Cunning Attractions

by Christy Barritt

  “I’m just looking for answers.” I kept my voice soft and free of accusation so I wouldn’t accelerate the situation.

  He only stared at me.

  “Look, I saw that same man when Katarina Sokolov was almost abducted from the mall parking garage. Then I saw him coming to your hotel room. What aren’t you saying?”

  “He’s a friend. That’s all I know. The rest of it? It’s a coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Believe it.”

  “Can you give me his name, at least, so I can talk to him?”

  “Absolutely not. You need to keep your nose out of it, if you know what’s best for you. Now this conversation is over.” He moved from his security-guard stance and opened the door.

  I wanted to keep talking, but, if I valued my life, I should get out of here.

  “One more question?” I paused outside.

  He growled.

  “Do you know where Emma Jean did yoga?”

  “The Yoga Tree in Virginia Beach.” He slammed the door.

  I was more curious now than ever. I glanced at my watch, knowing I needed to get back to the hotel and make some phone calls. Despite that, I headed to the radio station. Priorities, you know?

  I skirted past protesters—their numbers had thinned—and waited until Bill had a break, so I could talk to him. His show blared on the speakers overhead. Apparently, Philip Munich had mentioned Bill in his remarks earlier today, which made Bill have an overinflated sense of self again. All of this drama was making his ratings skyrocket.

  Bill stepped out of the booth ten minutes after I arrived and stared at me, his gaze skittering nervously. “What’s going on? Did something else happen?”

  I got right to the point. “Where was Katarina when Emma Jean died?”

  He blanched, glanced around, and then took my arm. He pulled me into his office and shut the door. “You think Katarina killed Emma Jean?”

  “I’m just exploring every possibility.”

  “Why would Katarina kill her?”

  I shrugged, knowing that people could rarely see beyond their own emotions. Especially when it came to love. “Maybe she felt intimidated.”

  “Katarina? Over Emma Jean?” He sounded like I’d just told him that the election would be postponed this year.

  I knew the idea seemed absurd, at least on the surface. “Look, I don’t know. I’m not sure. I don’t have the answers yet.”

  He shook his head and glanced at his watch. “I have to be back on the air in three minutes, so let me make this clear: it wasn’t Katarina. She was in Atlanta when Emma Jean died.”

  “Doing what?” I wasn’t nearly as convinced.

  “There was some kind of gala there for one of the magazines she works for.”

  I quirked an eyebrow, hating to burst his bubble, but . . . “You mean one of the department store catalogs?”

  “She’s done other work also.”

  I doubted that. “For which magazine?”

  He broke eye contact. “I don’t know.”

  “Bill . . .” He was such a bad liar.

  He let out a long breath and ran a hand over his face. “I think it was the Harrison Group. That’s all I know. But she didn’t get back into town until you saw her show up that day at the apartment. Are you done now? Because I’ve got to get back on the air.”

  “One more question. Maybe two. First, are you still going public with that information you discovered?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  Oh, I don’t know. Because people’s lives are on the line over it?

  “And also: did you tell anyone else that you had information on Munich’s frat days?”

  He stepped toward the door, avoiding eye contact. “Only one.”

  “Who?”

  “Katarina.”

  I didn’t waste any time. As soon as I got back in my car, I pulled up the Internet and did a search for the Harrison Group. The company ran a chain of low-end department stores. Interesting.

  I just happened to find a charity gala they hosted in Atlanta on the exact night Emma Jean was murdered. And there were pictures. Tons and tons of pictures.

  I scrolled through them. All of them. I searched for Katarina’s image. I didn’t see a single one.

  I’d think someone like Katarina would want to be included in the shots.

  At the bottom of one of the pages, I spotted a media contact number. On a whim, I dialed the number. A perky woman answered three rings later.

  “I’m calling in regards to the gala you hosted last week for the Harrison Group,” I started, staring at the protesters in the distance and their “Kill Bill” signs.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said with a Southern drawl. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m with a local newspaper in Norfolk, Virginia. We were interested in doing an article on one of your models who’s living here now.”

  “Well, of course,” she said. “Who’s that?”

  “Katarina Sokolov.”

  “Katarina?” Her voice instantly changed from sweetly Southern to fussy debutant. “Oh, I’m sorry. But Ms. Sokolov is not with us anymore.”

  “She’s not? I understood she was up at the gala last week.”

  “No, she parted ways a good year ago. We haven’t seen her since then. I’m sorry someone gave you wrong information.” She lowered her voice. “It was probably Katarina herself, though. It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  The conversation had taken an interesting turn. “You don’t think highly of her?”

  “I’m in PR. I’m supposed to talk highly of everyone—everyone I represent, at least. I guess since I don’t represent her any more, I can say whatever I want. But that woman acted like a diva. Everyone was glad to see her go.”

  “I see. Well, thank you for that information.”

  “No problem.” She paused. “Oh, and by the way, I’d stay away from that woman if I were you. She’s trouble with a capital T.”

  I decided to be a good girl after I left the radio station, and I went back to the hotel and began making calls. It went against everything in me. All I wanted to do was investigate and not leave this case unfinished. But my housing situation was pretty serious, and it needed to be addressed.

