Dead N' Fit

By Kat Cazanav

Private Investigator, Poppy Rae Mamadou, has a problem. She's smelling roses again. And where there's roses there's murder.

When Poppy Rae's workout at Cave Play Gym uncovers the grisly remains of its health guru and owner, David Arc , she decides exercise is highly overrated.

Then again, so is having a creepy ability sniffing stiffs, crushing on sexy profiler Luc Montrose and simply trying to stay alive. With reporters, the cops and a killer, nipping at her heels, Poppy Rae finds herself drawn to the main suspect in the case; David Arc's partner, Josh Gilroy. Josh is convinced he's next on the killer's list when his top blogger, Melissa Wynn disappears two days after Arc's murder.

Now it's up to Poppy Rae to find Melissa, nab the killer, prove Josh's innocence and avoid another heartbreak with Luc Montrose. Teaming up with her crazy sidekick, Adele Winters, it's do or die for the twosome as they follow a trail of deceptively dangerous clues while hunky profiler, Luc Montrose, watches from the sidelines, hoping to capture not only a killer but Poppy Rae's heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kat Cazanav
• Release date: Apr 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311994486

Kat Cazanav

Kat Cazanav graduated from the University of California at Los Angeles with a B.A. in film. After working in television and starting a family, she moved to the Pacific Northwest. She shares her life with family and pets on five acres of woodland. When not writing you can find her reading and when not reading she is usually writing. On occasion when writer's block hits, walking through her favorite neighborhood in Seattle will usually spark an idea.

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Dead N’ Fit

The Virgin Detective Series - Book 2

Copyright © 2016 by Catherine Lisson

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Editing: Deb Hartwell at Hartwell Editing

Cover Art: RBA Designs

Formatting by Champagne Formats

Table of Contents

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS

IT WAS MY FAULT, I suppose. I slammed the punching bag too hard and now it dripped something suspicious on the floor near my feet.

What the heck is THAT? Adele croaked, staring at the puddle.

I don’t know. Could be someone’s sweat.

Adele made a face. Seriously? This don’t look like mushy yoga mats or yucky wet resistance bands at the gym. This is alot grosser.

So what is it?

Don’t know, but I got a feelin’ Momba’s payin’ us a visit. We’re screwed, Poppy Rae. Screwed like no other.

No kidding. Screwed was an understatement. But if I had to blame this event on anyone I’d say it was me, all me. And maybe my mentor, partner and crazy lazy friend, Adele Winters. A stiff seem to follow us wherever we went.

But maybe I should start this story a few hours earlier, before all hell broke loose and I became the victim of my own darkest quirk.

It was springtime and cherry blossoms dotted the Seattle streets. I’d been an intern at my parents’ P.I. firm for all of one year and now I stood a good chance of getting my license as a private investigator. All I had to do was behave myself and not bring attention to my ability: picking up the scent of dead people. Rare and entertaining to no one but myself. I choose to blame this peculiar skill on an insufferable bitch of a girlfriend who’d pushed me out of a moving go-cart when I was four. I’d bumped my head and here I was today with what neurologists referred to as ‘high level’ stiff-smelling ability.

When I arrived at the office that fateful morning, I found everyone hard at work. Since the city of Seattle was giving the waterfront a facelift, we’d been forced to move our office space from the docks at the ferry terminal to a deserted shoe factory five blocks uphill. The ambiance was nothing to write home about. Instead of water views and changing skylines, we had cement floors and prison windows.

My mom, Rona Rae, sat at the front desk reading the most recent file on someone missing while she drank her coffee. Her glasses rested on the tip of her nose and her eyes were bloodshot from reading so many case files. Inhaling seedy details from strangers’ lives was equivalent to reading the rag sheets. It fed her soul with gossip.

You look terrible, my mom said as I approached her desk. Wait. Here. She picked up a bag lying on the floor and rummaged around for something. Seconds later she handed me her latest concoction in a tiny glass vial. I was up half the night making that for you. Don’t tell me I don’t care, because I do. You worry me.

What’s this called? I turned the vial upside down and shook it slightly. Tiny flecks of glowing red and orange floated to the bottom. It seemed there was no cure for my quirk. Trust me. I’d tried everything. Then my mom started experimenting. First it was Vicks VapoRub under my nose, then strange elixirs. Hot sauce seemed to do the trick. Hell’s Inferno Bhutt Sauce to be exact. But my mother was relentless in her pursuit of other, more powerful, options that would burn my nose hairs to a crisp and kill my quirk. Today was one of those days.

