"Will you miss him?" Huckleby asked.
Her mouth was dry. The feeling of guilt had grown stronger. "I'll miss his class," she said. It was the only thing she could tell him. It was the only truth she knew.
"What a sad epitaph for a man you've known for eighteen months, a man who was proud of helping you lose weight."
"I didn't know him," she said, hearing as she spoke how defensive the words sounded. "I just took a class from him."
"I hear he had a thing for pretty women."
She laughed without mirth. It was an involuntary reaction, one that had become habitual over all the years, all the weight. "That wouldn't have included me."
"It does now," Huckleby said softly.
She felt the smile, the inappropriate smile, leave her face. "I was obese when I came into his class," she said. "I couldn't even pedal the damn bike with the resistance turned off for more than thirty seconds at a stretch. Then I'd pant for five minutes and try again."
"Tenacity can be attractive."
"Maybe," she said. "But you don't forget how someone looked when you met them."
You don't forget that not-quite-sympathetic look in the eye, the disgust when he thought no one was looking. You don't forget any of that.
She thought those last two sentences, but had enough self-control to prevent them from coming out of her mouth.
"I don't think you know how far you've come, Ms. Taylor," Huckleby said softly.
"Oh, I do," she said. "And Tom knew it too." She glanced at the door. "Can I go now?"
His smile was gentle. If she had met him in other circumstances, she might even have thought it kind. "Sure."
She let herself out and glanced at the clock. She had been in there twenty minutes. So much for proper resolutions.
"Ms. Taylor?"
She turned. He was holding her purse and gym bag. She swallowed. "Thanks," she said, taking them from him. She bent her head and walked to the door. The gym's owner, a muscular man who looked as if he spent too much time on the bench press, let her out. She took the stairs slowly, thinking as she did so that she would never hear Tom again, never hear that odd hitch in his voice, the way it caught when he got into the rhythm of the workout, the way it soared above the music.
His body was on the floor of the exercise room, his neck tilted at an odd angle. She wondered what he looked like, if he still seemed like a Greek god, even in his death repose. And then she shuddered. She would never be able to go in that room again.
She put her bag and purse in the car, and locked it. Then she took off at a run down the parking lot, not because she was frightened but because she needed to burn off the fear she had felt.
She needed the exercise, and she had to prove to herself that she could do it without Tom.
* * *
She woke in the middle of the night with an ache in her heart and tears in her eyes. She wanted a piece of chocolate cake so badly that it hurt. Fortunately, she lived in a small town that didn't have an all-night grocery store, and she didn't keep cake mixes in her small apartment.
Comfort food. She wanted comfort food because she needed comforting.
She heard her own voice, speaking to Huckleby:
I didn't know him. I just took a class from him.
But if it were that simple, why couldn't she sleep? Her mother hadn't been able to sleep in the first few months after her father died. Neither had she, if the truth be told. The brain was busy trying to process the loss. Too busy to sleep more than a few hours at a time.
That had been when she put on the serious weight. Chocolate cake in the middle of the night, topped with vanilla ice cream. Or Cool Whip. Or Hershey's syrup.
Her mouth watered. She needed something comforting. Now. Never deny the cravings, she knew that much. But she couldn't afford to fall back into bad habits just because her spinning-class instructor was dead.
She wondered what the local best-selling psychiatrist would say about this. Probably recommend therapy. Probably report her to the police. She could hear it now:
She had a revenge fantasy about the man. Perhaps she acted it out. Perhaps she stalked him
.
She sat down at the kitchen table she had bought at a discount furniture store and assembled herself, then put her hands in her short-cropped hair. If she were honest with herself, she knew that she could have killed him. If her revenge fantasy had taken a different, more harmful twist. If she had gotten to the acting-out stage— which she had. She had been planning to come in that night, to continue the seduction. She had heard how willing he was to date women at the club. She had known about his preference for the sleek muscular women, the clear athletes. She had planned to use that to her benefit.
And the cop had seen it. He had seen it, and something about her height made him dismiss her.
But he shouldn't have. Patricia hadn't seen the body, but she knew the room, and she knew one thing: Tom liked to sit on the floor and talk to people. She could imagine how someone like her could have killed him:
He would have been sitting cross-legged on the polished wood floor in the center of the room, holding forth on the value of good nutrition or how so many reps burn so much fat, when someone came up behind him, put him in the stranglehold, and pulled until he couldn't breathe. Then he fell back, sprawling across the floor, his neck bent at the odd angle. Simple. Easy. So simple and easy even a short person could have done it.
She wished she could mention that to Huckleby without raising suspicion, but she couldn't. All she could do was listen for the gossip, read the local papers, and pretend that Tom's death had no effect on her life.
* * *
Like a woman who had just fallen off a horse, she made herself go to the gym the following night. Getting back in the saddle, she had whispered to herself, and while that wasn't entirely accurate, it was good enough.
The owner sat behind the desk, paperwork spread in front of him. A big sign, written in black Magic Marker, announced that all classes had been canceled until further notice. He saw her stare at it, and said, "We can't have the room until the investigation's done."
She wasn't sure if that was supposed to make her feel better or worse, so she just nodded and went into the locker room to change. Another woman was standing near the row of sinks, reading a sign newly taped to the wall. The sign was computer generated and it mentioned a trust fund, set up by the gym, for Tom Ansara's daughter.
