“It’s one of our chef’s specialties,” she said. “And, yes, they’re made of all-natural ingredients. Very healthy.”
I reached for one, of course, turning it over and eying it for tofu bits. “Did you hear about this morning’s yoga class?” I asked.
She laughed. “Oh, yes.” She dropped her voice. “We’ve known for a long time that Rita wasn’t working out. We just weren’t sure how to get rid of her. Poor girl has had a lot of personal problems recently. It just didn’t seem fair to cut her job at the same time. Maybe she’ll save me the trouble by quitting.”
“Well, it was pretty obvious that her heart wasn’t in that classroom the past few days. I’m sorry to hear about the other problems.”
“I know. Despite our efforts at bringing peace and love into people’s lives, sometimes shit happens.” She allowed a worldly grin to sneak out. “Rita’s divorce hit her hard, but then those things aren’t easy for anyone, are they?”
She walked across the room, leaving me to wonder about Rita’s personal life. We rarely see the whole person. I’d certainly learned that in my involvement with Ron’s investigation business.
Shirley called for attention and everyone began taking their seats.
“Today, we want to look at food preparation techniques,” she said. “I’m going to come down against your microwave ovens and packaged foods, I’m afraid.”
That drew a little twitter from the group and a surge of fear from me. No microwave?
She grabbed a stack of papers and began passing the handouts around the room. Yesterday we’d covered body types and the ways in which different people metabolize their food and the amazing ways that our bodies fight off various diseases. I flipped through the pages Shirley gave me, making sure I had copies of everything for Linda.
“Now—” Her voice was interrupted by the sound of a distant scream. By the time it repeated for the third time, pounding footsteps followed. Our group were now on their feet. I sniffed for smoke, looked outside for flashing lights, saw nothing. Leaving our workbooks behind, we moved en masse to the door.
“What’s going on?” Shirley asked a passing secretary.
“Don’t know,” the girl said. “Something out back.”
We headed for the exit to the courtyard. Out in the bright sun, the drift of people were all heading toward the low adobe wall at the edge of the compound. I worked my way forward, and found that they were crowded around Tahlene.
“Give her some space,” the resort manager said as I walked up.
The crowd moved back about an inch.
“Tahlene? What’s wrong?” I asked, over the heads of a couple of bellmen.
“Charlie!” She looked relieved to see someone familiar. Her hand reached out and I slipped from behind the bellman to take it. “Oh, Charlie, it’s awful!”
“Calm down,” I said. Her fingers gripped my hand with painful force and her whole body was shaking.
The resort manager stood before her. “Miss, can you tell me what’s the matter? Can I call for help?”
Tahlene’s blond curls bobbed. With her free hand she grabbed the green knitted scarf at her neck. She bunched and twisted the yarn repeatedly.
“Tahlene? Talk to us,” I coaxed.
“Th-the wall . . . over the wall.”
“Here, let me . . .” I pried her fingers off me and stroked her arm. “Let me see.”
I walked to the wall and looked over. The ground dropped away all along this back side of the resort. In some places the drop began a few feet away from the adobe wall, but in this spot it fell away immediately. Erosion had created a steep gully with sharp exposed rocks. A cactus lay in shreds near the top. My eyes followed the direction of its broken arms and I leaned outward to see below. About thirty feet down, smashed against rugged boulders lay a twisted body. It was Rita.
Black specks floated in front of my eyes as vertigo threatened. I reeled slightly before catching myself. I turned and bumped into the manager, who now stood at the wall.
“Call the police,” I said quietly.
He glanced downward and turned quickly. “I will. Keep everyone back.”
Well, yeah. That was a real no-brainer. I turned to Tahlene and patted her back. “Let’s get you inside,” I said. Shirley stood at the edge of the group and I put the shaking Australian girl in her capable hands.
Commandeering two bellmen, I asked them to gather the little crowd and take them inside. “Offer them free drinks or something,” I suggested. “We need to calm them down but keep them on the premises.”