My mom’s blue eyes twinkled. I call it Demon Darts.

You sure you shouldn’t call it ‘Demon farts’? I laughed at my own joke as usual, since no one else thought I was funny, except for Luc Montrose, a hunky profiler who’d gone missing nine months ago. He only laughed when he was relaxed. Or horny. But never both. Gosh, I missed that guy.

I sent away to Bolivia for the chili peppers, she said, annoyed. "It’s just a precaution in case Hell’s Inferno loses its potency. To make this concoction you grind loco peppers with tomato and Bolivian herbs called llajua. Stunk up my entire kitchen. You don’t need it right now, right? I mean, you’re okay? No funny odors, no strange hunches?"

"Nope. No deadies in my future as long as I take my Bhutt Sauce.

Gosh, that sounded gross.

I tucked the latest lethal brew in my back pocket. Anything going on?

Since you left the house twenty minutes ago? Nada.

Business had been on the slow side and since I’d been kicked out of my apartment months earlier due to unforeseen bad publicity on a murder case, I was now living at home. Needless to say I wanted out. Big time. At twenty-three, I needed my big girl panties back and I wanted to find a boyfriend. If not a boyfriend, just get laid and if not get laid, maybe once a week sexting with the cute dog walker down the street. The ‘Virgin’ thing was getting old fast.

I mean, job wise. Anything going on here at the office?

Well, Dad and Milt are going over a case in his office and Adele is napping. Didn’t get much sleep last night. She leaned forward and whispered. She has a new lover, but don’t ask. He’s an animal.

Got it. I’d been handling the usual simple cases as an intern for Adele Winters, an ex-detective transplant from New Orleans. My father had hired her to watch over me more for her skill set, which amounted to scaring bad guys away. But the truth was, she had invaluable talents, like breaking and entering, climbing over walls, sitting on a perp until he cried ‘uncle,’ and hording stuff, including food, clothing, and men. Not particularly in that order. At six-four and two hundred twenty pounds, my dad figured if she didn’t work out doing surveillance she could at least sit on someone. On the up side, the past year of working with her had taught me a lot. I knew more about Momba and King Zulu, an effigy she kept tucked away in her bosom, than anyone else around here.

On my way to Adele’s office, I passed my dad’s door and noticed it was open. I poked my head inside and waved ‘hi’. He was too engrossed in an argument with Milt to wave back. As an ex-cop, he constantly grumbled about nothing, but ran a tight ship. Milt, his partner from the old days, was short, skinny, and a walking billboard for OCD. This made him a terrific detective. He loved details. As a matter of fact, his idea of solving cases had everything to do with transportation schedules in Seattle. Ask the guy when the next ferry left for Bainbridge Island and he’d rattle it off without hesitation. Ask him when the next bus arrived at 4th and Pine. No problem. He’d give a date and time, even an alternate bus schedule two blocks over. Now, the two old timers were in a heated debate about a new bus line sprouting up around Georgetown, a ‘burb a few miles from downtown Seattle. What sort of ramifications would this have on the congested streets in the morning? Would the bus schedule stay true to its times or be off by five minutes, ten minutes, or an entire half hour?

Snore.

I entered Adele’s office and found her sprawled out on her Barcalounger, taking a catnap. Her desk looked like a tornado had hit it. Piles of papers and files littered the top with an open box of doughnuts in the middle of the dump.

I approached her desk, allowing my hand to hover over the box. Hey, Adele, mind if I take one of these?

No sooner did the words leave my mouth than she catapulted forward and slapped my hand away. Those doughnuts have my name on ’em. She removed her Ray-Bans and plopped them atop her head. See. Right there. She pointed her turquoise fingernail at twelve doughnuts missing a chunk out of each one.

You were sampling again? I asked in a scolding tone.

I’m grazing. Part of my diet routine. I buy a dozen of something and take a taste of each one. Then I fall asleep and burn off the calories. Very French.

‘Very fattening. They’re doughnuts.

Not if you graze. Look how skinny the French are.

