The Case of the Unhealthy Health Club: A Walter Dure "Hard Case" Mystery, #2

By David Staats

A classic whodunit with a lawyer sleuth.
The death of a middle-aged businessman in a health club had all the appearance of an unfortunate fluke. But the businessman's young trophy wife, now widow, thinks otherwise. She brings suit against the health club for negligence.
It falls to dogged and independent-minded lawyer Walter Dure to defend the case.
Dure comes to believe that more than negligence was involved. Was it murder?  If so, the method was most mysterious. The medical examiner rules the death to be from natural causes. Therefore, police refuse to investigate the case.
But an insurance investigator is more than willing to investigate. Who will win a three-way legal battle? The respectable ex-wife? The gorgeous young widow? Or the creative insurance investigator?
And what will the prize be? Millions of dollars? Or a life sentence?
"A great cozy mystery with plenty of twists and turns, suspense and mystery." -- buzymomof2

 

By David Staats, author of The Case of the Missing Department Head.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newtext Publishing
• Release date: Nov 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781946797032

Book preview

Prologue

WORDS OF AGUR, SON of Jakeh: Three things there are, too mysterious for me, four that I do not understand: The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent on a rock; the way of a ship on the sea; and the way of a maid with a man.

Successful, middle-aged businessman Richard Hargrave hired stunning, statuesque, 23-year old Vanessa to work as a trainer in the health club he owned. In due course – however these things come about – he divorced his wife, Elizabeth, and married Vanessa. Elizabeth asked for the health club in the divorce settlement: Richard, knowing that both women would continue to love him, each in her own way, agreed, on the condition that Elizabeth keep Vanessa on as a trainer. On his visits to the health club, relations among the three seemed cordial. Out of this situation arose The Case of the Unhealthy Health Club, another hard case for attorney Walter Dure.

1.  Preparations For a Sentimental Journey

THE DOCTOR WITHDREW his finger, peeled the disposable glove from his hand and shucked it into the wastebasket with a practiced gesture. You’re prostate’s fine, he said.

Richard Hargrave pulled up his briefs and sat up on the examining table. He could feel the slimy residue of the lubricating jelly the doctor had slathered on his finger before inserting it. The things I do for my family, he said.

The things I do for my patients, said the doctor, stepping to the sink in the little examination room and lathering his hands well with soap. The doctor was a lively little man, at sixty-one a few years older than his patient. He had a round, cherubic face and a bald pate fringed with short, gray hair. He rubbed and scrubbed his hands as if they had been unprotected by the glove, and when he had rinsed them, he dried them thoroughly with three rough, taupe-colored paper towels which he then threw in the wastebasket on top of the gloves.

He approached his patient again. Raise your shirt.

Hargrave raised his undershirt almost to his armpits. The doctor put the cold metal chestpiece of his stethoscope against Hargrave’s back. Deep breath.

Hargrave took in a long breath, extending his stomach and expanding his well-muscled chest until he felt like Charles Atlas.

Let it out, slowly. The doctor moved the small metal disc to a different site on Hargrave’s back. Deep breath ... Let it out. On his chest this sequence was repeated twice more. Excellent, remarked the doctor as he shoved the chestpiece into the side pocket of his white doctor’s smock.

He drew the wheeled doctor’s stool to him and moved to a small desk where he sat down to fill out the paperwork, engaging his patient in talk while he did so. Even though this was just an insurance examination, he liked to get to know something about his patients.

It’s not too often a man your age takes out a three million dollar insurance policy, said the doctor.

I’m going on a trip, said Hargrave.

The doctor’s pen made a hollow scratching sound as he wrote rapidly on the paper on his clipboard.

Hargrave continued: I don’t like to fly. But it seems that if you want to go to Europe you gotta fly. He was being more talkative than normal to try to dissipate and disguise his embarrassment. It makes me nervous. And then there’s those crazies trying to blow up planes.

The doctor was half muttering to himself and half talking to his patient while he checked the reports that had come in: EKG’s fine ... blood work is fine ... He was checking boxes and making notes on the papers. Blood pressure, 124 over 78 ... that’s good ... lungs clear ...

So who knows? said Hargrave. I may not come back alive. I’m buying the insurance policy for my kids and my wife. The things I do for my family. He shook his head.

