A Death at the Yoga Café

by MICHELLE KELLY,

  “Oh, a mix of vegetables, mostly squash and zucchini, with basil, oregano, and garlic for flavor,” Keeley said with more than a touch of pride. She had added the recipe to her menu a month ago, and it was selling well.

  “Sounds lovely, I’ll try it,” Christian said, giving Keeley another of those warm smiles. If she wasn’t with Ben, she would definitely have been attracted to the man. She could see why Suzy was possessive; he must unwittingly charm women everywhere he went.

  Keeley made Suzy her tea and then retreated into the kitchen and busied herself with Christian’s stew. She could hear Duane launching into his familiar monologue about Raquel, and Christian making sympathetic murmuring noises. Megan sounded as though she was trying to make small talk with Suzy, from whom there seemed to be little response. She wondered how Megan knew the couple, and if the girl was really that moody, if it was some kind of “artistic temperament,” or if it was an affectation deliberately put on. Or perhaps she was just having a bad day.

  The sound of shouting from outside startled Keeley out of her musings. She came out of the kitchen to see her friends staring out of the window at a couple involved in a heated argument. There was no mistaking the shrill tones of the woman. It was Raquel, looking as glamorous as ever but equally as furious, shouting at a flustered-looking Gerald Buxby, the local mayor and the man who had stolen Raquel away from a heartbroken Duane. Duane had gotten to his feet and was making his way to the door when Megan laid a hand on his arm.

  “Keep out of it,” she told her cousin firmly. Keeley moved forward to the window, intending to pull the blinds but becoming interested despite herself. The café door was ajar, and when Gerald began to shout back at Raquel in his gruff voice he could be easily heard.

  “You’re just want, want, want, all the bloody time. Don’t I give you enough?”

  Raquel looked furious, her face flushed and her dark eyes glowing like hot coals. Gerald must be angry to speak to her like that, Keeley thought, knowing all too well from her own experience just how formidable Raquel could be when her blood was up. Gerald’s words, however, didn’t bring forth the torrent of abuse Keeley was expecting; rather the other woman stiffened, then gave Gerald a haughty look. Keeley couldn’t quite hear her next words, but the sneering look on her face left no doubt that they were poisonous. Whatever she said, Gerald’s usually mottled complexion went pale. He opened and shut his mouth like a goldfish, as Raquel turned on her very expensive heels and walked off down the road. As she did so she looked toward the café and spotted its inhabitants in the window, shooting them such a look of malice that Keeley found herself shrinking back. Raquel stopped, and Keeley thought she might come over and give them a piece of her mind, when Gerald shouted something at her that took her attention well away from the café.

  “You’re nothing but a spoiled little gold digger!” The mayor shouted. Raquel seemed to falter at that, and then walked off quickly without looking back. Even from across the road Keeley could see that the woman’s face was burning. She felt someone push past her, and saw Duane rush out of the door and across the road after Raquel, who turned and fell dramatically into his arms, sobbing into his shoulder.

  “Crocodile tears,” Megan snorted. Keeley turned away, feeling bad for snooping, just as Gerald threw up his arms in seeming exasperation and walked off in the opposite direction from Duane and a now distraught Raquel. Something made Keeley look back, and as she did so she caught sight of Raquel’s face over Duane’s shoulder. In that instant, she didn’t look as though she was crying or even upset at all, but was watching the retreating back of Gerald Buxby with an icy glare that made Keeley shudder.

  “Well,” Christian said, looking bemused, “that was unexpected. Is it usually so dramatic around here?”

  “Hardly,” Keeley said, at the same time as Megan gave an enthusiastic nod. “Oh, it all goes on in Belfrey,” Megan told Christian, causing Keeley to squirm in embarrassment. “Keeley solved a murder back in April, you know. In fact, it happened upstairs, where she’s now living.” Megan ignored the look Keeley gave her. Suzy gazed at Keeley with rather more interest.

  “Really? That is fascinating. I wouldn’t have thought you were so interesting.”

