A Killer Retreat (19 page)

I narrowed my eyes. “Did Rene put you up to this?”

She looked confused. “Rene? Oh, you must mean Emmy!”

I didn't, of course, but I shook my head yes, anyway.

“Sort of … I mean … Emmy asked me to talk to you, but not about yoga. She told me to tell you that she and Kyle can't make your meeting.”

“Why not?”

“There's no water at Eden, so we can't open for breakfast, and Kyle's about to blow an aneurism. Emmy says they need to deal with that first. She'll call you after they figure out what's wrong.”

There went my plans for the morning. No gossiping with restaurant employees, no grilling would-be lovers. But on the bright side, I'd have plenty of time to talk to Bruce before my private class.

“Thanks for telling me.” I started to walk away.

“That's not all. I mean …” She looked down at her feet. “I wanted to talk to you about something else.” Her face turned bright red, but her words became less hesitant, as if by uttering the first phrases, she had opened the floodgates of communication. “It's been great to practice yoga again. I haven't been able to afford classes since Emmy talked me into moving here a few weeks ago.”

“Do you work at Elysian Springs?”

“Yes, at Eden, but that's not how I know Emmy. Emmy and I went to high school together, back in New York. I ran away from
there, really. My ex-boyfriend …” She shuddered and briefly—so very briefly—made eye contact. “He wasn't a nice man. I had to get away from him.” Her eyes filled with tears. “The only time I feel completely safe is when I'm practicing yoga.” She paused. “I don't know why I'm telling you all of this.”

I did. Emmy was right. For better or worse, students inherently trusted their yoga teacher. I tried to always deserve that trust. I smiled, hoping to encourage her. She nudged the grass with her foot.

“All I really wanted to tell you is that I love this style of yoga. All of the breathing … It makes me feel whole again.” The tears that had been building in her eyes cascaded down her cheeks.

I felt like an idiot. I had obviously misread this woman. She wasn't the Grumpy Yogini at all. She was a female yogi, that much was certain. But she wasn't irritable. She was shy, scared, and recovering from what was likely more than one form of abuse.

The more she spoke, the more her confidence seemed to build.

“I also want to apologize,” she said.

“For what?”

“For cutting class early every morning. I know it's terribly rude, but I can't afford to be late for work. I showed up ten minutes late after our first class, and Kyle almost bit my head off.”

All of the pieces finally clicked into place.
Not everything's about you, Kate.
This lovely woman didn't
want
to leave class early every morning; she was afraid not to. This was Jennifer, the hostess at Kyle's restaurant. One of the last people to see Monica alive.

I wanted to ask her about that morning, but if I questioned her too aggressively, she might bolt. I worked on building our rapport instead.

“You're the hostess, aren't you?”

“Yes, at least one of them. I cover breakfast and lunch.” She frowned. “God, I hate that job. I don't like talking to strangers.”

“Why don't you work somewhere else, then? There must be a lot of different jobs you could do here at the center.”

“Emmy needs some more maids, but I'd rather work at Eden. I'm trying to get restaurant experience. I'd like to work my way up to assistant chef someday. I took culinary training in New York and everything.” She shrugged. “But Kyle doesn't need any help in the kitchen right now, so I'm stuck at that hostess desk.”

I hated to push her, but it was a natural opening. “Were you at the desk the morning Monica was killed?”

She swallowed hard. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Kyle told me that you talked to her.”

“Yes, but I sure wish I hadn't. She was so mad. It wasn't my fault
she got sick at dinner the night before. I wasn't even on shift. But she wouldn't stop yelling. She was just so …”

Awful.

“Jennifer, this is important. What time did you see her?”

She thought for a moment. “I didn't look at my watch, but it
wasn't long after I got to work. Maybe five or ten minutes? So I guess
that makes it around eight-fifteen.”

I puzzled through the timeline. If Jennifer's estimate was right, I'd found Monica's body about forty-five minutes after she left the restaurant. It took me about fifteen minutes to talk to Bruce and walk to the hot tubs. That left thirty minutes for Bruce to follow Monica from Eden to the spa, wait for her to get undressed, kill her, and hustle back to his cabin.

It was certainly possible.

“Did she say if she was planning to meet anyone?”

“No, but we weren't exactly making small talk. I just wanted to get rid of her.” Jennifer's cheeks turned pink. “I sent her after Kyle. I told her that he had already left, but if she hurried, she might be able to catch him. Thank goodness she didn't run into him. He'd have served my head on a platter for sure.”

“Anything else you can remember?”

Jennifer shook her head. “Not really. She was carrying a towel, so I assumed she was on her way to the spa. I almost told her not to go. You're not supposed to use the sauna or hot tubs when you're sick, and I was afraid she might pass out.” Her lower lip trembled. “I haven't told anyone else this, but I feel kind of guilty. Like maybe Monica died because I didn't warn her.” Her eyes met mine. “You don't think that's possible, do you?”

