CHAPTER 2

Shelby Minars was blond, desperate and drop-dead gorgeous—the proper client for a couple of PIs drunk on the romance of their profession.

“Welcome, Shelby.” Phil smiled at Coronado Investigations’ first client. “You’re here at seven a.m. on the dot.”

Shelby teetered in on red heels and flashed an uneasy smile. Helen thought Shelby looked young enough to be a schoolgirl in her red polka-dot sundress. She clutched her little white purse as if it were a life preserver.

Helen and Phil sat in their matching black-and-chrome club chairs. Shelby arranged herself in the yellow client chair, crossing her pale legs. The painted toenails peeping through the open toes looked like Red Hots.

Phil stared at Shelby’s toes with that silly smile still plastered on his face. He pulled himself out of his toe trance and raised his eyes to Shelby’s face.

“How can we help?” Phil asked.

“I’m going to kill my husband,” Shelby announced.

“Be careful with statements like that,” Phil said. “We’re required to report threats to the police.”

“I think my husband, Bryan, is cheating on me,” she said. “I think it’s true, but I don’t want it to be. I hope it’s not true. That’s why I need your agency.”

We need you to pay the electric bill, Helen thought. “We can’t help you without facts,” she said. “Why do you believe your husband is unfaithful?”

“I met Bryan in high school. We’ve been married seven years,” Shelby said. “We’ve always been happy. At least, I thought we were. We have a four-bedroom house in Rio Vista.”

She paused, waiting for the congratulations.

“Nice neighborhood,” Helen said. It was, too. Rio Vista’s biggest crime problem was golf-cart rustling.

“Yes,” Shelby said. “Bryan got us a good deal on our home.”

“Is he a doctor?” Phil asked.

“A lot of doctors live in Rio Vista, but Bryan is a successful real estate salesman. At least, he was until the Florida real estate market tanked. My husband has been restless and worried since the housing market fell apart. He’s not getting commissions like he used to. Real estate isn’t expected to spring back anytime soon. We have plenty of money to live on, but Bryan had too much free time. He started drinking too much and taking long lunches. He put on twenty-five pounds. I couldn’t have my honey slipping into a depression, so I bought him a membership at Fantastic Fitness of Fort Lauderdale.”

“That’s the big gym on Federal Highway?” Phil asked.

Shelby nodded.

“When did you buy the membership?” Helen asked.

“Last June,” Shelby said. “Bryan didn’t seem enthusiastic about my gift at first. He’d work out maybe once a week and come back in forty-five minutes—and that included his drive time. About a month into his membership, Bryan changed. Now he goes to the gym seven days a week. He can spend five or six hours there.”

“Is he really working out,” Phil asked, “or watching babes?”

“He’s definitely working out. He looks so hot. Bryan is a mass of rippling muscle. Put him in a pirate shirt, and he could model for romance-novel covers.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Helen asked.

Shelby studied her red-painted nails. “There’s no romance,” she said. “Not for me. My husband has lost interest in me.”

“Maybe he’s tired from working out,” Helen said. “How old is Bryan?”

“Forty,” Shelby said. “I’m two years younger. Forty is a dangerous age for men. They get restless. There’s someone else. I’m sure. Almost sure. I need you to make sure.”

“Have you seen any signs of infidelity?” Phil said.

“I never caught him with another woman,” Shelby said.

“There are other, less obvious clues,” Phil said. “One giveaway is when a spouse uses a different soap than you have at home.”

“We use Irish Spring. But Bryan showers at the gym, so that won’t help.”

“Have you found matchbooks from strange restaurants? An earring or feminine item of clothing in his car or gym bag? Numbers on his cell phone he calls often that you don’t recognize? Odd charges on your credit card statements?”

“Bryan has lots of callers I don’t know on his cell phone,” Shelby said. “It’s part of his real estate job. There are no unusual charges on our credit cards. I haven’t found any lipstick on his shirts.

“But I did catch him lying. A month ago, Bryan told me he was showing a house in Victoria Park. He left at noon Sunday, saying he was going to meet the Jacksons. At twelve thirty I got a call from Bryan’s office. Renee said the Jacksons were waiting at the office to see the house. She asked if I knew where Bryan was. His cell phone went straight into voice mail. I called, too, and he didn’t answer. Renee said not to bother; she’d take the Jacksons herself.

“Bryan came back about five that afternoon and said the Jacksons had looked at the house, but he didn’t think they were interested. I didn’t mention Renee’s call, but I was suspicious. We hadn’t had . . .”

Shelby stopped and looked at Helen and Phil with sad hazel eyes. “We haven’t had marital relations in more than six months. I’d asked him again and again if anything was wrong. He insisted he was fine. I offered to go to a marriage counselor. He said nothing was wrong. I didn’t believe him.

“Bryan did something strange the next morning. He said he had to go to work—at six a.m. Nobody shows houses that early, and I said so. Bryan said he had a lot of paperwork. After the day before, I was suspicious. I waited fifteen minutes, then drove to his real estate office. No one was there. The lights were off. Fantastic Fitness is on my way home. I saw his car parked in the lot. I peeked in the gym window. Bryan was sweating on a treadmill.”