  “I didn’t really solve it,” Keeley said, ignoring the woman’s jibe, “it was more a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “She’s far too modest,” said Megan. “Keeley faced the murderer down herself; she was in terrible danger. Thank God DC Taylor turned up. He’s Keeley’s boyfriend now, it’s so romantic.”

  Suzy and Christian were now staring at her with rapt attention. Keeley excused herself and escaped into the kitchen, having no wish to talk about the gruesome events of last April, even if they had made Keeley something of a local heroine, not to mention boosting sales on the opening day of the Yoga Café.

  The truth was, memories of that day, when Keeley had narrowly escaped becoming a victim herself if it hadn’t been for Ben’s timely appearance, still left her feeling shaky. It didn’t help that circumstances had dictated that Keeley move into the apartment above the café, a space she had been planning on using as a yoga studio to hold private classes, and the site of the murder of Terry Smith, a local businessman who had known her parents. Sometimes, late at night when she woke in the dark to the sound of foxes calling or the chiming of the church bells, Keeley fancied she could sense him. It was silly, of course, she didn’t believe in ghosts, but it was harder to hold on to rational thought when alone in the small hours. Only Ben knew of her discomfort, and as a result they had been spending the night together more often, whether at his house down by the Water Gardens or upstairs in her cramped apartment. She didn’t dare tell Megan; her friend meant well, but would probably suggest some type of exorcism ritual or something equally offbeat.

  “Keeley, are you okay?” It was Megan, entering the kitchen behind her. Keeley smiled at her friend, giving herself a mental shake to clear her head of morbid thoughts. It was a beautiful day, and she had tonight with Ben to look forward to.

  “Of course. I wonder what was up with Raquel and Gerald?”

  Megan shrugged. “Who knows? By the sound of things Raquel is just being her usual self and Gerald has finally seen through her. I would say it served her right, but no doubt she’ll leech back onto poor Duane.”

  “He does seem to be very fond of her,” Keeley said in a neutral tone. Megan rolled her eyes.

  “They’re both as narcissistic as each other, that’s why. Probably spend all of their time gazing into each other’s eyes at their own reflections.”

  Keeley bit her lip to stop from laughing. Instead she jerked her head in the direction of the other room, where Suzy sat waiting for Christian to finish his stew.

  “What’s the deal with those two? Do you know them from college?”

  Megan shook her head. “Christian’s from Bakewell, same as me. Our mothers are friends; well, they were, his moved to Nottingham a few years ago now. Christian went off to study art and came back a couple of years ago with Suzy. She’s brilliant, her work’s amazing.”

  “She’s very intense,” Keeley said diplomatically. Megan grinned and said, “Artistic temperament, isn’t it? They say geniuses are all a little mad. She does leave a very heavy aura behind; I’m going to have to do a sage cleansing at my cottage when they’ve gone.”

  “Right,” said Keeley, wondering what on earth a sage cleansing was and deciding she didn’t need to know. “Christian doesn’t seem to be like that, though.”

  “Christian’s lovely, but don’t let those puppy dog eyes fool you. He’s very passionate about his work.”

  They fell silent as Christian came into the kitchen, carrying his empty bowl.

  “That was great, Keeley, I really enjoyed that. You have to serve it for the art festival.”

  Keeley smiled at the praise, feeling the warm glow of satisfaction a successful recipe always gave her.

  “I’ve just thought, your mum will be here in time
for the festival, won’t she?” Megan looked anxious. She had never met Darla Carpenter, but Keeley knew she had told her friend enough that Megan had cause for concern.

  “Yes, I think she’s coming at the end of this week.”

  “It won’t be too much for you, will it?”

  Keeley shook her head. If anything, preparing menus for the festival would be a welcome distraction from Darla. Hopefully her mother, who never cooked if she could get someone else to do it for her, wouldn’t attempt to get involved in the running of the café during her stay.

  “Well, I suppose we had better be going. I said I’d show Suzy and Christian around Belfrey.” Megan gave Keeley a tight squeeze on her way out. Keeley followed them out of the kitchen, waving at Megan as they left. Christian gave her another smile, but the only good-bye from Suzy was a surly mutter with no eye contact. Keeley swallowed down her annoyance at the girl’s rudeness. Considering she wanted to use the Yoga Café to display her work, though, she would have expected at least a pretense of friendliness. Perhaps she was just shy, and covered it up with that teenager-like demeanor.

