Fit To Be Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 1) by Nancy G. West Read Free Book Online Page A

Fit and Firm. Maybe—if the radio dropped in the pool turned out to be an isolated incident—I’d invite new friends from the club over to show off my Spanish-style bungalow.
    I flopped lengthwise on the sofa. If I wasn’t going to exercise, I should study. Dr. Carmody’s class met at 3:00 p.m. Monday through Thursday, so I had the whole day free before class. I grabbed the binder and flipped to the section on average life spans.
    I learned that from 1900 to 1990, U.S. life spans increased from forty-seven years to seventy-five years, thanks to antibiotics, better medical care, improved sanitation, and lifestyle changes. By making headway against cancer and heart disease, some scientists thought life span could be extended even further. Fantastic. I stretched my arms over my head, ready to live forever.
    A Japanese man, Shirechiyo Izumi, reached one hundred twenty years before he died. I could work with that: I’d have two-thirds of my life yet to go. I closed my eyes and assimilated Debussy. If Izumi hadn’t died from pneumonia, could he have lived even longer? I popped up, leaned over the notebook and scanned the text: scientists debating his longevity used two separate theories of aging. This looked like technical reading, which made me antsy to escape my nest.
    I plumped my sofa pillows and traipsed across the living room to peer out the window. The sun was shining. I wished I were younger and enjoyed the love of a good man, but except for being alone, my horizon looked promising.
    I felt so good, I even wanted to exercise. If I went to the weight room, I might meet somebody who knew Holly. I could also check out dating prospects. I jumped into workout clothes, hopped into Albatross and sailed down Burr Road to Harry Wurzbach to maneuver my way toward the Austin Highway.
    After squeezing into a parking slot in Fit and Firm’s garage, I bounced into the club wearing my snappy new waist-length T-shirt. The shoulders had small pads sewn in—a ploy to visually narrow my hips. Why should workout clothes look frumpy? Guilt slipped over me for advising Miserable in Milwaukee to throw on whatever she had. I planned to appear appetizing in case I got the chance to quiz Mickey Shannon.
    I checked in, aimed for the stairs and climbed the first step. I was admiring my clingy tights when my right quadriceps went into spasm. A wave of nausea passed through me from peanut butter I’d scarfed down for breakfast. The next shock came when my right calf muscle cramped. Climbing one measly step had hardened it to stone. Gritting my teeth, I drew my left foot onto the step. My left quad muscle shrieked. At least the quad burn balanced the pain soaring through my right calf. I ground upward, step by miserable step. Club members sprang past me. I was too old for this torture.
    I staggered to the second-floor landing, spread my palms and leaned on the wall to stretch my calves. When the knots loosened to rubbery globs, I tottered around the edge of the basketball court and peered into the weight room, looking for Mickey. A bank of metal and rubber machines lined the room’s periphery. More odd-looking devices crisscrossed the center. For a mechanically challenged person like me, this room crammed with equipment was scary.
    Off the main room in the far right corner was a smaller room with a sign on the door that read, “Pilates.” I had no clue what the word meant. Maybe the manager hired a Greek instructor. When I peeked in, two women lay face down on thick mats with their knees drawn up under them in fetal positions and their noses pressed into the mats. The female instructor leering over them, arms crossed, looked more German than Greek. Was she Mrs. Pilates? Mr. Pilates’ assistant? I couldn’t tell if the women on the mats were praying or cringing from the trainer. The class did not look appealing.
    I returned to the main room and studied the first machine near the entrance. The chair looked sturdy, and the handgrips were