The Spa Murders

By Nancy Sweetland

THE SPA MURDERS

The CEO of a large corporation is smothered in an herbal wrap in the luxurious company Spa. A second executive is murdered in a steam room. A third is attacked in the sauna and left for dead.

Detectives Bricker and LaCount investigate a host of suspects: the CEO's abused wife and daughter, his mistress, disgruntled employees, even the spa manager and her lover. Two stings set up to capture the killer fail. Can the detectives stop this murderous spree before more deaths occur?

Lead Detective Bricker, yearning for his former life with ex-wife and teenage daughter, has shut himself away from possible romance. But meeting pretty Fern Nichols and her charming little boy during the investigation just may change all that...if he can only look to the future instead of dwelling on his past. Meantime, there are murders to solve.

Thinking of getting a massage at a sumptuous spa?

Reading THE SPA MURDERS may change your mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nancy Sweetland
• Release date: Jan 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311031358

Nancy Sweetland

I've been writing ever since getting my first official rejection at 13. Articles and essays were followed by 7 children's picture books (five now out of print),a chapter book for 3-4 grade readers, and novels for adults from romances to murder mysteries, and some fun stuff in between. I have a large family (7 kids, 5 steps, 31 grandchildren, 6 great grands), so have lots going on all the time. I also teach for the Institute of Children's Literature, and belong to Mystery Writers of America, Romance Writers dog America, Wisconsin Writers Association, the Council for Wisconsin Writers and the Society for Children's Writers and Illustrators. I love to golf, play the piano (not as often as I should), socialize with bridge, dominoes and mah jong. Contact me anytime - I love to hear from readers!

Book preview

The Spa Murders

By

Nancy Sweetland

A Novel

Dedication

To mystery lovers everywhere who get caught up in the Why? of crimes. You are a writer’s inspiration.

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THE SPA MURDERS

The CEO of a large corporation is smothered in an herbal wrap in the luxurious company Spa. A second executive is murdered in a steam room. A third is attacked in the sauna and left for dead.

Detectives Bricker and LaCount investigate a host of suspects: the CEO's abused wife and daughter, his mistress, disgruntled employees, even the spa manager and her lover. Two stings set up to capture the killer fail. Can the detectives stop this murderous spree before more deaths occur?

Lead Detective Bricker, yearning for his former life with ex-wife and teenage daughter, has shut himself away from possible romance. But meeting pretty Fern Nichols and her charming little boy during the investigation just may change all that…if he can only look to the future instead of dwelling on his past. Meantime, there are murders to solve.

Thinking of getting a massage at a sumptuous spa?

Reading The Spa Murders may change your mind.

<><><><><><>

The Spa Murders

Nancy Sweetland

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Nancy Sweetland

Discover other titles by Nancy Sweetland at Smashwords.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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The Spa Murders

CHAPTER ONE

Giles Gilbert's shoulders slumped. The last three hours' meeting with the top dogs at MidNational was a bitch, a real bitch, and it was going to take more than twenty minutes wrapped up like a hot, pungent mummy to ease the tension vice-gripping his every nerve.

He tossed his thick trifocals onto his locker shelf in the restful beige dressing room at the Midna Spa. He slung his expensive pinstriped suit and monogrammed shirt onto hangers and jerk-belted the soft terrycloth robe set out for him.

Closing his eyes, he covered his face with his palms and stood motionless for a moment in front of the mirrored wall.

Damn their corporate hides, treating him like an underling. It was only a matter of time before the Chairman of the Board would step down, and Giles, the logical choice for president of MidNational's cheese division, would move up . . . if everything went as planned.

If.

He knew divisional forces worked against him personally and against his policies and plans for the future. He was pretty sure Hal Marshall was behind the dissension. Gilbert snorted. He was doing--had already done, actually--something about Hal. By this time next week Hal would be history.

Tonight Giles wanted nothing more than to forget MidNa Cheese ever existed.

He squeegeed his toes around the thongs of spanking new foam slippers, wondering what happened to the used ones. Now there was a place the company could better cut expenses than out of his budget.

He stopped momentarily at a urinal, then flip-flopped his way through the soft green eucalyptus-scented inhalation room and into the herbal wrap area. Odd no one else was around this evening.

