Gossip Can Be Murder

by Connie Shelton

  “Charlie, I know how he feels about this case. But he can’t back out on us now. He offered to help with the research and now we’re getting down to where we need his expertise.”

  “I know that. He knows that. He’ll be there.” Not exactly with bells on, but I know my husband. He’s nothing if not reliable.

  A half-minute of silence from Ron. I could hear the wheels churning. He’d earned his living and built a career on poking into other people’s dirty little secrets. He wasn’t above snapping pictures of people in compromising situations, and he certainly wasn’t above working with shady law firms in proving a case. Graham and Valdez weren’t a bad firm, they just latched onto a lot of big-money cases that often put good people in a bad light. I knew this was really at the heart of Drake’s attitude.

  “Well, you know where I am.” I said. “Anything you want me to check out in Santa Fe, give me a call.” We hung up.

  Linda came out of the bathroom. “Problem?”

  I shrugged. “Brother versus husband. It’ll resolve itself soon.” There wasn’t much else to say.

  By the time I finished my bedtime routine in the bathroom she was deep into a book and I could barely keep my eyes open.

  Chapter 6

  When the alarm went off at six-thirty the next morning I found I’d spent the night mulling over Drake’s upcoming deposition through a series of strange dreams that included my own heart-thumping experience in our simulated crash. I sat up in bed and gazed around the murky pre-dawn room. Nothing to be gained by fretting over it. I decided I would do my best to get into the spirit of the coming seminars and give Linda the help I’d promised.

  My roommate was not an early riser. She groaned at the sound of the alarm and rolled over. I decided to grab first use of the bathroom, so I snagged a clean set of clothes and headed that way. By the time I’d showered, dressed, and dried my hair Linda was sitting on the edge of her bed. Her blond curls stuck out at odd angles and her face was puffy with sleep.

  “Good morning, Mary Sunshine,” I greeted in a sing-song voice.

  She threw a pillow at me. “I hate that phrase. My mother used it on me every day of the week, including Saturday and Sunday,” she growled.

  “I know. I remember you throwing pillows at her too.” I laughed and tossed the pillow back. “I’m finished in the bathroom.”

  She stood up and tugged her oversized T-shirt over her thighs as she shuffled toward the open doorway.

  I located an in-room coffee service in a small alcove near the door and started the process for some wake-up brew. I wasn’t sure how this whole nutrition program would go, but I couldn’t live without my daily caffeine jolt. A few minutes later I poured two cups, slipping one of them onto the vanity in the steamy bathroom. Behind the shower curtain, Linda dropped a heavy plastic bottle and cursed. She wasn’t always dimples and grins.

  Thirty minutes later we joined some of our group for a breakfast buffet, which consisted of fruit, whole grain muffins, and herbal teas. Made me glad I’d already managed my one cup of coffee. I piled fresh strawberries and melon onto my plate and added a large muffin, wondering if it had come from Sweet’s Sweets.

  Across the dining room, I spotted Nicole Mayhew with an older man. Her husband, apparently. I guessed him to be about double Nicole’s age, salt and pepper hair, clean shaven, and dressed the way you’d expect a businessman to be in a resort atmosphere. The tie was gone but otherwise he could walk right into a boardroom. She wore a white slacks suit today, with gold accent jewelry, her light brown hair twisted up into a not-quite-formal up-do. With those types, it always seemed to take a few days to go casual.

  Dina Carlotti was sitting alone at a table, so Linda and I asked if we might join her.

  “Certainly.” She smiled widely, her voice friendly. “I’m very pleased to meet you again. Charlie, is it? Is that not a man’s name in this country?”

  “Yes. Actually, it’s a nickname for Charlotte. My brothers stuck it on me as a kid. Guess I’m just not the Charlotte type.” I forked a cube of melon. It was sweet and delicious.

  A tiny crease of puzzlement crossed her brow and quickly left. “And, Linda.”

  “You’re very good with names, Dina,” Linda answered. “I always have a hard time with them.”

  “Well, you are wearing a badge,” Dina said. Her lovely smile brought grins to all of us.