  Keeley set about tidying up and switched the sign on the door to CLOSED. She had no classes that evening, so she would have time for her own practice and a relaxing bath before she got ready to go and see Ben.

  Thinking about Ben made her forget about the festival, Suzy, and even her mother. It had been a few days since they had spent time together and she had missed him. She was also looking forward to a night in his king-size bed, rather than the cramped divan upstairs.

  She was leaning over clearing the utensils away when she heard the door open and the clack of stilettos behind her. It was a noise she always associated with Raquel, and Keeley straightened, expecting to see her would-be rival.

  Instead a very different woman stood in front of her, groomed to perfection, her expertly made-up eyes looking around the café with a haughty contempt that even Raquel would find difficult to muster. Those eyes then looked Keeley up and down with equal disdain.

  “Hello, dear,” said her mother.

  Chapter Two

  It had been one of her mother’s disappointed looks that had sent Keeley off to India to study yoga in the first place. Not that she had gone with the intention of becoming a yoga instructor at all, but rather to get well away from Darla, and from the pain of her first heartbreak.

  She had been unable to believe her luck when she had started going out with Brett. He had been so handsome, so charming, and, as her mother lost no time in telling her, ridiculously out of her league. They had met at the gym, when Keeley had finally decided to do something about the “puppy fat” Darla constantly nagged her about and then discovered a genuine passion for yoga and nutrition. She had stopped eating meat after the death of her beloved father, after finding him dead of a heart attack amid the animal carcasses he worked with as a butcher.

  Brett had swept a shy, awkward Keeley off her feet and proposed within a year, much to Darla’s delight. Her mother had been full of warnings and advice on how to “keep him.” Sit up straight, that slouching is so unattractive. Don’t show so much of your teeth when you smile. For God’s sake, hang on to him, Keeley, you won’t get another chance like this. Her mother’s warnings had rung in her ears every time she had been with Brett, and she found she had become desperate to prove herself, to be the perfect girlfriend and, perhaps more importantly, the perfect daughter.

  Looking back, Keeley knew that Darla had become more critical than ever after her husband’s death; no doubt her way of coping. Her mother wasn’t one to cry; in fact, Keeley had never seen her publicly grieve her father. Only after a revealing telephone call earlier in the year during the run-up to the opening of the Yoga Café had Darla opened up about the death of Keeley’s father and how deeply it had wounded her. Back then, Darla had withdrawn behind her icy demeanor, leaving Keeley to grieve by herself. Brett had, she supposed, been something of a rock. She had been so pathetically grateful for his declared love, so intent on becoming the girl that he and her mother seemed to want, that she had turned a blind eye to things she should have been fully aware of. The answering machine messages from other girls that he never fully explained, the smell of unfamiliar perfume, the evenings when he suddenly canceled their plans without a plausible explanation. She hadn’t dared confide in her mother, because she hadn’t wanted to admit that she was losing him just as Darla had always told her she would.

  In the end, when she finally caught him cheating in spite of her own attempts to ignore what was going on in front of her own eyes, it had been her mother’s reaction that had wounded her more than Brett’s, who had at first tried to minimize his behavior and then shrugged it off with a “it was never going to work anyway.” He had gotten engaged to the other girl within a week of Keeley returning her own ring.

  When she had told Darla, her mother had turned that look of utter disdain on her, coupled with a kind of disappointed resignation.

  “I suppose,” she had said, her voice dripping with all the ways in which Keeley had let her down, “it was to be expected. It was too much to hope for that he was going to stay with you.” The emphasis on the word “you” had cut Keeley to the bone. Once again, she had felt like a failure in her mother’s eyes.

