When he grunts, she places her mouth closer to the mic. “Please ignore my grumpus. Thanks for doing this. I mean it. I can’t wait for some pampering.”
After we all hang up, the rain comes down harder and we slow to a crawl. By the time we arrive at the spa, the deluge has stopped, but huge puddles remain in the middle of the parking lot.
Inside the massive white building, a smiling brown woman in a sari greets us, then leads us to a wall of lockers. “Leave your computers, phones, and electronics, as well as your purses. You won’t be needing them.”
“Hold on.” Callie hugs her Gucci satchel. “But my makeup is in here.”
The East Indian woman hands her a plastic bag. “Take what you need. Store the rest.”
Wishing I had pepper spray instead of my prototype, I turn my back to the security camera in order to stash the tiny, lipstick-shaped RF weapon, in my pocket along with one spare battery.
Once we’ve finished handing over our stuff, I mention the presents we left in the car.
As I start to leave, she stands in front of the door. “Give me your keys. I’ll make sure your parcels are brought up.”
The lady, her nametag reads Melissa Graham, smiles sweetly, holds out her hand, and adds a fake tinkling laugh. “Don’t worry. This is all part of the stress-free experience.”
So, why am I freaking out, bitch?
Heart racing, I shoot Callie a worried glance which she returns. I guess we could bail, but everyone would be disappointed and for what?
As we trudge up the steep, muddy path, our tour guide points out a prefab building. “And there is the massage room. The shooting range is there. The cafeteria for your daily meals is behind the registration desk. Your cabin has a microwave for snacks, a fridge, and a coffee maker. Help yourself, it’s all included.”
Once she leaves, I hang up my coat on a peg. Each of the four bedrooms has two sets of bunk beds, a closet, and a small dresser. “I feel like we’re in summer camp.”
Callie grimaces. “More like a horror flick where everyone but the main character dies.”
“I call dibs on the protagonist who lives.” When I raise my hand, she shakes her head.
“Then I get to be Freddy Krueger.” The mood lightened, she opens the refrigerator and holds forth a bottle of wine. “Well, I'll be dipped. We have alcohol, woo-hoo.”
A few minutes later, Samantha Sutcliff enters with her two cousins, Mia and Rose.
The taller one huffs and puffs. “I can’t believe they took our bags.”
The scowling PI removes her jacket, displaying her empty shoulder holster. “Fuck. I should’ve read the fine print. I feel naked without my pistol. Could you believe that concierge lady? Her stupid smile wasn’t fooling anyone. At least she let me keep my flashlight.”
While she tests the LED setting, we claim our rooms. The two sisters squabble about the top bunk before Suds' wife agrees to take it. “If I fall out and die, I swear I’m coming back to haunt you until the end of days.”
“Me and Callie will take the room across the hall.” With my suitcase on the lower berth, I walk to the window. “Hey, you guys, Lilac’s here.”
Once we finish our group hug, a gong sounds from the bottom of the hill. Not long after, we wait in line, holding our dinner trays. Men in full camo gear silently eat their meals at the far side of the room.
Leaning closer, Sam whispers in my ear. “I don’t think they’re here to have their nails manicured. Time to do a little private investigation. Cover for me.”
Before I can suggest a safer alternative, she disappears. Now, I understand how she earned her"danger magnet"moniker. Separating from the pack made my top ten list of not-to-do’s.
As she walks out the door, a woman in pearls, heels, and a designer suit takes her place.
“Blakely!” The rest shout in unison.
After a brief embrace they introduce her to me. We all have so much in common, we chat nonstop. By the time the conversation dies down, the militiamen no longer occupy the far corner of the dining hall. Only then do I pull out a picture of Dolly to show it around.
A girl washing dishes, barely past her teens, nods. “I remember her. She said she was writing a sci-fi book about people living on the moon.”
Before she can say more, Melissa, the greeter, opens the front door and claps her hands. “Ladies, you are late.”
She points to a seven-foot, swinging pendulum grandfather clock. Once all our heads turn, she opines, “In the future, please check your itineraries. Now, follow me.”
