by Tracy Weber
I waited for her to continue.
“Josh and I have been fighting about Elysian Springs. He needs to wake up and face reality; we’re almost out of money.”
“If you hadn’t wasted so much on the new construction …”
Emmy slammed her mug on the desk, splashing foamy beige liquid across its surface. “Drop it, Kyle,” she snapped. “I already know what you think.”
Kyle flinched, but he didn’t reply. He stared at her, eyes wide open. Even his dreadlocks seemed to quiver in surprise.
Emmy bit her lower lip and stared silently down at her lap, as if embarrassed by the outburst.
“Emmy?” I asked. “You OK?”
After a moment, she uncurled her fingers from the mug’s handle, mopped up the mess with her napkin, and steadied her voice. “Sorry. It’s a sore subject.” She crumpled up the soiled napkin and laid it down on the table. “Look, I’ll admit, I got carried away with the new buildings, but I’m trying to appeal to an upscale clientele. No one knew that the existing structures had so many problems.”
“Is that what you and Josh fight about? The money?”
Emmy sighed and shook her head. “I wish. That would be easier. We fight because he doesn’t care about the money. He lives in a fantasy world. Josh thinks the universe provides, but only if you believe in it. He says I need to relax and have faith.” She punctuated the last four words with finger quotes. “He wouldn’t be mad at me if he knew I was trying to solve Monica’s murder; he’d be disappointed. I can’t stand the thought of disappointing him.”
I looked at Kyle. “What’s your stake in all of this?”
“You saw how empty the restaurant was this morning. It should have been packed. Business was so slow that I sent all but one waitress home. I’m barely making it as it is. If the resort goes under, I’ll be out of business for sure.”
I broke off another chunk of spicy, sweet muffin, slowly chewed, and considered my options. I didn’t know Kyle, much less trust him, but Emmy wasn’t exactly one of my childhood friends, either. Since the Cat Pose was already out of the bag, so to speak …
“OK. Let’s talk.” I gave Emmy a stern look. “But don’t tell anyone else.” I glanced at the desktop. “Can I borrow a pen and paper?”
Emmy handed me a clipboard.
“Let’s start with you, Emmy. Tell me what you know so far.”
Emmy’s version of events started when she learned that Monica had collapsed in the hot tub and ended with a family gathering last night at the Retreat House.
“Everyone pretended to be shocked and upset, but Dad’s the only one truly grief-stricken.”
“Anyone act unusual?” I asked.
“What’s ‘usual’ about finding out that someone you know has been murdered?”
She had a point.
“But no, I didn’t notice anything strange.” Emmy stood and wandered pensively around the small office. “Nobody in the family liked Monica, but I can’t imagine one of them hurting her. And why would one of the staff members?” She chewed the edge of her thumbnail. “Maybe Mom’s right. Maybe it was some drifter.”
Kyle interjected. “Or the thief.”
“Thief ?” I asked.
“A few things have gone missing,” Emmy replied. “Some tea, a couple of plants, a few bottles of wine. Someone even took a bag of cleaning supplies.”
“You think someone killed Monica over a bottle of window cleaner?”
Emmy sat back down. “The eco-friendly supplies we use are pretty expensive, but you’re right, it does seem crazy.”
Kyle interrupted. “Don’t forget to tell her about the stolen drugs.”
That got my attention. “What drugs?”
“I told you, Kyle. Those prescriptions weren’t stolen; Mom forgot to pack them.” Emmy opened a packet of raw sugar and absently stirred it into her coffee. “My mother’s not the most organized person, especially when she’s nervous. And she’s always nervous when she travels. She inevitably forgets something.”
Emmy removed the spoon, tapped it lightly against the edge of her mug, and laid it on the table. “Mom and I went to Europe a few years ago. Mom brought shirts, two cameras, and plenty of underwear, but not a single pair of pants. We spent half the vacation clothes shopping. This time she claims some prescriptions went missing.”