The older one picked up on the importance of the request and began moving. The younger guy was itching to peek over the wall, but followed the example of his senior man. Together they rounded up the twenty or thirty people standing around and headed them toward the lobby. I noticed Linda in the crowd but she didn’t try to push through. She followed along with the bellman’s request.
What had happened? The questions immediately descended upon me. Accident? I looked over the wall again, willing myself to be dispassionate. Clearly, the fall had killed Rita. Her neck lay twisted at a horrible angle. Blood covered her face and matted her brown curls. One arm was flung out behind her, the other pinned under the body. I swallowed hard.
Had she sat or stood on the wall and lost her balance? Had she gotten the hint that her job was in jeopardy and jumped? Rita, a suicide? I had to admit that I didn’t know her well enough to judge. Or had something more sinister happened? Granted, Rita didn’t have many admirers here. Her rigid rules and drill-sergeant attitude hadn’t won any friends.
I scanned the ground on both sides of the wall. Remarkably, there were all kinds of footprints. As dangerous as the area obviously was, a well-beaten path led along the wall outside the safe zone. Had Rita been walking along and not noticed the section where the path was cut away by the gully? Possibly, if it were dark out.
I didn’t remember seeing her at the firelight gathering last night. In fact, I was pretty certain she hadn’t been there. Maybe she’d come to work very early this morning. Maybe she was staying at the hotel as a guest. I realized I didn’t even know whether she lived here in Santa Fe or not. I needed more information.
Sirens began to sound in the distance. I could hear their progress up the road, then the long drive into the resort, and eventually at the front door. They finally died with a long groan.
Two men with EMT kits strode through the courtyard followed by a uniformed police officer. I pointed to the spot.
“Oh, geez,” the first technician said. “I know the answer to this, but we’re gonna need climbing ropes to find out for sure.”
The other guy turned toward the lobby. “Is there another way, without going back through that crowd?” he asked.
I indicated the walkway to the parking lot. “Go past the spa building and this will take you to the front door.”
“Nasty fall,” the police officer said. She was built stoutly, a Hispanic woman of about forty, wearing a dark uniform and a belt full of weapons and cuffs. Her name badge said C. Montoya. She pulled a report form from a metal clipboard she carried.
She stared over the wall again and turned to me. After asking my name and getting my answer she said, “How is it you know the victim?”
“She’s a yoga instructor here at the resort,” I said.
“And how well did you know her?”
Wait a minute. Where was this going? “Barely.” I responded. “You’ll need to talk to either the resort manager or to Shirley Broussand, her supervisor. They, and the young woman who discovered the body, are inside.”
Montoya folded down the cover of the clipboard. Wedging her pen into the clip she motioned me to lead the way. As we walked I heard her speak into her radio, requesting detectives.
Chapter 11
Two detectives arrived a few minutes later and officer Montoya was sent outside to help the recovery effort. In a divide-and-conquer maneuver, the detectives split the seminar group into manageable units and
put us into separate rooms. Somehow, probably with input from Shirley, they made sure the groups consisted of people who didn’t already know each other. Linda had been shuffled off to the library; at least she’d have something to read. I found myself in the meditation room with one of the doctors from Linda’s medical group and a young woman who worked for the resort. Despite the incense-laden air in here, I couldn’t imagine clearing my mind of its whirl of thoughts.
One at a time, the detectives called people into a small office across the hall. Waiting my turn, I positioned myself in one of the chairs that faced the open door so I could see others come and go. Most didn’t spend more than ten or fifteen minutes, probably furnishing everything they knew about Rita and leaving the detectives with their own names and addresses for possible future contact. I caught glimpses of the faces as they left and nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
At one point Montoya tapped on the door and went in, carrying her report forms and a few zipped plastic baggies. She stayed about five minutes and left empty handed. By this time my two roomies had done their bit and been dismissed. I began to wonder if the detectives had forgotten me, despite the fact that I sat in plain view of their doorway. Finally I got the signal and walked across the hall.
