Stacy’s praises. I’d have bet my bottom dollar, which was none too far away, that she didn’t mean a word of it.
“Of course, you don’t have to pay the membership fee in one lump sum. We can break it out in installments if you’d prefer.”
“Actually, I’m not sure I’m ready to join right now.”
An icy chill descended in the room.
“Oh?”
I rummaged in my purse and pulled out an LA Sports Club ad I’d clipped from Los Angeles Magazine, offering a free trial workout to prospective members.
“I think I’d like to try one of these trial workouts first.”
“Fine,” Wendy chirped, conceding defeat, but only temporarily. “When shall I schedule you? How about Thursday afternoon? We’ve got Beginner’s Stretch at 3 P.M . That should be just right for you.”
She obviously had me pegged for the out-of-shape puffball that I was.
“Actually, Stacy often talked to me about another aerobics instructor who worked here. Said she was terrific. I’d really like to be in one of her classes. I can’t quite remember her name, though. I think it was Iris or Violet. Some sort of flower name.”
“Oh, you must mean Jasmine.”
“That’s it. Jasmine.”
“But Jasmine teaches the advanced workout. That class will be far too strenuous for you.”
“Oh, no,” I protested. “I’m in much better shape than I look.”
Wendy believed that one about as much as I did.
“It meets Thursday at 8 A.M .”
“Sounds great. I’ll be there.”
We exchanged smiley good-byes and I headed out of her office, past the receptionist with the British accent, and into the street, where I was happy to see there were still a few fat people left in the world.
Chapter Eight
O n my way back from the gym, I swung by Bentley Gardens, hoping to get a chance to speak with Stacy’s neighbors—the Garibaldis and Janet Yoshida.
Luckily, I caught them in. Mr. and Mrs. Garibaldi were exactly as Cameron described them: a frail couple in their eighties who no doubt got winded brushing their teeth. No way could they have bludgeoned Stacy to death. They had trouble enough just answering the door.
I handed them the same line I’d given Daryush, that I was a reporter from The New York Times . By now I was beginning to believe it myself. I almost wanted to take out a subscription so I could see my byline on the front page.
“The New York Times!” Mrs. Garibaldi cooed. “Imagine that. Your parents must be so proud! Come in. Have a nectarine.”
She took me by the elbow and led me into their living room.
“You know Oprah?” Mr. Garibaldi asked.
Mrs. Garibaldi shot him a look. “Now why would she know Oprah?”
“I don’t know. She comes from New York. I just thought she might know Oprah.”
“Of course she doesn’t know Oprah.”
“How about Rosie? You know Rosie?”
I assured Mr. Garibaldi that I didn’t know Oprah or Rosie. Or Regis. Or Montel. Or Eddie, the dog on Frasier . Then I asked them if they’d seen or heard anything suspicious the night of the murder.
“Not a thing,” said Mrs. Garibaldi.
“We usually turn down our hearing aids after Jeopardy ,” Mr. Garibaldi explained.
After promising I’d send them a copy of my story, I thanked the Garibaldis for their time, and their nectarine, and headed down the courtyard to visit Janet Yoshida, the UCLA med student.
Janet was a slip of a thing with a waist the size of my kneecap. She was studying for an anatomy exam when I knocked on the door. Peering out at me from behind thick tortoise-rimmed glasses, she looked about as capable of murder as Mother Teresa. She, too, had seen nothing and heard nothing the night of the murder.
I left her to her textbooks and headed home to get ready for my date with Cameron.
I kept telling myself it was no big deal, just a simple movie date with a platonic acquaintance. Nothing to get into a lather over.
Yeah, right. Four hours later, my bedroom was a shambles. Clothes strewn everywhere. Why was everything so damn
“Of course, you don’t have to pay the membership fee in one lump sum. We can break it out in installments if you’d prefer.”
“Actually, I’m not sure I’m ready to join right now.”
An icy chill descended in the room.
“Oh?”
I rummaged in my purse and pulled out an LA Sports Club ad I’d clipped from Los Angeles Magazine, offering a free trial workout to prospective members.
“I think I’d like to try one of these trial workouts first.”
“Fine,” Wendy chirped, conceding defeat, but only temporarily. “When shall I schedule you? How about Thursday afternoon? We’ve got Beginner’s Stretch at 3 P.M . That should be just right for you.”
She obviously had me pegged for the out-of-shape puffball that I was.
“Actually, Stacy often talked to me about another aerobics instructor who worked here. Said she was terrific. I’d really like to be in one of her classes. I can’t quite remember her name, though. I think it was Iris or Violet. Some sort of flower name.”
“Oh, you must mean Jasmine.”
“That’s it. Jasmine.”
“But Jasmine teaches the advanced workout. That class will be far too strenuous for you.”
“Oh, no,” I protested. “I’m in much better shape than I look.”
Wendy believed that one about as much as I did.
“It meets Thursday at 8 A.M .”
“Sounds great. I’ll be there.”
We exchanged smiley good-byes and I headed out of her office, past the receptionist with the British accent, and into the street, where I was happy to see there were still a few fat people left in the world.
Chapter Eight
O n my way back from the gym, I swung by Bentley Gardens, hoping to get a chance to speak with Stacy’s neighbors—the Garibaldis and Janet Yoshida.
Luckily, I caught them in. Mr. and Mrs. Garibaldi were exactly as Cameron described them: a frail couple in their eighties who no doubt got winded brushing their teeth. No way could they have bludgeoned Stacy to death. They had trouble enough just answering the door.
I handed them the same line I’d given Daryush, that I was a reporter from The New York Times . By now I was beginning to believe it myself. I almost wanted to take out a subscription so I could see my byline on the front page.
“The New York Times!” Mrs. Garibaldi cooed. “Imagine that. Your parents must be so proud! Come in. Have a nectarine.”
She took me by the elbow and led me into their living room.
“You know Oprah?” Mr. Garibaldi asked.
Mrs. Garibaldi shot him a look. “Now why would she know Oprah?”
“I don’t know. She comes from New York. I just thought she might know Oprah.”
“Of course she doesn’t know Oprah.”
“How about Rosie? You know Rosie?”
I assured Mr. Garibaldi that I didn’t know Oprah or Rosie. Or Regis. Or Montel. Or Eddie, the dog on Frasier . Then I asked them if they’d seen or heard anything suspicious the night of the murder.
“Not a thing,” said Mrs. Garibaldi.
“We usually turn down our hearing aids after Jeopardy ,” Mr. Garibaldi explained.
After promising I’d send them a copy of my story, I thanked the Garibaldis for their time, and their nectarine, and headed down the courtyard to visit Janet Yoshida, the UCLA med student.
Janet was a slip of a thing with a waist the size of my kneecap. She was studying for an anatomy exam when I knocked on the door. Peering out at me from behind thick tortoise-rimmed glasses, she looked about as capable of murder as Mother Teresa. She, too, had seen nothing and heard nothing the night of the murder.
I left her to her textbooks and headed home to get ready for my date with Cameron.
I kept telling myself it was no big deal, just a simple movie date with a platonic acquaintance. Nothing to get into a lather over.
Yeah, right. Four hours later, my bedroom was a shambles. Clothes strewn everywhere. Why was everything so damn
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