A Killer Retreat

by Tracy Weber

  “Yes, a pediatrician. I’m not sure he can help your friend, but he can at least tell us if we need to get her to a hospital.”

  At the mention of the word “hospital,” Sam stopped pacing. He looked at the door knob, ready to pounce.

  I needed to distract him, and quick, so I said the first inane thing that popped into my head.

  “Hey Sam, I think there’s a party later on tonight. Want to go?”

  I was pretty sure the obscenity Sam grunted meant no, but at least he stepped away from the door.

  Emmy leaned against the wall and groaned. “Oh lord, the open house. I forgot all about the open house.” She rubbed her eyes. “Seems like this god-awful night will never end. I’ve been looking forward to this weekend for months. Now I just wish it was over.” She sighed and stared pensively at the restaurant. “Maybe Monica will be satisfied now that she got her way. Maybe she’ll give us some peace …” Her voice trailed off.

  She raised her hand as if about to say something important, then let it drop to her side. “Ah, what the hell.” She smiled at me. “We can always get drunk. At least there’ll be no shortage of liquor. Dad’s making his famous Manhattans.”

  My stomach clenched. We? Did she say we?

  I’d obviously made a critical error. I should have distracted Sam by suggesting a different activity. Something less odious than spending more time in the same room as Monica—like tap dancing nude on top of the Space Needle.

  “You are coming, aren’t you? If your friend’s feeling better, that is.”

  I didn’t answer.

  Emmy’s voice grew more insistent. “I know you’re probably tired, but I do hope you’ll come, at least for a little while. I’d like to introduce you around and drum up some interest for your classes.”

  I suspected that what Emmy really wanted was a five-foot-three-inch human shield. I didn’t blame her, but she’d have to look elsewhere. Nothing short of a volcanic eruption would force me out of my cabin tonight—not to hang out with her dysfunctional family.

  I gave her an insincere smile. “We’ll give it a try.”

  The office door opened. Rene limped into the hallway, followed by Bruce.

  “What do you think, Dad? Should we call a doctor?” Emmy asked.

  “She’ll be OK.” Bruce turned to Rene. “But remember, if that vomiting continues, let me know. We don’t want you to get dehydrated.” He handed her a piece of paper. “Here’s my cell number. Call any time. If I don’t answer, Emmy will know where to find me.”

  “Thanks,” Rene said. She put the paper in her purse and looked at Sam. “I’d like to head back to the cabin.”

  “We’ll all go,” Michael replied. “It’s time to call it a night.”

  six

  Mount Saint Rene erupted two hours later. Multiple times. In multiple rooms. By the third, Michael and I were more than happy to honor Rene’s request to give her some space and go to Emmy’s event at the Retreat House. I couldn’t decide who looked worse as we walked out the door: Rene, who was about to throw up again, or Sam, who was obviously frustrated and heartbroken.

  He stomped behind us, erratically bouncing the beam of his flashlight along the path. “I can’t believe she kicked us out!”

  I gave him what I hoped was a supportive look and tried to soothe him with platitudes. “Well, Rene is sick, and misery doesn’t always love company. You can’t blame her for wanting to throw up in private.”

  “Give it a rest, Kate,” he snapped. “That’s not it, and you know it.”

  I froze, both surprised and insulted. I might let Rene get away with that tone. But Sam?

  Michael cringed and moved several feet away, wisely giving us some space. I glared at Sam across the darkness. “I don’t know anything. What are you talking about?”

  He shined the light in my face and peered intently, as if searching for answers in the minutia of my expression. After a moment, he lowered his arm.

  “You really don’t know, do you?” His voice caught. “It must be even worse than I thought.”

  “Sam,” I said softly. “What’s going on with you two?”

  “I wish I knew. Rene’s been acting weird for almost a week now. I’ve asked her what’s wrong at least a dozen times, but she keeps insisting it’s nothing—that I’m imagining things.” He barely lifted his feet as he shuffled along the dark path. “At first I thought she had the flu. But you know Rene, nothing keeps her down longer than a day or two. She’s barely eaten for an entire week. Rene never stops eating.”

