Dead Lift by Rachel Brady Page B

symmetrically. “You and Cowboy could hit the sheets any day now. I knew if I told you ahead of time, you’d never go.”
    “I got my arms done instead.”
    “Yeah, that’ll turn him on,” she muttered.
    “I’m ignoring that.”
    She rinsed out the sauce bottle. “Facials are next. Tomorrow at nine.”
    “I signed you up for something too.”
    She clapped. “Yay!”
    “Got lucky. There was a cancellation so you get to go
today
.”
    “A spa double-header. I love it!”
    “I hired a trainer.”
    The lights flickered, but Jeannie didn’t seem to notice. Her smile faded. “That doesn’t sound relaxing.”
    I smirked. “Mind over matter.”
    “Fine,” she said. “Turnabout’s fair play.”
    I ripped a few leaves of romaine, sliced a yellow bell pepper, and heaped the veggies into our bowls. “If you drop me at Claire’s on your way to the club, I’ll probably be finished searching by the time your workout ends. We could do something fun afterward.”
    “The Galleria?”
    I shot her a look. “Do I look like I want a hundred-dollar blouse?”
    “Humor me.” She pulled two plates from my cupboard and slid them onto the kitchen table. My phone rang, and with no hesitation, Jeannie answered.
    “It’s Richard.” She held the phone out toward me. I reached for it and she snatched it back. “Hey,” she said to him suddenly, “What if we split Tone Zone’s membership fees fifty-fifty?”
    I heard his unequivocal “no” from several feet away and gestured for the phone. Nothing good ever came of a debate between a cheapskate and a spendthrift.
    Jeannie shoved it into my hand with a pissy expression I knew was meant for him. “Your boss is cheap.”
    It was true. He was. But he’d reimburse her the same way he would have reimbursed me had my membership request been approved. He was messing with her. I let it continue because it amused me.
    When I finally had Richard on the line, he went straight to the point. “Platt tried to talk to the police a week ago.”
    I didn’t ask how he knew this. Richard was tied to law enforcement like Jeannie was tied to dress shops.
    “Platt’s home owners’ association hires an officer to patrol their streets every Friday and Saturday night,” he said. “I asked enough questions and finally got in touch with the guy who was out there last weekend.”
    “But the murder was Thursday.”
    Jeannie gave me a sideways look and stirred the pasta.
    “I wanted to cover all the bases,” Richard said. “Find out if any unusual traffic had been going through the neighborhood, any suspicious activity.”
    Of course, I thought. Once a cop, always a cop.
    “This officer knew Platt from the neighborhood. Last Saturday, he pulled up alongside him while Platt was out for a walk. They got to chatting. At one point Platt said he’d like to get a policeman’s opinion about something. About that time, a complaint came in so the officer cut the conversation short. He told Platt to follow-up with a call to the department.”
    “Let me guess,” I said. “He never called.”
    “Right. So I asked this guy, ‘Did Platt say
anything
to suggest what was troubling him?’ And the guy says, ‘He thought somebody was being swindled out of a lot of money.’”
    “Whoa,” I said. “That could be huge.”
    “I think so too,” he said. “Maybe blackmail.”
    “Or fraud.” I felt Jeannie’s eyes on me and looked up. She poured the spaghetti into a colander waiting in the sink. “If Diana killed Platt,” I said, “The scandal he uncovered probably involved her or her husband.”
    “He might have told someone else what was going on. You follow up with his neighbors,” he said. “I’ll try his family.”
    “Sure,” I said. “I have a path to Chris King too.”
    “Good. What is it?”
    I told him about Diana’s bizarre recruitment. “She thinks I want a nose job and says her husband’s the man to do it. I could wiggle into a conversation about Platt while having a