Cardiac Arrest, page 17
“Detective Donovan did mention that one of the ingredients was a fruit-concentrate syrup. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask him.”
“We need to talk to Marilyn again, too,” Summer said. “She has to know more than she’s been telling us.”
“All right,” Dorothy said. “Let’s put that on the agenda for tomorrow. I must confess I’m feeling drowsy at the moment. Those medications gave me quite the burst of energy at first, but now I’m just...”
“Zapped,” Summer finished. “Well, let me know if I can get you anything, okay?”
“I will,” Dorothy promised. “And you must do the same.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve got everything I need right here,” Summer told her.
The second Dorothy closed the door, Mr. Bitey zipped out from the closet and jumped up on the bed. Summer grabbed one of the extra sample packets of Benadryl off the nightstand and popped two tablets into her mouth.
The big orange cat stared down at her, his tail twitching.
“Too bad, kitty! You lose.” With a grin, Summer waved the empty packet at him, and triumphantly turned off the light.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Aha! There you are, Dorothy! We were so worried about you.”
Dorothy stepped out from the Hibiscus Pointe library stacks, where she had tried to duck before Gladys spotted her. “Oh, good morning, Gladys,” she said cheerfully, pasting on a smile.
The large woman, wearing a particularly loud Hawaiian shirt over her purple shorts, walked up closer so she could peer into Dorothy’s face. “You’re still kinda bumpy and splotchy, there.”
“Oh, dear.” Dorothy touched her cheek. “I was afraid of that.”
“Ladies,” the volunteer librarian called, from the desk. “Quiet, please.”
“I need to talk to you, Dorothy.” Gladys had apparently never learned to use one’s library voice. “About the case.”
Dorothy sighed. There was no polite way out of this conversation. But maybe Gladys had some new information from her mole cousin at the Milano PD. “Why don’t we go into the business center, then?” she suggested.
“Oh, all right,” Gladys grumbled, as they walked through the library. “I don’t see why we have to move. There’s no one else in this place, anyway.”
Neither the library nor the business center ever saw much resident traffic. A busy branch of the Milano Public Library was located just a few blocks beyond the Hibiscus Pointe gates, and the business center was hardly up to date.
“So what happened last night, Dorothy?” Gladys asked. “I heard those hives were so nasty, you had to leave. Yep, you definitely still have a few,” she added, inspecting Dorothy’s face again.
“If you don’t mind, Gladys, I’d rather not discuss my silly health issues,” Dorothy said. “They gave me a shot in the ER, and some nice steroid cream, and I’m ready to put that minor allergic reaction behind me. Now, what did you want to tell me about the investigation?”
Gladys sat down near the fax machine, in a chair which was considerably smaller than her frame. “I’m not so sure that Summer girl killed Dr. A.”
Well, that was a welcome switch. “And why is that, Gladys?”
For once, Gladys was actually silent for a second or two. “I’d really like to tell you, Dorothy, but I can’t go into details.” She crossed her arms. “Sorry.”
Dorothy felt like spinning the self-important boor around in that office chair until it broke, but truly, that would be a waste of time. Not to mention energy. “You said you wanted to talk about the case, Gladys. Do you have new information?”
“Merle has walking pneumonia, can you beat that?” Gladys threw up her hands. “Who knows how long he’ll be out of commission. Lousy timing, if you ask me.”
“Please give him my regards,” Dorothy murmured.
“He can’t go in to work,” Gladys said, “but he’s been glued to his police scanner 24/7. Hopefully he’ll pick up something interesting. So this mango allergy of yours, it’s really serious, huh?”
“I told you, no,” Dorothy said. “Just highly unpleasant. I’ve been warned that I should be more vigilant now, as each new exposure increases the severity of the next reaction.”
Gladys leaned forward. “Did anyone last night know about your allergy?”
“Oh, plenty of people, I’m sure,” Dorothy said. “I can’t even remember who I’ve mentioned it to over the years.”
