A Killer Retreat (4 page)

four

I was wrong.

Danger didn't hibernate in dark, rocky cliffs; it napped in warm sun puddles. We almost made it back to our cabin. Another minute or two, and Michael, Bella, and I would have been safely ensconced inside our tiny-but-serviceable kitchen, snacking on leftover pastries. The only obstacle remaining was a multi-acre field dotted with newer-looking cabins.

Each freshly stained structure was architecturally different—designed to look unique. A few were tiny studios, barely more than glorified bedrooms; others were multistoried mansions with wrap
around decks and private hot tubs. Some towered over the land
scape, offering unobstructed Puget Sound views; others hid,
peeking from underneath old-growth Douglas fir trees.

I meandered through the supposedly diverse development with a vague sense of unease—like an unsuspecting stranger visiting a Stepford Wives' neighborhood. In spite of their superficial differences, each building's energy felt exactly the same—and not quite genuine. Each cabin had been sided with uniformly stained cedar shingles and accented with container gardens of dark green flax grass and burnt-orange pansies. Each entry was shielded from mud tracks by recycled rubber mats in a variety of bright, primary colors. The entire area exuded a creepy, not-quite-real energy, feigning diversity while demanding conformity.

No doubt about it, these supposedly upscale cabins paled in comparison with the dingy-but-cute place I now thought of as my own.

Except one.

I stopped and stared at the huge building in front of me—a two-story structure over three times the size of my Ballard home. “Michael, look at that place. Can you imagine the view? It looks right out over the ocean. Bella could lounge on the deck and—”

I stopped midsentence.

This was no good. No good at all.

Bandit, the terrier we'd encountered at the beach near the ferry terminal, napped in a warm patch of sun near the edge of the deck, wearing no oppressive collar to impinge upon his comfort. He opened one sleepy, pirate-patched eye, looked at Bella, and launched.

He dove off the deck, yapping at full volume, and flew down the stairs. His paws hit the grass, and he sprinted across the field toward Bella. His tongue lolled; his ears pressed flat against his head; a huge doggie grin spread across his face.

I hesitated before pulling out the vial of Spot Stop. Michael loved animals as much as I did, so when he assured me that the citronella spray was humane, but effective, I believed him. Still, that didn't mean I wanted to use it. Using force against an animal—even relatively benign force—was clearly against yoga's principle of nonviolence. I firmly believed in ahimsa. I tried to live by it. But if by using force I could prevent harm? Well, I might have to make an exception.

I moved the spray's nozzle off safety.

“Call your dog!” I yelled across the empty field. I was in luck, or at least I thought so. Somebody heard me. The cabin's door opened and disgorged Bandit's red-fingernailed owner. She stood on the deck, watching, as her dog barreled toward us.

Bandit didn't stop when he reached us. He didn't even slow down. He just kept running. He zoomed around Bella, Michael, and me in ever-decreasing circles, orbiting Bella like a low-flying raptor circling its prey. Only faster. And more determined. And juiced up on cocaine.

Bella didn't move a muscle. She didn't even twitch. She crouched
forward, ears pricked at high alert, as if waiting for the right moment to strike.

I prayed to God, the universe, or whoever else was listening.
Please don't let today be the day.

Bella was famous for her ferocious-looking outbursts, but she'd never actually laid a tooth on another creature—at least not yet. I had a horrible feeling that Bandit might be the first. I envisioned ripping fangs, high-pitched yelps, and spatters of bright red blood in the terrier's future.

I didn't consider what Patanjali—the author of
The Yoga Sutras—
might have done in my situation. I'm sure he would have reacted with much greater aplomb. But in my defense, I was trying to prevent bloodshed.

I looked up at Bandit's still-glaring, still-motionless owner and screamed, “Call your goddamned dog!”

“Oh, for God's sake,” she yelled back. “He only wants to play. Ignore him and he'll go away.” I watched, horrified, as she stomped back into the cabin and slammed the door behind her.

I was completely out of Bandit-control options. “I'm going to have to spray him!”

“Do it, already!” Michael yelled.