  While sitting cross-legged on the bed with a notebook and pen in my lap, I called the company providing my renter’s insurance. Then I called the car insurance company. Then I tried to call Mrs. Mystery, who still didn’t answer.

  Finally, I tried to call Garrett Mercer again—but he didn’t answer his phone. He was probably out of town again on business of some sort. He traveled a lot.

  I could only imagine how he would feel when he heard about the house. Guilt pressed in on me again, and I squeezed the skin between my eyes. This was my fault, whether anyone said that or not. I’d invited my brother into my home, and he’d abused that privilege. But it was still my responsibility ultimately.

  I let my head drop back on the headboard behind me. A meth lab. I mean, really? Was Tim stupid? And where had he gotten the money to do something like that? He only believed in free. Last I heard, pseudoephedrine was not free.

  I stared at my phone. Should I call my dad and check on Tim? See if he had any updates. I put my phone down. No, I couldn’t do it. Not yet.

  Instead, I did my normal “let’s try to sort this out” list instead. I needed to keep my thoughts occupied and fill my insatiable desire to find answers.

  Borski: supposedly innocent, but still keeping secrets of some sort.

  Bill: has a secret about Munich. But how was that connected to Emma Jean’s murder?

  Katarina: alibi doesn’t check out. But why would she want Emma Jean dead?

  Jerry: Emma Jean threatening to lie about his love life in order to get custody of their son.

  Nordic god: were he and Katarina connected through modeling? Secretly dating?

  Was there anyone I was missing? I tapped my pen on my notebook, waiting for another idea to s
trike like lightning.

  Seriously, you’re losing your touch, Gabby. None of this makes sense. What are you missing?

  Did this crime go all the way up to Munich? Was this about politics? Had Emma Jean discovered something she shouldn’t have while stalking Bill, and that had ultimately led to her demise?

  It was a possibility.

  But it seemed so unlikely.

  There was only one thing I knew to do in order to proceed. I had to go to yoga class, whether I liked it or not.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  There was no better person to go with me to yoga than Clarice Wilkerson. Pretty, lithe, sometimes airheaded Clarice.

  We drove together, and she chatted nonstop on the way. She went on and on about the fire. About how she couldn’t believe it had happened. How her aunt Sharon, who owned The Grounds, would be out of operation for at least a week until she could get the place cleaned up and the windows repaired.

  Then she moved on to talking about her college classes. She’d gone back to school part-time to get a degree in criminal justice. It was super interesting, and some of the cops she’d met through her lectures were super cute and brave.

  At a break in the conversation, I asked, “How are things between you and Nate?”

  I instantly knew I’d probably regret bringing up the subject.

  She’d met Nate when we went to West Virginia at the beginning of September to fix up an old amusement park turned resort destination. For the record, I was against their union before I was for it. Now I was just waiting to see what happened between the two strong personalities.

  “I’m supposed to go see him in a couple of weeks, but he’s been super busy with opening Mythical Falls.”

  “Is it going well for him?”

  “He seems super excited.”

  What was with her using super so much lately?

  “I’m glad. I hope things work out for him. And for you two together, for that matter.” But was she ready to settle down? I mean, she’d just been talking about how super hot the cops she’d met were.

  “Me too.” She turned her attention to the strip mall in front of us. “Here we are.”

  I frowned as I put the car in park. As I stepped out, I tugged at my yoga pants. I’d had to go to Walmart to buy some. They weren’t my favorite item of clothing, but I’d worn a long shirt over them. Yoga was nowhere near the top of my bucket list.

  “Are you looking forward to this?” Clarice asked at the door.

  “Like using a Porta Potty on a humid day.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “What?”

  I shook my head. “Never mind. Let’s do this.”

  We stepped inside, and I blanched. “Speaking of Porta Potties . . . it smells like a paper factory in here.”

  Apparently, I said that out loud. And a little too loud. Because a woman at the counter launched into educating me.

  “When we relax our body’s muscles, our organs also relax. As a result, flatulence can occur. I assure you that it’s healthy and a sign that the participants here are doing the exercises correctly.”

  Ew. I could have lived without that explanation.

  “Thank you,” I finally said.

  I paid for Clarice and me to take the class. Then the woman behind the front desk started into her spiel about how The Yoga Tree was only open in the evenings because the owner was a dermatologist by day. There were monthly and yearly memberships available. Blah blah blah.

  I needed to ask her about Emma Jean, but I was going to wait until after the class. Instead, I glanced around quickly as she droned on and on. Large windows created the walls at the front and back of the building. The offices and bathrooms were on the side, which made the set up slightly unconventional but pleasant. The place reminded me a bit of a gypsy’s lair with draped purple fabric on the walls, rustic wood floors, and low lighting.

  I followed Clarice’s lead and grabbed a mat from a bin against the wall. She unrolled it, lowered herself to the floor, and began stretching. I tried to stretch, but compared to her I was merely moving more than stretching. She was like Mr. Fantastic, and I was like the Thing, the rock-studded superhero.

  Note to self: must work on becoming more limber.

  “Did you know some people consider yoga New Age?” Clarice drew in a deep breath through her lungs.

