Jaine Austen 1 - This Pen for Hire by Laura Levine Read Free Book Online Page B

Nancy Reagan on diuretics.
    “How can I help you?” she said, flashing me a brittle grin.
    I could tell by her steely demeanor that she was never going to fall for my phony cop routine, or for my phony reporter routine, so I decided to try the one thing she’d be most likely to fall for: a potential customer.
    “I’m thinking of joining your gym.”
    “Our Club,” she corrected me. “We like to think of our guests as members, not customers.”
    Yeah, right, and I like to think of myself as Julia Roberts.
    “Anyhow, I’m thinking of joining.”
    “Not a moment too soon, lardbucket.” Of course, she didn’t really say that. But she was thinking it, I know.
    “Membership starts at $3,000.”
    Holy smokes. It was all I could do to keep from sputtering, “You’ve got to be kidding. Do you realize how many Eskimo Pies I can buy for $3,000?”
    Instead I played it cool and said, “Oh?”
    “Plus a monthly fee of $300.”
    There must have been drool seeping out of my slack-jawed mouth because she quickly added, “I realize that’s a bit steep for most people.”
    “No, no, not at all.” I tried to look as if I were the kind of person for whom $3,000 was chump change. “It’s no problem.”
    Her smile brightened considerably. “Let me take you on a tour of the facilities. I’m sure you’ll be impressed.”
    Flabbergasted was more like it. Never under one roof had I seen so many big chests, tiny waists, and long manes of lustrous hair. And that’s just the guys.
    Wendy took me everywhere. The racquetball courts where Type A-Plusses were cheerfully going for each other’s jugulars. The Olympic-sized swimming pool where the phrase “swimming with sharks” was undoubtedly coined. The equipment room with StairMasters as far as the eye could see. The plushly carpeted aerobics classes where anorexic women were burning off their last remaining ounces of fat. And the Smoothie Bar where blenders whirred to a disco beat. There was also, unbelievably, a real bar. With actual alcohol. Somehow that didn’t quite jibe with the carrot-juice-and-green-tea feel of the place, but I for one liked the idea of kicking back after a grueling workout with a frosty margarita. Which is why I for one have thighs the size of ham hocks.
    After a pit stop at the ladies’ locker room, where I saw more silicone than Dow Chemical produces in a decade, we headed back to Wendy’s office.
    “So, what do you think?” she asked when we were sitting across from each other in her all-beige office.
    “It’s every bit as nice as Stacy told me it would be,” I said, carefully piloting the conversation.
    “Stacy?”
    “Stacy Lawrence,” I said solemnly. “The aerobics instructor who was murdered. Poor Stacy was a client of mine.”
    “A client?”
    “I’m an attorney.” Good heavens! Would my runaway lying streak never end?
    “Really? How interesting.”
    The dollar signs were now sparkling in Wendy’s eyes. She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a contract, confident she had just reeled in a live one.
    “Poor Stacy,” I said. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
    Wendy did a very good imitation of someone who actually gave a damn. “I know. It’s a tragedy.” She shook her head sadly. Then, after a suitable interval of about one millionth of a second, she rallied and asked, “So. Will you be paying for your membership by check or credit card?”
    “Stacy was such a wonderful person,” I sighed, determined not to be sidetracked.
    “Oh, yes,” Wendy chimed in, with all the sincerity of a campaign promise. “Stacy was one of the most admired and beloved instructors here at the Club.”
    As Wendy spoke, I was reminded of the movie The Manchurian Candidate, where Frank Sinatra has been brainwashed into saying wonderful things about Laurence Harvey, a guy he really hates. Whenever Sinatra praises Harvey, he speaks in a wooden monotone, a glazed look in his eyes. Wendy had that exact same expression when singing