A Killer Retreat

Copyright Information

A Killer Retreat: A Downward Dog Mystery
©
2014 by Tracy Weber

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2014

E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-4410-0

Book design by Donna Burch-Brown

Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

Cover illustration: Nicole Alesi/Deborah Wolfe Ltd

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dedication

To my husband Marc.
Without your support
my writing wouldn't be possible.

acknowledgments

I always assumed writing would be a lonely endeavor. I couldn't
have been more wrong. Thank you to the readers who have contacted me to tell me that they've enjoyed my work and to the writers who've encouraged me to keep persevering. Your support means the world to me.

For
A Killer Retreat
, I have so many people to thank that I don't even know where to begin.

My mom Marcia's enthusiastic support of the series has touched me, and I'm pretty sure she has single-handedly kept the Billings Barnes and Noble in business since my first book was released. My yoga students have attended events, read my work, and given me encouragement even when I've struggled. My wonderful agent, Margaret Bail, editors Terri Bischoff and Connie Hill at Midnight Ink, and freelance editor Marta Tanrikulu have all given me invaluable help and feedback.

Special thanks to D.P. Lyle MD, who helped me work out the technical details of the crimes in this book. He is kind, generous with his time, and an invaluable resource to all of us in the crime writing community. Of course if there are any errors in this work, they are completely mine.

My husband, Marc, supports me in all of my crazy endeavors but chooses to work in the background, designing and maintaining my website, creating marketing materials, helping me brainstorm plot points, and putting up with the angst, heartache, joy, frustration, and excitement that are all part of being a writer. Thank you, honey.

Finally, I have to acknowledge my own personal Bella, German shepherd Tasha. You're getting older, sweetie, so we don't have as many adventures as we used to, but rest assured that you are woven into the fabric of my stories and branded on my heart. I hope we have many more years together. You will always be my inspiration and the greatest joy of my life.

one

“This is bad, Michael.
Sh
e's not responding. I think she might be
dead.”

Queasy unease tugged at my belly; anxiety shortened my breath. What if my plan had been reckless? What if the universe was cautioning me—warning me to abort? I turned to Michael for guidance.

“What was I thinking? I can't be away from the yoga studio for ten days. Maybe this is a sign.”

“Of mental illness, maybe,” he grumbled.

I ignored the world's grumpiest boyfriend and continued shaking my shiny new cell phone, like an exasperated mother trying to rouse a slumbering teenager. The screen remained dark. I turned the device sideways and tapped it against the dashboard. Nothing. Frustrated, I pounded on the phone's back with the heel of my hand. Maybe a high-tech Heimlich maneuver would convince it to cough up my messages.

“Would you
please
stop messing with that thing?” Michael
snapped. “That's the twelfth time you've checked messages since
we left Seattle. And calling it ‘she' is just plain creepy. It's not female.”

“Of course she is.” I pointed to the cartoon chicken on the cover. “It says right here: Yoga Chick. Besides, she's wearing a pink headband. If she were the Yoga Dude, she'd wear blue.”

Michael closed his eyes and rubbed the center of his forehead. “Fine. Have it your way. It's a girl. Either way, we're on vacation. Now put that damned thing away.”

I grumped right back at him. “
You're
on vacation. I'm working.”
I tossed the traitorous device on the dashboard. “Which is more than
I can say for this piece of garbage.” I sighed. “I miss Old Reliable. He may not have had a camera or Internet access, but he was a lot easier to use.”

Against my better judgment, I'd let my best friend Rene talk me into buying a smart phone for my ten-day working vacation on Orcas Island. She promised me that I'd love my new technological wonder child—that it would make staying connected with my yoga studio a breeze, even from a remote retreat center. She swore the only thing I'd regret was that I hadn't purchased it earlier. Now, parked at the Anacortes ferry terminal waiting to board the three-fifty ferry, I realized there was one fatal flaw in her argument: I was a certified techno-klutz. I'd never figure out how to use the blasted thing.

Michael shook his head. “Kate, you have major control issues. We've been gone for three hours. I promise you, the yoga studio hasn't burned down yet.”

“How do you know? What if I forgot to blow out the candles?
The whole place may have gone up in flames.” I retrieved the phone
from the dashboard and pressed random places on the screen,
hoping it would magically come back to life. “I wonder if I accidentally turned it off again.”

Michael looked up at the ceiling and mumbled. “Please don't let there be cell phone reception on Orcas.”

My mouth felt suddenly dry. “Honey, please. Don't even joke about that. I'm freaked out enough as it is. Remember, you only have one employee to worry about. I have eight.”

Michael seemed surprisingly blasé about leaving his pet supply store, Pete's Pets, while we went on our first vacation together, especially since he was leaving it in the hands of my nemesis, Tiffany. As much as I envied his confidence, I couldn't quite replicate it.