“That’s not good.” Gladys shook her head. “Not good at all.”
“Gladys Rumway, surely you’re not implying that someone tried to poison me?” Dorothy almost laughed, but Gladys looked very serious. “Why would anyone want to do that?”
“To scare you off the case, of course,” Gladys said. “There’s a murderer out there, you know. Maybe you’ve been asking too many questions about Dr. A.”
“I’m sorry, Gladys, but that’s ridiculous. I’d never seen the young man who brought me that tray of tarts before in my life.”
“I’m just saying.” Gladys stared at her orthopedic sandals. The woman was truly worried about her, Dorothy realized.
Maybe she should be a little nicer to Gladys, no matter how wild her speculations.
She could barely recall the waiter from the party. Bright red hair, white shirt, black trousers. And oh, yes, he’d worn those trendy black glasses with the little square frames.
Then she remembered something else. He’d called her “Mrs. Westin.”
How could he possibly have known her name? And had he been aware of the mango in those citrus tarts? He certainly hadn’t mentioned it in the ingredients, when she’d asked. All she’d noticed was that the tarts were extremely sweet and a tiny bit sour.
“You okay, Dorothy?” Gladys frowned. “Your face is turning kinda red again.”
Her blood pressure, no doubt. Gladys had put disturbing thoughts into her head, as usual, and it was best to be rid of them.
“Oh my. I just remembered that I need to get some letters into the lobby mailbox before lunch.” Dorothy stood. “Perhaps we can talk more later?”
“Sure,” Gladys said. “But watch your back, Dorothy. I’m being extra careful myself lately. Sometimes you just don’t know who to trust.”
“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind. See you at Fabulously Fit this afternoon, Gladys!” Dorothy stepped into the safety of the library and, finally, the hallway.
Much as she hated to admit it, Gladys Rumway had a point. Clearly, someone wanted to discourage her and Summer from investigating Dr. A’s murder, and he or she was growing more and more determined.
The message etched in Ernie’s car door, the slashed tires, the napkin warning, Summer’s encounter with the dark vehicle on the beach road, and then those awful mango tarts—what might the killer have in mind for them next?
Dorothy checked both ways before she headed down the hall. She definitely didn’t want to find out.
* * *
Summer tossed a towel and some roll-on deodorant into her gym bag, along with a water bottle, a bag of corn chips and her phone. She’d downloaded a ton of senior fitness videos from YouTube, in case she needed backup.
Who knew that coming up with a forty-five minute aerobics program for a bunch of old people could be so hard?
For one thing, she had to be really careful to build in a lot of rest periods that wouldn’t seem too much like napping. Jennifer had warned her a zillion times against any strenuous or lengthy routines. Something about insurance and liability.
It was a good thing she was a volunteer, Summer thought. Otherwise she’d need to be licensed, and that would be a total pain. She’d never taken a real aerobics class. Too boring. Luckily, she’d grown up watching her stepmoms’ in-home personal training sessions, so she had the general idea.
This morning she’d checked out the equipment room at the pathetic fitness center, too. They had a lot of mats and those exercise balls that looked like the ones you bought at Toys”R”Us.
And she’d never been a fan of those annoying, rubber-band strap things, either. She hated getting slapped in the face every time she let go by mistake.
She headed back to her bedroom to grab a couple of barrettes from the top of the dresser and click off the TV, but her attention was caught by the talk show in progress. The perky, young host was wearing a suit designed to make her feel like an old person. It was the same idea as those fat or pregnancy suits: People who wore them were supposed become more sympathetic to those with extra challenges.
The host could barely get out of her limo. Now she was stumbling around the studio using baby steps, complaining about her aches and pains and how tired she was.
“Oh, shut up.” Summer hit the power button. If she ever got old, she would never complain. Whining never solved anything. She’d learned that a long time ago. It was all in the attitude.
