A Killer Retreat (12 page)

“I was the one who screamed, not Monica.”

“I understand that. And the witness doesn't completely disagree
. He says he doesn't know what you were doing, at least not for sure. But add what he saw to the half-dozen people who heard you threaten the victim, and it doesn't look good.”

Michael started pacing. “I told you, Kate. I told you that temper was going to get you in trouble.” His tone may have scolded, but his expression held nothing but concern. “There had to be someone else there, someone who saw, or at least heard, something.” He ran his fingers across his scalp. “Think Kate, did you see anyone? A maid? A groundskeeper? A guest maybe?”

I'd been asking myself that same question for hours. “No. No
one.”

Dale frowned. “Well then, we've got our work cut out for us, haven'
t we?”

No doubt about it. I needed Dale's help. Help that, in spite of his low-budget office furniture, couldn't possibly come cheap. I was making ends meet—barely—with the studio now. I had no extra income to pay for a lawyer.

“Dale?”

“Yes?”

“I appreciate your help. Really, I do. I trust you. I'd like for you to represent me. But I don't have much money. I don't know how I'll ever pay you.”

Dale closed the notebook and laid down his pen. His unflinching look demanded the truth. “Did you kill that woman?”

“No. I didn't. I swear.”

“Then don't worry about money. Let's figure out how to get you
out of this mess.”

eleven

When Michael and I
p
ulled into the ghost town formerly known
as Elysian Springs two hours later, the parking lot was about three-
quarters
empty. No maids laundered bed sheets; no hikers meandered along trails; no groundskeepers scurried on golf carts. The o
ffice, spa, and restaurant all sported closed signs. Where was everyone?

We found Rene and Sam sitting on opposite ends of the sofa bed, avoiding eye contact. According to Rene, the police had finished questioning everyone around six and cleared the spa for reopening—minus the hot tubs, of course. As soon as the detectives left, Emmy and Josh shut down all of the center's nonessential operations for the rest of the night. They promised to reopen in the morning.

None of us had much of an appetite, so we hunkered down in the cabin and tried to avoid each other. We acted like prisoners in solitary confinement, only sharing the same space. Rene flipped through a magazine, uncharacteristically quiet. Sam brooded in a corner. Michael played solitaire, looking withdrawn and cranky; Bella restlessly panted and paced.

I distracted myself by making some phone calls—an act I immediately regretted.

I started by dialing John O'Connell's home number.

“What in the f—were you thinking, Kate?”

I inserted a mental beep at the sound of John saying the f-word. John often lectured, but he rarely chastised. And he never swore, at least not in front of me. In John's eyes I was a thirty-two-year-old schoolgirl in need of protection. He'd never expose me to the evils of profanity. He must be even more worried than I thought.

The sharp cadence of boots pacing on hardwood cracked through the phone line. “Talking to the police without a lawyer? What are you, stupid?”

He was right of course, and I suspected the question was rhetorical. But I'd had a hard day, and I was feeling a little grumpy myself. “I was thinking that I was
innocent
, John.”

The sound of John's pacing was replaced by the telltale squeak of denim on leather. I imagined him seated behind his imposing oak desk, glowering at me. “Yeah, well, innocent or not, Dale seems to think you're in trouble.”

“Dale talked to you? Hasn't he ever heard of attorney-client privilege?”

“Don't worry, your secrets are safe. Dale refused to give me any details.” John grunted, obviously displeased. “But I still got more information out of him than that bumpkin sergeant.”

I sat up straight. “What did Sergeant Bill tell you?”

“Nothing. At least nothing useful. And I wouldn't share it with
you if he did. You'd just go off on one of your harebrained schemes
again.”

“John, I—”

He didn't give me a chance to finish. “Don't you worry, Katydid. Don't you worry a bit. I'm not about to let those backcountry hicks railroad you into a murder conviction. I've got some vacation time coming. I'll be there to fix all this tomorrow.”

Lord, that was all I needed. John would put me in handcuffs and barricade me in the cabin for sure. I tried to sound reassuring. “There's no need to come up here, John, at least not yet. I haven't been arrested, and Dale has everything under control. Stay in Seattle for now. Save that vacation time, in case I need your help later. I'll make sure Dale keeps you informed.”
Of as little as possible.

John grumbled and griped. He snapped orders and reprimands. He gave ultimatums. But he eventually agreed to stay in Seattle, at least for a day or two.