  He had a point, but he hadn’t told me anything that I didn’t already know. I kept listening.

  “And she’s been acting all furtive.”

  “How so?”

  “Little things, but they add up. Not answering the phone when I call, closing her laptop when I enter the room … Even worse, she goes to bed early every night. We haven’t had sex in five days!”

  That got my attention.

  A few days of celibacy might not be unusual for most couples, but for Rene and Sam, five days had to be a record.

  “I know Rene. She’s definitely sick, but that’s not the only thing wrong with her. She’s hiding something from me, and it’s tearing her up inside.”

  “What on earth would she be hiding?”

  Sam stopped walking and silently stared at his shoes. When he looked up, his face was stricken. “I think she’s having an affair.”

  Those were fighting words.

  The hair on the back of my arms stood up. In fact, my entire body prickled, as if supercharged with static electricity. Rene had been my best friend for as long as I could remember. She was many things: flirtatious, sarcastic, an inveterate practical joker. Rene could be pushy, nosy—downright intrusive at times. Frankly, she was often annoying as hell. But above all else, Rene was loyal. Sam, of all people, should know that.

  “Don’t be an idiot, Sam,” I snapped. “Rene would never cheat on you. She would never cheat on anybody. And if you haven’t figured that out after three years of marriage, then maybe you don’t deserve her.”

  I expected him to snap back. I had, after all, just called him an idiot. But he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t say anything for several long seconds. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded defeated.

  “You’re right.” He paused, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “Of course you’re right. But, something’s going on with her, Kate. Something bad. And she won’t talk to me about it. Believe me, I’ve asked.”

  I angled my face away from his mustache, bit back the subtle wave of nausea, and gave him a hug. “I’m sorry, Sam. I wish there was something I could do.”

  He pulled back. “Actually, there is.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Rene shares everything with you. You could talk to her and—”

  I held up my palms. “Stop right there, mister. I’d do anything to help Rene. You know that. But I will always take her side. Even if she did tell me what was bothering her, I wouldn’t blab it to you. You two need to work out your own relationship issues.”

  “I know that, Kate, but will you at least talk to her?”

  Sam wheedled and cajoled and begged and pleaded all the way to the Retreat House. By the time we reached the door, I had reluctantly agreed to talk to Rene. Honestly, I’d planned to wrangle the truth out of her, anyway. Admitting that fact to Sam was a small price to pay to give him some peace.

  Emmy answered the door looking significantly more relaxed than she had earlier. An ever-so-slight slur underscored her bright vocal tone. The sweet smell of vermouth drifted on her breath. I had a feeling that she’d indulged in more than one of her father’s famous Manhattans.

  “I’m so glad you guys made it!” She stumbled slightly as she opened the door wider. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”

  We followed her
around the gorgeous space, which was packed wall-to-wall with people sipping wine, soda, and a variety of forty-proof beverages.

  “The Retreat House is Elysian Spring’s showcase,” Emmy enthused. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Indeed it was. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the ocean and provided light for a flourishing indoor naturescape of philodendrons, golden pothos, and schefflera trees. The bamboo flooring gleamed with the telltale shine of recent installation and contrasted gorgeously with a large area rug woven in bright reds, blues, beiges, and greens. The carpet’s pattern contained colorful stick figures meant to be dogs, horses, or goats, I wasn’t sure which.

  Emmy noticed my gaze. “That’s a Gabbeh.”

  “A Gabbeh?”

  “A style of carpet that was imported from Iran before the trade embargo. That particular rug was created by female weavers in the Zagros Mountains.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” She frowned. “Kyle hates it.”

  “The chef ? Why would he care?”

  She shrugged. “It’s made of wool. If Kyle had his way, the entire resort would be vegan. To me, it’s important that our facilities are fair trade, eco-sensitive, and upscale. I get his point about the wool, but I love the idea of supporting Iranian women, and no animals were harmed.”