  She had gone to India within a month, and after finishing her studies in yoga and nutrition had moved to New York with a friend and started to grow a successful business, teaching yoga to the hip and the happening. Her contact with her mother dwindled to stilted long-distance phone calls and even more stilted Christmas visits. Then Darla had announced her intention to sell George’s old shop, and Keeley had found herself back in Belfrey at the age of twenty-seven, ten years after she had left it in the wake of her father’s death. Her homecoming had certainly been eventful, what with the murder of Terry Smith and the ensuing drama that Keeley unwittingly got caught up in the center of. There had been a brief time when certain revelations had left Keeley thinking she and Darla might be able to rebuild their relationship, but now, once again on the receiving end of Darla’s icy disapproval, she realized both that she was still as eager as ever for her mother’s approval, and still just as unlikely to ever get it.

  “Well, this is … quaint,” Darla said, taking in the interior of the café in one panoramic glance. Keeley straightened her shoulders and attempted to smile at her mother.

  “I didn’t think you were coming until next week.”

  “I thought I’d surprise you,” her mother said, walking into the kitchen with the air of a hygiene inspector. Keeley half expected her to run her finger across the surfaces and inspect them for dust.

  “How was your journey?” she said, aiming for politeness and wincing at the sullenness in her tone.

  “Absolutely dire,” Darla said, emerging back out from the kitchen and raising one immaculate eyebrow at her daughter. “You know how much I dislike traveling by train.” As if Keeley was personally responsible for all the ills of the British public transport system.

  “Is it always so quiet?” Darla said, her words a blatant accusation. “I thought you said business was doing well?”

  “It’s doing very well,” Keeley said, trying not to bristle at her mother’s words. “I was just closing up for the day. That’s why the sign on the door says CLOSED.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, dear, it really doesn’t suit you. Where am I sleeping? Get my bags will you, I’m quite exhausted. A lie down and a cup of tea will do nicely.”

  Keeley tried not to seethe as she dragged her mother’s luggage up the stairs and into the small apartment. It really was small, consisting only of a main room with a bed, a meager living space, and a kitchenette. There was a separate bathroom at the top of the stairs, with a shower over a bathtub so small she couldn’t stretch her legs out in it.

  “This is tiny!” Her mother said in horror. Keeley sighed. “I did warn you it was cramped. There’s a lovely bed and breakfast across the road with very reasonable rates if you’d prefer.” S
he held her breath, wondering why she hadn’t thought of that before.

  “Absolutely not,” Darla snapped, dashing her fledgling hopes. “I’ll be staying here. You’ll have to take the sofa, I presume. You can’t possibly expect me to, with my back.”

  It was the first Keeley had heard of her mother, who was only forty-seven and as fit as a fiddle, having a bad back, but she knew better than to push it and instead gave a resigned sigh. After all, it would only be for a few days or so. She could cope. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, inhaling through her nose and out through her mouth, a beat between each breath, feeling her chest and stomach rise and fall. It was a basic breathing practice that usually calmed her instantly, but today it just wasn’t having the desired effect. She opened her eyes to see Darla staring at her curiously.

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Pranayama. Breathing practice. It’s great for stress levels and the immune system.” Keeley responded automatically, surprised to see genuine interest in her mother’s face.

  “I might just try one of your yoga classes, you know. My friend in London swears by it for keeping her trim and her blood pressure down.”

  “That would be great,” Keeley said, caution in her voice.

  “You are properly qualified and insured, I hope? After all, you did it all abroad.”

  “Yes, mother,” Keeley said, knowing that to Darla, “abroad” encompassed anywhere that wasn’t England, and was to be treated with inherent distrust.

  “Well, get the kettle on then, dear. Or do I have to make it myself? Honestly, I’ve traveled all this way, and you don’t even think to offer me a drink. Still selfish, I see.” She said the last with a tinkly little laugh, as though doing so would take the sting out of her words. Or rather, give Keeley no cause to complain without her mother informing her that she was still oversensitive as well as selfish, or whatever the criticism of the day might happen to be. As Keeley retreated into the kitchenette she could feel the irritation bubbling inside her and below it, dull and throbbing, the hurt. Having Darla here was going to be a test of all the hard-won serenity that ten years of yoga practice had given her and that could still, on a bad day, be elusive.