A Killer Retreat (17 page)

“You didn't do anything wrong, Helen. You never cheated on Bruce. Not once.”

“Maybe not, but our marriage was a sham all the same. I simply didn't realize it until I fell in love with you.” Her smile looked more
beseeching than amorous. “I still haven't figured out what all of
th
is means myself. I'm not ready to bring in anyone else. Please, let's
just get through this week.”

Toni dropped Helen's hands and took several steps back. “You don't know what this means? We've been together almost two years. How can you not know what we mean?”

“Honey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded.” Helen
reached toward her again.

“Don't touch me,” Toni snapped. “Don't even come near me.” She walked several feet away, then turned back. “I love you. But I won't be in a relationship with someone who's ashamed of me.”

Toni marched away, alone this time. Helen watched until she disappeared, then turned and trudged in the opposite direction.

I leaned against the tree, kicking myself. Toni and Helen weren't
just long-term friends. They were lovers. How did I not realize that before?

I hadn't even considered Toni as a suspect—not until now. She obviously had reason to want Monica gone. Where was Toni when Monica was murdered? She took my yoga class that morning, but she disappeared while the rest of us were trying to trap Bandit. Had she gone back to the hot tubs? I banged the back of my head against the rough bark. How would I ever solve this case if my suspect list kept growing?

Even worse, now I faced a different dilemma. What was I supposed to do with this new information? Should I tell Emmy? Helen obviously wanted her and Toni's relationship kept secret, but what if it was somehow related to Monica's murder? What if discussing it with Emmy helped me piece the puzzle together?

And what if it didn't?

Then I would have divulged a secret I had no right to know and hurt two innocent people—maybe more—in the process. After ten minutes of circular thinking, I still couldn't make up my mind. Ultimately, I decided not to decide, at least not until after I taught the private yoga class to Emmy's family tomorrow.

I stood up, brushed off my pants, and led Bella back to the cabin.
If I was lucky, I'd learn something at my evening class that would render the whole point moot.

sixteen

For the record, discussing
murder during Yoga for Relaxation is counterproductive.

I taught the evening workshop to a handful of students, most of
whom I'd never seen before, and all of whom seemed to know nothing
about Monica's murder. Each student readily agreed that having a killer loose on the premises was terrifying, but not one of them provided any useful information.

When everyone left Shanti House, they seemed significantly more
stressed out than when they arrived. They pointed their flashlights
in all directions, fearfully glanced over their shoulders, and scurried
across the field in a single group, like a herd of antelope fending
off a predator. Obviously, I should have called the class Yoga for Anxiety.

Maidzilla and her waitress friend didn't attend, so I decided to eat breakfast at Eden the following morning. Hopefully I'd be able to question both the waitress and Jennifer, the morning hostess who had spoken to Monica shortly before her death. Kyle was officially in charge of interviewing the restaurant staff, but I needed information he might choose to omit. Like the truth about him and Emmy. I'd figure out how to corner Maidzilla later.

Plans in place, I went back to the cabin.

The rest of the evening passed in a thick fog of wary discomfiture and avoided conversations. Sam and Rene refused to look at each other, each terrified of what the other might say. Michael made plenty of eye contact—most of it angry and wounded. I apologized for running out on him at the spa, but he wasn't ready to forgive me. Frankly, I didn't blame him.

We went to bed early, more to avoid the heartbreaking silence than because we were actually tired. The inches of mattress space between Michael and me felt like a minefield, much too dangerous to cross, so I stuck to my side of the bed, stared at the ceiling, and listened to rain patter the roof.

Four hours later, Bella nudged my hand and let out a low, tortured moan.

“Seriously, Bella? Again?”

Bella suffered from a severe case of Restless Dog Syndrome. She panted, she paced, she scratched, she whined. She asked to go outside every two hours. I couldn't blame her. After all, she still had a day's worth of undigested food in her system. The poor creature was obviously miserable.

Still, it was after two in the morning, and I'd already gotten up to take Bella out twice. Michael—obviously still cross with me—hadn't volunteered to get up either time.

“Ask Michael this time, sweetie. I have to get up in four hours.”

My words were more than loud enough to wake him. In fact, I might have even leaned over and spoken directly into his ear.

He didn't move.

I narrowed my eyes and glared at his back with laser-like focus, hoping to pierce his protective armor with bad-boyfriend guilt rays.

Nothing.

I nudged him under the covers. That, at least, earned me a response.

“She's your dog, Kate.”

Bella moaned again, louder and more insistent this time.

I sighed. “Hang on, sweetie, let me get my shoes.”