I shook my head emphatically. “Absolutely not. Zero percent chance.
Monica didn't pass out and drown; she was strangled.”

Jennifer's whole body seemed to relax. “Thank you. I knew that, but I needed to hear someone say it out loud. But I still should have said something. I mean, she didn't seem a little under the weather. She looked like she had the plague.”

Bruce had mentioned that Monica was sick the night before her death, but this sounded more serious than a bout of the stomach flu. Why did he let her wander off to go hot tubbing alone? I didn't see how an upset stomach could be related to Monica's strangulation, but I made a mental note to ask Bruce about it, nonetheless.

Jennifer and I spoke for several more minutes, but she didn't remember anything else helpful. We said our goodbyes and promised to see each other in class the next morning.

As I limped back to the cabin, I listened to my messages. All three were from Mandy, who grew progressively more desperate-sounding with each recording.

First message: “Kate, it's Mandy. I'm here at the studio. I got a call at home early this morning. The Power Yoga teacher put her back out changing the bottle on the water cooler. She can't get up. I called 911, and the paramedics are on their way. Call me back as soon as you get this.”

I closed my eyes. The pounding in my head grew louder.

Second Message: “Hi Kate, it's Mandy again. The ambulance just left. Call me right away. We need to talk.”

Third message: “Kate, I looked at the schedule. The Power Yoga teacher was signed up to cover most of your classes. She's supposed to teach two more today, and the students for your Morning Flow class will start arriving any minute. I'll teach this one, but I'm not doing the rest. When you asked me to look after the studio, you said I'd only have to answer the phone and bring in the mail. I didn't sign up for this crap.”

Welcome to my world.
I turned off the phone and shoved it back into my jacket, accidentally turning my head in the process. A white-hot spasm zapped down my arm.

Confessing to murder was starting to sound pretty darned attractive. Prison would offer free healthcare, a bed that was securely bolted to the side of the wall, and a drill-sergeant-like warden responsible for recalcitrant employees. I'd miss Michael, but perhaps I could arrange for a few conjugal visits. Prison would have everything I needed.

Except Bella.

My mouth went dry. Bella would survive just fine if I was arrested. Michael and Rene would make sure she found a good home.
But how would I survive without her?

I steeled my shoulders, pulled the phone back out of my pocket, and started dialing.

eighteen

My call to Serenity
Yoga went straight to voice mail. I was scheduled to teach most of the morning and Rene claimed she
still didn't feel well, so Michael, Sam, and a newly reenergized Bella
headed off for a day hike on Mount Constitution. Sam—still convinced that Bella was planning to eat him—insisted on driving both vehicles. As soon as the door closed behind them, Rene leaped up from the couch.

“Thank God they're finally gone.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. She rubbed her palms briskly together, ready to pounce, like a feral cat lurking outside of a mouse hole. “What are we going to do now?”

I massaged the back of my neck and scowled. “Don't look so pleased with yourself. I'm still mad at you.”

“It's not my fault you forgot to turn off your cell phone!” Rene didn't even pretend to look guilty. “Now, my gimpy Sherlock, what's our crime fighting strategy for the day?”

I couldn't speak for Rene, but
my
strategy was simple. Ditch my evil friend, ice my neck, and sleuth on my own. I simply had to figure out a way to get rid of her that didn't involve driving. Fortunately, I had an idea.

The only thing bigger than Rene's heart was her ego. I'd never
fool
her, but I might manage to trick her. I crossed my arms, looked to the side and frowned, pretending to sort through various options. After enough time had passed to hopefully be convincing, I snapped my fingers.

“I have an idea.”

I moved Michael's dirty breakfast dishes to the side and dug through the flyers he'd haphazardly scattered across the table. I eventually found the one with a blue heron on the front. “We should divide and conquer.”

“What do you mean?” Rene cocked her head and peered at me suspiciously.

“Teaching Emmy's family gives me the perfect excuse to interview them. You should focus on everyone else.” I handed her the flyer. “This nature hike will be perfect. You can eavesdrop on the other guests and work your charms on the trail guide. You're great at getting men to open up.”

I didn't lie. Rene
was
good at getting men to talk—or do just about anything else, for that matter. Was it my fault that the trail guide was female?

Rene read the flyer. “
Four hours?
You expect me to tramp around
in some muddy, mosquito-infested swampland
for
four hours
?” She shuddered.

Technically, she'd be hiking through a forest, but I knew what she meant. Rene considered watching the Discovery Channel bonding with nature. Four hours hiking off-trail wasn't exactly her cup of chai.