  “You mentioned being from Venice,” I said. “What brings you to New Mexico?”

  “Oh, yes. The opera. I performed here last summer and loved this city very much. I wanted to come back at a time when I did not include work.”

  “You’re an opera singer?” My preconceived picture of heavyset women with large mouths and huge bosoms went out the window. Dina probably weighed one-fifteen on a bad day and stood no more than five-four. It was hard to imagine lusty vocalizations coming from her petite little self.

  “It is true,” she said. “People say I do not look the part. But what can I say?” She shrugged and picked up her fork. “I am a singer since childhood. A professional for twenty years.”

  “What’s your main interest in the program here?” Linda inquired.

  “My health. You see, my mother died last year from breast cancer. It is in our family. I think if I can study healthy ways to eat and ways to relieve the stress of my travel, maybe I can have a better chance.”

  “That’s a very smart idea,” Linda said.

  “And you?” Dina asked. “You told us last night you are a doctor. So you are here for Dr. Light’s medical presentations?” When Linda nodded, Dina turned to me.

  “Me? Oh, well . . .” I shouldn’t admit that I got talked into the whole thing. I peeled the paper from my muffin and broke it in half. “I’d like to learn more about all of it. And I must say that the massages and spa treatments sound like they’ll be wonderful.”

  “Oh, sì, d’accordo.” She popped the last of her strawberries into her mouth.

  I’d managed to polish off the whole bran muffin and my bowl of fruit. “Guess it’s about time to report to class, ladies.”

  We pushed back from the table and started toward the main lobby. As we crossed it, a man dressed all in black came through the front entrance, two deferential younger men at his side. Through the glass doors I could see a stretch limo with its doors standing open. Emerging from the limo stepped a woman with the distinct look of a secretary and another wearing jeans that barely concealed her pubic area and very high stiletto heels—obviously not a secretary. A chauffer was pulling suitcases—a number of them—from the trunk of the large black car.

  The man in black turned to one of his gofers and said, “Take care of things, will you, Pete? Get everyone settled.”

  Pete didn’t look as if he had any choice in the matter. He headed toward the desk.

  “Now where the hell’s this meeting supposed to be?” The man at the center of things gazed around the lobby. His gelled black hair stood in spikes, carefully arranged to look like it had not been arranged. His thin face was somehow familiar, yet not.

  “Who’s—” I whispered to Linda.

  “The rock star, Rex Storm,” she mumbled back.

  Whoa. His face clearly showed the ravages of the good life. I tried to remember the last time I’d caught a look at him on TV. Maybe five or six years ago. Deep lines now etched the corners of his mouth and gravity had begun its takeover. His scrawny frame clad in skin-tight black jeans and silky black shirt open nearly to the waist made him look like a fifty-year-old trying to be twenty. As I recalled, he was younger than my brother, putting him at about thirty-five. Drugs, booze and the high life, I guessed.

  A cell-phone cheeped and he pulled the tiny instrument from a pocket in his black leather jacket. Although his voice carried clearly and he made a big point of revealing that it was his agent on the line, Linda, Dina and I ignored him and headed across the lobby toward the vestibule where we were to check in for our classes.

  “Is he attending our seminar?” I asked
once we were out of earshot.

  “Afraid so,” Linda said. “I saw his name on the list but didn’t really believe he’d show up. Do not repeat this, but word has it that his body has become so toxified that major systems are shutting down. He’s making a last-ditch effort to save his skinny little ass.”

  I had to laugh. It’s rare to hear a judgmental word from Linda.

  Entering the classroom wing was like walking into another world. Soft lighting and subtle incense set a mood of relaxation and spirituality. Behind the counter, Shirley and her helper handed out packets. Mine contained a new name badge—I was no longer Alex—along with a couple of booklets that were clearly study materials.

  “I’m going to head over to Room . . . I don’t know . . . it’s here somewhere . . . the first of the medical lectures,” Linda said. “Catch you at lunch?”

  “I’ll get all the handouts and notes I can,” I assured her.