  “Well, the whole house is magnificent, Emmy.”

  “I think so, too. Our older cabins still need work, but we’ll get there. The new construction is meant to show investors what we’re capable of doing. Tonight’s our first event, and so far, it’s going wonderfully.”

  She continued talking about the house with obvious pride. “The Retreat House has a large living space that can host family reunions and small corporate events. It even has a commercial grade kitchen.”

  “It looks huge.”

  “It is. Almost three thousand square feet. It can sleep up to sixteen. We’re only using two of the bedrooms this week, though. I decided to let Mom and Aunt Toni have the whole house, as long as they were willing to host a few gatherings. Mom needs all the personal space she can get with Monica here.” Emmy grinned. “I may snag a third bedroom the night before the wedding, though. Josh needs to miss me a little before the honeymoon.”

  She pointed toward a table overflowing with breads, fruits, spreads, and desserts. “Help yourself if you’re hungry. Mom put out enough food to feed an army.”

  I patted my stomach. “Thanks, but no. I’m stuffed. Dinner was amazing.”

  “Well, you at least have to try one of Dad’s Manhattans. He stopped drinking years ago, but he bartended his way through college, and his Manhattans are out of this world. He’s making them in the kitchen now, if you’re interested.”

  “You don’t have to ask me twice,” Michael replied.

  “Get me one, too,” I yelled to his retreating, well-muscled behind.

  While Sam and Michael went off in search of libations, Emmy introduced me to the guests. Many looked familiar. Several had been at the restaurant, and a few were staff members I’d seen zipping around on golf carts. Kyle even made an appearance, minus his apron but still sporting that crazy Bob Marley hat.

  We eventually made our way to the two women I had assumed were Emmy’s mother and her friend. “Mom, this is Kate. She’s the yoga teacher I told you about. Kate, this is my Mom, Helen, and my Aunt Toni.”

  Aunt? So they were related, after all. “Nice to meet you. Are you two sisters?”

  Emmy smiled. “No, but they may as well be. Toni and Mom have been friends forever. I practically think of her as my second mother.” The two women exchanged a strange look, but Emmy didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps it was my imagination.

  She turned to her mother. “I’m trying to get Kate to teach a private yoga class for the wedding party, maybe even here at the Retreat House. What do you think?”

  Helen opened her mouth to answer but stopped, distracted. The room’s energy shifted—from warm and inviting to tense, almost frigid. Helen’s shoulders stiffened. Her jaw clenched.

  “Mom?”

  “I suppose …”

  As Helen’s voice trailed off, Emmy and I followed her gaze. Straight to the eyes of the Devil herself. Monica completed her grand entrance by removing her fur stole and blithely tossing it over the back of Kyle’s chair.

  The air suddenly felt thick, unbreatheable. Kyle cringed as if slapped and scrambled away from the dead animal’s skin. Monica and Helen made eye contact and froze, not even breathing, poised like she-wolves about to attack. The rest of the room continued making benign conversation, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding before them.

  I told myself that someone needed to diffuse the mounting tension—that the mean-spirited joke I was about to tell was actually a kindness. But truthfully, I wanted to poke fun at Monica. I glanced around to make sure Michael wasn’t listening, then I nudged Helen, pointed directly at Monica’s cocktail-dressed form, and opened my mouth.

  “Now that’s one rat I’d like to poison.”

  Two things happened at once: I spoke much louder than I had intended, and the crowd’s conversation hushed. My voice rang across the room, clearly audible to everyone within a fifty-foot radius, Monica and Michael included. Several people broke out in laughter. A few even applauded.

  Helen put her arm around my shoulder and gave me a big squeeze. “Ooooh, I like this one, Emmy.”

  Monica was less impressed. She stomped across the room, practically pulsating with anger. Even her diamonds earrings flashed, as if electrified by her fury.

