Killer Calories

in the system to keep things lubricated?”
    She glanced back. Josef the Terrible was staring at her, hands on his hips, biceps bulging beneath his white smock. “Get undressed and lie on the table,” he said in that flat, computer-like tone that she was quickly growing to hate.
    “Yes, sir, Sergeant Orlet ! Right away, sir!” she said... and slammed the door in his face.

    Josef wasn’t the best masseur Savannah had ever had, but she had to admit he wasn’t the worst either. The oils he used had a pleasant, herbal smell. Although they did remind her a bit of the mud bath that Kat’s body had been found in, and that took away some of the romance.
    His big hands were gentle, but firm, as they glided over her skin. And, even if she couldn’t detect any “toxins” escaping, a lot of her stress was melting away beneath his ministrations.
    The New Age jazz playing on the stereo in the corner of the room trickled deliciously along her nervous system, calming and soothing, allowing her to forget that she was a detective on duty. For just a few moments, she was Savannah Reid, pampered patroness... a fantasy she wouldn’t mind indulging.
    But her respite was short-lived, interrupted by a brisk knock on the door. Before she or Josef could even reply, it swung open, and a man barged in, a pale and pudgy guy who looked nothing like what he was: the owner of a health spa.
    Savannah barely recognized Louis Hanks, as it had been years since she had seen him, and when she had, he had looked much younger and far more fit . The intervening years hadn’t been kind.
    “Mr. Hanks,” Josef said, obviously as surprised as she at the abrupt, inopportune visit. “Is something wrong?” He stopped the massage and covered Savannah ’s bare leg with the sheet.
    “I need a word with our... guest,” Hanks said, nodding a curt dismissal to Josef, who seemed to evaporate.
    Savannah lay on the table on her stomach, with only a thin sheet to cover her nakedness. She had probably felt more vulnerable at one time or another, but she couldn’t readily recall when.
    “Excuse me, Mr. Hanks,” she said. “But this isn’t really a good time for me. Would you mind if I at least get dressed before we have our little chat?”
    “That’s exactly what I want you to do, Miss Reid,” he said, his grayish face suddenly flushing an ugly shade of red, mottled with purple. “I want you to get dressed... and then get the hell off my property.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

    S avannah sat up on the table and clutched the sheet tightly around her. “Excuse me? I just paid a lot of money to attend your charming spa, Mr. Hanks. Are you telling me you don’t want my cold, hard cash?”
    “I know why you’re here,” he said, taking a couple of threatening steps closer to the table. His fists were clenched at his sides, and he looked as though he were about to explode.
    “And why is that?” she asked, deliberately keeping her voice low and even.
    “You’re a private detective! I recognized your name and face from the newspapers.”
    “That’s true. I am. But even private detectives find themselves in need of some rest and relaxation, not to mention dietary and exercise guidance.”
    “That’s not why you’re here, and I know it.”
    “Do you really?”
    She slid off the table, sheet still tucked snugly around her body. But she made certain her legs and feet were free in case she needed to run or land a karate kick in one of Louis Hanks’s more vulnerable, areas.
    “So, if it isn’t to avail myself of your world-renowned spa, why am I here, Mr. Hanks?”
    “You’re investigating my ex-wife’s death.”
    “The medical examiner’s office ruled that Ms. Valentina’s death was an accident. What’s to investigate?”
    He walked up to her and shook a sausage-shaped finger in her face. “Don’t play dumb with me. I’m no fool. I know who you’re working for.”
    Really? she thought. Then you’re better informed than I am. But she decided to keep her thoughts to herself and her mouth shut. Maybe she would find out.
    “That damned insurance company hired you! I know it!” he shouted. “They want to trump up some crap about it being a suicide, so they don’t have to pay me off. Well, let me tell you, I won’t stand for it! I won’t!”
    “Mr. Hanks,” she said, using the conciliatory voice that she usually reserved for hostage situations and rooftop jumpers, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I swear to you that I’m not