“Anyone working out with him?” Phil asked.

“Lots of people,” Shelby said. “But they were all men. I thought maybe Bryan wasn’t interested in me because I’m not as fit as the women at his gym.”

Shelby gave a long pause, as if she expected Helen or Phil to protest that she looked fine. Both kept silent on that subject.

“So what happened?” Helen said.

“I bought a membership, too. I thought we could work out together. But Bryan wouldn’t go with me. If I went in the morning, he went in the afternoon. If I worked out in the afternoon, he went at night. I started dropping in at different times, hoping I’d catch him. As soon as he saw me, he’d make some excuse and leave. Then he’d sneak back to the gym later when I wasn’t around.”

“How do you know that?” Phil asked.

“I paid Carla, the girl at the reception desk, twenty dollars to let me see the check-ins on the computer,” Shelby said. “Bryan is shaping up for someone, and it isn’t me. I want you to find out who he’s seeing.”

“I could work out at the gym and follow him,” Phil said.

“That could be difficult,” Shelby said. “Bryan is sneaky and observant. It would be too easy for him to figure out he’s being followed and change his hours like he did with me.”

Shelby slipped off her red high heel. It dangled from her painted toes as she slowly swung her leg back and forth. Phil’s eyes were drawn to those Red Hots toes as if they were little magnets.

“I have a better idea,” Shelby said. “The gym is looking for a receptionist. Maybe Helen could work there as a receptionist. If you wouldn’t mind, I mean.”

“Why would I mind?” Helen said.

“Well, being a detective is highly skilled. Receptionists just answer the phone and check in members. The job may be too low for you.”

“No job is too low,” Helen said, and then looked at Shelby’s startled face. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind working as a receptionist.”

“There are mirrors everywhere, and you could watch Bryan without him knowing he’s being watched,” she said. “You could keep the money you’ll make as a receptionist and I’ll pay, too. That way you get paid double, Helen.”

“Nice,” Phil said. “I can answer phones. I’d make a terrific receptionist.”

“I’m sure you would,” Shelby said. “But the club doesn’t hire guys for the reception desk. That job is for women only. The men are trainers and salesmen. They make more money.”

“That sounds like a lawsuit,” Helen said. “I used to be a director of human relations at a big company. They were careful about gender bias.”

Shelby nervously swung her leg. Her red heel dangled from a single toe. Phil’s eyes were glued to the painted pinkie.

“The club promotes the women to trainers, too, as soon as they buff up,” Shelby said. “The women are so happy to make more money and get away from the desk, they never complain. The club lets the receptionists work out for free, so you could get in shape, too. I mean, if you wanted.You look just fine.”

“I hate working out,” Helen said.

“Me, too,” Shelby said. “At the gym the trainers said an early-morning workout gives you energy for the rest of the day, but it just left me exhausted. Phil, you’re ripped enough to be a trainer, but Bryan already has one. Her name is Jan Kurtz.”

Phil tore his eyes away from Shelby’s tootsies to ask, “Could Bryan be having an affair with this Jan?”

“I don’t think so,” Shelby said. “Carla at the front desk says Jan is having an affair with Nick. He’s another client. Nick is married, but that doesn’t seem to stop anyone there.”

“Sounds like an interesting place,” Phil said. “Helen, you could get paid to be in this soap opera.”

“We’ll need a recent picture of Bryan,” Helen said.

“I have one with me,” Shelby said, pulling a snapshot from her purse. Helen raised one eyebrow. Bryan wore a Speedo that barely covered his private parts. The man had to shave down there, too.

“Isn’t he amazing?” Shelby asked.

“Let me get you a contract, Shelby,” Helen said. “If you come over to my desk, I’ll explain the terms and rates.”

Shelby slipped her red heel back on and trotted over to Helen’s desk. She nodded as Helen talked about the payment schedule, barely glanced at the contract before she signed it, and wrote a check for one thousand dollars.

“These desks are amazing,” she said, running her small, painted paw over the beat-up gray surface.

Phil looked like a pooch that had been patted on the head. He was proud of the battered gunmetal desks. To him, they were vintage. As a final romantic private-eye touch, he’d added a framed poster of Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade.

“They’re so old,” Shelby said. “Did you get them at a museum or something? And who’s the funny-looking guy with the bird statue in the poster?”

“Sam Spade,” Phil said. “From The Maltese Falcon. It’s a classic detective movie.”

“I don’t like old movies,” Shelby said, wrinkling her nose, “but my grandfather watches them. He’s got lots of time now that he’s in assisted living.”

Phil looked like he’d been walloped with a walker. Shelby waved good-bye as she tripped across the terrazzo.

“Thank you, Shelby,” Helen said.

“Bye,” Phil said.

Helen kissed Phil on his ear and said, “See you, Gramps. I’m off to get a job at the gym.”