“Ms. Parker, come in and sit.” I did, surprised that they knew my name.
“I’m Detective Gallegos, my partner is Detective Greene.” The man speaking to me was probably in his late thirties, slim, with black brush-cut hair and big dark eyes that would have looked great on a soap opera star. Greene was ten years younger, reddish blonde hair, green eyes, with signs of a few pimples lingering around his jawline. Both wore jeans, chambray shirts, and jackets. Greene’s was a tweed blazer and Gallegos wore black leather. I nodded to them both.
“We understand that you’re a private investigator?”
“Uh, that’s not exactly true,” I said, wondering where he’d gotten this information and guessing it was common gossip around here by now. “I work for one. My brother.”
“But you’re familiar with investigative protocol,” Gallegos insisted.
“Somewhat.”
“Okay.” He seemed happy with that. “You’re observant. Anything about this situation with Rita Ratwill that looks hinky to you?”
“I hardly knew Rita. Didn’t even know her last name until this minute. I’ve been in her yoga classes the past two days. Today she didn’t show up but we went on without her.”
“Word is she was about to lose her job. Lots of complaints about her teaching style.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me.” I glanced over at the baggies Montoya had left with them. They appeared to contain a few fabric fibers stuck to cactus needles, some hairs, a little bit of dirt. “Did Rita live here in town or was she staying at the hotel?” I asked.
“Local. She’d worked at another yoga center off and on for a couple of years, just became an instructor here the last six months or so, according to Shirley Broussand.”
He seemed pretty open with the information so I decided to push it and ask for more. “So, what do you think? Could someone have pushed her?”
“It’s looking accidental. Nobody here seems to have a motive. Her car’s in the parking lot, engine barely warm. Looks like she arrived for work early this morning, for some reason sat on that little wall out there and fell over. There were some clothing fibers on the adobe. Lab will take a look at everything, naturally.”
I shrugged, unable to come up with anything more plausible.
“Ms. Parker, one more thing,” Gallegos said. Hmm…shades of Columbo. “Linda Casper, who’s rooming with you I believe. She said the two of you saw a strange man hanging around outside one of the rooms this morning?”
“Yeah, I’d forgotten about that. We saw him peeking into the window of Trudie Blanchard’s room. He walked away quickly once he saw us. I called the desk and asked them to watch for him, but they hadn’t seen him. I also told Trudie about it, so she could be alert for him.”
He wrote all that down, although I felt sure he’d gotten the same story from Linda.
“Did Ms. Blanchard seem concerned?” he asked.
“Trudie—how can I say this? Trudie seems concerned about everything. She’s an odd woman. I’m no psychologist but she’s talked about herself a lot in our classes, has a number of insecurities and there are mood swings. I don’t know. She’s got some kind of psychological issues.”
“And how did she act when you told her there was a man outside her window?”
“Didn’t say a lot. She tends to operate in a haze about half the time. I guess that’s how she acted then.”
“Thanks for the information, Charlie,” he said. Greene still hadn’t said more than a couple of words. Gallegos reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. “If you think of anything else…well, you know the routine.”
“Another question, if I might,” I said. “Did Rita have anything else with her? I didn’t notice her little boom box tape player or her canvas tote bag that she always brought to class. She might have notes or personal papers . . .”
“I think Montoya found some things,” he said. “We still have to review all the evidence. We’ll keep an eye out for them.”
He thanked me again and stood to indicate that the interview was over. I picked up my purse and headed toward the classroom where I could hear the buzz of voices. Shirley’s stood out above the crowd.
“Could everyone be seated for just a moment?” she called out.
I stepped into the room and grabbed a seat near the back.