I hadn't gone on vacation since opening Serenity Yoga over two years ago. I'd barely gotten used to leaving the other instructors in charge while I worked from home a few afternoons a week. Agreeing to travel 120 miles to an island only accessible by ferry? I must have been crazy.

Michael grabbed the phone from my hands and pressed his index finger against the screen—in the exact same place I'd touched only seconds before. The phone immediately came to life. “Oh, for God's sake, Kate. The phone's fine.” He pointed at the missed calls indicator. Zero. “Nobody's called. They probably haven't even noticed that you're gone yet.” He leaned across the seat, stuffed the Yoga Chick in the glove box, and locked it.

“What the he—”

“Your phone privileges have officially been revoked. The studio can live without you for the next half hour.” He tucked the key into his front pants pocket.

I considered reaching inside his trousers to retrieve it, but the elderly couple parked next to us might not have appreciated the show. I gave him a sultry pout instead, hoping to make him feel guilty.

“Stop sulking, Kate. It won't work. The phone's mine now.” He smiled at me mischievously. “If you're really good, I'll teach you how to check e-mail on the ferry.” He opened the driver's side door. “Let's take Bella for a walk.”

At the sound of the w-word, Bella, my hundred-pound German shepherd, woke up from her nap, pressed her nose against the SUV's window, and whined, clearly agreeing with Michael's plan.

That made one of us.

I scanned the parking lot. “I don't know, Michael. That doesn't seem like such a great idea. There are a lot of dogs out there. I'd rather wait until we get to Elysian Springs. At least we know leashes are required there.”

The center's leash policy was the first question I asked when Alicia, my studio's landlord, talked me into taking the week-long teaching position at the newly reopened retreat center. Bella's reactivity toward other dogs had improved significantly in the six months I'd owned her, but her training wasn't yet foolproof. I had no desire to spend Michael's and my time together running frantically away from off-leash dogs and their oblivious owners.

Michael looked at his watch. “It's only two-thirty, Kate. We've got over an hour until we can board the ferry. Who wants to spend it sitting in the car?” He pointed to the edge of the parking lot. “Besides, look at the sign.”

I read it out loud. “Leash laws strictly enforced. All animals must be under restraint.”

Michael wrinkled his brow, feigning concern. “On second thought, you'd better stay in the car. I forgot your muzzle.” I playfully slugged him on the shoulder. His grin spread from his lips to his sparkling blue-green eyes. “Besides, look at Bella. She's literally drooling for a chance to play on that beach.”

He was right—about the drooling dog, that is. Wet saliva droplets fell from Bella's lower lip and landed in an ever-expanding puddle at the edge of her seat. She whined and pressed her nose against the window, clearly willing the door to open.

And who could blame her?

The backdrop surrounding us was gorgeous—almost a study in color. Bright yellow wind socks fluttered aimlessly toward Puget Sound's purple-blue water, as if pointing to the emerald-green hills of the San Juan Islands. Seagulls cawed overhead, begging for handouts.

There wasn't a raindrop in sight.

Thirty-two Puget Sound winters had taught me that mid-October sunshine was a treasure, not to be wasted. Any day now, nature's paintbrush would gray-wash the area with ten straight months of rain. This might be our last sunny afternoon until August.

“All right, you two, you win. But give me a minute to get ready.”

I double-checked the contents of my fanny pack. Dog waste bags, check. Disgusting, freeze-dried lamb lung, check. Emergency bottle of Spot Stop, check. I hadn't been forced to use the citronella dog-stopping spray yet, but like any self respecting Boy Scouts wannabe, I figured it paid to be prepared.

I tossed in some kissably fresh breath mints and attached Bella's leash to the front of her harness. Only one more item to double check before I could fully relax. I climbed out of the passenger side door, inhaled the cool, brackish breeze, and popped open the back of the SUV. I moved Michael's suitcase to the side and opened the cooler. Bella's medicine was still there, right underneath the packs of Blue Ice.

“For God's sake, Kate. Now you're checking for Bella's enzymes again? Do I have to throw them in the glove box with your phone?”

I ignored his teasing barb and closed the trunk. Checking the cooler for the third time since leaving Seattle might seem a tad neurotic, but I had good reason. Feeding a dog with EPI—Exocrine Pancreatic Insufficiency—was no trivial matter. The autoimmune disease had destroyed Bella's pancreas, leaving her unable to digest food without special prescription enzymes. When I adopted Bella after her owner's murder six months ago, she was literally starving to death. She'd gained over twenty-five pounds since then, but I couldn't afford to be complacent. Bella could lose that weight in a heartbeat.