"There you are!" Helga, the healthy blond Amazon known only by her first name, smiled and gestured her muscled arm toward a sheeted slab in the spare, quiet room. Good, no one was using the other wrap table; Giles didn't feel like talking.

Pine and spruce tonight! Helga chortled, running large cloths from scented tubs through a power wringer. You will dream you are on western mountainside.

He didn't answer, just shivered with anticipation, his arms folded tightly over his thin chest as she sandwich-layered the waist-high table with fan-folds of hot, pungent sheets to completely cocoon his body.

You are ready? Up! She disrobed him, keeping a discrete towel over his pubic area. You lie back now, just so, arms straight by sides. Humming with cheer, she encased him from the neck down, overlapping the scented wraps until he was immobilized. Finally, she wrapped his feet in a hot towel and fitted another like a hood around his head, leaving only his face uncovered. Smiling, she patted his mummified chest and said, Twenty minutes. Now, you don't go away!

Helga hummed her way to the door, dimmed the room to a deep, soothing dusk, and disappeared, the sound of her footsteps cut off by the distant click of a closing door.

Only light filtering from the inhalation area gave any illumination. Go away? As if he could move. Even his fingers could barely twitch. Gilbert didn't like herbal wraps while he was in them, hot, sweaty and virtually helpless, but looked forward to the after-effects: purged in mind as well as body. Tonight he needed it all.

He took as deep a breath as he could inside the wrap’s confines and exhaled slowly. Took another, felt the combination of penetrating pine and warmth work its way up his nasal passages, into his lungs and out again, lifting, easing away tension as his body responded to the moist aromatic heat with his own cleansing sweat.

He closed his eyes. God, it felt good to let go, think about nothing. Not about MidNational and their demands on him personally and on the performance of his division. Not about Edna's incessant, debilitating drinking threatening his future . . . not about Jewel Jordan's sensual manipulation--he felt his groin tighten at the thought of her ample breasts, the provocative swell of her hips--or about Lloyd Foss and Daryl Petrosky, both out to prove they could--and would--do his job better if given the chance . . . wonderful to think . . . about . . . nothing . . .

A sensed movement intruded on his drowse. He opened his eyes and lifted his head slightly to discern a blurry silhouette at the door. A woman? A small man? He squinted, but without his glasses could only distinguish some figure a dozen feet away. For a split second he struggled to sit up, then lay back, annoyed.

What do you want? he demanded, resenting this break into his relaxation. His twenty minutes weren’t nearly up yet. He was still warm, and he always began to chill before Helga let him up.

The figure didn’t speak.

Gilbert blinked, looked again. The door was empty.

Who's there! His voice, now querulous, echoed off the ceramic walls.

Another small sound--a footstep? An intake of breath?--from somewhere near, inside the room. A whiff of scent he couldn’t place.

Damn it! Who’s there? He was unable to twist enough to view the area directly behind his head.

No reply. Another footstep.

In spite of his heated wraps, a violent chill slithered from his head down through every inch of his immobile body. Someone was in the room. Why didn't they speak?

Suddenly a towel-wrapped head, swaddled completely except for a slit across shadowed eyes, loomed above him.

Gilbert sucked in his last breath of pine and spruce. His terrified, choked No! was barely audible. Eyes wide, he stared up into the blurred white of the pillow descending to end his life.

THE PREVIOUS FRIDAY NIGHT:

MidNa's upper management gathered on the expensive stone-laid patio of Gilbert's lakeshore home as they did every September--same elegant party, the same well-dressed people, give or take a few--as Giles and Edna Gilbert hosted what Edna referred to as the Fall Gala, a formal wrap up of the company's accomplishments. Giles always wondered whether she meant to be as sarcastic as she sounded.

Sort of a rah-rah, for a good year past and a better one ahead, he announced in more or less the same words as he looked over his guests--Edna called them hostages--and toasted to getting the next year off on the right foot.

Across the patio, Jewel Jordan, Gilbert's Executive Assistant--no secretary label for her, thank you--almost snorted out loud. She tossed her sun-tipped not-a-hair-out-of-place head and muttered, Sure. But the 'right foot' depends on me. At forty, Jewel knew the corporate ropes very well; she tied many of the knots in them herself. As she studied her boss she thought once again how truly dangerous, intentionally or not, one man could be . . . and how destructive Giles Gilbert would have been as President without her direction. And her protection. Tall, heavy-set but solid, Jewel's appearance fit the powerful position she held. She toasted her glass with the others. Not to would certainly raise eyebrows.