  “Laugh all you want,” she yelled. “This place is a dive.” She pointed at me. “You’re one to joke about poison. Your own friend got sick at dinner. That kitchen is probably crawling with rats, roaches, and God knows what else.”

  The room seemed to explode.

  Kyle charged Monica. “Take that back, you bitch! My kitchen’s pristine!” He raised his hand, but before he could strike, Josh and another man tackled him from behind and dragged him out of the room by his armpits.

  No one restrained Helen. She took five quick steps forward and slapped Monica soundly across the face, leaving four painful-looking red welts across her right cheek. The entire room gaped in shock as a confused-looking Bruce emerged from the kitchen, carefully balancing a tray of martini glasses filled with brownish-pink fluid.

  “What in the hell’s going on out here?”

  “I can’t take this anymore!” Emmy wailed. She ran from the room, bumping Bruce in the process. He wavered a moment, tried unsuccessfully to regain his balance, and dropped the tray to the floor in a cacophony of clanging metal, shattering glass, and jarring obscenities. The floor around the tray oozed, as if hemorrhaging a sticky blend of whiskey, sweet vermouth, and maraschino cherries.

  “Your filthy tramp is ruining everything!” Helen ran after her daughter, tracking alcohol and crushed crystal behind her.

  Monica, for once, didn’t say anything. She stared into space and gingerly touched her cheek. Angry tears dripped down her face.

  To be honest, I felt like crying myself. This whole catastrophe was my fault. I never should have opened my big mouth.

  Bruce left the shattered mess behind, grabbed Monica’s arm, and led her out of the room. Most of the rest of the guests, Sam included, surreptitiously gathered their coats and slinked out the front door. Soon, the only people left to clean up the crime scene were Michael, Toni, and me. Toni emerged from the kitchen, carrying several white terry towels. She and I picked up broken glass and mopped up alcohol while Michael watched, wearing a stern expression.

  I gave him a tentative smile. He responded by shaking his head in disgust.

  I tried to come up with a witty remark or at the very least a lame apology—anything to fill the dead air. But my brain refused to form a single word. Tears threatened my eyes; the sickeningly sweet smell of vermouth bur
ned my sinuses; candied cherries squished under my kneecaps.

  Michael finally spoke. “You know, for a yoga teacher you can be a real jerk sometimes.”

  I cringed inside, but I gave him a tentative smile. “Would you believe I was worse before yoga?” It was true, but perhaps not the smartest comment to make at that moment.

  Toni stood up. “I’ll give you two a minute.”

  “Don’t bother,” Michael replied. “I’m going back to the cabin.” The door slammed behind him.

  A thousand terry towels and two buckets of soapy water later, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I stared at my blotchy face in the mirror and tried to gather my thoughts. Michael’s not-so-

  silent reproach was spot on. Frankly, I was embarrassed. Well received or not, well deserved or not, my tasteless attempt at humor wasn’t at all yogic. Yoga’s teachings about communication were clear: Speak less. Speak only the truth. And if the truth will cause harm, say nothing.

  Obviously, I should have picked option three.

  I owed Monica an apology. I washed my hands, blotted my face, and gathered my courage. One deep breath and I was ready.

  I threw open the door, purposefully strode through it—and smashed into Bruce.

  “Ouch!” I said, rubbing my nose.

  “Oh, sorry.” Bruce glanced down the hallway. He looked oddly guilty, given the circumstances. “I didn’t see you there.” He closed the door to the suite’s master bedroom and tucked his hands into his jacket pockets. “Monica wants to leave. I came to get her coat.”

  “I’m the one who should be sorry,” I said. “I acted horribly. I have no idea what got into me. Let me apologize to Monica before you leave.”

  Bruce’s skin paled. “I wouldn’t talk to her now. She’s not in a good mood.” He continued down the hallway, hands empty.

  “Bruce?”

  He stopped, then turned slowly around. His tone was sharp, as if he were disciplining a disobedient child. “I told you, now is not a good time. When Monica calms down—if she calms down—I’ll tell her you’re sorry, but for now, you need to leave us alone.”