Our comfortable—if complicated—feeding routine involved grinding Bella's grain-free kibble to a powder, adding three separate types of powdered medicine, mixing it all in warm—never hot—water, and allowing the disgusting-looking concoction to sit and “incubate” for at least twenty minutes. Dogs with EPI need to eat multiple small meals, so I fed Bella three times a day. Mealtime was tough enough to get right at home. When traveling, it could easily become a nightmare.

I brought along two duffel bags filled with Bella's feeding supplies, but even I had to draw the line at lugging along my industrial-strength grinder. So I prepared all thirty of Bella's meals in advance—except for adding water and the most important of the powdered ingredients, the enzymes. Since they had to remain cool, I'd packed them on ice. Michael could complain about my obsessive-compulsive tendencies all he wanted. Bella would starve without that medicine, and I wasn't willing to risk leaving it behind.

I walked to the driver's side door, leaned through the open window, and planted a kiss on his still-grumbling lips. “You're right. The medicine's in the cooler, right where I packed it.” I paused. “But I still think we should have brought Bella's crate.”

Michael shrugged. “I already told you. The crate didn't fit. We could bring Bella, or we could bring her crate. Not both.”

I frowned. “Being without it makes me nervous. Maybe we should have driven both vehicles …” I looked back toward Seattle, which was over ninety minutes away.

Michael must have read my thoughts. “We're not going back, Kate.”

“But—”

“Look around. We're already boxed in. We couldn't get out of the parking lot if we tried.” He opened the door. “Bella and I are going to the beach. Are you coming?”

I didn't generally respond well to edicts, but in this case, Michael was right. The only way to get the Explorer out of this parking lot was to drive it onto the ferry. We might as well enjoy ourselves until then. I grabbed Bella's leash. “Come on, girl, let's go.”

Bella leaped from the car and glued her nose to the ground, pausing only long enough to cover up the scent of another dog's urine with her own. The three of us walked across the holding area through several lines of densely parked cars until we reached the edge of the asphalt. I peered down the steep, football field-sized embankment that led to the beach, but I couldn't make out a clear trail. A jungle of blooming brown cattails, tall grasses, and thorny blackberry bushes obscured my view past the first several yards.

I pointed toward a man-made path that paralleled the beach, about twenty feet above it. “I don't know, Michael. Maybe we should stay up here on the walkway. I'd rather go to the beach, but if we stick to the paved trail, at least we can see more than five feet in front of us.”

Bella sensed my reticence, but she clearly didn't share it. She sniffed the air, whined impatiently, and lunged forward, dragging me down the hill toward the brackish water.

“Kate, wait!” Michael yelled at my back.

“Bella, stop!” I yelled at Bella's.

The hundred-pound, beach-seeking missile didn't even slow down
. I held on tight and ran full speed behind her. One quick turn right and Bella skidded to a stop, blocked by a dense, thorny blackberry bush. She paused long enough to sniff the air again, then reversed course and zoomed past Michael. Michael had quick reflexes—he owned a pet store, after all. He dealt with out-of-control canines every day. He dove for her leash.

Bella was quicker.

She zigged under his outstretched arms and zagged past his legs,
dragging me through an ankle-deep mud puddle. My shoes made a disgusting thwok as they pulled from the muck.

I stumbled behind Bella past two more dead ends, until she
finally found an opening. She jumped over a tree root, soared over
one final crest, and agilely landed mere feet from the water. I tripped
over the same obstacles and splatted face-first into the dirt.

An annoyed-looking, out-of-breath Michael grabbed Bella's leash and pulled me to my feet. “Why'd you two take off without me?”

I'm fine, Michael, really. Thanks for asking.

I wiped at the caked mud on my pants and looked toward the water. This was what all of the fuss was about?

The vista before me consisted of a muddy, fishy-smelling expanse of muck strewn with dead seaweed, discarded logs, and the occasional seagull's corpse. By human standards, it wasn't exactly postcard material. But to Bella and her cavorting canine friends, it was a veritable doggie Disneyland.

Bella whined, danced, and pulled at the end of her leash, begging
to frolic in the water. I was tempted to unhook her leash and let her run, but it was too risky. Bella loved most people, but dogs were a different story. Given a choice, she was more likely to eat a pugnacious pug than invite it for dinner.

Fortunately, Bella didn't seem to mind her six-foot tether. She was too busy waging war on a piece of driftwood half-buried in the muck. She gripped the exposed end between her molars and planted her rear paws. A series of sharp, growl-ridden tugs later, the waterlogged wood flew through the air, spraying my shirt with a rainbow of algae and decomposing seaweed. Bella the Conqueror shook her head vigorously, play-killing her new favorite stick and splattering me in even more slime.