Her phone rang, just as she stepped into the hall. Joy, of course. Not many people ever called her cell, except Jennifer Margolis. Oh, and lately, that annoying Private Number who never left a message and blocked her return calls. She should report that guy to the phone company.
“So Syd got in touch with me today,” Joy began. “He said he hadn’t heard from you in a while and he wanted me to tell him what you were up to. I covered for you, FYI.”
“What are you talking about?” Summer started for the elevator, without bothering to lock her door. It wouldn’t look good to be late on her first day. She didn’t want to jinx things the way she had with the job at Dr. A’s office.
“Well, I didn’t tell him you were lounging at the pool and running around the club circuit, just like you did in L.A. and New York. You know, instead of coming up with some kind of plan for your life?”
Oh, please. Why didn’t her sister ever get it? Their dad didn’t really care what either of them did. He was just a control freak, like Joy.
Summer pushed the Lobby button. At least this elevator didn’t have glass sides, or she’d never be able to live in the Towers. “For your information, I’m on my way to work right now.”
“What?” Joy sounded, well, over-Joyed. “When did this happen? What’s the job? How much will you make?”
“Nothing,” Summer told her, with satisfaction. “I’ll make absolutamente nada.”
Joy started babbling a mile a minute, and Summer put her phone on Mute.
Life was good.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Summer looks nervous, Dorothy thought, as she stood in her usual spot near the back of the packed Hibiscus Pointe fitness room.
There were quite a few more gentlemen in the Fabulously Fit class today, it seemed. Fred Ritter, of course, plus Lou O’Malley, Clyde Culpepper, Harry Koo and half the Hibiscus Pointe Bocce Team.
Dorothy hadn’t planned to exercise this afternoon, in case those nasty hives flared up, but she did want to be there to lend Summer moral support. It was, after all, her first class as an instructor. Some of the ladies were already shooting daggers at her with their heavily made-up eyes.
The other reason Dorothy had decided to attend was that she and Summer planned to pay a visit to Marilyn after class. She hadn’t mentioned the idea to Ernie this time. For one thing, he’d try to talk her out of it, and for another, he’d told her yesterday that Grace had been feeling poorly. She’d have to remember to stop by their condo tonight after dinner.
“Okay, everybody!” Summer clapped for attention. “If you don’t already know me, my name is Summer, and I’m going to be your Fabulously Fit instructor today, woo hoo!”
“Woo hoo is right,” Bitty Snyder muttered, beside Dorothy. “You’d think she could throw a top over that sports bra. And those knobby little pigtails—what is she, twelve?”
“That’s the fashion these days.” Dorothy adjusted her Hibiscus Pointe T-shirt so it didn’t fall quite as far down her hips. “Why don’t we give the poor girl a chance?”
Bitty sniffed.
“Before we begin, let’s make sure we’re hydrated, okay?” Summer held up her water bottle. “And remember, move at your own pace. So what kinds of exercises do you usually do in this class?”
The Bocce team members looked at each other, and shrugged.
“We move our wrists around, like this.” Rita Munoz demonstrated helpfully.
“Oh, and we march in place a lot,” Jeannie Bosold added. “It’s wonderful cardio.”
“Oookay.” Summer moved over to the ancient stereo system set up against the wall. “Is this for your music?”
“We only have a few CDs,” Barbie Bosold, Jeannie’s twin, said. “And a couple of cassette tapes.”
Summer hit the Play button, and the sleepy strains of “Chattanooga Choo Choo” filled the air. “Let’s try something else.” She flipped through the cases. “Okay, we’ve got Golden Hits of World War Two, Big Band Hits of World War Two, Favorite Hits of World War Two... I think I’m feeling a theme here.”
“The Show Tune Toppers tape is very popular,” a frail-looking woman with a walker offered from the front row. Marjorie Klup, Dorothy remembered. Her ninety-third birthday party last month had been quite a bash.
“Right,” Summer said. “Maybe next time I’ll bring some of my own stuff for you, too. Whoa, hey, here we go.” She grinned and held up the last CD case. “You guys are gonna love this one.”