Enough of those were going to rise on Monday when what she already knew became general knowledge. Certainly none of these employees--Gilbert's MidNa Family--knew, except Daryl Petrosky, Vice President of Sales.

Jewel wielded a lot of influence over Giles Gilbert, boss over Petrosky. It was only Friday. Maybe there was still time to change Gilbert’s plan. If she could get him alone.

Did you say something, Jewel? Anna Keene asked, stepping into the taller woman's line of vision. Do I detect just a tiny smidgeon of unrest? Jewel knew Anna, assistant to Daryl Petrosky, reported to Gilbert any undercurrents throughout MidNational's cheese division.

Nothing you'd care to know about, Anna. Jewel flicked a non-existent speck off her purple chiffon sleeve. Really. You don't have to know everything. She raked her gaze over Anna's body. What a lovely dress you're wearing. Too bad you couldn't find it in a color better for you.

Anna shrugged slim shoulders. Well-kept and looking ten years younger than her fifty-five, she held her own with the pushy younger woman any time and knew Jewel was aware of it. Just as they both knew Jewel became Giles Gilbert’s assistant by sleeping with him--still did, in fact.

Not that Anna hadn't had the opportunity even before her husband died. Now, given the inclination, Anna thought she might compete there, too, sure she could do a better job both in and out of bed than Jewel, younger or not.

Jewel just thought she ran the company--and Anna, not as heavy-handed, could do her job as well without annoying half as many people. And she could really use the extra three thousand dollars the president's assistant was paid. And the company car. And the generous bonus at year end.

Ignoring Jewel, Anna looked across the elegant terrace at Giles, resplendent in impeccable tuxedo and black tie, master of the game. She knew it was a game to him . . . and she had never quite forgiven Giles for the way he'd played his pieces. She never intended to.

Golden streaks of late September sun clarified the colors in guests' drinks and slanted across the Gilberts' gardener-tended acreage, flaming the yellow and bronze of late-blooming dahlias and chrysanthemums, gilding the lawn which sloped to the shore of Lake Crystal. A perfect early fall evening.

Perfect for a little action, thought Lynn Foss as she sauntered toward the steps where Daryl Petrosky stood alone, surveying the view. She slipped her arm through his, ignoring his surprise, and gestured toward the lake.

Beautiful, isn't it, Daryl? What a showplace. She smiled up at his Greek coin profile and felt a warm, stirring pleasure in the strength of his arm even through the cloth of his expensive tuxedo. It had obviously been fitted for him. No black tie here; his was white over a fashionable wing collar. The only color sparked from his diamond shirt studs and solitaire cuff links. Daryl Petrosky came from old money and every piece of his wardrobe showed it. Lynn liked the smell, the feel--even the thought--of old money. Actually, any money.

She felt Petrosky's muscles ripple under her fingers. She did admire a man who kept himself in healthy, well-toned shape, as she did. She knew MidNa's VP of Sales was attracted to her--wasn’t everyone?--and it amused her to make sure his wife Sally witnessed an overt flirtation now and then.

Not that Lynn would actually do anything . . . not right now, when her own husband Lloyd would surely be the man chosen to step into the President's shoes when Giles Gilbert moved up in the parent company. Still, it was fun to play in smoke, if not to fan the flames a little. And, who knew--if her Lloyd wasn't chosen for MidNa's presidency, and Daryl Petrosky was--well, then, it wouldn't hurt to have kept the possibilities open.

Lynn looked down at her trim, Barbie-busted figure molded by hours on the Spa's exercise machines. Big Sally Petrosky couldn't hold a candle to me if I really tried to seduce her husband. Lynn sent a tilted, aqua-lensed glance up at Petrosky. Want to take a stroll around the rose garden?

He raised his eyebrows, then smiled. Why not? They started down the steps.

