Fatally Flaky

water. He ignored Boyd and picked up the full bucket.

Then, to my astonishment, Victor doused the section of the floor covered with fruit cocktail with water. The water, syrup, and about half the fruit were whisked down a floor drain. Victor was cleaning up something? Why? I’d never seen him do anything other than give orders…or criticize.

“Sir!” said Boyd.

“Be quiet and get out!” cried Victor.

21

That guy is a nut,” said Boyd, his voice low.

“Naw,” said Julian, “more of a legume. A peanut.”

“Guys, you’re driving me bonkers,” I said.

We were sitting outside in my van, the only place we felt safe enough to talk, until we were sure Victor was out of the spa kitchen.

“Maybe he’s a soybean,” said Julian. “Full of protein but bitter.”

“Don’t the two of you start up again,” I warned. They were sitting side by side in the backseat, wearing guilty-little-boy expressions. “I don’t want us to get thrown out of here. Listen, Sergeant Boyd, what did you see in the fruit cocktail?”

He shook his head. “That wasn’t just fruit cocktail. There was something in it. Something that didn’t dissolve.”

“What?” I asked, thinking of the Smoothie Cabin.

“I don’t know,” Boyd said carefully. “But you noticed the clients were only supposed to get small cups of it? One little cup each, no seconds?”

“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “Okay, look,” I began. Then I told them about Jack searching the Smoothie Cabin, and my conviction that something suspicious was going on behind that particular locked door. “I need to get into that Smoothie Cabin,” I concluded.

“We’ll go together,” said Boyd, his voice protective.

“Girls and boys?” said Julian. “How ’bout I take samples of all the food, to get tested?”

“You’re on,” I said. “I’m just wondering if I should warn—”

But I didn’t get a chance to finish the thought, because the person I wanted to warn was Marla, now on a path leading from one of the dormitories. She wore a giant pink muumuu, pink sunglasses, and pink flip-flops. She raised one dramatic hand to her forehead, Tallulah Bank-head style, and waved with the other. When she came a bit closer and saw that Julian and Boyd were with me, her waving became genuinely enthusiastic.

“Three of my favorite people, all in one place!” she cried. “It’s okay for me to be in the van, right? I mean, Victor warned us last night not to fraternize with the help.”

“What?” I squealed.

“My sentiments exactly,” said Marla. “We met all the exercise instructors last night, and not one of them is attractive, trust me.”

“You mean, none of them is an attractive guy,” Julian teased.

“Well,” said Marla, fluffing out her hair and peering into the backseat, “none of them is as attractive as, say, Sergeant Boyd here.”

I checked the rearview mirror, and tough-as-steel Sergeant Boyd was indeed blushing.

“I’m going to have to get back to the sheriff’s department,” Boyd said. “Working at this place is proving beyond my capacities.”

“I doubt that,” said Marla, keeping the flirtatious lilt in her voice. “And I certainly hope the three of you have been fixing a marvelous breakfast here. Last night we had an intake assessment and a demonstration of the athletic equipment, which we were all required to be involved in, Victor said, for insurance purposes. What the hell does that mean? If you die after the first night, it’s not his fault? Well, anyway, I about dropped dead, but I didn’t, ’cuz I only walked for ten minutes on that blasted treadmill. So now I’m famished, and if what ever you’re giving us today is as pathetic as the fish and fruit they gave us last night, I’m going to quit now.”

“Fish and fruit?” Boyd asked sharply. “What kind of fruit?”

Marla paused, then looked over the seat again. “Canned peaches! It’s the middle of summer, and we’re in a state that grows peaches, for God’s sake! So why were we having canned peaches, will somebody please tell me?”

“What did Victor say?” I asked.

“Victor didn’t say nada,” Marla replied. “Yolanda was the one in charge last night, and she said Victor had done all the calorie calculating, and only canned peaches worked for his careful dietary what ever. Why?” She was suddenly curious, as if I might give her a gossipy tidbit that would get her through exercise class. “I’ll tell you something else, though. The women say the smoothies are wonderful, and make them feel dreamy.”

“Dreamy?” I asked. “How can a smoothie make you feel dreamy?”

“I don’t know,” Marla replied. “But we’re all only allowed one a day, so maybe they limit dreaminess the way they limit calories.”

A rustling emerged from the backseat. Then Boyd reached forward with two zipped plastic bags. “Could you save me some of your fruit cocktail this morning? And some of your smoothie this afternoon? Please?”

“Why?” asked the increasingly inquisitive Marla. “What do you think is in them?”

“I don’t know,” said Boyd flatly. “That’s why I need you to gather some up for me. Preferably when no one is looking, if you can manage it.”

“But you must suspect—,” Marla had begun, when the bell rang for breakfast.

“Look, Marla,” I said, “we do suspect Victor might be putting something in the food. We don’t know what.”

Another bell rang. “Oops, gotta run. Victor said we had one minute after the second bell rang to make it into the chow line, and then the line was closed. That’s what he called it, too, a chow line, like we’re a bunch of dogs who need to—oh, man, I have to run, I’m starving.” She stuffed the plastic bags into a copious pocket of her muumuu, and opened the door. Then she pointed into the backseat with a pink-painted nail. “I’m doing you a favor, Sergeant Boyd, and I’m going to expect a favor in return!”

“Christ,” said Boyd when Marla shut the door. “I wonder if Schulz will take me back now.”

“Victor just left,” said Julian. “We’d better hustle in there if we’re going to help with breakfast.” And off we went.

Inside, I dished out the scrambled eggs, using the little scoops marked EGG MEASUREMENT. Julian and Boyd spooned oatmeal into small bowls for the clients who wanted that instead of eggs. Yolanda’s assistants sprayed butter substitute onto whole wheat toast and put little dabs of sugar-free jam on top. The very few male clients— four, to be exact—were stoic, but the women kept commenting that they were ravenous. It made me wish I’d brought some brownies for them.

“Well, well, what are you doing here?” asked Billie Attenborough Miller, the last woman in line.

I was so taken aback to hear her voice that I dropped the serving spoon. Julian came rushing over with another.

“Omigod,” said Billie. “This kid’s here, too? Where’s Yolanda?”

“Sick!” I managed to squeak. Meanwhile, my brain was madly fluttering with questions. Dr. Craig Miller was nowhere in sight. Was he still in bed? Had they even consummated the marriage?

“Ah, the bride,” said Boyd, more smoothly than I could have managed.

“You!” said Billie. “The cop! Why are you here?”

Boyd said solicitously, “I’m here helping Goldy, since Yolanda has appendicitis.”

“Your tax dollars at work!” Billie sang. “Is someone going to use a new spoon to give me some eggs, or am I going to be standing here all day?”

Julian obligingly lifted a new, clean spoon and gave Billie a heaping spoonful of eggs. She eyed it warily. If she complained he’d given her too much, he could take some off her plate. If she complained he’d given her too little, he might say that was all she got, if she expected to lose weight.

“And why haven’t you left for your honeymoon?” Boyd persisted.