I took the flyer back and pretended to read it. Ten to two, exactly as I remembered. I mentally crossed my fingers, hoping my plan would work. “Gee, Rene, I didn't realize it was that long.” I shook my head in mock agreement. “You're right, four hours is too much for a woman in your condition. Between the vomiting and the lack of exercise, you're pretty out of shape. I'll have to do it myself tomorrow.”

She snatched the flyer back from me. “Out of shape, my a—”

She stopped mid-sentence and furrowed her eyebrows. “Wait a minute. I know what you're doing.”

Yes, but would it work?

I assumed my most innocent expression. Rene glared at me for
several seconds, eyes mere inches away from my pupils. She opened
her mouth as if to argue, but stopped short. A final, under-her-breath grumble later, she swatted her hand through the air. “Fine. Whatever. You win.” She sat down on the couch with a heavy thud and pulled on her pink suede boots. “But I'd better not get any mud on my UGGs.”

I bit the inside of my lip to keep from smirking. Rene could never say no to a challenge, even when she knew she was being hoodwinked. I'd deal with the fallout over her soon-to-be-ruined boots later, but at least for now she'd be safe and out of the way.

I closed the door behind her at nine forty-five. Seventy-five minutes until my class started. Plenty of time to ice my neck, come up with a story that would entice Bruce to spill his guts, then hop on over to the Retreat House for my combination yoga class/interrogation session. With any luck, I'd have the case solved by noon.

But first, I had to call Serenity Yoga again. Mandy had likely been teaching the first time I called, but she should be done by now.

High-pitched wails howled through the phone line.

“Serenity Yoga, how can I …” Mandy's flustered voice trailed off. “Honey, untie your brother. Those yoga straps aren't toys.” I heard a frustrated sigh. “How can I help … Oh crap. Hang on a minute.”

The phone clanked on the counter. Mandy yelled, “Put that candle down this instant, missy! You're spilling wax all over the carpet!” Frantic yelling turned into tortured pleading. “Please, honey. Please be a good girl. If you behave for just a few minutes, Mommy will buy you a cookie.”

I considered hanging up and flushing my cell phone. Whatever was happening back at the studio, I obviously didn't want to know about it. When Mandy picked up the phone again, I tried to make my voice sound confident, yet soothing. “Hi Mandy, it's Kate. How are things going?”

“What do you mean, how are things going? How do you think they're going? Didn't you get my messages?”

“Yes, and—”

“Well, it sure took you long enough to call back. I started calling you over two hours ago!”

I tried to tell her that I had, indeed, phoned earlier, but she didn't
give me a chance.

“This is the last class I'm covering for you. I have kids, you know.”

Gee, and I almost forgot.

She continued. “My sitter couldn't come on such short notice, so I had to bring my kids to the studio. Do you have any idea how hard it is to teach with a baby on your hip and two three-year-olds throwing temper tantrums in the background?” I didn't, but I had a feeling I was about to find out.

“Four students left fifteen minutes into class, the ingrates.”

I made a mental note to call them and apologize as soon as I got back to Seattle. “I'm sure it went better than you think.”

“Easy for you to say. You're off relaxing on some island vacation. I'm stuck here in the disaster zone. You promised me that filling in for you would be cake.”

“It is,” I replied, trying to lighten the mood. “I just didn't tell you
it was Devils food.”

She didn't appreciate the joke.

“Nothing about this is funny, Kate. I've got my own life, and it includes three children. Classes are covered through six, but if the Power Yoga teacher can't come back by then, you're on your own.”

I spent the next hour trying to bring order to the den of chaos formerly known as Serenity Yoga. As soon as I got off the phone with Mandy, I called the Power Yoga instructor. The doctor had sent her home with a lumbar support brace, two painkiller prescriptions, and orders not to teach for at least two weeks.

That left me forty-five minutes to find coverage for the ten classes she was supposed to teach before I got back. I started with polite requests for help from my five most senior instructors. After five equally polite answers of “no,” I changed tactics. For the next five stern conversations, I reminded the now-grumpy teachers that
I
was the boss. No better. I ultimately resorted to the only two
management tactics that always worked: groveling and bribing.

Three hundred phone calls later, I hung up the phone, victorious. I now had coverage for all the Power Yoga teacher's classes—at least until the beginning of next week. Hopefully by then I'd be cleared of all murder charges, my own neck would be healed, and I'd be able to teach her classes myself. If not, well, I didn't even want to think about the alternative.

I looked down at my watch. Ten-fifty. Only ten minutes until I had to be at the Retreat House. So much for that ice pack.

I grabbed my yoga bag and slipped on my favorite fall footwear: thick cotton socks and Birkenstocks. As I painfully rushed toward the Retreat House, I mentally rehearsed the upcoming ninety minutes.