“What kind of drugs were they?”
Emmy shrugged. “That’s just it. She’s not sure. Mom throws the entire medicine cabinet into her suitcase when she travels. She didn’t even notice anything was missing at first because she had several days’ worth of tranquilizers and heart medication in her carry on. I suspect all of the ‘missing’ drugs are right where she left them—on her bathroom counter.”
“I’m not so sure you should write it off, Emmy,” Kyle said. “Lord knows what else has been stolen that we haven’t noticed. Someone might even be skimming from the till. You’re not exactly security conscious.”
“I suppose.” Emmy sighed. “We treat the staff here like family. I thought we could trust them.”
Drugs and money sounded like good motives to me. I made a note to follow up with Helen about the missing prescriptions. “Kyle, what about you? What did you notice yesterday morning?”
Kyle’s day started when he began preparations for the eight o’clock breakfast service and ended when he heard sirens.
“You didn’t see Monica?”
“No, why would I?”
“When I spoke to Bruce yesterday morning, he said Monica was planning to talk to you.”
“The hostess told me that Monica stopped by the restaurant, but I never saw her. I went to the garden to cool off.”
“Cool off ?”
Kyle’s face turned almost as red as the stripes on his hat. “That daytime hostess has one job. One. Simple. Job. Greet people at the door and make them feel welcome. And she’s not even very good at that.” He glowered at Emmy. “I never should have let you talk me into hiring her. Would it kill her to smile every now and then?”
“Her name’s Jennifer. And she’s shy, Kyle. She’ll open up eventually.”
“So you say.” He continued grumbling. “She showed up late yesterday morning, and we were swamped. The waitresses had enough trouble keeping up with their own work. They didn’t have time to do hers, too.” The small muscles in the corner of his jaw quivered. “I was furious. If I’d stuck around, I’d have yelled at her in front of everyone, so I left my sous chef in charge and went to the garden to harvest some herbs for the lunch service. I was finishing up there when I heard the sirens.” He shuddered. “After that, everything turned into a circus.”
I watched him intently, trying to read his expression. “Monica never found you after she left the restaurant?”
He paused, but only for a second. His eye contact never wavered. “No. As far as I know, she went right to the spa.”
“Well then, Kyle, your hostess may have been the last person to see Monica alive.”
thirteen
Kyle, Emmy, and I spent the next twenty minutes plotting strategy. With over a hundred staff members and guests as potential witnesses, we had to no choice but to prioritize. Ultimately, we each focused on what we knew best. Kyle took the restaurant staff, Emmy the retreat center employees. I chose to connect with the most likely suspects—the wedding guests from New York—via some private yoga classes. It was as good a start as any.
Teaching yoga would give me the perfect opportunity to study Emmy’s family. Effective yoga teachers are master observers, trained to watch students for even the subtlest signs of physical or emotional discomfort. In this case, I’d be on the lookout for subconscious signs of guilt, searching for a murderer the way a pathologist scans slides for a cancerous cell.
Besides, Emmy was right. People did open up to their yoga teachers, often more than they realized. Contrary to popula
r belief, yoga isn’t about contorting your body into pretzel-like positions. Yoga’s ultimate goal is to focus and clarify the mind. An effective yoga class leaves students’ bodies strong, yet supple; their energy relaxed, yet alert; their hearts open—yet often vulnerable. The first rule of yoga ethics is to never abuse that vulnerability. I could only hope trapping a murderer was somehow an exception.
When the three of us parted company, we agreed to meet again after my class the next morning. Emmy promised to schedule the private session with her family as soon as possible.
In the meantime, I headed back to the cabin.
The aromas of sweet maple syrup and smoky vegan soysage greeted me at the door. Michael poked his head out from the kitchen. “Thank goodness you’re finally here! We were about to give up on you.”
