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thin and dried out. Her hair was short yellow tufts, like a dandelion plopped on her head. Heather, the short redhead, was a wet dream of creamy skin, curves and curls. She made a jump for the black clicker and missed.
    “Oh, lordy,” Carla whispered to Helen. “Debbi is in another ’roid rage. She’s in training for a bodybuilding competition. These last days are making her crazy. Watch how I break up this fight. It may be your turn tomorrow.”
    Carla marched out onto the floor. Stick-thin Debbi towered over the curvaceous Heather.
    “Debbi, put down that clicker,” Carla commanded. “You know this is CNN week. Switch the station.”
    Debbi glared at Carla. Her chest heaved. Muscles rippled up and down her abdomen.
    “We agreed in November that we would alternate weeks on the television in the stationary bike room,” Carla said. “Switch it back now or I’ll revoke your membership.”
    Debbi raised her arm and slammed the clicker on the floor. The black case popped open, and the batteries rolled under a bike.
    “Change it yourself,” Debbi said, storming off toward the locker room.

CHAPTER 4
    H elen didn’t bother trimming calories after seeing Debbi’s stylized starvation. She ate her chicken sandwich with relish—plus mayonnaise, a fat bun and a pile of potato chips.
    Thumbs, Helen’s six-toed cat, sat at her feet, staring hopefully at her dinner.
    Phil had already put his plate in the dishwasher. “The meeting with our second client, Gus Behr, is at seven tonight,” he said. “We have to leave in ten minutes.”
    Thumbs sprang up on the table and streaked toward the last bite of Helen’s sandwich. She caught the cat and dropped him on the floor. “You know better, Thumbs.”
    The cat slunk off to his food bowl and crunched resentfully on his dry dinner. Helen finished her sandwich and dashed into the bedroom to freshen up.
    “Don’t do anything fancy,” Phil said. “We’re going to a car repair shop.”
    At six fifty-five, Phil’s Jeep bumped across the railroad tracks that ran along Dixie Highway. Boy Toys Restoration and Car Repair was straight ahead, a showy hot pink and turquoise building surrounded by a gleaming metal fence.
    “Look at that,” Phil said, and gave a whistle. “That is purely beautiful.”
    Helen saw a stocky man with grease up to his elbows bent under the hood of a needle-nosed car.
    “He is?” Helen said.
    “Not the guy, the car,” Phil said. “That looks like a 1965 Jaguar XKE, the most beautiful sports car ever made. I’m in love.”
    “Should I be jealous?” Helen asked.
    “No,” Phil said. “I can’t afford her. She costs more than a hundred grand.”
    “Thanks a lot,” Helen said. “Glad I’m cheap.”
    Phil swung his beat-up black Jeep next to the sleek red Jaguar, jumped out and said, “Hi. Gorgeous Jag.”
    Gus Behr wiped his hands on an oily rag. “Isn’t she? You’re looking at two years of restoration. Too bad she’s going to sit in some doctor’s garage.”
    Phil peeked in the driver’s window. He looked at the black leather interior and wood steering wheel like a starving man in a bakery shop.
    “My husband, Phil, was struck speechless by that car,” Helen said. “I’m Helen Hawthorne. We’re the co-owners of Coronado Investigations.”
    “I figured,” Gus said. “Let’s go in my office and cool off.” Sweat cascaded down his forehead.
    Helen and Phil followed Gus through an open garage that smelled pleasantly of engine oil. The gray painted floor was clean and shiny. Tools were neatly hung on a pegboard or stowed in metal cabinets. Inside Gus’s office, it was thirty degrees cooler—and frozen in the 1980s. Gus sighed with relief as he sat behind a black lacquer desk piled with papers and parts catalogues. A framed autographed photo of Don Johnson as Sonny Crockett took up one corner. The actor stood next to the black Ferrari from Miami Vice .
    Gus opened a water bottle for himself and drank thirstily. Helen and Phil