I stumbled behind Bella through a dark field of tall, muddy grass for ten minutes while she searched for the perfect place to do her business. After what felt like ten hours, I staggered back into the cabin, hung up my sopping jacket, and unhooked Bella's collar.

Bella looked at the towel in my hands, gave me a don't-you-dare-touch-my-feet look, and padded off to join Michael in the bedroom, leaving a trail of muddy paw prints behind her.

Et tu, Bella? Et tu?

I staggered into the bathroom and leaned against the counter, practically weeping. When I looked up, a drenched zombie woman stared back at me. Spending life behind bars didn't seem all that bad anymore. At least in prison I might be able to get some sleep.

I turned off the bathroom light, tiptoed down the hallway, and cracked open the door. The bedroom was as dark as Bella's muddy black coat. I considered turning on the lights, but that would have disturbed Michael, so I opted to work my way to the bed by Braille. I slipped on one of Michael's socks and tripped on a shoe, but my fingers eventually found the edge of the mattress, and the mound of wet, warm fur draped across it.

One hundred pounds of fur, to be precise.

Snoring on my side of the bed.

On a typical night, I would have asked Bella to move. She was hogging the entire area my legs would normally occupy. But this wasn't a typical night. Bella finally seemed comfortable after a day of misery. She deserved at least a few hours of sleep, didn't she? After all, she was only sick because I had forgotten her medicine.

Ultimately, I decided to sleep curled up in a side-lying Child's Pose.

I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled my knees up to my chest,
creating a human cannonball. Then I placed my feet on the sheet behind Bella's shoulders, closed my eyes, and leaned back to rest my head on the pillow.

I completely forgot that Michael had pulled the bed away from the wall.

“What the—Whoa!”

Rather than floating back to rest on a soft, comfy pillow, my upper body fell through the air. My butt and my chunky thighs tumbled behind it.

I flailed arms and legs in a desperate attempt to stay upright, but the action did nothing to prevent my inevitable descent. Bella let out a loud yelp as my right foot connected solidly with her jaw. My left foot connected with something significantly softer.

My body kept falling.

I heard a terrifying crunch as my head connected with hardwood. Sharp pain jolted down my left arm.

Michael's surprised voice yelled from above. “What the hell, Kate!
Why'd you poke me in the eye?”

On a different night, I would have argued that Michael had nothing to complain about; he was, after all, still resting comfortably on top of the cushy, warm bed. On a different night, I would have apologized to both Michael and Bella for my unintentional acts of violence. On a different night, I might even have laughed at the sheer ludicrousness of the whole situation.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I was stuck between a mattress and a hard place. Literally. My torso was wedged between the bed and the wall. My feet pointed straight in the air. Only my head, neck, and shoulders connected with the wood floor.

At first, only one insane thought zipped through my mind.
This is the worst Shoulder Stand ever.
Then my rational mind took over and my entire body flashed cold.
What made that crunching noise when my head hit the floor?

Visions of wheelchairs, feeding tubes, and a lifetime of depen
dency paralyzed me. For a few terrified instants, I didn't try to move
, afraid—no, petrified—that I might not be able to.

Michael's shocked face peered over the edge of the bed. “What happened? Are you OK?”

Good question.

“I'm not sure. Give me a second.” I summoned enough courage to wiggle my fingers, then my toes. Thank God. Everything moved.

“I think I'm OK. Help me up.”

Michael grabbed my arms and pulled me back onto the bed. “How did you get down there, anyway?”

“Not so carefully.”

He didn't laugh at my joke.

Rene knocked on the bedroom door. “What's going on in there?”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” Michael replied. “Come on in.”

Great. May as well make it a party.

Rene turned on the lights. She, Sam, and Michael all watched with concerned expressions as I explored my neck's new range of motion. I started with several of the exercises typically done at the beginning of yoga class. I carefully lowered my chin to my chest, then lifted it up toward the ceiling. So far so good.

I turned my head to the right.
Maybe I got lucky.
I turned it to the left. A lightning bolt shot down my arm and out my pinky finger.

Then again, maybe not.

“Rene, do me a favor,” I said. “There are some plastic bags next to the refrigerator. Would you please fill one with ice and bring it to me?” I glanced around the room. “Where's Bella?”

Michael pointed toward the window “Over there. Don't worry about her. She's fine.”

Bella certainly didn't
look
fine. She cowered in the corner and stared at me with a hurt expression, obviously wondering why I'd kicked her. Any dog—any sentient being, really—would be frightened if woken by a blow to the jaw. But for Bella, it had to be especially traumatic. Bella had been abused as a puppy by a cretin who enjoyed using his boots. She had to wonder if her past was about to repeat itself.

