A Body to die for

stress-relieving treatment,” I corrected. “And I want you to trust me. I’m not a cop.”
    “Congratulations,” he said.
    I waited for him to say more. He didn’t. “So,” I started. “Who do you think killed Barney?”
    Freddie dropped my arm suddenly and started massaging my throat. With his thumb and forefingers, he clamped his hand on either side of my windpipe. “In a second, I could cut off both your carotid arteries, stopping blood from reaching your brain. You’d pass out in seconds.” He looked down the length of my body. He turned back and smiled.
    “What, so you can knock me out and then rape and murder me? What are you, some kind of psychopath?” Softly, I asked, “Freddie, will you do that magic fingers thing on my temples?” Freddie frowned deeply. He seemed annoyed. His cheeks quivered slightly. “I’m scared, okay? I’m frightened to death.” I gave him a scared bunny look. He seemed satisfied. He rubbed my temples.
    “I don’t know who killed Barney,” he said. “And I don’t like your asking questions about it. Just leave it alone. Let the cops handle it. No one around here needs some private detective—if that’s what you really are—poking her big fat nose in Barney’s death.”
    My nose was not fat. It was delicate, like a rose in first bud. “I think maybe you’re the one in need of a massage, buddy,” I said. “And your passion about this whole thing only makes me more curious. If I were you, and you really wanted me to stop asking questions, I’d answer a few.” Some reverse psychology for the mix.
    Freddie seemed to consider it. I said, “Did he have any enemies? Anyone want to take him out? And I don’t mean on a date, mind you.”
    “Look, Barney was a friend to me, okay? He was a pal. A mentor. He was someone I respected. And I don’t need some stranger talking about him like a slab of beef.”
    Actually, I thought of Barney more as a boiled lobster, but I got the point. “I’m sorry about your friend,” I said. “And if you don’t want to discuss why he died, I’ll understand.”
    “Good,” he grunted.
    “Are you always this open about your feelings with complete strangers?” I asked. Completely naked strangers, for that matter.
    Freddie stopped rubbing my temples. He ran his fingers through my red tendrils. “No.”
    I felt a chill. I didn’t think if was from the scalp massage. Something smelled funny here, and I don’t mean the sage, or the Ben-Gay. Call it a vibe. I’m psychic on occasion. I’ve learned to trust these feelings. “I also have a degree in social work,” I lied. “A counseling session might be just what you need.”
    Freddie stopped abruptly and walked across the room. He lifted the robe off the hook and handed it to me. He mouthed, “Not here.” Freddie wiped his hand with a towel while I slipped on the robe. He then turned the music down to a normal level. I swept the room for a video camera, but didn’t find one. Freddie opened the door and led me to my clothes.
    He said, “Feel free to take a shower. All the Kiehl’s products are on sale upstairs.”
    “I noticed the sign.” I couldn’t help but notice. The sign practically covered the mirror. “When can I schedule you an appointment?” I asked.
    “I’ll call you,” he whispered and walked away. I watched his bubbly butt bounce under his white slacks. I will most definitely ask Jack about Freddie Smith.
    I took that shower. The flashbacks of junior high school locker rooms faded as I washed away the oil. The Kiehl’s mango soap really did perk up my skin. I felt relaxed, loose as creamed spinach and ready for a nap. Right after I tracked down Ameleth Bergen, and maybe some frozen yogurt.
    I couldn’t shake that feeling of being watched, though. I quickly dressed—my jeans had since dried. I put on my glasses to carefully scan the walls as I buttoned my fly. I spent some time looking in the mirror. Could be a two-way, but I didn’t think so. I heard the floorboards creak in the hallway. On instinct, I donkey kicked the bathroom door open.
    Clunk went the wood against his skull. Fluffy white towels flew through the air. I grabbed the kid by his shirt and threw him in the shower. I turned on the water. Then I inspected the door. Sure enough, there was a hole drilled into the wood right below one of the towel hooks—right at tit level. The kid was sputtering in the shower, water spilling unforgivingly into his mouth.
    I said,