Killer Calories by G. A. McKevett Page A

pay them a large chunk of the money she had received in the infamous envelope.
    Oh, joy.
    Where the hell was Tammy, anyway? Savannah wondered, feeling the walls of the office closing in around her. Wasn’t this the time when she was supposed to provide the preplanned diversion?
    Like an answer to prayer, a soft knock sounded on the door, and Tammy stuck her head in. “Hi, Bernadette, can I talk to you for a minute ... out here?”
    â€œWell, I’m in the middle of my initiation with Ms. Reid but—”
    â€œThat’s okay, Bernadette, really,” Savannah interjected. “I have to read these papers over before I sign them anyway.”
    Bernadette looked distressed. “They’re just standard release forms that say—”
    â€œI know, but I never sign anything without reading every word. See, my cousin’s first husband’s brother, the one from New Jersey, well, he was a lawyer, and he always told us to—”
    â€œOkay, okay.” Bernadette bounded out of her desk chair—everyone seemed to bound or bounce or bop around here, Savannah noticed. Maybe there was something to this health kick after all. “I’ll go see what Tammy wants and get right back to you.”
    â€œNo problem ... take your time. I read slowly.”
    Bernadette left the door open a crack, so Savannah could hear the trumped-up question Tammy was asking her in the hallway, something about scheduling problems between herself and another aerobics instructor.
    One quick glance around the three-desk office told Savannah that this was a fairly organized establishment. She was sitting at Bernadette’s enrollment/initiation station. The other two desks, fortunately unoccupied, were marked by small brass plaques as: Sandra Cummings—Bookkeeper and Louis Hanks—President.
    With a quick glance toward the doorway, Savannah hurried across the faded red carpeting to Lou Hanks’s desk. No doubt it would yield the juiciest secrets. Or at least, it would have, if it hadn’t been locked.
    Although she was an expert in the fine art of lock-tumbler manipulation, Savannah decided she didn’t have time to pick it. So, she scuttled over to the bookkeeper’s desk.
    Fortunately, the top two drawers were unlocked. The first drawer contained the usual office supplies. But in the second, she found a pile of unpaid bills. Having gone through a time of financial struggles herself this past year, getting Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency on its limping feet, she knew grossly overdue notices when she saw them.
    Some were from the Internal Revenue Service and threatened dire consequences if large sums weren’t paid within the next ninety days. Apparently, some sort of federal lien had already been placed against the Royal Palms Spa.
    She would have loved to scour deeper, but she could tell by the tone of the conversation in the hall that their talk was coming to a close.
    The moment her rear hit the chair, Bernadette bounced back into the room, toga aflutter.
    â€œWell?” she asked, nodding toward the release forms. “Would your cousin from Jersey approve?”
    Savannah thought of the days ahead—the grass-drink concoctions, the unflavored yogurt and tofu, the unnatural and miserably uncomfortable yoga positions, the sweaty aerobics classes at the break of dawn, the agonies of withdrawal she would suffer going cold turkey off Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream.
    She glanced over to the door and saw Tammy standing there, gazing at her with doe eyes, begging, pleading.
    She sighed, shoulders slumped, a defeated woman. “All right, all right ... where do I sign?”
    Â 
    Dr. Freeman Ross was a quack. That was Savannah’s assessment after he gave her the quickest physical examination in ancient or modern history. Until he pronounced her perfectly healthy—excess fat ratio not withstanding—and then she decided maybe she had judged him too