I walked inside, gave Michael a hug—and almost had heart failure. A tornado had obviously touched down in the kitchen. Globs of pancake batter oozed down the cabinets and congealed on the counter. Grease spots stained the wall. Every plate, cup, pot, and utensil in the cabin—and few more Michael must have stolen from somewhere—was either currently in use or stacked haphazardly next to the sink. Dried batter and cooked-on food coated every dish.
“I made pancakes!”
“I see that.”
My stomach still bulged from pumpkin muffins and caffeinated soy milk, but I didn’t have the heart to disappoint him. I sat down for my second breakfast of the morning and tried to ignore the disaster in the kitchen.
Rene halfheartedly moved the food around on her plate. “Sorry, Michael. I’m still not feeling well.”
“It’s not bad for fake meat,” Sam volunteered.
Michael poured me more orange juice. “What do you think, Kate?”
“It’s quite good,” I said. Which it was. “I’m not very hungry, though.” Which I wasn’t.
“Nonsense.” Michael stacked two more pancakes and three more soysages on my plate. “Eat up, you’ll need your strength.”
“Why’s that?”
“House rules. I cooked, so you have to clean up.”
Michael smiled sweetly. I suppressed a groan.
At least thirty thousand calories later, Rene and Sam relaxed in the living room. Michael hung out in the kitchen and watched me clean. He wrapped his arms around my waist from behind and nuzzled my neck. “This is so great. I can imagine doing this every morning, can’t you?”
It took every fiber of my willpower not to burst into tears.
Like Michael, I had created a mental movie of our future life together—only mine was a horror flick. Globs of dried toothpaste all over the sink, bruises on my nether parts from left-open toilet seats, shriveled up hands, shrunken from overexposure to dish soap. Only three days into our first experience cohabitating, and I was convinced I might lose my mind. How did Rene keep her sanity?
“Uh, Kate … I think we should talk.”
Uh oh.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
Oh good lord, here it comes.
My throat constricted. My heart pounded. My lungs convulsed, suddenly starved for oxygen. Michael was about to pop the question. The question that permanently cemented or forever tore apart relationships. The question that forced you to choose: move forward, or permanently retreat. I didn’t want to retreat. Not at all. I loved Michael more than I knew how to express. But what if I wasn’t ready to move forward?
My mind flashed on the story of the farmer who lassoed a deer. His plan was simple. Cage it, fatten it like a Herford calf, then eat grain-fed venison for the rest of the winter.
Bambi had other plans.
The normally quiet, docile creature let out a primal scream and attacked, kicking, trampling, goring, and biting. Anything to get out from under that noose.
Bambi eventually escaped without injury. The farmer barely escaped with his life.
Michael should seriously consider lowering that rope.
I stepped out of his embrace and tugged at my shirt collar. “It’s really hot in here, Michael. I think I’ll take Bella for a walk,” I yelled into the living room. “Rene, get off your butt and grab Bella. We’re going for a walk.”
Michael looked hurt. “Kate, I was talking to you.”
“I know. We’ll be back in a few minutes—a half hour at most. I need to get some air.”
I backed away from him, panicked. “Rene, let’s go!” I slammed the door on his voice and ran toward the trail. A minute or so later, Rene and Bella joined me.
“What was that all about? Michael looks pissed.”
“Nothing. Let’s walk.”
Rene, for one of the few times in her life, indulged me.
For the first treasured minutes, I shook off my panic attack by immersing myself in the dense, tree-lined forest with all of my senses. October’s cool sun peeked through the trees and cast rippled gray shadows over an undergrowth of feather-like sword ferns, spotted mushrooms, and yellow-green moss. A musty-smelling mulch of pine needles and fallen aspen leaves scented the air. A soft breeze ruffled my hair. I even imagined that I could taste the prior night’s rain on the back of my tongue.
Bella explored the trail ahead—on leash of course—while Rene and I walked quietly together, our silence broken only by the steady crunch, crunch, crunch of our shoes. The stillness felt so restful, so complete, that I almost forgot I was a murder suspect.
Almost.
But I didn’t forget my promise to Sam.