  She walked down the hall and I turned to peruse the books on sale at the table. Dr. Light appeared to be a prolific writer, with a variety of intriguing titles. Dina gravitated toward the candles and incense on the shelves, and I noticed a number of other people beginning to arrive. Patricia Girard, the doctor with the numerous degrees and big turquoise jewelry, grabbed her packet and headed off in the same direction Linda had taken. Nicole Mayhew and her husband arrived. He seemed a bit impatient and I noticed that she watched him almost constantly.

  “I’m really looking forward to this, aren’t you?” Trudie Blanchard, the former nurse, stood next to me at the book table. Her eyes looked a bit wilder than last night and I noticed that her shirt had some kind of day-old food stain on the front.

  “Sure. Are you attending the medical sessions, or nutrition and fitness?”

  “Oh, nutrition and fitness, definitely,” she said. Her voice came out low and whispery, as if everything she said was confidential information. “I’m not in the medical field any more, I guess.”

  Before I could comment she reminded me. “I lost my nursing job, you know. And I don’t even know why.” Her voice went whiny on the last word. “It was just a conspiracy, I think. Hospital politics. You know how that is.”

  I nodded at all the right places.

  “Well, I’m thinking about getting a lawyer. I mean, at my age, it’s not easy. I’ve applied at lots of places. No one seems to be hiring right now. Well, it’s taking its toll on my health, I’ll tell you.”

  Before Trudie got the chance to elaborate, Shirley called for attention.

  “I’d like to take everyone on a brief introductory tour of our facility,” she announced. “If you’ll all follow me.” We trailed along.

  “You visited the spa building last night. Today we’ll be in this wing of the resort. The first room on the left is our library. It’s open to all of you, for your research and reading enjoyment. Feel free to make yourselves comfortable there.”

  Double doors opened to a cozy place with big, overstuffed chairs, plump pillows and Oriental carpets. Shelves lined two sides with books and video tapes, and a small television monitor with VCR sat discreetly to one side. I felt the pull toward the bookshelves, but followed the tour anyway.

  “The room on our right is the primary classroom where we’ll be meeting. As soon as we’ve finished our orientation, we’ll meet back here.” As classrooms went, this one was extremely informal, with a mixture of chairs and floor cushions. Wide windows with gauzy curtains looked out to the beautifully landscaped courtyard. A white-board stood at the front, a tea service at the rear of the room. A few other interesting items, including a huge Chinese gong, merited further investigation later, maybe just one good whack with the special little gong-hammer . . ..

  The next room on the right was the meditation room. “We’ll be studying meditation methods this morning, then you’ll be free to use this room any time,” Shirley said. “There is group meditation at nine each morning and four each afternoon. We encourage all of you to attend and enjoy the benefits of the group energy.” The room was square, with only one small window. A little statue of the Buddha stood in the center of the room, with a variety of puffy cushions around him. Chairs flanked the walls and an intricate incense burner stood in one corner. I immediately felt the calm as I stepped into the room.

  “Beyond this room, the doors lead to Dr. Light’s private office and to the classroom used by the medical practitioners. We’ll stay back, since they’ve already begun their sessions.” Shirley also pointed out a couple of small offices as we walked back toward the vestibule. When we were gathered there, she indicated a door I’d not noticed before. “The yoga room,” she said. “We’ll start here first. Everyone wore comfortable clothing?”

  I glanced at Nicole Mayhew in her sleek pantsuit.

  “If anyone wants to change, the restrooms are just across the hall. Your instructor will be here in ten minutes.”

  I ducked into the ladies room and switched my jeans for stretchy knits, then went back across the hall.

  The yoga room was a large place with wooden floors and mirrored walls, like a dance studio. Against one wall were racks with mats and blankets. Shirley directed us to take a mat and pick any spot we’d like. I kicked off my shoes and dropped my purse and papers in one corner.

  Dina Carlotti took up a spot on my right. Trudie Blanchard moved in on the left. I really didn’t want her letting me in on her ongoing secret battle with hospital politics, so I chatted quietly with Dina. Tahlene, our Aussie flower child, showed up late, having missed the tour. She staked out her mat in the front of the room and began doing some stretches after a quick hello to each of us.