I pointed the nozzle at the circling terrier, silently begged for forgiveness, and pressed down on the plunger, expecting to douse the unsuspecting canine in a fire hose of pressurized chemicals.

A low-pressure squirt of lemon-scented water drizzled out of the opening. Bandit yapped excitedly, entranced by this new game. He alternated between leaping over the ineffectual stream and dodging out of its reach. After less than a minute, the drizzle stopped. The canister was empty. Bandit stopped running and glared at me, clearly disappointed that I'd broken his new water toy.

That was the opportunity Bella had been waiting for. She lunged
after Bandit, teeth thrashing and voice roaring. I managed to hang on to her leash—barely—but she pulled me to the ground. Michael tried to prevent doggie homicide by becoming a human shield. He
threw his body toward the spinning fur ball but missed and fell face-first into the muck. Bandit alternated between nipping at Bella's toes
and vaulting over Michael's prostrate, red-faced, and loudly swearing form.

The cabin's door opened again, and a tall man wearing beige khakis and a blue polo shirt rushed outside. “Bandit, come,” he yelled. “I have a cookie!”

The c-word stopped Bandit in his tracks. He peeled off and ran back to the stranger. My new hero clipped a collar on the little beast and tied him to the porch.

Meanwhile, back on the battlefield, Michael, Bella, and I started to shake off our recent trauma. I slowly sat up and tried to catch my breath. Bella whined at the end of her leash, as if mourning the loss of her fur-covered breakfast. Michael rolled from his belly to
his back, groaning. Brown muddy guck was smeared from his boots
to his eyebrows. He lay on the ground, glowered, and grunted, like a foul-tempered hog wallowing in an unacceptable trough. I tried, unsuccessfully, not to giggle.

“What's so damned funny?” he snapped.

I was saved by the bell—or at least by the ring tone. Bart Simpson's annoying, nasal voice interrupted:

“My best friend's calling me. My friend loves me. You don't got a friend like this.”

“What the hell?”

“Ignore it, Michael. It's Rene. She'll leave a message.”

“Seriously, Kate? Bart Simpson?”

I shrugged. “Wasn't my idea. Rene programmed my ringtones, and I can't figure out how to change them. She picked this Bart Simpson one for her number. She thinks it's funny.”

If he didn't like Bart, he'd
abhor
the “I'm too sexy” ringtone she'd chosen for him. I turned off the phone in case she'd added any other surprises that Michael might not appreciate.

Michael tried to stand up, but his feet slipped in the wet grass and he fell on his rear, right back into the mud. He covered his face with his hands. “Can this trip get any worse?”

I bit my lower lip to keep from answering. Now probably wasn't the best time to point out that the muck on his thighs looked suspiciously like deer dung.

The stranger-hero emerged from his cabin and rushed toward us, carrying two large bath towels. He handed one to each of us, apologizing profusely. “I'm so sorry about that. Bandit's my wife's dog, and she hasn't trained the little monster.” His ears turned red. “I'm sure he doesn't mean any harm, but he's definitely a handful.”

This must be Bruce, the spouse the Beach Witch had mentioned on the phone last night. If so, they epitomized the phrase “odd couple.” He looked at least fifty; she at most thirty. He wore round wire-framed glasses and a poorly done comb-over that didn't quite cover his prominent bald spot. She wore diamond earrings, expensive leather jackets, and waaaay too much makeup. I couldn't help but feel bad for him. Granted, I didn't know him yet, but Bruce seemed like a nice guy, and from what I'd heard last night, I suspected his wife was cheating on him.

I took the proffered towel, stood, and wiped the mud stains off my knees. Michael looked down at his pants, lifted his hand to his nose, and softly swore. The stranger took a tentative step toward us and cleared his throat.

“Let's start over. I'm Bruce. I don't blame you two for being upset about what happened.” Michael and I both remained silent. He shifted uncomfortably and continued. “I'm sorry about my wife. She's just so …” His words trailed off.

Awful
. I silently replied. But I didn't say that. Instead, I smiled at him and said, “It's OK. We're Kate and Michael. I pointed toward the hundred pound welcome-dog whining beside me. “And this is Bella. Bella, say hello.”

