Harmful Intent: A Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels/Dawson Hughes Novel by Nike N. Chillemi Page B

books, and esoteric greeting cards. A display of tipping-jar fountains stood in the back. The three-foot high one we'd seen in the lobby and yoga class sold for three hundred fifty dollars. I laughed aloud thinking over a hundred dollars a foot.
    As we walked into the great room, Bertha was still talking about one of the smaller tipping-jar fountains. "Weren't that the sweetest thing?"
    That settled the matter. The one she liked so much would be my wedding gift to her and Hoot.
    A trim forty-something woman in the spa's sweat suit, with a professional-quality hair net around her short wheat blond hair, set out a buffet. Her nametag displayed: Dorothy Chandler, nutritionist .
    Possibly a small world out here in west-central Texas. I crossed the great room and walked up to her. "Are you any relation to Ava Chandler?"
    "I'm Winslow Chandler's cousin." Her tone was definite and she seemed to stand an inch taller saying that.
    "Ava mentioned she was a member here and we can't tell you how much we value her opinion, so we rushed right over to take a yoga class." I hoped that little white lie would prime the pump.
    Bertha's exhorting smile lit up the room, but she kept her peace.
    The woman's nostrils flared. "Ava takes great pride in her opinions, but actually the yoga classes here are quite good."
    "All I can say is, we enjoyed the class immensely and can't thank Ava enough." I'd taken a step closer to her and lowered my voice into a conspiratorial whisper.
    She stepped back and her eyes widened. "I see you've joined the Ava Chandler fan club."
    Less than a stellar endorsement of her cousin's wife. I nodded, smiled, and glanced toward the table. "Let's see what's on the menu today."
    She pointed at the far end. "There's organic chicken salad with cranberries and walnuts on a bed of spring greens, and then there's an avocado salad with crumbled hardboiled egg and tomatoes. Of course, the eggs are free-range and organic.
    "My, the salads look yummy." I picked up a plate. My mind fixated on the memory of the tiny portions members served themselves and the hefty charge on my bill for having eaten what they called lunch.
    Farther along on the table, a large platter displayed baby carrots, cucumber, and celery slices, and a ranch style dipping sauce. There was a basket of whole-wheat crackers, pitchers of fruited water and iced green tea.
    When Dorothy Chandler was out of earshot, I put the plate back down and nudged Bertha. "Let's blow this pop stand and get some real lunch."
    "You don't have to tell me twice, hon."
    I hadn't even gotten the little green bug out of Abilene, when Bertha motioned for me to pull over at some coffee shop. Mad Merv Java.
    We stood in line and Bertha peered at a blackboard hanging on the back wall. The menu was written in several bright chalk colors. She nudged me with her elbow. "I hear they make a great grilled cheese sandwich."
    "Oh, yeah? Who told you that?"
    "Deputy Hughes."
    Uneasiness fell upon me, and I quickly surveyed the small dining room. He wasn't there, which was good because I didn't want him thinking I was stalking him.
    A middle-aged man with frizzy red hair placed a sandwich in a bag for the customer ahead of us. He wore a black tee shirt with a freaked-out image of himself on the front and beckoned to a college-age clerk. "Jessie, help these ladies."
    "Oh, sure, Merv." She smiled at us. "What can I get you?"
    Bertha asked for the grilled cheese special with a cup of chicken noodle soup and fresh brewed, iced sweet tea. I also went for the special but wanted broccoli-cheddar soup and a Coke.
    The five small tables in the dining room were topped with burnt orange Formica that nearly matched Merv's hair. Only one was vacant, so we took it.
    Bertha bit into her sandwich with obvious relish. "Oh, hon, this is good."
    I checked my watch. It was almost 12:30, and would be an hour earlier in New York. I pulled my cell phone out of my shoulder bag and pressed the digit that speed-dialed Jack.
    "Jack