I brushed a handful of crumbs from the seat of a chair behind me and sat down. I think you’re missing the point.

No, I’m not. Nibbling every ten minutes keeps your blood sugar stable and your weight manageable. Anyway, kills the down time between breakfast and lunch, sittin’ around doin’ nothin’. She reached under her desk and produced a bottle of red wine. She placed it on her desk and kept talking. Moderation is what the French do. That’s why they live so long.

They live a long time because they eat sensibly. I eyed her as she poured wine into a shot glass. Granted, this might be part of the grazing thing, but at 9 a.m. in the morning, I wasn’t so sure.

She took a slug, then poured another. This ones for you, Poppy Rae. Take a bite of a doughnut then some wine. Then we’ll talk men.

Business.

Ok. Businessmen.

I wouldn’t get very far this morning until we did this ritual so I obliged with a bite of glazed doughnut and a half swish of Merlot. I then brought out my mom’s Demon Darts hot sauce and placed it on the desk. It was poking me in the butt.

Adele’s eyes locked on the tiny flask. She raised an eyebrow. Holy Momba of Heaven. Another one?

Yep. Demon Darts. Blows the hair off a camel’s back.

I have to hand it to her. She’s relentless when it comes to taming your affliction.

Ability.

Whatever. Mind if I try it?

Sure. I pushed the small bottle her way while we continued to talk. So business is slow this past week. What’s there to do around here?

Adele unscrewed the lid and took a whiff. She made a face. I’m goin’ to the manicurist and then the gym. You can come along and recycle yourself.

Some girls might take offense at that comment but I didn’t. Building muscle seemed like a reasonable suggestion, given my skinny appearance and my hands were always dotted with ink from doing sketches of friends and family. It’s what I’d majored in: forensic facial recognition. But when the tech software became more popular than using an artist to render a criminal’s face twenty years in the future, students like me were left in the dust with a wasted talent. These days, my dad used me more than the police department. I used to keep the drawings taped on a wall in my apartment, but since I’d moved home, the drawings sat in a box on the top shelf of my closet. I aimed to move sooner than later and bring them out once I had my own place.

I hate manicures, I said to Adele.

She wasn’t listening. Her focus centered on a hot sauce smothered doughnut. She broke the doughnut in two and handed me half in a toasting gesture. So we’ll forget the manicure and work on your bingo wings. She took a bite and winced. Wow. You sure this is legal?

No. Is it that hot?

She looked at me, beginning to tear up. Oh yeah. Hot and nasty. Just the way I like it. She took another bite and her honey-brown skin tone flushed red. She wiped her eyes.

I put our conversation on hold, took a lick of the evil sauce and caught my breath. Phew. Awful-icious. I did my share of coughing and gagging. The fire in my belly roared its ugly head and I farted so loud the walls shook. I covered up the embarrassing act with a thought. So, I need to move out and I can’t find a place. Any suggestions?

Adele closed the lid on the vial and handed it back to me. She began fanning herself with a stack of papers. Well, Seattle rents are very high. A roommate might be good.

No one has roommates in Seattle. I can’t find anything and I’m losing my mind. Living at home is driving me nuts.

Adele popped two buttons on her shirt and fanned her cleavage. King Zulu, the plastic effigy peeked his head out the top of her bra. I got a room in my attic if you want to stay with me for awhile.

Isn’t that where you keep your—

She smiled. Toys.

Sex toys. I corrected her.

Her fanning sped up. I’m offering you free rent for one month. Maybe two if you don’t whine. I hate whiners. That’s the best I can do. The room’s a little cramped with all my stuff and the bed’s a single with bed rails, but not because the room’s child proof because it’s not—

I’ll take it.

She stopped fanning herself. You will?

Yes. It’s sounds perfect.

Adele grinned. Now that’s the attitude I like to hear comin’ out of your mouth. Ready to take a gamble on life. She tossed her makeshift fan of papers into the trash can behind her and rose. Let’s go.

Where we going?

Cave Play.

You belong to THAT gym?

She rolled her eyes. Don’t be a prude. All those rumors about sexercise are baloney. So you comin’ or not? First I graze, then I work out. Then I get my nails done. I’m on a tight schedule so let’s allez-y! She grabbed her purse, and tooted merrily out of the office. I followed her thinking I’d just thrown myself under the bus with a French Cajun crazy.