No, my mind wasn't filled with visions of bendy postures, deep breaths, and blissful meditations. I imagined pointed questions, piercing glares, and insightful deductions. In my mental motion picture, my mind was razor sharp; my focus, unbreakable. Squirming suspects froze on their yoga mats in guilt-filled terror. I asked just the right questions at exactly the right time. The guilty party squirmed in discomfort under the intense focus of imaginary Kate's withering gaze.

In a scene worthy of a
Perry Mason
finale, imaginary Kate pointed her finger at the guilty party. She was about to yell, “Admit it. You did it! You killed her!” when an angry male voice interrupted.

“What in the hell makes
you
qualified?”

I stopped walking and warily glanced around me. Now I was hearing voices? Was that God admonishing me, or was my head injury worse than I thought?

Whoever it belonged to, I had to admit: the voice in my brain-damaged skull had a point.

I almost answered. I almost told him that he was right—that I had no business getting involved in murder. Heck, I couldn't even solve my own problems. I opened my mouth to promise the intruding wise man that I'd learned my lesson. To assure him that if he let me, I'd be on my way back to Seattle, where the only corpses posing would be those of my grateful yoga students.

But before I could speak, the voice interrupted again. “You need to call a plumber.”

Huh?

Why would God—or a misfiring synapse in my brain, for that matter—chastise me about broken toilets? And why did God's voice sound suspiciously like Kyle's?

I tiptoed off the path and peered through the bushes toward the sound. Kyle and Josh stood near the animal enclosures next to a car-sized, water-filled sinkhole. Somehow I didn't think they were putting in a new swimming pool. Josh leaned on a backhoe. Kyle stood ominously over him.

“Damn it, Josh! I told you all those shortcuts were a mistake! How am I supposed to run a restaurant without water?”

Josh leaned down, broke off a long blade of grass, and absently chewed at its end. “Calm down, Kyle. You're getting all worked up over nothing. I told you, I can fix this. Emmy will be back with the parts in no time. We'll have you up and running again in a few hours.”

“That's not the point, and you know it. You'll patch this section up today, and we'll spring a new leak tomorrow. Who knows how many more of these old pipes are about to burst? How could you have spent all that money on designer rugs and bamboo flooring without upgrading the plumbing? I'm beginning to think that your mother-in-law was right. This place is nothing but a rat trap.” His voice grew louder. “You and your dimwit fiancé are going to ruin me!”

Josh flipped in an instant. He removed the blade of grass from his mouth and threw it to the ground. His face turned so red I was surprised his beard didn't spontaneously ignite. He leaned forward, grabbed the front of Kyle's shirt, and pulled Kyle's face to within an inch of his own. “Lower your voice,” he growled. “And be
very
careful how you refer to my future wife.”

The two men didn't move for several seconds. Josh's white-fisted, black-bearded body was rigid; his arms trembled. Kyle gaped
at him through wide, surprised-looking eyes. I had a sudden vision of Kyle being drowned in a three-foot-deep puddle of waterlogged mud.

Should I say something? This was a side of Josh I'd never seen before, and I had no desire to witness more violence. Then again, I wanted to see how the scene would play out.

In the end, I decided to wait.

The moment passed almost as quickly as it began. Josh opened his hands and roughly released Kyle's lapels. Kyle stumbled a step, then righted himself and yanked the wrinkles out of his shirt. Josh
leaned on the tractor and smiled. The expression never quite
reached his eyes.

When Josh spoke, the friendliness in his voice sounded forced. “I already told you. The remodels are part of Emmy's plan. We've had a few stumbles, but it will all work out. Emmy's father is loaded. She just has to convince him that this place is a good investment. Believe me, she knows what she's doing.”

Kyle's upper lip twitched. “I sure as hell hope so. For all of us.” He gestured toward the sinkhole. “This had better be fixed before I have to start dinner prep. And if you think I'm paying a penny for it, you're wrong!” Kyle stomped away, dreadlocks bouncing with every step. He slammed his hand into the side of the chicken coop, startling the hens into a squawking eruption of feathers, dust, birdfeed, and chicken droppings.

Josh watched Kyle storm off, then knelt next to the coop. “Easy there now girls,” he said to the still-worked-up hens. “Mellow out. That old fox isn't nearly as smart as he thinks.” He picked up a rock, tossed it into the water-filled hole, and watched it sink to the bottom. “Not so smart at all.” A shiver ran down my spine.

The Josh I had just witnessed wasn't nearly as mellow—or as oblivious to money—as the one Emmy had described. Was he fooling her?

Or was Emmy fooling me?

I thought back to our conversation the morning after Monica's death. I'd just finished teaching my class when—

Oh, no! Class! I'd forgotten all about class! I glanced at my watch. Eleven-ten. My private class was supposed to start ten minutes ago. I picked up my yoga mat and rushed across the field, hoping I wasn't already too late.