The doctor finished with his paperwork. He swiveled around to face his patient, and digging his heels into the floor walked his stool closer to Richard. "For a 58-year old, you’re in great shape. You could lose some weight ... couldn’t we all? but basically I have no problem okaying you for the policy."

I guess the time I spend in the health club is paying off, said Hargrave.

So you’re going to Europe? said the doctor.

Yep. It’s kind of a delayed honeymoon. I married my second wife three years ago and at that time I was too busy with work for a honeymoon. But my daughter got married and is on her honeymoon in Europe, and my wife and I are going to join them after they’ve had three weeks on their own. Give ‘em some privacy, you know.

The doctor nodded. You’ve been to Europe before, he ventured.

Nope. First time. For my wife, too. We’re looking forward to it.

The doctor stood up, regretting that he had no more time to hear about his patient’s domestic affairs. The presence of other patients, waiting, always more patients, was like a column of mercury pressing down on him, not in milligrams, but kilograms. He shook hands with the patient and was ready to leave, but the patient had something else.

Doctor, can you please rush the paperwork? I applied for this policy three weeks ago and didn’t realize it would take so long. I’m leaving for Europe on the sixth, and today is the first. The whole point of the thing is to be covered while I’m traveling.

The physical is the last step in the process, said the doctor. They don’t want to spend the money for the exam until they know that everything else is okay. I’ll fax the paperwork in right away. It’s the best I can do.

Thank you doctor. I appreciate it.

Enjoy your trip, said the doctor and briskly left the examination room.

HARGRAVE’S DAUGHTER, Stephanie, was on the phone from Europe. I should be able to make it, he said.

Daddy! You have to make it!

I’m trying. Problems at work, you know.

Oh, it’s always that.

You and Adam are having a good time?

A great time. But, Daddy, you have to come.

I’m trying. How was Rome?

"We loved Rome. What could be so important at work that you would miss this trip?"

I’m not going to miss this trip. Vanessa and I are looking forward to it. It’s just that something at work has to be cleared up first. I’ll make it.

You’d better. This may be our last time to ... you know, have a vacation together. Now that I’m married, we’ll be moving to Tucson for Adam’s new job ... and all the reservations are made, right? and you’ve paid for your flight, right?

Stephie, don’t worry. I’d say the chances are ninety percent I’ll be able to come.

But you always do this. Just like the ‘family vacation’ to the Outer Banks. And the one to Shenandoah. Tears of frustration could be heard in her voice.

Look, Stephie, it’s work that pays for all of this. Certain things have to get done. You’re certainly old enough to know the facts of life.

I guess I am. Bye, Daddy – love you. Click.

I’ll see you soon, he said to the vacant line.

WHEN STEPHANIE HARGRAVE had been in high school, she had casually known a girl named Christine Bonneville. That girl, now a young woman the same age as Stephanie, had just completed her first year of law school and was working a summer job at the Law Office of Walter Dure in Canterbury. On the day when Stephanie had called her dad to make sure that he would not disappoint her by begging off the trip to Europe, Ms. Bonneville had had to use her lunch hour to take her mother’s car to the shop to have the air conditioning looked at.

When Ms. Bonneville, in her blue and white dress, entered the waiting room of the car repair shop, a middle-aged man reading a magazine shifted in his seat and sat up straighter. The service advisor, who had short, straight, reddish-blond hair and a gaunt, angular face, greeted her with a certain awe which he tried to disguise. His eyes flickered over her face, then con­centrated on the computer screen in front of him. He did not want to stare at her wall-eye, yet her open face and sweet, slight smile were magnetic. Make and model? he said. The swaying of her long, dark hair irresistibly attracted his eye. From there, his gaze drifted over to her face proper, and when he met the open gaze of her one good eye, he felt a shock, a shiver, as if he had driven a car into an immovable metal pylon. His eyes retreated to the computer screen.

Ms. Bonneville and the service advisor completed their exchange of information. He asked for her keys and told her to have a seat. She turned, briefly surveyed the waiting room and began to limp towards a vacant seat. The middle-aged man sat up yet straighter and moved his chair an inch to the side as if to make room for her, but this was unnecessary because she sat in a chair on the other side of the little table on which the magazines were piled.