CAVE PLAY WAS THE BRAINCHILD of fitness guru, David Arc. If you wanted to seriously buff up with hard-core trainers, grueling workouts, and surround yourself with the best looking people in the world, this was the place to do it. With loads of contraptions straining every muscle in your bod, including the ones you rarely thought about, such as pelvic, penis, butt hole, and tongue, there was no excuse for being flabby, saggy, and lifeless. Period. Franchises were popping up all over the country. What had started as a one-story workout space on First Hill evolved into a five-story high tech gym fest in South Lake Union. The rich techie set came here in droves. Hitting the place at 8 a.m. felt like rush hour at 5:30. Adele garnered a lot of attention around the gym, which she mistakenly assumed was because of her friendly personality, but I think everyone was scared shitless of her. Looming barefoot at over six feet, there was only one Adele Winters and no one knew what to make of her. After she signed me in as a guest, we changed in the locker room. Adele wiggled into her skintight Lycra neon-orange yoga skivvies. I borrowed her neon-green matching outfit. I must admit Lycra is truly amazing. It can stretch from a size four to a limo size without effort. Sometimes life is generous, you know?

We moved from one machine to the next. Adele bench-pressed 180 while I pressed eighty. She ran three miles. I ran one. She leg curled fifty reps. I leg curled, period. No matter what I did, she outperformed me along with every other person in the gym. After two hours I prayed we were done.

"Not so fast, mon chere. Adele wiped the sweat off her forehead. One more routine. Remember those bingo wings?"

Entering the wrestling room, we found several hunky guys and gals rolling around on the floor groping each other. I wasn’t sure if this was wrestling or just grabbing some ass, but neither action appealed to me. I felt sticky with sweat and topping out at barely five-foot-one, I was still feeling the effects of that hot sauce on a doughnut with a spot of wine. My stomach gurgled like a volcano about to erupt. I’d had enough exercise for a week but Adele would hear none of my complaints.

Come on, girl, remember what I said? No whining. If you’re gonna live in my attic, you gotta be strong.

Why?

Because I’ve got bed rails up there. Catch my drift?

Not exactly, but the thought terrified me so I said, I don’t want to wrestle with you, Adele.

She gave a gut-wrenching laugh. If! Hell no. I’d suffocate you, girl. We’re gonna throw some punches. She nodded to the four punching bags in a far corner of the room. At the moment, they were all occupied by big, buff bros.

I don’t see an available bag, I said relieved.

You wish. She walked away.

Again, I followed dutifully, only because I wanted to move out of my parents’ house pronto. How much torture would I endure before I finally said Enough and went back to living at home? It wasn’t going to happen. Tie me up and spoon-feed me regurgitated baby dribble. I didn’t care what Adele made me do. I was a willing whore to her insanity.

I found her standing in front of a plain grey door in the hallway off the wrestling room. I knew immediately what she was up to but the real question was, why?

Why are you picking the lock on this door, for Christ’s sake? I whispered under my breath. You’ll get us arrested.

She looked at me as if I had no business telling her what to do. This is the private room where the big shots go to work out. There’s only one mondo punching bag and it’s ours for the next hour. She used her nylon nail like a credit card, slipping it between the door and the jam, up and down a few times. Seconds later, a faint click told me we’d broken into a room off limits to everyone except the select few.

Now I freaked out. I grabbed her arm and stopped her. Wait. What if we get caught in here?

We won’t. I checked the roster. No one’s scheduled to use the room until four p.m. today. She pushed open the door with the toe of her spin shoe and motioned for me to step inside. It’s just a room with a workout bag, Poppy Rae. Not a torture chamber. Let’s go. She moved past me.

I hated breaking the law, especially when I was so close to getting my P.I. license. But Adele had been doing this all her life. Breaking and entering places for the greater good of something or other. Solving a case, revamping her bod, checking up on a cheating boyfriend. It was always innocent and a lone punching bag in a cold sterile room felt benign.

At least I thought so until I stepped foot inside the room.

It was a dark, private space, like the gym’s name suggested; a cave to play in. Vacant of everything except a long bench against a wall, my eyes fixed on the large black leather workout bag hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room. A spotlight fell over it, highlighting the appearance of status and importance. A strong antiseptic smell permeated the air and reminded me of a