A Killer Retreat (14 page)

thirteen

Kyle, Emmy, and I
spent the next twenty minutes plotting strategy. With over a hundred staff members and guests as potential witnesses, we had to no choice but to prioritize. Ultimately, we each focused on what we knew best. Kyle took the restaurant staff, Emmy the retreat center employees. I chose to connect with the most likely suspects—the wedding guests from New York—via some private yoga classes. It was as good a start as any.

Teaching yoga would give me the perfect opportunity to study Emmy's family. Effective yoga teachers are master observers, trained to watch students for even the subtlest signs of physical or emotional discomfort. In this case, I'd be on the lookout for subconscious signs of guilt, searching for a murderer the way a pathologist scans slides for a cancerous cell.

Besides, Emmy was right. People
did
open up to their yoga teach
ers, often more than they realized. Contrary to popular belief, yoga isn't about contorting your body into pretzel-like positions. Yoga's ultimate goal is to focus and clarify the mind. An effective yoga class leaves students' bodies strong, yet supple; their energy relaxed, yet alert; their hearts open—yet often vulnerable. The first rule of yoga ethics is to
never
abuse that vulnerability. I could only hope trapping a murderer was somehow an exception.

When the three of us parted company, we agreed to meet again after my class the next morning. Emmy promised to schedule the private session with her family as soon as possible.

In the meantime, I headed back to the cabin.

The aromas of sweet maple syrup and smoky vegan soysage greeted me at the door. Michael poked his head out from the kitchen. “Thank goodness you're finally here! We were about to give up on you.”

I walked inside, gave Michael a hug—and almost had heart failure. A tornado had obviously touched down in the kitchen. Globs of pancake batter oozed down the cabinets and congealed on the counter. Grease spots stained the wall. Every plate, cup, pot, and utensil in the cabin—and few more Michael must have stolen from somewhere—was either currently in use or stacked haphazardly next to the sink. Dried batter and cooked-on food coated every dish.

“I made pancakes!”

“I see that.”

My stomach still bulged from pumpkin muffins and caffeinated soy milk, but I didn't have the heart to disappoint him. I sat down for my second breakfast of the morning and tried to ignore the disaster in the kitchen.

Rene halfheartedly moved the food around on her plate. “Sorry, Michael. I'm still not feeling well.”

“It's not bad for fake meat,” Sam volunteered.

Michael poured me more orange juice. “What do you think, Kate?”

“It's quite good,” I said. Which it was. “I'm not very hungry, though.” Which I wasn't.

“Nonsense.” Michael stacked two more pancakes and three more soysages on my plate. “Eat up, you'll need your strength.”

“Why's that?”

“House rules. I cooked, so you have to clean up.”

Michael smiled sweetly. I suppressed a groan.

At least thirty thousand calories later, Rene and Sam relaxed in the living room. Michael hung out in the kitchen and watched me clean. He wrapped his arms around my waist from behind and nuzzled my neck. “This is so great. I can imagine doing this every morning, can't you?”

It took every fiber of my willpower not to burst into tears.

Like Michael, I had created a mental movie of our future life together—only mine was a horror flick. Globs of dried toothpaste all over the sink, bruises on my nether parts from left-open toilet
seats, shriveled up hands, shrunken from overexposure to dish soap.
Only three days into our first experience cohabitating, and I was convinced I might lose my mind. How did Rene keep her sanity?

“Uh, Kate … I think we should talk.”

Uh oh.

“I've been meaning to ask you something.”

Oh good lord, here it comes.

My throat constricted. My heart pounded. My lungs convulsed,
suddenly starved for oxygen. Michael was about to pop the question.
The question that permanently cemented or forever tore apart relationships. The question that forced you to choose: move forward, or permanently retreat. I didn't want to retreat. Not at all. I loved Michael more than I knew how to express. But what if I wasn't ready to move forward?

My mind flashed on the story of the farmer who lassoed a deer. His plan was simple. Cage it, fatten it like a Herford calf, then eat grain-fed venison for the rest of the winter.

Bambi had other plans.

