Free Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas (Beauty Queen Mysteries No. 2) by Diana Dempsey

see reminds me of a sauna. Except that it is so freaking cold!
    Frank shuts the door behind us. “Three minutes start now! Move! Do squats! Stamp your feet! Jump!”
    With so little room, we keep slamming into each other like billiard balls on a half-size pool table. And boy, are our clogs noisy. It’s as if we’re performing a whacked-out version of “Riverdance.”
    Every inch of skin that isn’t covered stings like hell. Steam rises from our bodies like nobody’s business. In short order I’m having as much trouble seeing in front of me as I was at Sally Anne and Frank’s wedding.
    And look what happened there.
    I’m getting close to a panic attack when the 3-minute warning goes off and Frank lets us out. It’s like the best alarm ever. We race like crazy women past the enormous steel door and start stripping off our anti-frostbite clothes before we even clear the anteroom. My thighs are so shiny and red, they look like they could be hanging from hooks in a meat locker.
    Frank yells at us to keep moving but we don’t need him to. We are all jumping and shrieking and running around and giggling and then … whoosh! —all of a sudden I feel higher than a kite.
    “Oh my gosh!” I screech. “I feel fabulous!”
    “I do, too!” one of the other women yells.
    “My name’s Happy but it should be Ecstatic!” No offense to Jason but I don’t think I’ve ever felt this good. It’s like the highest of highs has taken over my body and my mind, too. I feel on top of the world, maybe even better than on that life-changing night when I learned I was the new Ms. America.
    Man, this cryotherapy thing could be addictive. I know my Polish ancestors are to be credited with such clever and useful inventions as the bulletproof vest and talking movies—plus I always think they must have had something to do with pickles—but they really helped come up with a winner this time.
    “I’ll let you do it again,” Frank tells me after the other women have disappeared to have facials to build on the enhancement the cryogenic treatment has given them.
    “Really? Would you?” Since I am exhibiting no evidence of frostbite and feel like a new queen from bow to stern, I am keen to repeat this experience.
    “Sure. I’m running the thing all week. I can’t crank it up just for you but if we’re shy a body or two, I’ll slide you in.”
    “Thank you, Frank, I really appreciate it.”
    He lumbers away and I realize that the more I see of Frank Richter—apart from mysterious cash handoffs, that is—the more I like him. I need to keep that in check so I don’t hamper my investigation.
    My workout is quick but intense, given the endorphins running riot in my system. I’m still quite jaunty when I meet up with Shanelle a few hours later to go to our first dance rehearsal with the Sparklettes, who are basically a sexed-up version of the famous Radio City Music Hall Rockettes.
    “Your skin has never looked so good, girl,” Shanelle tells me.
    I must agree. My face literally glows. I feel like a human moonbeam.
    A few hours later, I realize how beneficial it was that I started out the rehearsal wildly energetic. I don’t know how I could have gotten through it otherwise.
    On the very stage where we will perform Friday and Saturday nights, we meet the fifteen non-laid-up Sparklettes and their trainer, a retired member named Elaine Shreve. She has a little cap of brunette hair and must be the fittest woman I’ve ever seen on the rump side of fifty.
    Everyone, including Shanelle and me, is wearing a spandex camisole with jazz pants or capris or a flounced skirt over leggings. Our dance wear is new because we had to race out to buy it. We’ve already been presented with our shoes, which are silver with a cushioned sole, a strap over the ankle, and a flared 3-inch heel. “The larger strike zone provides greater stability,” Elaine explained.
    “Welcome, Happy and Shanelle!” Elaine now says. “We’re thrilled that the Ms.