Back on the patio, Sally Petrosky pursed her lips and sent a There she goes again eye-roll to Lynn’s husband Lloyd across the hors d'oeuvres table. He simply smiled and raised his glass. Was the man blind? Didn't he see what Lynn was doing? Or--she scowled at the shrimp dip--didn't he give a damn? Maybe living with a flirt grew a callous over caring. Lloyd Foss was tall, attractive, athletically built, smart, good with people . . . what did Lynn want anyway? And, Sally wondered, what would she do to get it?

She felt a hand on her arm and looked down at little Fern Nichols, Lloyd Foss's executive secretary, who said, Hello . . . and hesitated before finishing, . . . Sally.

Sally swallowed a smoked oyster on an almost non-existent cracker and grinned, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Hi, Fern. You have almost as much trouble with MidNa's 'let's be buddies, first names all around' philosophy as I do, don't you?

Fern made a face and bobbed her fluffy blond hair. She sighed. I surely do. Tiny and slender, nearly a foot shorter than Sally, Fern was built more like a fourth-grader than the thirty-year-old mother she was.

Sally knew Fern had been married to a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers, and every time she towered over the smaller person Sally wondered how the sex act had been accomplished without crushing the little female. Look at it this way, Sally said, reaching for a toothpick-skewered ripe olive and pineapple chunk, If we were neighbors, we'd probably be friends. Then first names would come naturally.

Fern brightened. True. Thanks. I'd like to ask you for a lift, if you're going to the Spa in the morning and it's not too much trouble. My car's on the blink.

Say no more. You're right on my way. I'll pick you up at what? Nine? Um! Sally smacked her lips. Try that shrimp dip, it's terrific.

Standing next to Giles, apart from the crowd, Edna Gilbert, a petite Gypsy wearing a bright, long-sleeved fuchsia sheath, lifted her third double scotch and said, Bottoms up, Giles. Your party's a big success, as always.

He surveyed the small groups standing about, but his expression didn't hold the satisfied warmth a man might show for a wife who had done everything possible to ensure a perfect event. He didn't smile or look into her eyes. "Yes. Our party. Thank you, Edna."

Thank you, Edna. She made a face and grasped his sleeve. Look at me, you cold bastard, I spend the whole damn week getting everything just right-- her voice rose, --for this goddam sham, and all you can say is 'Thank you, Edna'?

He glanced quickly over the others, hoping no one heard her outburst. Damn her, she never showed any spunk unless she was drunk. He reached out to take her glass but she pulled it away. Please, he said. Don't make a scene.

"Please? Did you say please?" She looked up at him for a long moment, tears spilling down her cheeks. Then she turned and walked with extreme care through the French doors.

Giles made a move as though to follow her, thought better of it and turned back to the party. She could wait. She was asking for it this time, for sure, but she would still be there when he came to her. She always was. She'd be sorry. Not quite so drunk, maybe, and so sorry. Then it would be her turn to say please, and she said it so very well . . .

Lloyd! Gilbert tossed his head and walked into the party, his voice hearty, cheerful. Are we on for tennis tomorrow afternoon?

CHAPTER TWO

In another part of Kirkville, halfway between Gilbert's elegant section and the low-income Riverview area, Ross Bricker, Deputy Inspector of Criminal Investigations for Babcock County, slumped in front of his television set.

He'd read the paper, taken in the mail, slapped slices of baloney and cheese between whole wheat bread and opened a can of Carling's Black Label. Chewing without tasting, he watched the local early evening news.

Friday nights and Sundays were the worst. On weekdays he occupied his mind with department problems, even stretched his job into evenings. There was always paperwork. Saturdays usually presented some needed maintenance around the house, at least for most of the day. But Friday nights were for couples to unwind from the week, go out for a fish fry, see a movie, do something. God, he missed that.

He used his teeth to rip open a bag of ridged potato chips and tossed one to his golden retriever, who caught it in mid-air, swallowed it whole and looked at the bag, expecting another.

Not good for dogs, Watson, Old Boy, Bricker said, but he tossed two more, remembering the fun Chrissy had naming the dog. You're a detective, Dad. She'd grinned, her freckled face alight with the excitement of at last owning a puppy. Like Sherlock Holmes. You need a Watson.

At forty-two, Bricker was six-three and well-built, solidly attractive and pleasant-mannered. He loved sturdy food and continually fought off the extra ten pounds that seemed determined to win in his on-going battle to stay at a hundred eighty-five. Thick, and wavy brown hair showed just a tinge of grey.