No kidding. I said, “So go on about Jack.”
“Well,” Isabelle said, “there just isn’t anything. Still, I figured Doc Finn must not have won the argument with Billie, because Billie and Craig Miller are here, enjoying one of the three suites. And talk about weird, Billie’s mother is here, too. They sat together at the intake meeting last night. Around the staff room? Our theory is that Billie’s mother wants to know if the wedding’s been consummated.”
I said, “I sort of wondered that same thing when Billie showed up in the dining room this morning, without her new husband.”
“They brought food when they checked in,” said Isabelle. “Two coolers’ worth.”
“Based on the menus I saw, I don’t blame them.” But I was puzzled. “What difference would it make if the wedding is consummated?”
Isabelle grinned for the first time since we’d begun talking. “The staff is taking bets on it. Our theory is that if Billie and Craig have consummated their union, then Craig can’t give Billie back to Charlotte and say, ‘No thanks.’”
“A wife is not something you can return to the store if you don’t like her,” I said.
Isabelle’s lips quirked into a mischievous smile. “There’s a first for everything.”
“How about a second for everything?”
“What?” she asked, suddenly suspicious.
“I need you to get me into that Smoothie Cabin.”
Isabelle said, “Victor will fire me.”
“Do you know how to disable the security cameras?”
Isabelle looked at me as if I’d asked her to fix the transmission in a Korean sports car. “Uh, no way.”
“Do you have any spray paint?” I asked. “We can do it the old-fashioned way.”
22
Julian and Boyd kept watch. I set up a ladder near the outside camera, the one that pointed into the Smoothie Cabin. Isabelle handed me a can of gold spray paint that they kept for when the clients made Christmas crafts. Then she buttoned a catering jacket onto my head, as a makeshift mask. When I said I could see through the front gap, I stepped up the ladder, pointed to the camera lens, and sprayed. Once Isabelle had let me into the Smoothie Cabin, I repeated the process. Then Isabelle joined Julian and Boyd in monitoring the door. Isabelle told me I probably had no more than five minutes, as Victor kept a close eye on the feed from the cameras in his office, near the reception area.
“You need to be methodical,” Boyd had told me beforehand. “I wanted to go in with you, but I can’t. I don’t have a search warrant, so
The room was really like a large closet, about eight feet by eight feet. There was a small, humming refrigerator filled with yogurt, ice, strawberries, blueberries, and three tall bottles of what looked and smelled like jam, except they were labeled smoothie mix. I extracted the plastic bags Boyd had given me and quickly spooned in samples of mango, strawberry, and pineapple. Across the two counters, bunches of bananas were carefully arrayed between three blenders. A sink, a bottle of dishwashing liquid, and a drain looked innocuous enough. The first cupboard I checked held plastic glasses and spoons. The second contained about two dozen plastic canisters with healthful-sounding labels like protein powder, ginseng, echinacea, vitamin powder, chamomile, and the like. Each canister contained powders of various colors.
“Take samples of everything you find.” Boyd’s words echoed in my ears.
I was about halfway through when Julian knocked quickly on the door. “Boss!” he whispered urgently through the door. “He’s coming!”
“Have Isabelle waylay him,” I whispered back.
“Give me the samples,” Boyd ordered me through the door. “I’ll make my way to the van out the back door of the kitchen. Meet me there.”
I did as directed. I stuffed the bags into a large grocery bag I’d brought expressly for this purpose and handed them to Boyd. Then I walked quickly through the cabin door, raced across the kitchen, and hauled myself out the kitchen’s back door. There, I scooted around a half-full cart of dirty table linens and towels, and ran to where we had parked the van. Thank God Boyd had insisted we put the vehicle behind the spa’s garage, where it could not be seen.
Boyd was already there. He’d placed the grocery bag in the back. He told me to walk calmly around the corner and start toward the dining room. He’d be right behind me.
In front of the Smoothie Cabin door, Isabelle was explaining to Victor that she had no idea who could have picked the lock to the Smoothie Cabin and vandalized the cameras.
When Victor saw me, he held up his hand for Isabelle to stop talking. He narrowed his eyes at me and said, “I don’t suppose you know anything about this.”
I said, “Anything about what?”
“If I find spray paint in that kitchen, you’re done here.”
I said, “Spray paint? For what?”
“Isabelle,” Victor said loudly, “give me back that key I gave you to the Smoothie Cabin.” When she sheepishly handed it over, Victor said she was done helping him with smoothies. Now, he concluded, he was on his way to the hardware store to get a padlock for the Smoothie Cabin door.
Somehow, we got through the rest of the day. I didn’t discover anything else, and none of the food seemed to have anything odd about it. When Victor returned from the hardware store, he went straight to the Smoothie Cabin. I prayed that the clean-up job I’d done would convince Victor not to destroy any evidence, if indeed there was evidence to be had there. I hadn’t found any vials, which wasn’t encouraging. What
I saw Lucas only briefly at lunch, and Charlotte, Billie, and Craig Miller for a moment at dinner. I didn’t have a chance to speak to any of them, which was probably just as well. Boyd, meanwhile, hovered over me, which made me feel crowded. But I’d agreed to his being there, so I was compliant. Plus, I simply could not wait for him to get those samples analyzed.
The one time I saw Marla, Boyd instructed Julian to watch over me. Then Boyd sauntered off to go talk to Marla. Marla rummaged in her gym carrier and, as unobtrusively as possible—not easy if you were Marla—gave Boyd the plastic bags he’d given her that morning.
I was so tired by the time we finished cooking dinner that I wanted to go have a soak in the hot springs pool before heading home. I knew if I did, Victor would fire me for sure. I
The spa servers were washing the dishes—their job, they insisted—while the clients were settling in for an evening of karaoke, which I’d always thought was a singularly foolish activity. But nobody was asking me.
“Let’s go up and see if the hot pool has been reopened,” I suggested to Boyd. It was half past seven, and the twilight air smelled delicious. Shreds of sulfurous mist from the hot springs were unraveling overhead. There was a hint of fall in the breeze. Boyd, who was still tagging along beside me, lifted an expressive eyebrow.
“I’m not propositioning you,” I insisted. “Don’t give me that look.”
“I’m not allowing you to go into any body of water. If I did, I’d lose my job.”
I laughed so hard that my fatigue abated a bit. By the time we reached the top of the path that led to the steaming pool, I’d told him in no uncertain terms I only wanted to see if the mess I’d made had been cleaned up. He was visibly relieved that there was still a no entry sign by the pool. I was disappointed, as ribbons of hot mist floated invitingly our way. But still. Presumably, the remains of a couple dozen broken cups and plates lurked on the slimy bottom. Once again, I wondered where Victor Lane was putting all his money from running the spa. Not into handymen and cleaning crews, clearly.
“Tough luck,” I said, trying hard to sound sincere.
“Yeah.” A man of few words, was our Boyd. We turned back down the path.
“Can you help me?” asked a large, fleshy blond woman as she toiled up the path. She stopped to gasp for breath. “I…I followed you from the kitchen.”