As taught, Bella walked up to Bruce, sat down, and offered him her paw.

“Well aren't you a sweet thing?” He shook Bella's paw and ruffled her ears.

Bruce looked up again. “Are you two here for Emmy and Josh's wedding?”

“No,” I replied, then corrected myself. “Well, actually yes, sort of. I'm teaching yoga here this week.”

His face broke into a huge grin. “Oh! You're
that
Kate! Emmy told me about you. So nice to meet you, Kate.” He pumped my hand vigorously. “I've never done yoga, but I might have to give it a try this week. Emmy's so excited to have a yoga teacher on site. She's hoping you'll teach a private class for the wedding guests from New York.”

“I'd be happy to.”

“Emmy will be so pleased. She claims that yoga will help us get over our jet lag, but honestly, I think she's looking for ways we can all be in the same room without fighting.” He winked. “You know how family can be.”

Indeed I did. Dad and I used to fight like cats. I missed those fights still, even almost three years after his death.

My chest felt undeniably heavy, but I kept my voice light. “Tell Emmy I'll drop by the office later so we can set something up.”

“Great. You'll love her. She takes after her mother.”

Oh, God, no.

I cringed before I could stop myself.

Bruce's eyes twinkled. “That would be Helen, my
ex
-wife. The woman you saw a few minutes ago was my current wife, Monica.”

Michael's frown clearly telegraphed his thoughts.
Nice one, Kate.

I changed the subject. “Hey, can you do me a favor? As you probably noticed, Bella's not great with other dogs. Would you please keep Bandit on a leash?”

Bruce shifted uncomfortably. “I would, but it's not up to me. Like I said, Bandit's my wife's dog. Emmy and I told her about the leash rules already, but she's not exactly a rule follower. Monica's more of a free spirit.” Bruce glanced over his shoulder toward the cabin. “I'll try talking to her again.” He shook his head slowly. “But if I were you, I'd keep my eyes open, just in case.”

_____

Michael and I trudged back to the cabin, both exhausted. While Michael showered off the deer dung and Bella snarfed down her breakfast, I listened to the Yoga Chick's voice mail. I expected at least one long-winded message from Rene, but the only message was from the studio. Mandy must have called after I turned off the phone. She didn't sound happy.

“Um, Kate, there was an incident this morning. One of the kids in the Mom and Tot class pulled the fire alarm. I called 911 to tell them it was a false alarm, but we still had to evacuate the building. The firemen just let us back inside.”

A second person mumbled in the background. Mandy's voice faded. “Thanks for coming. Sorry for all of the excitement.”

She spoke into the handset again. “I gave the students free passes, but you should let Alicia know what happened. The people who live in the apartments upstairs were pretty upset.”

I sighed and hung up. I knew exactly which little towheaded tot had pulled that lever—it was the third time this month. And for the third time this month, I cursed Strong and Supple, Serenity Yoga's main competitor, for banning the demon-child and his sweet-and-always-apologetic mother from their classes. No matter how many times I considered it, I didn't have the heart to do the same. Maybe I could anonymously send her a gift certificate to the Pilates studio down the street …

The alarm had already been sounded, so to speak. I'd deal with the fallout later. In the meantime, I tried calling Rene, but the call went directly to voicemail. Now I was worried. Forgoing the opportunity to leave a smart aleck message on my machine was odd enough for Rene; turning off her phone was practically unheard of.

Michael emerged from the bathroom wearing a towel and a smile.
Water dripped from his curly, damp hair and ran in enticing rivulets down his chest. He looked at me meaningfully. “I'm still all wound up from that stupid dog incident.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “What do you think? Should we burn off some stress?”

In a rare moment of symbiosis, I understood and agreed completely. I laid down my phone, handed Michael our one remaining dry towel, and strode purposefully to the bedroom—to grab my yoga mat.

Michael pulled on some sweats and headed off for a long soak in the clothing-optional hot tubs. I rolled out my mat and began a completely dressed yoga practice.

I sat on the floor, closed my eyes, and deepened my breath. Tension and irritation melted away with each exhale. My jaw unclenched; my fingers relaxed; my shoulders dropped down from my ears.