It was getting on to three o’clock when she returned to the law office. As she came into the reception area, Kara, Mr. Dure’s secretary/receptionist, said, Mr. Dure would like to see you. She limped back to his office. He was typing on his computer when she arrived at the open door. Apparently hearing her approach, he turned.

Regarding her with an unsmiling face, he said, You were where?

She explained.

In the future, please let Kara know if you are going to be late, he said.

Yes. I’m sorry, she said. It won’t happen again.

That’s good, he said. At the most, it could happen only once more. He showed her a smile which wasn’t a smile, a view of improbably white, straight, even teeth which in fact were the full-plate dentures he had received in Marine Corps boot camp after every one of his rotten teeth had been extracted in a single, marathon session.

RICHARD HARGRAVE WAS the CEO of Martel University’s Technology Licensing Office (TLO). The TLO’s mission was to make money for the University by commercial exploitation of inventions and technological discoveries made by the faculty of the University. The day after his physical exam, Hargrave was preparing his little staff for his absence. In the little conference room, he, Mortimer Golden, and Hettie Grimm, the administrative assistant, were seated around a small, round conference table. Golden was second in command, the Chief Technology Officer. Hargrave had brought him in from the debt collection agency where they had both worked before, and which had grown into a very sizable business. Golden had been Hargrave’s second there, too. Whereas Hargrave had made big money from his stock options when the agency had been acquired, Golden had been a wage slave, just below the level at which options had been awarded. The habitual expression in Golden’s brown eyes was a combination of a desire to please and injured feelings, like a puppy who had been whacked with a rolled up newspaper for soiling the carpet.

Beginning July 6 I’ll be gone for three weeks. said Hargrave. He addressed Golden: We have that situation with KwikChill. Anything new?

They’re still not paying, said Grimm. She was a matronly woman in her fifties who often felt that she was unjustly excluded from the important affairs of the Office. Consequently she often asserted herself with a self-important air that was annoying to Hargrave and Golden.

Hargrave said to Golden, You’ve been dicking around with that situation for four months. I want it resolved before I get back.

Golden was used to Hargrave’s rough treatment. Without facing directly at Hargrave, Golden’s Cocker Spaniel eyes turned in their sockets towards his boss, exposing an expanse of white.

We’ve got to bring in money, said Hargrave. He paused. We won’t need you for this, he said to Grimm. Without a word, she flipped the cover of her steno pad, got up, and left the room. Close the door, he said to her as she was going out. When the door was closed, he said, Our bonuses are at risk here. If KwikChill doesn’t pay, we’re not going to hit our targets, and we won’t get our bonuses. In crude language, Hargrave added that even if Golden didn’t care about his bonus, he, Hargrave, cared about his.

Golden, who was about ten years younger than Hargrave, put on a brave front. Don’t worry about it. I’ll have it resolved before you get back.

How? demanded Hargrave.

Don’t worry. I’ve got it. There was some repressed exasperation in Golden’s voice. After all those years, Hargrave still acted as if he had no confidence in Golden’s abilities. I’ve arranged to get an expert opinion that the ice cream equipment marketed by Quingdao is not using the liquid nitrogen process we licensed to KwikChill. That’s it. They’ll have to pay.

I hope you’re right. But that’s another thing. We’ve got to tighten up security. The Chinese are trying to steal whatever intellectual property they can get their hands on – and they’re all over the place. We need to get University security in here to go over our com­puters and internet connections, and change the locks on our doors, and change our passwords ... maybe we should get rid of Shoo-meh or Soo-meh, or Sue-me, or whatever her damn name is.

I’m working on the security, said Golden. It’s being done. About Siu-meh ... He shrugged his shoulders. I don’t think she’s a spy. Do you have any specific reason to suspect her?

All I know is that the Chinese have an organized program to steal American know-how and she’s Chinese.

Golden nodded and looked down at the pad of paper on which he had as yet made no notes. He let a moment of silence pass, then said, Excited about your trip?

Yes, as a matter of fact, I am looking forward to it.

A trip to Europe with a Stepford wife, said Golden, with an ambiguous smile. You’re a lucky bastard.

Hargrave rubbed his fingers against his thumb, making the universal gesture meaning money. They cost, he said. The expression on his face was one of weariness.

When are you leaving? asked Golden.

We’re flying out Monday.

So you’ll be in town for the weekend?