Gladys Rumway stomped into the room in her leopard print leotards and matching headband. Uh-oh, Dorothy thought.
“Sorry I’m late, people,” Gladys announced. “I was taking care of some very important business.” She glanced around the room, and gave Dorothy a highly significant wink.
Oh dear, what had that woman been up to now? And if it had anything to do with Dr. A, was it good or bad?
Gladys moved into the center of the room and did a few exaggerated stretches. “Is it hot in here or what?”
“Heat is good for the muscles,” Rita said.
“Not this hot,” Gladys said. “Unless you’re a camel.”
“Okay, guys, let’s start with a warm up,” Summer broke in. “We’re going to do the hula!”
To Dorothy’s surprise, everyone seemed enthusiastic about learning the moves, and soon the whole group was having a wonderful time. Even Gladys and especially the Bocce Boys got into the fun, waving their arms and swiveling their hips. Over the next half hour, Summer slowly picked up the pace, until all the seniors—even Marjorie with her walker—were moving, each to his or her ability, to the Andrews Sisters’ version of “The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B.”
But as the perky music swung on, with Summer shouting encouragement from the front, Dorothy felt the room start to spin.
Maybe she was overheating due to the lingering effects of the mango reaction, she told herself. She slowed her pace, just as the floor tilted under her feet.
Oh dear. Could her dizziness be more of a cardiac nature? She’d had that one experience just before Christmas...
Dorothy gingerly retreated to the back wall, holding her cool water bottle to the side of her face.
Most of the other seniors were losing steam now, too, she noticed. Even Fred Ritter began to droop. “Okay, guys, change of pace!” Summer quickly switched the music back to “Chattanooga Choo Choo.”
“Let’s bring our heart rates down, everyone. Keep your arms at your sides and walk in place. Just keep moving, okay? Nice and slow.”
Abruptly, Gladys halted in the middle of an improvised twist move and dumped her water bottle straight over her head, as she staggered backward.
Summer killed the music and rushed toward the big woman, who swayed like a tree about to fall. “Are you okay, Mrs. Rumway?” She put her arm around Gladys’s shoulders to steady her.
“Hot.” Gladys gulped for air as she dripped water and sweat onto the polished wood floor. She might have keeled over completely, Dorothy thought, if Summer hadn’t been supporting her.
Gracious. Gladys had been a patient of Dr. A’s, too. Was it possible she had a serious heart problem? She hadn’t ever talked about it, really. None of them did.
“Can someone please get us some more water and wet towels?” Summer called, as she helped Gladys to a chair next to the CD player.
“I’ll go.” Fred Ritter, who had recovered relatively quickly, sprinted out the door toward the locker rooms. He had competed in a triathlon in Hawaii a few years back, Dorothy knew, and he was still in very good shape.
Everyone else gathered anxiously around Summer and Gladys. Dorothy remained in place, still unsure of her own balance. “Move back, please,” Summer directed. “We need to give Mrs. Rumway as much room as possible.”
“Summer? What’s going on here?” Jennifer Margolis said, from the door.
Oh no, Dorothy thought. Not on the poor girl’s first day.
“Hot,” Gladys croaked again.
Jennifer’s professional calm wavered. “Shall I call 911?”
“No!” Gladys barked. She grabbed the wet towels and the cup of water Fred had brought for her. “I said I was hot, that’s all. And I might throw up, if you people don’t back off.”
Well. Gladys sounded more like her old self now, Dorothy thought. Maybe she hadn’t been feeling quite as ill as she’d led them to believe. She wouldn’t put it past Gladys to exaggerate things to make Summer look inept.
But Dorothy had been very warm herself during the class, and so had the others in the room. She still felt overheated, in fact.
She quietly stepped past Jennifer and out into the hallway to check the thermostat beside the door. Good heavens. The temperature in the room read one hundred and three degrees.
