Murder on the Eightfold Path (2 page)

Jake swore and then said, “All right. Do you recognize the victim?”

A.J. studied the man who lay a few feet from her. Gucci shoes, Rolex watch, no rings. Although she couldn’t see his face, she had the impression of youth. His skin—what she could see of it—was brown and supple. His hair was black and shiny.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

Something about the shape of his head . . .

Surely not. Although . . . what on earth was a young, expensively dressed man doing delivering Easter baskets to Elysia?

“Okay,” Jake said. “Take it easy. Everything will be okay. We’ll be there before you know it.”

He disconnected. A.J. eased back into the grass and tried to relax the muscles in her back. Pain was partly mental. So if she could control the mental part . . . mind over matter. . . .

She drew a long, slow breath and exhaled slowly, evenly. She took another deep breath.

Inhale. Exhale.

If there were ever a test for the calming powers of yoga’s deep breathing exercises . . . well, this probably counted toward the final exam.

Inhale. Exhale.

She paused and tried to decide if she felt better or not.

Not.

This called for more serious measures. She felt around in the grass and found one of the tiny foil-wrapped chocolate eggs.

 

It
felt like forever, but in fact it was probably not more than thirteen minutes before A.J. heard sirens. Cautiously, she tried to turn, but any movement sent pain shooting down her spine and legs. Tears—not least due to frustration—stung her eyes. She heard the bite of tires on gravel, shortly followed by the swing of the garden gate, and then footsteps approaching. Monster, who had been sitting beside her—gently drooling—rose from his haunches, tail wagging.

“How bad is it?” Jake asked, kneeling beside A.J. He brushed his knuckles against her cheek.

She wiped her eyes. “Oh, it’s ridiculous. I just turned wrong. It’s happened before . . .” She pointed. “There he is.”

Jake studied the waiting corpse, then turned back to her, anxiety sitting oddly on his hard features. “Try to relax. There’s an ambulance on its way. I passed it on the road.”

He must have been flying. That was sort of . . . nice.

“Can you make sure my mother’s not inside? Her key is in my bag. I’ve called the house and I’ve called her cell phone and she’s not answering. I can’t understand it, because we’re having dinner in less than an hour.”

More sirens floated in the distance.

“Stay put.”

“Very funny.”

Jake was already rising, striding quickly up the cobble-stone path.

A.J. closed her eyes. The sirens drew closer. She didn’t have to look to know that emergency vehicles were filling the drive. Sirens were cut but the rumble of engines and the crackle of radios filled the spring morning. In moments uniformed personnel were flooding the crime scene.

By the time Jake returned, A.J. was answering questions for an EMT who looked young enough to still be in high school. “My blood pressure is fine,” she said as the kid wrapped the cuff around her arm. “I mean, all things considered . . .”

All things being the crime scene investigation going on about three feet away.

“She’s not inside,” Jake said, and some of A.J.’s tension drained away—to be replaced by bewilderment. To the EMT Jake said, “How is she?”

“We’re going to take her to County to get checked. She seems to think it’s a preexisting injury.” His tone implied A.J. would probably say anything to avoid going to the hospital.

“There are dog’s footprints in the blood,” one of the uniformed officers called over.

Monster yawned uneasily as a battery of eyes turned his way.

“Great,” Jake muttered.

A.J. guiltily met his gaze. “I couldn’t exactly drag him away.”

“I know.” Wow. Jake
must
be worried; he was actually reassuring her.

Voices—one voice in particular—caught A.J.’s attention, and she turned her head.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed the silken tones that had delighted a generation of men who thought bare chests and gold medallions were the height of sophistication. Other voices raised in protest, but the garden gate banged open and heels came swiftly down the walk.

The trim ankles of the British model and sometimes-actress formerly known as Easy Mason—but these days mostly known as
Mother!
—appeared in A.J.’s line of view. She looked up. Elysia, as Easy had been christened, was carrying a small, brown grocery bag.

Checking mid-step, she seemed to take in the tableau before her: the uniformed officers surrounding the body on the garden path, and A.J., waving off help, in the process of moving very carefully onto the collapsible gurney.

“Pumpkin!” Elysia cried, rushing forward only to stop short as A.J. braced for the onslaught.

“I’m okay,” A.J. said quickly. “My back went out again.” Biting her lip, she sank on the gurney. “Mother, where’ve you
been
?”

Elysia held up the small, brown bag.

“You went grocery shopping? On Easter morning?” That was Jake, sounding skeptical, and A.J. winced inwardly at his tone.

Elysia pinned him with an inimical eye. “Why yes, Inspector. I needed evaporated milk.”

“Evaporated
milk
?”

“For the potatoes.”

“It didn’t occur to you before this morning that you might need evaporated milk?”

“Oh, God,” A.J. said watching her lover and mother square off against each other.

“What’s wrong?” Jake asked, seeming to remember her presence.

“Are you in pain, pumpkin?”

“Of course I’m in pain, Mother. And being called
pumpkin
doesn’t help. I thought something terrible had happened to you.”

Elysia stared at her. A.J. could practically see recollection dawn. Her mother turned slowly and stared at the grisly scene just a few feet away.

Elysia’s jaw dropped—a most un-Elysia-like expression.

“Do you know him?” A.J. asked uneasily.

At the same time, Jake said, “Can you identify the victim?”

Elysia stepped forward. The crime scene personnel automatically gave her room to view the man on the ground.

There was a funny silence.

“
Do
you recognize him?” Jake demanded.

“Blimey,” Elysia said mildly. “That’s my blackmailer.”

“Why,
why
did you have to call him your blackmailer?”

A.J., in bed at Deer Hollow, the farm she had inherited a year earlier from her Aunt Diantha, gazed reproachfully up at her mother as Elysia set a glass of water and two pain pills on the nightstand.