The normally quiet, docile creature let out a primal scream and attacked, kicking, trampling, goring, and biting. Anything to get out from under that noose.

Bambi eventually escaped without injury. The farmer barely escaped with his life.

Michael should seriously consider lowering that rope.

I stepped out of his embrace and tugged at my shirt collar. “It's really hot in here, Michael. I think I'll take Bella for a walk,” I yelled into the living room. “Rene, get off your butt and grab Bella. We're going for a walk.”

Michael looked hurt. “Kate, I was talking to you.”

“I know. We'll be back in a few minutes—a half hour at most. I need to get some air.”

I backed away from him, panicked. “Rene, let's go!” I slammed the door on his voice and ran toward the trail. A minute or so later, Rene and Bella joined me.

“What was that all about? Michael looks pissed.”

“Nothing. Let's walk.”

Rene, for one of the few times in her life, indulged me.

For the first treasured minutes, I shook off my panic attack by immersing myself in the dense, tree-lined forest with all of my senses. October's cool sun peeked through the trees and cast rip
pled gray shadows over an undergrowth of feather-like sword ferns
,
spotted mushrooms, and yellow-green moss. A musty-smelling mulch
of pine needles and fallen aspen leaves scented the air. A soft breeze ruffled my hair. I even imagined that I could taste the prior night's rain on the back of my tongue.

Bella explored the trail ahead—on leash of course—while Rene and I walked quietly together, our silence broken only by the steady crunch, crunch, crunch of our shoes. The stillness felt so restful, so complete, that I almost forgot I was a murder suspect.

Almost.

But I didn't forget my promise to Sam.

I didn't know what to do about my relationship with Michael; I had no idea who murdered Monica; but I was damned sure going to solve the Mystery of the Recalcitrant Rene.

Whatever was going on with her, it certainly wasn't an affair. Rene looked nothing like a woman newly in love. Puffy half-moons underscored her eyes, despite a thick layer of expertly applied makeup. Worry lines creased her forehead. She sagged, almost wilted, under her new Louis Vuitton jacket. Her pink UGG boots moved along the trail in a slow, foot-dragging shuffle.

No doubt about it. My friend needed help.

“Rene, what's going on?”

“Nothing, Kate, I'm fine.” Her lips turned up, but the expression looked more like a grimace than a smile. Tiny puddles of liquid pooled above her lower lashes.

Were those tears?

Rene never cried. It simply wasn't part of her emotional vocabulary. She joked, she teased, she made sarcastic remarks. She used any defense mechanism possible to avoid showing weakness. Her constant, inappropriate teasing often drove me insane.

But she never cried.

I grabbed her shoulders and forced her to face me.

“This isn't just the stomach flu, is it.”

She didn't answer.

The deepest part of me was terrified to ask the question. The deepest part of me didn't want to know.

“Honey, are you sick?”

She avoided my question by pretending to take it literally. “Obviously. I vomited all through dinner the other night. Remember?”

“Stop messing around. That's not what I meant, and you know it. Now tell me the truth. Are. You. Sick?”

For the few frozen seconds until she replied, I forgot to breathe. Bella sensed my tension and stopped sniffing. The no-longer-restful-but-still-horrifyingly-complete silence pounded my eardrums. Rene was my touchstone, my support system, my tormentor, my friend. She couldn't be sick. Not seriously. She just couldn't.

Rene stared at her feet, completely still, as if harnessing all of her courage to form the words. “I'm not sick, Kate. It's worse than that. The thing is … well …” Her throat convulsed. “I think I might be pregnant.”

That was it?

I grabbed her hands. “Rene, honey, that's
good
news!” Granted, I wasn't ready for children of my own, but
I
was still single. The minute Rene said “I do,” she started the inevitable cycle: marriage, kids, old age, and death. Rene and Sam had been married for three years. Getting pregnant was the obvious next step.

Rene yanked her hands from my grasp. “God, Kate. How could—” Her voice cracked. “How could you not get it?” Mascara-stained tears dripped down her face.

She was right. I hadn't gotten it. But I did now.

“This
isn't
good news, is it?”

