Killer Calories Read Free Page A

chocolate-chip, double-fudge muffin with cream-cheese filling. She zapped a cup of stale coffee in the microwave and laced it with Baileys and Half & Half.
    Ah, breakfast.
    But the moment she carried the cup and plate into the office, she got “the look” from Tammy.
    â€œOh, shut up and drink your pure springwater and nibble your organic carrot sticks,” she told her.
    Tammy grinned and shrugged. “I didn’t say a word.”
    â€œYeah, yeah. I heard every word you didn’t say. Not everyone’s a Spartan like you.” Savannah sank into the comfort of her favorite chair—overstuffed, just the way she liked it, just like her. “Some of us,” she said, breathing in the aroma of the coffee and savoring the anticipation of the chocolate cream cheese, “are pure, unadulterated hedonists.”
    Tammy sat down to the computer and began to type. She shrugged. “Whatever.”
    â€œAnd what’s that supposed to mean?”
    With a perfectly guileless face, Tammy replied, “If you want to poison yourself with toxins, pollute the perfect body that Nature gave you, it’s your personal right to do so. It’s just that Ms. Valentina says—”
    â€œOh, please. Don’t quote Kat Valentina to me. She’s hardly an expert on nutrition, or anything else, for that matter.”
    â€œI like Kat.”
    The three words were simply, quietly stated, but Savannah could hear the underlying hurt. For some reason beyond Savannah’s understanding, Tammy liked her “other” employer, the owner of the notorious Royal Palms Spa that sat on the hillside overlooking San Carmelita.
    The resort was a haven for the wannabe-filthy-rich and sorta-kinda-famous. No Oscar-winning actor or critically acclaimed director would be seen inside the complex. Royal Palms was too tacky even for Hollywood.
    Back in the late seventies, Kat Valentina had starred in a hit movie, Disco Diva. Though the critics had hated it, fans had flocked to the movie, making Kat Valentina a cult phenomenon.
    From what Savannah heard, Kat had never quite gotten over the seventies disco scene. She was still stuck in the “Screw Whomever You Can”—literally and figuratively—mentality. By reputation, the Royal Palms was an extension of her own hedonistic attitude. While the club claimed to be a health spa, the guests did more fooling around than aerobics, more hallucinogenic drugs than cleansing herbs, and more scheming than soul-searching.
    Savannah hadn’t been happy last month when Tammy had admitted to taking a part-time job there as an aerobics instructor. But considering how little Savannah was able to pay her, she could hardy complain.
    â€œI know you like her,” Savannah said, cursing her own insensitivity. “I’ll keep my opinions to myself, as long as you keep her nutritional advice to yourself. Deal?”
    â€œSure. No problem.” Tammy brightened instantly. Another aspect of Tammy’s personality that Savannah loved: her ability to forgive and forget.
    â€œBy the way, speaking of money ...” Savannah began.
    â€œWe were?”
    â€œWe are now. Did Mr. Barnett ever pay us the last payment that he owed us for—”
    The jangling of the phone cut her off, and Tammy grabbed it, assuming a professional attitude along with a Marilyn Monroe breathiness.
    â€œMoonlight Magnolia Detective Agency,” she breathed. “May I help you?”
    Savannah listened eagerly. She had the sinking feeling it was Dirk, wanting another favor or inviting himself over for a pizza and beer dinner. Her treat. But one could always hope it was a new client. Lord knows, they needed work if she were to keep Diamante and Cleopatra in Gourmet Kit-Kat niblets.
    â€œYes, this is Tammy.” She looked slightly confused. “Oh, hi, Mr. Hanks.”
    Hanks? Lou Hanks? Savannah recalled meeting the guy a time or two. He was Kat Valentina’s