to choose the winner.

“Carla,” Helen whispered, “is this for real?”

“Very,” Carla said. “These women are serious about this competition. Don’t mistake it for real fitness. These are freakazoids. For some, it’s the only recognition they’ll get. They see themselves as athletes. They may look good onstage, but they starve and dehydrate themselves to get that look. Paula’s competition is up next. She’s the only Fantastic Fitness person left in the show. After that, I go work the membership table. I hope Paula wins. Here’s the announcer. The judges have made their decisions for the Over Fifty class.”

The man looked bizarrely overdressed in a black tux after the nearly naked contenders.

Number Thirty took third place.The chief judge put the bronze medal around her neck with Olympic Games solemnity. She received modest cheers. Number Twenty-eight looked disappointed with her second-place medal but graciously bent her neck to receive it.

Two bodybuilders carried out the massive first-place trophy, brimming with finials, urns, and winged figures, and layered like a brass wedding cake.

“And the winner is . . .” The announcer paused dramatically. The audience moved like a restless beast, waiting to roar approval or disappointment. Would the winner be the dislikable Number Thirty-three or the popular Forty-two?

“Forty-two! Forty-two! Forty-two!” the crowd chanted. So did Carla and the rest of the Fantastic Fitness party. Helen raised a questioning eyebrow.

“It’s okay to cheer for her,” Carla said. “We don’t have anyone from our gym in this class. Maybe they’ll cheer for Paula when she’s up.”

“Forty-two!”
the announcer cried, drawing the two words out.

“Yay, Mom!” the milk-shake guzzler hollered.

“Smile, dammit,” screamed her husband. “You won!”

Helen didn’t know if Jasmine heard him or not, but she put on a wide smile. She posed for pictures next to the gigantic trophy, then carried it off as it were made of sea-foam.

“Congratulations,” Helen said to Mr. Popcorn.

“She’ll be up here shortly,” he said. “You can tell her yourself.”

The nearly naked Jasmine ran lightly up the steps to her family’s seats and hugged her husband and son. Even in the dim light, Helen could see the contest had taken its toll. Up close her hair was like straw, and her skin sagged from malnutrition. But her smile was dazzling.

“I just wanted to say hello,” she said. “Then I want some food. Does the concession stand carry my kind of food?”

“’Fraid not,” her husband said. “But we’ll take you to dinner to celebrate.”

The announcer was back. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have the Women’s Open Bikini, Over Thirty class.” Four women pranced out and lined up against the back curtain. Number Twenty-two wore a green suit covered with what looked like sparkly algae. Number Thirty-eight wore red with silver spangles. Number Eleven strutted out in yellow with gold sequins. Paula was Number Nine. She seemed to roll out on castors.

Paula had the same hypnotic effect on the rowdy audience that she did on the gym members. She looked like a snow queen in a sparkling white bikini and sandals with icicle heels. The audience was awed into silence while the judges called her poses and she made her elegant quarter turns.

Only when Paula was back in her original place did the audience erupt into applause. Carla led the cheer: “Nine! Nine! We want Nine!” The rest of the audience picked it up. The other three contestants didn’t seem to exist. No one cared that Thirty-eight carried off the third-place medal or Eleven won second place. They were chanting “Number Nine! Number Nine!” A few parodied the line from the Beatles’ song, that slow, monotonous repetition of “Number Nine, Number Nine.”

Paula’s win was a foregone conclusion. She glided up to accept the monster trophy, posed prettily for pictures, then carried it off as if it were made of feathers.

“Can you get that huge trophy in the Fantastic Fitness Hall of Fame?” Helen asked Carla.

“We’ll make room if we have to,” Carla said. “There’s extra space since you-know-who won’t be getting their trophies tonight. They must be so disappointed.”

Helen hoped they were charged and arrested by now, but kept quiet. Officer Mac Dorsey had handled their takedown discreetly. The gym was nearly empty at that hour. Dorsey had allowed the gym to put an OUT OF ORDER sign on the hallway to the women’s locker room while the crime scene techs worked. The few gym members who came in that afternoon used Derek’s private restroom upstairs. Derek didn’t quite comprehend what was happening, but he was cooperative.