Killer Calories

I’m not up to it. We’re talking no pulse or measurable brain waves until I have a hot bath and a nap.”
    Savannah forced herself to go into the kitchen and pour some Gourmet Kit-Kat into the two bowls beneath the counter. She was rewarded by purrs and satiny rubs against her ankles.
    Undaunted, Tammy did a samba around the office, turning on the computer and printer, checking the fax machine.
    “Don’t touch those blinds,” Savannah warned her. “If you let one ray of sunlight into that room, you’re fired.”
    She could tell that Tammy was traumatized by her threat; the girl broke into a rousing rendition of “Zip-a- dee Doo-Da .“
    “And stop singing that stupid song,” she told her, “unless some guy’s do-da is open.”
    “What?”
    “Never mind.” Savannah sighed. There was no fighting optimism and cheerfulness... short of murder, and her mood wasn’t quite foul enough to warrant homicide.
    Scrounging around in the refrigerator, Savannah found something that raised her spirits: a chocolate-chip, double-fudge muffin with cream-cheese filling. She zapped a cup of stale coffee in the microwave and laced it with Baileys and Half & Half.
    Ah, breakfast.
    But the moment she carried the cup and plate into the office, she got “the look” from Tammy.
    “Oh, shut up and drink your pure springwater and nibble your organic carrot sticks,” she told her.
    Tammy grinned and shrugged. “I didn’t say a word .“
    “Yeah, yeah. I heard every word you didn’t say. Not everyone’s a Spartan like you.” Savannah sank into the comfort of her favorite chair—overstuffed, just the way she liked it, just like her. “Some of us,” she said, breathing in the aroma of the coffee and savoring the anticipation of the chocolate cream cheese, “are pure, unadulterated hedonists.”
    Tammy sat down to the computer and began to type. She shrugged. “Whatever.”
    “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
    With a perfectly guileless face, Tammy replied, “If you want to poison yourself with toxins, pollute the perfect body that Nature gave you, it’s your personal right to do so. It’s just that Ms. Valentina says—”
    “Oh, please. Don’t quote Kat Valentina to me. She’s hardly an expert on nutrition, or anything else, for that matter.”
    “I like Kat.”
    The three words were simply, quietly stated, but Savannah could hear the underlying hurt. For some reason beyond Savannah ’s understanding, Tammy liked her “other” employer, the owner of the notorious Royal Palms Spa that sat on the hillside overlooking San Carmelita.
    The resort was a haven for the wannabe-filthy-rich and sorta - kinda -famous. No Oscar-winning actor or critically acclaimed director would be seen inside the complex. Royal Palms was too tacky even for Hollywood .
    Back in the late seventies, Kat Valentina had starred in a hit movie, Disco Diva. Though the critics had hated it, fans had flocked to the movie, making Kat Valentina a cult phenomenon.
    From what Savannah heard, Kat had never quite gotten over the seventies disco scene. She was still stuck in the “Screw Whomever You Can”—literally and figuratively—mentality. By reputation, the Royal Palms was an extension of her own hedonistic attitude. While the club claimed to be a health spa, the guests did more fooling around than aerobics, more hallucinogenic drugs than cleansing herbs, and more scheming than soul-searching.
    Savannah hadn’t been happy last month when Tammy had admitted to taking a part-time job there as an aerobics instructor. But considering how little Savannah was able to pay her, she could hardy complain.
    “I know you like her,” Savannah said, cursing her own insensitivity. “I’ll keep my opinions to myself, as long as you keep her nutritional advice to yourself. Deal?”
    “Sure. No problem.” Tammy brightened instantly. Another aspect of Tammy’s personality that Savannah loved: her ability to forgive and forget.
    “By the way, speaking of money...” Savannah began. “We were?”
    “We are now. Did Mr. Barnett ever pay us the last payment that he owed us for— ”
    The jangling of the phone cut her off, and Tammy grabbed it, assuming a professional attitude along with a Marilyn Monroe breathiness.
    “Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency,” she breathed. “May I help you?”
    Savannah listened eagerly. She had the sinking feeling it was Dirk, wanting another favor or inviting himself over for a pizza and beer dinner. Her