Page 114 of The Body in the Backyard

Riley nervously glanced behind her to see if anyone sinister was lurking in the shadows and immediately stumbled. Nick and Weber both grabbed her by the soaking wet tank top and righted her without breaking stride.

“Don’t worry your pretty little sweaty face, Thorn. I’m working on a contingency plan,” Nick assured her.

“Don’t even think about bringing them to my condo,” Weber said.

“Mrs. Penny would drink you out of house and home in under twenty minutes,” Nick predicted.

He was keeping things light, but Riley caught a distinct whiff of“this is going to suck”from her sweaty, sprinting boyfriend.

Nick peered over her to sneak a look at Weber’s treadmill display, then bumped his speed up another notch.

“It’s not a race, Santiago.”

“It’s always a race.”

27

9:04 a.m., Sunday, November 3

“Why do you keep sniffing your armpits?” Nick asked as Riley did exactly that for the third time as they crossed the parking lot toward the spa entrance under the cheery green awning.

The Hotel Hershey was a huge Mediterranean-style building perched on a grassy hill that overlooked the sugar-fueled bliss of Hersheypark. On one side of the highway, kids screamed and vomited their way through roller coasters and amusement park rides. On the opposite side, adults enjoyed fine dining and chocolate-scented spa services.

“I’ve never been here before. It looks fancy, and you just made me sweat myself half to death,” Riley complained.

“We’re questioning a suspect, not shoving our armpits in people’s faces,” Nick reminded her. Bella Goodshine had evaded his calls, which meant if he wanted to talk to her, they were going to have to crash her spa day.

“You’re the one who told me it’s important to blend in,” Riley argued.

“Baby, you’ve got that ‘just worked out’ dewy glow. No one’s going to know that it’s not from shoving your head under a goop fountain or whatever the hell they do here,” he said with confidence.

“You’ve never been to a spa, have you?” she guessed as he took her hand and led her through the door.

“It never landed on my list of things to do.” The idea of putting on a bathrobe and letting a complete stranger rub weird concoctions all over you held little to no appeal to him.

“Well, I’ve always wanted to come here as a legitimate guest, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t get us kicked out.”

“You didn’t come here when you were married?” he asked.

Riley shook her head. “Griffin always preferred to travel for his spa stuff. He likes those med spas where you can get cosmetic procedures done. Everyone sits around in bathrobes, drinking cucumber water with their lasered faces and their new noses bandaged up. I just want a good massage that makes me feel like cooked spaghetti.”

The fleur-de-lis carpet was thick underfoot, and the wallpaper under the spa’s directional sign whisperedold money. They followed the arrow to the carpeted staircase and started up the stairs.

Riley groaned. “My thighs are on fire.”

“You’ll get used to the burn.”

A woman in her midfifties, wearing a white skirt and carrying a tennis racket, jogged down the stairs toward them.

“Excuse me,” Nick said, turning on the charm. “You’re Sabrina Van Der Woodsen, aren’t you? It’s me, Bojack Flintstone, class of 2002.”

The woman blinked, then frowned. “Sorry. You’ve got the wrong gal. I’m Matty West, and I wish I were class of 2002.”

“Sorry.” He feigned chagrin. “You look just like her.”

She continued on down the hall.

“What was that about?” Riley asked.