Nope. I’m going up to New York Friday night. Hargrave leaned back in his chair and stretched both arms up expansively. Catching his left hand in his right, he rested them on top of his head. "Friday afternoon – tomorrow already! – I’m going to take a nice sauna bath at the Health Club, then take the train to New York, where I plan on having a good restaurant meal. All this work and stress have got to have some pay-offs."

Golden wanted to get out of the room, but he dared not be the first one to get out of his chair. That was the boss’s prerogative. He slumped crookedly in his seat, and focusing his attention on the writing pad in front of him, twirled his pen on it around and around. Hargrave, whether he had been ready to leave in any event, or whether he subconsciously reacted to Golden’s signals, pushed back his chair and stood.

Golden sat up. Enjoy your trip. he said. Again, the ambiguous smile.

2.  Bon Voyage Party

AFTER 27 YEARS OF BEING Elizabeth Hargrave, Elizabeth MacCreedy, a couple of years shy of sixty, had taken her maiden name again. She was sitting on the high stool behind the glass counter and display case which was just inside the entrance door of the University Health Club. The health club had no con­nection with the University other than proximity. It was across University Avenue from Martel University and it belonged to MacCreedy, who had acquired it in her divorce settlement.

The chaotic scene in the club on the afternoon of Friday, July 3 gave the impression of the vigor of Nature, or at least of the animal kingdom: joggers on the treadmills, arms working back and forth; a woman’s ponytail bouncing up and down; the spinners pedaling away on the exercycles; the monsters pressing and grunting on the weight machines. Out of the kaleidoscope of movement, a woman materialized, approaching the counter. She came up, puffing a bit, and rested her hands on the glass counter. You’re busy today, she remarked.

Elizabeth recognized her face, but was embarrassed that she could not at the moment remember her name. Elizabeth smiled and nodded. How are you? she asked.

Almost done, said the woman, still puffing slightly.

MacCreedy reached for the clipboard with the sign-in sheet so that she could look up the woman’s name.

It’s a shame, said the woman, nodding her head towards a one-gallon glass jar half filled with coins and dollar bills.

So sad, said MacCreedy, shaking her head. Across the room, a man was putting money into the vending machine that sold drinks. Every little bit counted!

That one-gallon glass jar was one of many the volunteer fire department had put around town in the various stores. It was to collect funds for the widow and family of one of their volunteers who had been killed while helping a woman change a flat tire at the side of the road. Another car had run into him. He had been only thirty-five. Besides his widow, he had left behind three boys, ages 2, 5, and 7.

They still haven’t caught the driver who killed him, said the woman.

You just never know when it’ll be your time, said Elizabeth. She looked out over the exercise floor.

You’re next, said a man with a flushed face and dark hair, coming up and addressing the woman. She looked at him questioningly. You were waiting for the elliptical machine, he explained.

Oh, yes! Thank you, she said, and hurried off to take possession of that machine.

MacCreedy was left to herself again. She had a self-satisfied air about her. Her composed features were framed by a well-cut, close-fitting helmet of brownish hair sporting blonde highlights which had been applied with great skill by a young stylist at the most prestigious hair salon in Canterbury. On her ten fingers she wore at least six rings, most of them gold, and one of which was half an inch wide. The third finger, left hand, however, was ringless.

The new Mrs. Hargrave also worked at the Health Club and was standing not too many feet away – life plays its little pranks. The divorce laws are not so generous as they used to be to women without minor children. Go out and support yourself, they say. But MacCreedy had done okay. She had gotten this health club from Rich and a little pot of money. She hadn’t really wanted the house. It was too big for her and she didn’t want to take care of it, nor did she want the big real estate tax bill that came every year. But she had wanted the health club, as a source of income, as a way to keep busy, and as a way to have some status in town, which owning a business would give her.

In the settlement she had gotten an extra $100K out of Richard for agreeing to keep Vanessa on. From a business standpoint, it had worked out: Vanessa was good with the clients and Elizabeth had no doubt that some percentage of her male customers were drawn to the club on account of the prospect of seeing Vanessa walking around in spandex.

Men! What were they? Vain creatures who could be led around by the nose by any young thing with a pretty face and figure. Surveying the earnest and frenetic work-outs being done in the health club at this very moment – it was a lot busier today than she had thought it would be – she could almost feel