  “Don’t tell Leona that.” If she knew I was friends with Bill and that I did yoga, she’d really think I didn’t love Jesus.

  “Who’s Leona?”

  “Never mind. I’m just talking to myself.” I tried to grab my foot again but couldn’t quite reach it.

  I was really glad I didn’t have to do this by myself because I had no idea how to proceed. Give me jogging any day over this.

  I figured when the lights were lowered even more and soothing music came on overhead that it was time to start. And someone finally lit some incense, which only smelled slightly better than the flatulence.

  “Breathe deeply. Cast aside thoughts of everything else. Keep your core tight and centered,” a solemn, soft-spoken woman up front said.

  I tried to listen. To relax. To make the most of the class.

  But then Bill and Katarina walked in. I tried not to stare.

  Bill gave me the look—the one that said, “What in the world are you doing here?”

  This was where Bill and Katarina did yoga also? Suddenly, things were beginning to make sense.

  As the instructor told us to grab our left foot, I attempted to do just that. Only I couldn’t reach it.

  I hated yoga. I hated it before, and I hated it more now.

  Clarice, on the other hand, had grabbed her foot, and she was breathing calmly, deeply, and her face looked angelic it was so relaxed.

  I hated Clarice too.

  Okay, not really.

  “I need everyone to focus.” The instructor looked at me like I was personally responsible for disturbing the relaxed, positive Zen in the room.

  I turned away from Clarice, Katarina, and Bill and reached for my foot again.

  I was even more horrified when I glanced over and saw that Bill could touch his foot.

  I had to get back on the get-in-shape bandwagon. For real.

  “Now let’s do the half lord of the fishes. This move will promote spinal health and digestive fire by detoxing the kidneys . . .” the instructor said.

  Wait . . . half lord of the fishes? Jerry had mentioned Emma Jean talking about that. That’s what she’d meant.

  The rest of the class was painfully slow. I attempted to do some kind of downward dog that made my arms shake, a warrior pose where I literally fell on my side, and my favorite, the resting child—which would have been great if that was the only pose I had to do for the entire class.

  Making matters worse was the fact that the instructor kept calling me out because I was doing the moves incorrectly. The last thing I wanted right now was any extra attention on me as my butt was in the air.

  Did Emma Jean actually do yoga? That half lord of the fishes move seemed especially difficult.

  It was the longest hour of my life.

  Finally, the class ended. As soon as it did, Clarice wandered to get some water, and Bill charged toward me. All of his calm centering appeared to be gone. “What are you doing here?”

  I draped a towel over my shoulders. “What are you doing here?”

  “This is where I do yoga.”

  “Well, apparently this was a favorite haunt of Emma Jean’s, so I thought I’d check it out.”

  He snorted. “Emma Jean never came here. Katarina would have told me. She’s here every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.”

  “That’s not what Emma Jean’s best friend said. She apparently loved yoga. Especially that parable move with the loaf and fishes.”

  “What?”

  “Half loaf of the fishes?”

  “Half lord of the fish—never mind.” Bill snorted again as he chewed on some kind of thought. “Emma Jean didn’t have any friends.”

>   “You might be surprised.” I wasn’t sure why I wanted to defend the woman. But everyone deserved a friend. Except maybe Charles Manson.

  He paused. “I don’t get it. Why would she come here?”

  “I have no idea. Why would you eat at The Crispy Biscuit when she worked there?”

  He scowled, but his expression instantly converted back to pleasant as Katarina approached. She eyeballed me with a sneer. “Nice moves.”

  I knew she was being sarcastic and capitalizing on my humiliating experience in exercising. Women like her were the reason I didn’t come to classes like this.

  Jerk.

  “Come on, Bill.” Katarina took his chunky arm into her thin, sculpted one. “All my peace evaporating quick.”

  I wanted to roll my eyes. Instead, I watched them leave. Clarice finally joined me.

  “What was that about?” she asked, following my gaze.

  “I’m not sure. But neither of them seemed to realize that Emma Jean came here.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “Isn’t it?” I pulled up her picture on my phone. “Let me see if anyone else has seen her.”

  I showed the picture to the receptionist. She shook her head. So did three other employees.

  So Emma Jean said she was going to yoga, but she never actually came inside. Interesting. She’d really just been spying on Katarina.

  “My maternal unit always told me to be careful who you love,” I sang.

  “What?”

  As a hint, I did the moonwalk across the carpet, which earned me another dirty look from the receptionist.

  Clarice snapped her fingers as her eyes lit with realization. “You’re singing a Michael Jackson song?”

  I applauded quietly. “Very good. My own version of it, however.”

  “‘Billie Jean,’ right?” She sang a few lines.

  I shook my head and raised an imaginary microphone. “Oh no, I’m not singing about Billie Jean. I’m singing about someone just as infamous. Emma Jean.”

  Both were women that men should have stayed away from.

  If only they’d listened to their mama’s advice.

  When I walked outside several minutes later, I noticed Bill’s car was still there. He must have lost his little merry gang of paparazzi, because I didn’t see any angry mobs out here with their “Kill Bill” signs.