A Body to die for

were, but felt dirty. I made a mental note to shave.
    Jack flopped down next to me on the couch. His legs were unshaven, too. He said, “I’d wished Barney dead a million times.” His eyebrows arched upward on the insides, like the roof of a house. “I wished it, and it happened.”
    “Cigarette?” I asked.
    “In the office,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Bottom desk drawer.”
    I didn’t have much trouble finding the office, the place where the business of staying fit went on. The room was lushly decorated with a large red leather couch and arm chairs. The walls were painted a deep green, the carpet gold. Rasta colors. Unlike the crisp whiteness of the front room, this space was $ bit sloppier. Bottles of Gatorade lay empty on the carpet. Heaps of clothes were strewn all over the desk and chairs. A pair of sweats were draped over the back of the red couch. Must be Barney’s stuff, I thought. He couldn’t have walked into the suite naked.
    I wondered why Jack hadn’t mentioned Barney’s clothes when he came back here to get the money. He must not have noticed them. I gave them a quick rifle. In the back hip pocket of the sweats, I found Barney’s club photo ID card. He was an attractive fortyish guy with bushy eyebrows and a wide smile. His front tooth was chipped—a charming imperfection. He was bald as a tire. (I wondered if Max would ever go bald.) I slipped the ID back in the sweatpants pocket.
    I hunted some more, but didn’t find a wallet or date book in any of Barney’s other clothes. I found no notes written to himself that read: “Meeting with______today. Hope I don’t get stabbed in the heart.” Clueless, I left the gear where I’d found it. Then I searched the desk. It was a gorgeous hunk of oak supported by skinny wrought-iron legs. The desktop was immaculate—the sign of an organizational wizard or someone with too much time on her hands. I’ve always found that if one is hyperorganized on the outside, one’s psychotic on the inside. My guess: Ameleth Bergen was psychotic.
    I decided to forgo searching through her Power-Book, sticking with superficials for the present. A desk photo in a large gold frame showed Ameleth pumping iron with the Mayor of New York. Another recorded Ameleth’s tennis game with John McEnroe. There were no photos of Jack. The oak slab had just one drawer—a thin little pencil compartment. No cigarettes. Could Jack be mistaken?
    Maybe he meant another desk. My nicotine homing mechanism led me toward a cork partition. Painted hunter green, it sectioned off a small square of space. Behind the temporary wall was an elementary school teacher’s desk. There wasn’t much space in the cubicle. I had to edge my way around the corner of the desk. I had to struggle hard to pull open the bottom drawer. It was stuck on something. After a good fight, I managed and hit pay dirt. A soft pack of Marlboro Mediums jumped into my palm. I removed a few and replaced the pack in the drawer. The sparkle of brown liquid caught my eye. A closer look in the drawer revealed a flask of Bajan Sugar Brandy. I hated brandy, but took a large swig anyway. I closed the drawer and stood up. A framed photo of Jack and Ameleth at their wedding was prominently displayed on the desk. I took another shot. The brandy was as smooth as my legs.
    Jack had poured himself a Virgin Mary. He was jogging at a good clip on the treadmill when I returned to the exercise room. I dropped my treasures on the bar. He said, “Do you mind not smoking until I stop?”
    I minded. I hadn’t had a cigarette in months, and the sight of a dead body was like a trigger. Max said he wouldn’t consider getting engaged to a smoker. That was not why I quit. I did it on a bet—no other motivation short of cancer would have been sufficient. For seventy-four days, I’ve only smoked when I was on fire. (That had only happened twice.) I held the butt in my hand and studied the wrapping. My lungs clinched in expectation.
    “Emphysema, cancer, bad breath, a thousand dollars a year,” I recited, my mantra. Didn’t work. I picked up a butt from the bar, letting it fall between my fingers.
    Jack slowed down to a traipse and stepped off the machine. His shirt was damp again. His nipples were hard. “You know, Wanda,” he started, “it’s pretty lucky we were together when we found the body. I don’t know what I would have done if I were alone.”
    “You’d have called the cops, just like I did.”