A trip to the doctor had resulted in the unsurprising news that A.J. had a herniated disk in her lower back. Basically, that meant the soft, gel-like substance inside one of the disks was creating pressure against the spine and nerves. It was not her first experience with back trouble, not by a long shot, but it was the first recurrence she’d had since she began practicing yoga regularly. As soon as the inflammation went down, her doctor was recommending a series of cortisone shots. For now she was on bed rest. Despite the pain, it seemed like the least of her troubles.

“Because he
was
, pump-poppet.”

Pump-poppet
. That was even worse than straight old
pumpkin
. Hopefully it wouldn’t last, but her mother had called her pump-poppet three times in the last hour, and it was beginning to get old. “You’re being blackmailed?”

“I am.”

“Don’t preen, Mother. It’s not something to be proud of.”

Elysia opened her mouth but before she could respond further, the doorbell rang. She went to answer it. A.J. stared at the ceiling and groaned. Monster, ensconced at the foot of the bed, thumped his tail.

A.J. had missed most of the excitement—and that, she was certain, was no accident. Jake had insisted that she be taken to the local hospital to get checked out, and during the interim of that lengthy process he had questioned Elysia. Though A.J. had yet to hear the details of this informal interrogation, she was pretty sure the only reason her mother was not currently decorating a jail cell was due to it being a holiday.

“Sure, and doesn’t something smell delicious?” As the voices in the hallway approached, A.J. recognized Bradley Meagher’s Irish accent—disconcertingly reminiscent of the Lucky Charms leprechaun. Mr. Meagher was A.J.’s lawyer. He was Elysia’s lawyer, too, in addition to being one of her oldest friends.

“That will be the ham,” Elysia was saying airily.

The
other
ham
, thought A.J. darkly.

Elysia breezed on, “I’m afraid we were a little late getting it in the oven thanks to the earlier unpleasantness.”

Earlier unpleasantness
. Yes. Quite. A.J. closed her eyes and then opened them, pasting on a smile as her mother and Mr. Meagher entered her bedroom.

Mr. Meagher was short, slim, and dapper. He was as tanned as a movie star and his hair was thick and silver and elaborately coiffed. But despite these little vanities he was a shrewd and tough lawyer and a good friend.

“A.J., me wee darlin’,” Mr. Meagher said, dragging up a chair. “Now what is it you’ve done to yourself?”

A.J. summoned a weak smile. “Oh, hi, Mr. Meagher. I just turned the wrong way. I’d wish you a Happy Easter, but under the circumstances it seems . . .”

The Alexanders had never been a particularly “religious” family. When A.J. had been growing up most of the nationally approved holidays had been enjoyed primarily for their secular purposes. The most spiritual person she had ever known was her Aunt Diantha. Diantha’s approach was sometimes unorthodox but always sincere. A.J. was trying to appropriate some of that spirituality into her own life, but it was not an easy process. It was especially not easy on days like this.

Mr. Meagher was watching Elysia as she dragged up another chair. “Yes, yes. A strange turn to the holiday and a bad business all around,” he agreed absently. “And how are you feeling, me wee darlin’?”

Hadn’t they just covered this? A.J. opened her mouth, but Elysia was there first.

“She’s half-crocked on painkillers.” Elysia perched on the edge of the chair on the other side of A.J.’s bed, and A.J. now had the uncomfortable feeling that she was holding court in her jammies. Granted, it had worked for John and Yoko.

“I’m not half-crocked, Mother. I’m very well aware that one of us needs to keep her wits about her.”

“I do admit I’ve felt wittier.” Elysia sighed, apparently trying to disarm her companions with an unconvincing show of vulnerability.

“You’d be best to tell me the whole story,” Mr. Meagher said, looking from mother to daughter.

Elysia beckoned graciously to A.J. A.J. gave her a disbelieving look, and then launched into a terse recital of her morning’s adventures. She concluded in a bitter digression, “And how the heck am I supposed to run a yoga studio flat on my back for who knows how long?”

Elysia said, “This is why you have Lily. You see? There
was
method in your aunt’s madness when she made the two of you co-managers of Sacred Balance.”

A.J. moaned.

“Is your back hurting, lovie?”

A.J. tossed her head on the pillow. “This is
just
what Lily has been hoping for.”

“Lily has been hoping you would injure your back?”

“She’s been hoping something would happen that would keep me—” A.J. broke off. “Never mind. Mother, stop stalling. I told my story. Tell yours. Who was the man killed in your front yard?”

Elysia looked uncharacteristically grave. “Dicky. Dakarai Massri.”

The name was vaguely familiar. A.J. cast her mind back to several months earlier. “The man you met in Egypt?” The young, handsome man she had seen in so many of Elysia’s vacation snapshots? She felt a sinking sensation. This was getting worse by the minute.

“Mmm.” That was it.
Mmm
. What did
Mmm
translate to in Elysiaspeak? A.J. was almost afraid to ask.

“I thought he was some kind of archeologist. Why was he blackmailing you?” She had a sudden uneasy vision of her esteemed parent thrusting antiquities down her blouse while browsing historic sites.

“Oh, you know. The usual reasons.” Elysia cast a slightly discomfited peek at Mr. Meagher who looked atypically blank-faced.

A.J. looked from one to the other of them. “Well, I mean . . .” This was unexpectedly awkward. “Was he threatening to expose you?”

“Yes.” Elysia suddenly tittered. “
So
amusing.”

“
Amusing
?” A.J. and Mr. Meagher chorused.

“Of course.” Elysia studied their expressions. “My
dears
. I’m an actress. Do you honestly imagine I could be embarrassed by a few naughty photographs after some of the films I’ve made?”