Free Killer Calories by G. A. McKevett Page B

exactly a saint.
    The job did have its occasional perks.
    â€œHey, I think Miss Phoebe is checking us out right now,” he said, waving cheerfully to the tower.
    Savannah peered up at the belfry and caught the glimmer of sunlight reflecting off a small, round object ... a telescope lens? Just for good measure, she waved, too.
    A second later, they saw a flash of bright, floral print, then the belfry appeared to be empty.
    â€œShe hates getting caught,” he said, laughing. “She ducks down and waits for us to be on our way, then she’s at it again.”
    â€œWhy get a life of your own, when everyone else’s is so much more interesting, huh?”
    â€œPrecisely. The old busybody.”
    Savannah thought of Mr. Biddle in Dirk’s trailer park. Then she remembered her own granny Reid, who was far too busy even to notice, let alone worry about, what others were doing. Not every elderly person was a busybody. And not every busybody was elderly ... as she knew from having the comfortably middle-aged Mrs. Normandy for a neighbor.
    â€œShe was a definite pain in the ass, really got under Kat’s skin. I wonder if she’ll lighten up now that Kat is ...”
    His voice trailed away, and Savannah saw the sadness return to his eyes as he gazed out across the vista of rolling, chaparral-covered hills to the shining sea.
    â€œMaybe it’s time to start back,” she said gently.
    â€œYes,” he replied. “Gotta keep moving. No matter what ...”
    Â 
    Dion’s stimulating company had kept her mind off her body—well, most parts of her body—until they returned. But once they jogged into the central area of the club, Savannah began to feel her fatigue and soreness with a vengeance.
    â€œWhat’s next?” she asked him, trying not to sound as though she were on her last leg, even if it was about to buckle beneath her.
    â€œMassage,” he replied, pointing to a small white cottage, situated in a copse of olive trees beyond the pool house.
    â€œDon’t toy with me,” she said. “Really?”
    â€œAbsolutely. Not every moment here at Royal Palms is spent working out, you know.”
    â€œThank God!”
    A good massage ... or even a mediocre one ... was her favorite thing—next to chocolate, of course.
    â€œJosef’s pretty good,” he told her. “And he’ll even give you breakfast first.”
    â€œBreakfast, too! What more could a woman want?”
    As soon as she spoke the words, she took a last quick look up and down the wonder that was Dion Zeller, former disco king and now exercise coach. Maybe there were a few more things a woman could wish for.
    But one appetite at a time. And right now, what she really wanted was some breakfast and to be rubbed the right way.
    Â 
    â€œThis is breakfast?” She held the tiny cup of green juice up to her nose, took a sniff, and nearly gagged.
    â€œDrink it. It’s wheat grass. It’s good for you.” Josef Orlet, masseur and green-gunk drink enforcer, towered over her. What he lacked in good looks and charm, he made up in sheer size and presence. His voice was a nasal monotone that grated on her nerves almost as much as his equally dull personality.
    At the peak of her karate training, she might have considered taking him on. But, exhausted from the morning run and weak from caffeine withdrawal, she decided it would be easier just to drink the damned stuff and have it over with.
    Maybe not.
    The moment the liquid hit her tongue, her throat closed and refused to let it pass.
    Josef watched her with narrowed eyes, a scowl on his pockmarked face. “Swallow,” he said.
    She shook her head vigorously and looked around for a sink or waste can to spit it into. But the tiny “nutrition station,” as they call it, had no such receptacle. They had probably learned from experience to remove such temptations from their nauseous guests.
    â€œI said,