  Nicole Mayhew came in, looking like an ad for fitness wear, in a sports bra-type halter top and a matching royal blue pair of stretch capris. Her hair was up in a twist, held in place with a blue headband. Her husband trailed along, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world, but was decked out in the latest in men’s fitness gear.

  “Hi,” said Nicole, setting her mat in front of Dina’s. “I don’t think I met all of you last night. I’m Nicole Mayhew and this is my husband Gerald.”

  He grunted a greeting and allowed Nicole to set his mat into position on the floor. Gerald was probably a decade older than Drake, but I could easily see my own husband just as uncomfortable in a yoga class. My guess was that Gerald was here at Nicole’s request, when his usual milieu was probably the executive office of a major corporation. For relaxation I could see him in the smoking room of a gentlemen’s club with a Cuban cigar in one hand and a glass of Glenlivet French Oak Finish in the other. I felt for the guy and had to give him points for being a good sport.

  A few other people wandered in, one of whom was Shirley’s assistant at the registration desk. Soon the room was filled with colored mats. A large man in a maintenance uniform with some kind of embroidered logo on the chest stuck his head into the room, called out, “Rita?” and backed away when he saw the rest of us. Fifteen minutes had probably passed since we’d come in. Everyone looked around expectantly.

  At last the door opened again and in came a woman carrying a portable boom box cassette player, a yoga mat, and a canvas bag that clattered when she walked. She wore a pink and green striped leotard with fuchsia bike shorts. Her curly brown hair was gathered on top of her head where ringlets sprouted from a cloth band like a springy whale-spout. White plastic glasses with square lenses slid down her pert nose. She nudged them upward with one wrist.

  “Give me a second, everyone,” she said. “I’ll just . . .” She dropped the canvas bag and cassette tapes spilled onto the wood floor. She grabbed one and stuffed it into the player, remembering only after she’d pushed the Play button that she needed to plug it into the wall. That done, she adjusted the volume so the sitar music would serve as quiet background.

  “There,” she said. “Hi, everyone. I’m Rita, your yoga instructor. I’m here to help you. If you’re new to yoga, please let me know if you have problem areas in your body. We’ll tailor your prog
ram to those things that will benefit you most.” She made us each introduce ourselves, a little ritual that felt like one of those 12-Step things where you say ‘Hi, I’m Charlie’ and they all greet you in return. Once we got that over with, she sat with her legs folded under her, butt on her heels, and we all followed suit. “Let’s start with some deep breaths.” She closed her eyes and breathed loudly. I did the same but wondered how I was going to know when she changed position.

  “Now we’ll move into Tadasana,” she said in a lyrical voice. I sneaked a peek and found that she was standing up straight now but not really doing anything. I figured I could get this one right. We stood there for about two minutes and I swore I saw Gerald Mayhew rolling his eyes.

  “Uttbita Trikonasana is also known as the triangle pose,” Rita said a minute later, jumping her legs apart and then slipping into a strange spread out shape so smoothly that I couldn’t begin to figure out how she got there. A glance at the others showed that few of them got it either.

  Copying her position, I aimed my left arm straight up.

  “Hold there, hold . . . ” Rita said as she began to move around the room, pointing out subtle changes to each student’s position.

  “Focus eyes on the ceiling, everyone,” Rita called out.

  My neck felt like it would snap but I managed to find the ceiling. Everything was beginning to feel a little topsy.

  “Charlie, this wrist needs to be turned inward,” Rita said, tapping my right arm with her toe. I nearly lost my balance and didn’t quite accomplish the maneuver.

  “Over there, blue outfit, what was your name?”

  “Nicole.” Her voice came out as a grunt.

  “Nicole. Nicole, do you have any clue what we’re doing here? That position isn’t even close.”

  I sneaked a look to my left. I couldn’t tell that Nicole wasn’t doing the very same thing I was. She shifted her body forward and grabbed a deep breath before forcing herself back into the stretched-out posture.