Bloated on Ice Cubes
By Elaine Viets
Every Dead-End Job mystery leaves its mark on me. Ever since I cleaned hotel rooms for "Murder with Reservations," I tip the maids. After I worked as a telemarketer for "Dying to Call You," I can't bring myself to yell at a telephone sales person.
For "Pumped for Murder," my lastest Dead-End Job mystery, I went to a women's bodybuilding competition. After I saw those strong, starving women, I ate a whole pepperoni pizza.
Here's how Helen and I wound up at a bodybuilding contest:
Helen and her new husband, Phil, have opened their own private eye agency. Helen worked as a receptionist at a fictional Fort Lauderdale gym, and wandered into the wonderfully weird world of women's bodybuilding.
You might laugh at those over-developed bodies, but Helen didn't. One gym rat told her, "These women are serious about this competition. Don't mistake it for real fitness. These are freakazoids. For some, it's the only recognition they'll get. They see themselves as athletes. They may look good onstage, but they starve and dehydrate themselves to get that look."
Check out Helen watching the Women's Open Bikini, Over Fifty Class, in "Pumped for Murder":
Six women, spray-tanned and leggy, paraded onstage in five-inch heels and sparkly bikinis. Helen figured they were wearing more shoes than swimsuit. Each had a white competition number button clipped to her suit.
Helen couldn't believe these women were more than fifty years old. They had the bodies of twenty-year-olds. No, they were thinner than twenty-somethings. The layer of fat under their skin had been stripped off, leaving lean, graceful bodies. They moved like gazelles in stilettos.
This audience was definitely spectators in the bodybuilding world. They stuffed themselves with food forbidden to bodybuilders – greasy pizza, cheeseburgers and fries. The thickset man on Helen's left was crunching through a tub of buttered popcorn while he watched the underfed women. The hefty teenage boy next to him sucked on a chocolate shake.
"Forty-two! Forty-two!" the crowd chanted as a long-haired blonde posed in front of the judges in a sparkly hot pink suit and clear high heels.
"That's my wife, Jasmine," said the popcorn cruncher.
"I can't believe she's over fifty years old," Helen said. "She looks fantastic."
"Seven percent body fat," her husband said proudly. "She really knows how to flare her lats."
"Face the back," the judge said in a flat voice.
Number Forty-two gave the judges her back view. She pulled up her long blonde hair to show her shoulders and thrust out her haunches as if she wanted the judges to mount her. Those weren't her lats, were they? Helen wondered. No, those were glutes. Sweet Gloria Steinem, why was this woman letting herself be judged like horseflesh?
"Great ass!" shouted the chocolate shake guzzler.
"My son is proud of his mother," Mr. Popcorn said.
He was cheering for his mother's rear end?
"Amazing," Helen said.
"You should have seen Jasmine last week," Mr. Popcorn said. "She was perfect. Then she started drinking water. She knows better: no carbs and no water before the competition. Too fattening and bloating. But she wouldn't listen. I caught her sneaking downstairs to the kitchen at two in the morning to suck ice cubes. I should have put a padlock on the refrigerator." He stuffed his mouth with more popcorn.
"I think she looks terrific," Helen said.
"The judges don't look at her the way you do," her husband said.
Helen focused on the emaciated beauty bending her body into absurd poses in her skimpy, sparkling suit. She wanted to kidnap Jasmine, take her out for a good meal and then give her a body image lecture.
"She's not smiling," Jasmine's husband said.
Jasmine was definitely the crowd favorite. They were indifferent to Numbers Twenty-eight and Thirty.
They were actively hostile to Thirty-three, another gazelle in a gold sequin suit.
The crowd heckled that poor creature: "Get a Twinkie!" yelled a woman whose massive breasts nearly wobbled out of her tube top. She'd obviously followed that advice.
"Bring back Forty-two," the crowd screamed.
Number Thirty took third place. Number Twenty-eight looked disappointed with her second-place medal.
"And the winner is . . ." The announcer paused dramatically. The audience moved like a restless beast, waiting to roar approval or disappointment. Would the winner be the dislikable Number Thirty or the popular Forty-two?
"FORTY-TWO!" the announcer cried, drawing the two words out.
"Smile, dammit," screamed her husband. "You won!"
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"Pumped for Murder" is a hardcover and an e-book. Win a $50 gift card to your favorite bookstore. Click on Contests at www.elaineviets.com