Remorse, shock, and what was probably a minor concussion overwhelmed me. I ignored the lightning storm raging in my arm, staggered over to Bella, and wrapped my arms around her neck. I
sobbed into her soft, still-damp fur. “Please forgive me, sweetie. I'm
so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

Bella sighed and leaned into my embrace. I held her tight and rocked back and forth for several long moments, before looking up to meet Michael's gaze. “I never meant to hurt anyone.”

It wasn't the apology I owed him, but it was a start.

He replied with a single nod.

Rene returned with Ziplok full of ice and a look that invited no discussion. “Sam, go find Emmy and Josh. We might need an ambulance.”

I stood up. “Rene, seriously, I'm fine I don't want an ambula—”

She shushed me with her index finger. “Kate, don't be stupid. A neck injury is nothing to mess with, and you know it. Sit back on the bed now.”

I sat.

She turned toward Michael. “Get Bruce. There's a doctor in this place, and we're damned well going to use him.”

The boys each ran off on their separate errands. Bella jumped on the bed and cuddled next to me, while Rene pressed the bag of ice cold pain relief against my neck. Head trauma combined with the mental image of my butt suspended in air made me feel giddy. I couldn't stop giggling.

“What's so funny?” Rene asked.

“You should have seen the look on Michael's face when he found me trapped behind the bed.” I imagined the scene through Michael's eyes and snorted.

“What now?”

“I think I invented a new yoga pose! Capsized Turtle!”

Rene rolled her eyes. “More like Broken Neckasana.” She sobered. “Don't joke around about this. You might still be hurt.”

“Come on, Rene, lighten up. I'm fine. Besides, you have to admit, this gives me the perfect opportunity to talk to Bruce.”

Rene pinched my arm. Hard.

“Ouch!”

She widened her eyes in mock innocence. “Oh, I'm sorry. Did that hurt? Well, now we know your neck isn't broken.” She paused, as if thinking. “At least I don't think so. I'm not a doctor, after all.” She walked away, waving her hands through the air. “No worries. If I'm wrong, you'll only end up in a wheelchair.” She gave me a look that would have melted a glacier. “Now, are you going to take this seriously, or do I have to pinch you again?”

I was pretty sure any answer other than “Yes ma'am, absolutely,
ma'am,” would have netted me a matching bruise on the other arm.
I stayed silent.

“Get this straight, Kate. Right now Bruce is a
doctor
, not a murder suspect. You're his patient. Interview him later.”

I heard the cabin door open. I could make out Emmy's and Sam's
voices, but they didn't join us in the bedroom. If they meant to keep me from panicking, they should have talked significantly more softly, or at least spoken in code. The phrases I could make out were “head injury,” “no hospital,” and “on-call doctor.” Bruce and Michael arrived next and added words like “MRI,” “not a neurologist,” and “helicopter off the island.”

I'd heard enough. I pushed Rene's ice-pack-holding hand off my neck and quickly stood up.

Uh oh. Maybe that was a bad idea.

The ground shifted. Warm saliva pooled under my tongue. A wave of nausea crashed through my belly.

A really bad idea.

I grabbed the nightstand to steady myself. Starbursts of pain exploded behind my eyes and shot down my arm.

Even worse idea.

I ignored it all and yelled, “Hold on, you guys. Get in here and talk to me. No one's flying me anywhere.”

The four of them crowded into the room.

“I'm fine, guys. Just horrifically embarrassed.”

Rene disagreed. “Kate, you need to get checked out by a doctor.”

Emmy looked uncertainly at Bruce. “Dad, can you take a look at her?”

“I'm not qualified, honey. I'm a pediatrician, not an ER doc.”

“Please?” Michael replied. “We'd really appreciate it.”

I looked around the room at four unanimously nodding heads. Michael, Sam, Emmy, and Rene: everyone was in agreement. Everyone, that is, except Bruce and me, and no one seemed interested in our opinions.

Frankly, if someone had lined up the ten worst physicians in America and asked me to pick one as my doctor, Bruce wouldn't have been in the top nine.

First, he looked awful. He'd aged at least a decade in the past two
days. His cheekbones were covered in yellowish-gray skin that sagged
loosely underneath tired-looking eyes, and his limp, greasy hair no longer came close to covering his prominent bald spot. He looked less like a doctor and more like an overaged medical student at the end of a twenty-four hour shift. If said student had a five-martini hangover.

Second, I was the prime suspect in his wife's murder. Even if Bruce
was
more competent than he appeared, he probably had no
desire to help me. He might even wrap me in a full body cast, just for
the sport of it.