“No, Kate. It's not good news at all.”

“I'm listening.”

Rene moved next to Bella, knelt down, and slowly rubbed the soft spot behind her ears. The rhythmic motion seemed to give her comfort. “Remember how I said I never wanted kids?”

I nodded my head yes.

“Well, I meant it. I never even liked dolls as a child, other than
Barbie, and that was only because she wore cool clothes.” Bella sighed
and relaxed into Rene's touch. “But Sam wants kids less than anyone I've ever met.” She swallowed. “He even planned to have a vasectomy after we got married, but he never got around to it.”

I hated myself, but I had to ask. “Then why didn't you guys use birth control?”

“We did. I'm not
that
stupid. The pill doesn't always work, you know.”

She was right. Birth control pills were only ninety-nine percent effective. Leave it to Rene to be part of the one percent.

“Kate, what if Sam wants me to … you know.” Her expression was tortured. “Sam will want me to end the pregnancy.”

I knelt on the ground next to her. “Forget Sam for a minute. It's your baby. It's your
body.
What do
you
want?” I had no idea what I'd do in Rene's situation, but I knew this much. Whatever she decided, I'd be there, every step of the way. If Sam wasn't man enough to step up, I sure as hell would.

Rene rubbed her eyes, smearing deep black mascara across her cheeks. “I can't believe this, Kate. I thought I'd never,
ever
want a child.” She paused. “But I want
this
baby.” She said the words again, as if surprised to hear them out loud. “
I want this baby
.”

I smiled and tried to look confident. “Well then, Sam will, too.” I hoped I was right.

Rene stood up and brushed off her pants. “I don't think so, Kate. I know Sam loves me. Lord knows, he puts up with enough of my crap. But when we decided to get married, he made one condition clear. No kids. No way. No exceptions.” She teared up again. “He might even leave me.”

I didn't know what to say, so I stalled with a question.

“What did the doctor say? Does the baby seem healthy so far?”

“I haven't gone to a doctor yet. I made an appointment a few days ago. I even drove to the doctor's office, but I chickened out. I keep hoping I'm wrong.”

I held up my hands. “Whooooooa. Hold on there a minute, Kemosabe. You haven't even gone to the doctor? You're probably not even pregnant. You wouldn't be the first woman to miss a period, you know.”

“But my breasts hurt, and I'm nauseated all the time.”

I teased her, hoping to lighten the mood. “You know they sell these things called pregnancy tests.”

“I know that,” Rene snapped. “I'm not twelve. I took one. But they're not always accurate.”

“Why don't you repeat it?”

“I did. Four times.”

I already knew the answer, but I had to ask. “And?”

“I'm pregnant.” Rene wailed. “How in this world did this happen?”

I didn't say anything, but I had a pretty good idea.

“And the whole thing gets worse and worse,” she continued.

“How's that?”

“I've been looking on the Internet. All the sites say pregnant women
shouldn't do Hot Yoga. The heat's bad for the baby.”

“So?”

“My ass is going to get
huge.
”

I smiled. Finally. A glimpse of my friend underneath all of that drama. “Honey, I've got news for you. You're pregnant. Your butt won't be the only thing growing.”

Rene punched me in the arm—hard.

“Ouch! That hurt!”

“I hate you.” Rene smiled for the first time in days.

I wrapped her in my arms and hugged her fiercely. “I hate you, too, honey.” We rocked back and forth, sobbing like fools. “Everything's going to turn out fine, I promise. You're going to be a great mother, and I'll be the world's best auntie.”

Rene pulled back. “Kate, I need a huge favor.”

“Anything. Name it.” My mind spun through the possibilities. I wasn't ready to share “I dos” and have babies with Michael, but committing to Rene was a different matter entirely. She was family. If she and Sam split, Rene could move in with me. I'd give her my office and move the computer to the kitchen. I wasn't keen on the whole diaper changing business, but I'd be willing to take the 3:00 a.m. feedings.

And of course I'd be Rene's labor coach. I'd sign up for doula training tomorrow and look into Lamaze classes next week. Rene had always been there for me. I would do
anything
for her.