Patricia felt a jolt. "I didn't know he had a daughter."
The woman nodded. Patricia had seen her around, but had never bothered to learn her name. "Sixteen. She's being raised by the mother in Seattle. But he was here, trying to earn money for her college. Now she may never go."
Patricia almost asked what happened to scholarships, but thought that too crass. Instead she made a sympathetic noise and changed into her sweats. She went into the gym proper and used the newest StairMaster set on high for an hour, until sweat poured off her. While she worked out, she noticed that only the regulars were here. The dilettantes, the ones who showed up every January or once a month or after a particularly big meal, hadn't come at all. And that was unusual. Every night usually had one.
As she marched up and down a make-believe flight of stairs, she was conscious of the room behind her, hidden by a row of racquetball courts and bleachers, now cordoned off by the local police. The more she marched and sweated, the more she focused on that room. She wanted to see it, wanted to know, perhaps, if he were really dead.
The room had mirrors covering three walls and a row of windows covering the fourth. The windows overlooked the free-weight area. When she got off the StairMaster and grabbed her sweat towel, wrapping it around her neck, she meandered into the free-weight area as if her movement were part of her routine.
The windows showed a darkened room, lit only by the lights reflected in the mirrors. There was no chalk outline of a body on the floor— she had read somewhere that Hollywood made that up and the police never used it; she just hadn't believed it to be true— and the special spinning bikes were lined up against the back wall, just like usual, waiting for class members to wheel them toward the middle. Beside them were the pile of step mats, and next to that the boxy audio system that had threatened to ruin her hearing.
Nothing was different except the yellow police tape covering the door, and the sign attached:
Closed by Order of the Seavy Village Police
. She shuddered, wishing, somehow, that she had never heard about his death. That she had stayed away as her weight came down, and when she came back and forgot to ask about Tom, people forgot to tell her about the murder, so that she would assume he had moved away, or lost his job, or found employment that required use of his mind. But she couldn't pretend those things in retrospect, and she couldn't drop the disappointment she felt that, somehow, she had been cheated of something.
"Any clues?" A male voice behind her made her jump.
She turned. Detective Huckleby was standing so close to her that he almost pressed her against the window.
"No," she said.
"Strange," he said. "A room is always a room, even after something awful happens in it. Unless you know, the room is no different."
She had had that thought before. Apartments and hotel rooms always made her wonder, when she first arrived, if anyone had died in them. She had always thought she would be able to tell by some subtle vibration, something that had altered because of the death.
But she felt no such vibration from the gym, none from the exercise room at all, and she was surprised.
"I didn't think any of the class members would show up tonight," he said.
"I didn't just go to class," she said. "This is my routine."
"Routine." He spoke softly, as if he were musing.
Her heart had started to pound again. "I lost my weight, Detective, through exercise. I have to continue that, particularly now—"
"Now that your instructor is dead?"
She nodded.
"So he did have an influence on your weight loss."
She licked her lips. "He inspired me." That much was true.
"Who's going to inspire you now?"
She met his gaze. Electric blue. Neon blue. Like she imagined Paul Newman's eyes would be in person. "I guess I have to," she said.
"Always tough," he said. "It's always better if the motivation comes from the outside."
She wasn't sure if he was speaking of exercise now, or if he was speaking of murder. Would he be happier if the killer came from outside Seavy Village? Or outside the gym? She swallowed. She had been so focused on herself, on Tom's death, that she hadn't thought about the reality of murder. The fact that a murder victim had to have a murderer.
"Are you done with your exercise?" he asked.
"Do you want to interrogate me again?"
To her surprise, he laughed. "If you thought that was an interrogation," he said, "I don't want to put you through a real one."
She saw no humor in it. Yesterday had been a bad day, a day she did not want to repeat.
He must have seen that on her face, for his smile faded. "Sorry," he said. "You're not a suspect."
"At this time," she said.
He half shrugged. "I suppose." He looked around at the empty bleachers, the slouching owner poring over the papers behind the reception desk. "I was hoping to buy you coffee and ask a few questions about the gym."
"Me?"
He faced her, his eyes meeting hers. "Well," he said, "actually, anyone from the class who bothered to show up tonight. You're the only one."
"I thought you didn't expect any of us to show up tonight."
"I figured it would only be the exercise addicts."
It was her turn to smile, ruefully. "It is."
He nodded once. "Coffee?"
"Water or Gatorade. Coffee's a diuretic."
"Hmm," he said. "And that's bad?"
She looked at him, uncertain if that was a real joke. She supposed it was. It seemed strange to joke in front of a room where a man had been murdered.
"There's a deli and juice bar upstairs," she said, not sure why she'd agreed.
"Lead the way," he said.
"Let me change," she said. "I'll meet you there."
"I suppose you want carrot juice."
"Actually," she said, "I want bottled water. And maybe an apple."
"Done."
She pushed past him and went to the lady's locker room. Her hands were shaking and she was wondering what she was doing. He was a cop investigating a murder and he wanted to talk to her a second time, informally. She felt as if she were doing something wrong, as if she should get on the phone and ask for a lawyer or not show up or go upstairs and ask what he was charging her with. But all of that seemed melodramatic and unnecessary and a bit rude.