Next I checked in on Serenity Yoga.

Unlike John, Mandy didn't even bark a hello.

“Kate, I know you're on vacation and all, but you have to return my calls! I've left at least a dozen messages!”

I glanced at the Yoga Chick's message indicator. Six missed calls,
all from the studio.

“Sorry Mandy. I left my phone in the cabin and just got home a few minutes ago.” I opted not to tell her that I'd spent the day trying to convince a potbellied policeman I wasn't guilty of murder. “What's up?”

“While you were off enjoying your vacation, I was stuck here
with a mess, that's what's up. That new Morning Flow Yoga
teacher forgot to set her alarm. Her students waited outside in the pouring rain for twenty minutes before they gave up.” Mandy's voice grew softer. “Honey, not now. Mommy's on the phone.” She came back on the line. “I was supposed to work on the twins' Halloween costumes today, but I had to spend my entire afternoon trying to placate fourteen very annoyed yoga students.”

I cringed. “You gave them all free passes, right?”

“Yes, but I doubt some of them will come back. Three have already demanded refunds.” She paused. “And you know what's worse?”

No, and I probably didn't want to. “What?”

“The instructor wouldn't even help me contact the students. She said we should all mellow out. That anyone can forget to set an alarm. Unbelievable.”

A high pitched wail screeched in the background.

Mandy yelled in reply. “Stop poking your brother this instant!”

“Um, Mandy—”

“Kate, I need to go. But you have to do something about that instructor.”

I sighed. “I'll talk to her when I get back.”

If I get back.

But that was a possibility I didn't want to think about.

I thanked Mandy for her help, hung up the phone, and collapsed into bed. I tried to soothe myself with my favorite bedtime pranayama practice, Kate's Sleeping Pill, but it had no effect. Even after twenty minutes of deep, segmented breathing, I still couldn't
relax enough to close my eyes. Instead, I rolled to my side and stared
at the closet, wishing I could magically transport myself somewhere—
anywhere—else.

I didn't think it was possible, but sometime, long after midnight, I fell asleep.

_____

My alarm went off at six the next morning. I hit the snooze button, closed my eyes, and snuggled back under the covers. My world felt cozy, comfortable, wrapped in a soft cotton blanket. Michael breathed rhythmically beside me. I reached behind the bed and stroked the silky spot behind Bella's ears.

I was … happy.

And then I blinked.

Reality crashed down, destroying my temporary oasis. I remembered it all: Monica's body, my futile efforts to revive her, that suffocating interrogation room. My arms and abdomen ached, sore from yesterday's useless CPR attempt. My shoulders knotted with tension. My eyes burned with exhaustion and held-back tears. How could anyone believe I was capable of murder?

I managed to drag myself out of bed and limp past the mostly empty parking lot to Shanti House. No one had officially fired me yet, so I assumed my morning yoga class was still on.

I unlocked the door to the yurt, turned on the lights, lit the candles, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

As I looked around the empty room, I only knew one thing for certain: being accused of murder killed your yoga business. On the bright side, if I
did
end up in prison, Death Row Yoga would have a captive audience.

By the time class was scheduled to start, the room held only one brave student: a mid-thirties gentleman who had arrived at the center late the night before. He didn't ask about Monica's murder, and I didn't volunteer. If he didn't realize he shared yurt space with a suspected murderer, who was I to tell him?

I waited until five minutes after the session's posted start time, then rang the Tibetan chimes three times to clear the room's energy and focus my mind. I smiled at my single, intrepid student. “Close your eyes and settle in. Feel your body connect with the earth and—”

The door opened. The Grumpy Yogini entered, still wearing the same frown as the day before. She rolled out her black rubber mat, sat cross-legged on a blanket, and closed her eyes.

At least
someone
was willing to give me a second chance.

I started class with a Sanskrit chant designed to promote healing and peace. I typically avoided teaching chant in group yoga classes. Many American students were uncomfortable with Sanskrit's unusual sounds; others didn't like singing in public. But frankly, that low, soft melody wasn't for my students; I sang it solely for me. My heart needed the peace-inducing vibration of sound.

I described the call-and-response process we'd follow. “I'll chant each phrase two times. The first time, I'll do it alone; the second time, you'll join me.” I touched my palms together in front of my chest. “Inhale, and open your arms out to the side.” Both students followed my instructions. “Exhale and touch your palms to your heart.” I chanted as they moved.