“Thanks,” she said. “We’ve had an upsetting morning so far. I’m truly sorry for the disruption to a week that’s supposed to bring peace and harmony to your lives.” A mild rustle went through the room. “I think the best way to do that is to get back with the program right away. So, check your schedules. I’ll be starting the nutrition class in this room in ten minutes. Medical people, I believe Dr. Light will be arriving any moment now for your sessions. If anyone was scheduled for a massage this hour, by all means, I’m sure you’re ready for it. Lunch will be delayed until one o’clock, and we’ll do our best to work in everything else for the day. If we can’t fit it all in, well this course is all about finding peace, so we’re not going to stress over it, right?”
As the group began to disperse, I worked my way to the front of the room to sit where I usually did. Linda spotted me and reached for my arm. “We gotta meet up at lunch,” she whispered. “There’s more to this story.”
I gave her a puzzled look, but the flow of bodies carried her out the door. What was that all about? I did my best to take notes on organic growing methods and the benefits of various spices, but probably missed a lot of it. My eyes kept scanning the room. I didn’t believe for one minute that Rita had simply sat down on that adobe wall and toppled over backward. She had her ditzy moments but that scenario didn’t seem likely. So, she either killed herself—over losing a job she’d held for only a few months?—or someone helped her fall.
Among the other attendees, I could sense a restlessness. They were itching to get together, as were Linda and I, to compare notes and to pass on information about the morning’s events. When Shirley finally wrapped up and declared it lunch time, there was almost a crush to get to the door.
In the lobby I spotted Gallegos and Greene coming in from the courtyard. I veered my path to intersect theirs.
“Anything new?” I asked.
“Not really,” Gallegos answered. “We found the tape player and tote bag you described. In her car. Looks like she’d arrived early this morning. There’ll be an autopsy and we can get time of death. We’ll also know whether drugs or alcohol played a part.” He seemed impatient to get going.
“So you’re thinking it’s . . .”
“Probably an accident. Honestly, we haven’t found any reason to doubt that.”
“Detective? I’ve been wondering—who’s Rita’s next of kin?” One of my many random thoughts dur
ing class had been about whether Rita and her ex might have had children.
“Husband,” he said. He thumbed through the little notebook in his hand. “David Ratwill.” He caught the expression on my face.
“I was under the impression she was divorced.”
“ID card in her wallet listed him as her emergency contact. I dialed the number on it and a recorded voice says ‘You’ve reached Rita and Dave’ . . .” Greene nudged him and Gallegos remembered that they were on the way out. I watched the two of them walk toward the main entry before I headed to the dining room. Nearly everyone else was seated. I found myself torn between positioning myself in the middle, hoping to catch bits of the other conversations, or finding an isolated place where Linda could tell me what she’d so urgently wanted to say. Curiosity won out and I took a table between the one the Mayhews occupied and where Dina Carlotti and Pat Girard had just been joined by Trudie. This could get interesting.
Linda bustled across the room and sat down.
“Wasn’t Rita divorced?” I asked her.
“I thought so.”
“Me too.” I cocked my eyes toward the other tables, indicating that we better keep our voices down.
“He wasn’t an ex, according to the police,” I said. “David Ratwill. The police believe the two were still living together.”
“So, what else did Rita say that wasn’t quite true?” She raised her golden eyebrows in a knowing way.
I wondered.
Voices from the next table drifted toward us. “. . . heard that she didn’t drive up here this morning. She came last night and spent the night with one of the men.” The comment came from Pat. The woman really seemed to thrive on innuendo. So far, very little that I’d heard through her little grapevine had turned out to be true.
From the Mayhew table, Gerald’s muffled voice spoke urgently to his wife. She shushed him, glancing around the room. I recalled the fragment of conversation I’d heard in the hallway on Monday and wondered what their story was. In nutrition class, they’d indicated that Gerald had received some type of dire medical diagnosis and was here to work on improving his health. Nicole, however, seemed to be the one taking the classes seriously. She took notes and really got into the yoga and meditation. That might not be remarkable, but the urgent tone of the few words that drifted my way told me that something serious was going on with those two. I wondered if it related to Rita in some way.
Gossip Can Be Murder Page 7