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that’s what I did, went to that quack, listened to her bullshit. And what happened?”
She sucked so hard on the candy in her fury, Eve wondered it didn’t lodge in her throat and choke her to death.
“I’ll tell you what happened. I gained four pounds in two months. Not that Stu minds. More to love, is what he says. But I did the drill, and would she sign off? No, she would not!”
“You had a problem with that.”
“Damn right. She said I didn’t qualify. Who was she to say? What skin off her nose is it to sign the damn paper so my insurance will foot the bill? People like that make me sick.”
She lit another cigarette, scowled through smoke that smelled like burning mint.
“You argued with Mrs. Swisher?”
“Told her just what I thought of her and her Christing regimen, and said I was going to sue. Would have, but her husband’s a damn lawyer, so what’s the point? Everybody knows they stick together like a pile of shit. Sorry they’re dead, though,” she added as an afterthought.
“Your husband’s retired military now, and employed with . . .” Eve pretended to check her notes.
“He’s security at the Sky Mall. Hard to live on retirement, plus my Stu, he likes to get out and do a job. Better insurance there, too. He works there another eighteen months, and I can get the sculpting, on them.”
Keep eating, sister, and it’s going to take more than sculpting. It’s going to take an airjack to whittle you down. “Meanwhile, you were both very dissatisfied with Mrs. Swisher.”
“Of course we were. She took our hard-earned money and did nothing for it.”
“That’s upsetting, and feeling unable to sue successfully, you must have wanted to be recompensed in some other way.”
“Told everybody I knew she was a Christing quack.” Her triple chins wagged with satisfaction. “I got plenty of friends, and so does Stu.”
“If it’d been me, I’d have wanted something more personal, more tangible. Maybe you and your husband went to Mr. or Mrs. Swisher to complain, to demand your money back.”
“No point.”
“Was your husband home last night? Between one and three a.m.?”
“Where else would he be at one o’clock in the morning?” she asked hotly. “What is this?”
“A homicide investigation. Your husband’s military records indicate he was an MP.”
“Eight years. So what?”
“I wonder, when he complained to his buddies about Mrs. Swisher’s treatment of you, they must have gotten heated up—on your account.”
“You’d think, wouldn’t you? You’d think. But people don’t have much sympathy for a woman with my condition.”
“That’s a shame. You don’t have any friends, or relatives, who could front you the money for the body work?”
“Shit.” She blew out smoke, reached for another candy. “Who are we going to know with that kind of money? I was an Army brat, and my father died serving his country when I was sixteen. Stu’s family’s mostly factory workers out in Ohio. You know what sculpting costs?” she demanded. Then she swept her gaze over Eve, curled her lip. “How much did it cost you?”
Eve paused outside the building. “Do you think I should’ve been insulted?” she wondered. “The ‘how much did it cost you’ crack?”
“She probably meant it as a kind of compliment. But still, I’ve got a great-aunt who’s half French and I was sort of insulted with Mrs. Grentz’s French cracks.” She slid into the vehicle. “This one gets checked off.”
“Yeah. No way she’s smart enough, no way they have the resources. Husband’s military record’s clean, and even the MP stint wouldn’t give him the kind of training we’re after. And he’s too old, too weighty himself according to his ID data.”
“Could just be pulling the strings, but—”
“Right. Hard to believe anyone married to her, living in a place full of smoke and candy, is disciplined and clever enough to outline an operation like this one.”
“Or working as a security drone at the mall, chasing off kids, mostly. Bad-mouthing and complaining, that’s what these people do.”