I didn’t know what to do about my relationship with Michael; I had no idea who murdered Monica; but I was damned sure going to solve the Mystery of the Recalcitrant Rene.
Whatever was going on with her, it certainly wasn’t an affair. Rene looked nothing like a woman newly in love. Puffy half-moons underscored her eyes, despite a thick layer of expertly applied makeup. Worry lines creased her forehead. She sagged, almost wilted, under her new Louis Vuitton jacket. Her pink UGG boots moved along the trail in a slow, foot-dragging shuffle.
No doubt about it. My friend needed help.
“Rene, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, Kate, I’m fine.” Her lips turned up, but the expression looked more like a grimace than a smile. Tiny puddles of liquid pooled above her lower lashes.
Were those tears?
Rene never cried. It simply wasn’t part of her emotional vocabulary. She joked, she teased, she made sarcastic remarks. She used any defense mechanism possible to avoid showing weakness. Her constant, inappropriate teasing often drove me insane.
But she never cried.
I grabbed her shoulders and forced her to face me.
“This isn’t just the stomach flu, is it.”
She didn’t answer.
The deepest part of me was terrified to ask the question. The deepest part of me didn’t want to know.
“Honey, are you sick?”
She avoided my question by pretending to take it literally. “Obviously. I vomited all through dinner the other night. Remember?”
“Stop messing around. That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Now tell me the truth. Are. You. Sick?”
For the few frozen seconds until she replied, I forgot to breathe. Bella sensed my tension and stopped sniffing. The no-longer-restful-but-still-horrifyingly-complete silence pounded my eardrums. Rene was my touchstone, my support system, my tormentor, my friend. She couldn’t be sick. Not seriously. She just couldn’t.
Rene stared at her feet, completely still, as if harnessing all of her courage to form the words. “I’m not sick, Kate. It’s worse than that. The thing is … well …” Her throat convulsed. “I think I might be pregnant.”
That was it?
I grabbed her hands. “Rene, honey, that’s good news!” Granted, I wasn’t ready for children of my own, but I was still single. The minute Rene said “I do,” she sta
rted the inevitable cycle: marriage, kids, old age, and death. Rene and Sam had been married for three years. Getting pregnant was the obvious next step.
Rene yanked her hands from my grasp. “God, Kate. How could—” Her voice cracked. “How could you not get it?” Mascara-stained tears dripped down her face.
She was right. I hadn’t gotten it. But I did now.
“This isn’t good news, is it?”
“No, Kate. It’s not good news at all.”
“I’m listening.”
Rene moved next to Bella, knelt down, and slowly rubbed the soft spot behind her ears. The rhythmic motion seemed to give her comfort. “Remember how I said I never wanted kids?”
I nodded my head yes.
“Well, I meant it. I never even liked dolls as a child, other than Barbie, and that was only because she wore cool clothes.” Bella sighed and relaxed into Rene’s touch. “But Sam wants kids less than anyone I’ve ever met.” She swallowed. “He even planned to have a vasectomy after we got married, but he never got around to it.”
I hated myself, but I had to ask. “Then why didn’t you guys use birth control?”
“We did. I’m not that stupid. The pill doesn’t always work, you know.”
She was right. Birth control pills were only ninety-nine percent effective. Leave it to Rene to be part of the one percent.
“Kate, what if Sam wants me to … you know.” Her expression was tortured. “Sam will want me to end the pregnancy.”
I knelt on the ground next to her. “Forget Sam for a minute. It’s your baby. It’s your body. What do you want?” I had no idea what I’d do in Rene’s situation, but I knew this much. Whatever she decided, I’d be there, every step of the way. If Sam wasn’t man enough to step up, I sure as hell would.
Rene rubbed her eyes, smearing deep black mascara across her cheeks. “I can’t believe this, Kate. I thought I’d never, ever want a child.” She paused. “But I want this baby.” She said the words again, as if surprised to hear them out loud. “I want this baby.”