“Anamaya shanti.”

As we opened our arms on the next inhale, I recited the chant's English meaning.

“May my body have peace.”

We swept our palms back to our hearts and repeated the chant together.

“Anamaya shanti.”

We followed the process four more times, inviting peace to body, breath, mind, heart, and spirit.

The movements we practiced next were slow, easeful, and sooth
ing. Instead of walking around to observe my students, I laid out a mat and practiced with them, stopping occasionally to check their form. It wasn't my best teaching effort, but it was better than the alternative. If I stopped moving long enough to think, I'd burst into tears.

We started on hands and knees. “Inhale and lengthen your spine. As you exhale, lower your hips to your heels, your elbows and forehead to the floor. This is called Child's Pose.”

Connecting movement and breath forced me to stay in the present moment. A moment without frustration, death, and interminable questions. A moment in which I had everything I needed, right there inside of me.

I barely noticed our transition to standing, but as I led those
two brave souls through Uttanasana, Standing Head to Knees Pose
, my low back relaxed. As we twisted, my neck, my shoulders, even my belly, released. When the final vertebra cracked into place, I felt like Kate again.

My world was still far from perfect, but somehow I knew I'd survive.

I abandoned my yoga mat and walked among my two students. I coached and corrected their form. I even hazarded a smile when the Grumpy Yogini lifted her hips into Bridge Pose.

The second-to-last pose was a restorative posture called Bound Angle Pose. My two students lay face-up on the floor, bodies draped over emerald green bolsters, arms opened out to the side. Their knees were bent; the soles of their feet touched together. As I watched them relax, I asked them to imagine a warm light entering their hearts.

My own heart opened.

Ostensibly, I was the teacher, not the student, but I was still the one transformed. For the first time in almost twenty-four hours, I could breathe.

My male student looked calm, peaceful, and happy as he walked out of the building. The Grumpy Yogini looked—grumpy. At least this time she didn't check her watch in Savasana. She didn't have to. She rolled up her mat and left shortly before the rest period began.

Time to close up shop and head back to the cabin. I blew out the candles and turned off the space heater. The floor wasn't dirty, but I swept it anyway. The simple act grounded me and demonstrated my respect for the space.

The mop's soft, rhythmic swishes soothed my nervous system. Morning light poured through the east-facing windows and warmed my skin. After the last errant dust bunny had been whisked away, I leaned on the mop handle and stared out at the ocean, lost in my own melancholy thoughts.

“Excuse me, Kate?”

I cringed at the sound of Emmy's voice.
Looks like I'm fired after all.

Losing a week-long job should have been the least of my worries, given the circumstances, but I was still afraid to face her. What if Emmy thought I killed Monica? What if she hated me?

I slowly turned around, steeling myself for an angry confrontation.

I needn't have worried.

The person standing before me didn't look upset, she looked terminal. Her sunken eyes were underscored by dark shadows. The skin on her face seemed paradoxically puffy and dehydrated at the same time. Her normally pixie-like hair wilted lifelessly from her scalp.

Facing Emmy's anger would have been nothing. Uncontrollable rage might have been an upgrade. Anything would have been better than witnessing her despair.

“Kate, this is a disaster.”

“I know. It's terrible.” I leaned the dust mop against the window
and took a few tentative steps toward her. I wanted to give Emmy a hug, but I wasn't sure how she'd react. She could easily think that I killed Monica. Call me crazy, but I had a feeling she might not be eager to cuddle up with her stepmother's murderer.

I kept an imaginary yoga mat's distance between us. “I'm so sorry
about Monica. I can't even fathom how hard this must be. But I swear to you, I didn't—”

Emmy lifted her hands, palms forward. “I know, Kate, I know. You didn't hurt Monica. Why would you? You barely knew her.” She paused. “Besides, Monica's death isn't the disaster I'm talking about.”

It wasn't? What other disaster was there?

“I mean, sure, it's sad about Monica and all. I feel terrible for Dad.” She swallowed. “But it's worse than that. Elysian Springs might have to close.”

My expression must have betrayed my thoughts.

“I'm sorry. That sounded cold. But I barely knew Monica, and what I
did
know I didn't like. She destroyed my parents' marriage.
The center, though
…
” Her voice faltered. “Elysian Springs is Josh's
and my life.”

“I understand that, Emmy. My yoga studio is my life's work, too. But closing the center for a few days, even a week—well, that hardly seems tragic.”