Murder on the Eightfold Path

by Diana Killian

  “Whatever he was spending his ill-gotten gains on, it wasn’t the good life.”

  There was no answer. A.J. glanced around and saw that her mother had left the room. She found her in the bedroom—inside the walk-in closet to be precise—and saw that in this room spartan simplicity gave way to sybaritic luxury. The queen-sized bed had a silver brocade bedspread and was piled high with jewel-bright velvet cushions. The closet was stuffed with clothes: tailored suits, silk shirts, designer sportswear, and cashmere sweaters. There were rows and rows of expensive shoes. Dicky had possessed far more shoes than A.J. owned, even back when she’d been a rising young freelancer.

  Elysia methodically checked the pockets of the trousers and shirts and blazers. A.J. moved off to the bathroom and found the glass shelves packed with a variety of name-brand grooming products. Dicky also had more hair products than she did. A.J. counted shampoos and conditioners from L’Occitane, Calvin Klein, and The Salon.

  Returning to the bedroom, she noticed a snapshot tucked in the corner of the framed mirror over the dresser. The family grouped in front of the neutral background appeared to be Egyptian: a dignified older man, a plump, comfortable middle-aged woman, two self-conscious teenaged girls, and a little boy. Judging by clothes and haircuts, the photograph seemed quite recent. Was this Dicky’s family? She couldn’t think of another reason for such a group portrait.

  As she studied the photo, A.J. viewed Dakarai Massri for the first time as something more than a threat to her mother. She recalled how young he had been; she recognized that whatever his faults, he had been someone with hopes and fears, dreams and ambitions, disappointments and sorrows. He had a family somewhere and they had probably loved him and would soon be, if they were not already, grieving for him.

  “What about this bookie of his?” A.J. called. “Do you think Dicky might have had gambling debts he couldn’t pay?”

  “He liked to gamble,” Elysia replied absently.

  “What did he gamble on?”

  “Horses, mostly. But he spends—spent—a fair amount of time in Atlantic City.”

  A.J. sat down gingerly on the side of the bed. “I don’t begin to know how we would locate a bookie or investigate Dicky’s gambling habits.”

  “Hmm. I admit it’ll take some thought.” Elysia stepped out of the closet and looked around. “I don’t see his laptop anywhere.”

  “Did he have a laptop?” A.J. asked sharply.

  “One of those cute little notebook thingies.”

  “The police must have it. Did you write him e-mails?” A.J. braced herself for the answer.

  “You know I don’t use e-mail unless I have to.”

  That was true, and it was one bright spot. At least Elysia would not have left an electronic trail.

  They went through all the drawers in Dicky’s bureau and dressing table but turned up nothing more interesting than an overabundance of dress socks.

  A.J. sifted through her share of the dresser drawers quickly. She wanted out of this apartment as soon as possible. All they needed was a nosy neighbor or a prospective tenant and they’d be trying to explain themselves to the local law—and good luck with that. “What about his friends? Did he have any?”

  “I met his upstairs neighbor once,” Elysia said. “They seemed to get on well enough.”

  “It’s so weird. He’s like the Man Who Never Was.”

  “I assure you, pumpkin, he most definitely was.”

  As A.J. slid the drawer back it seemed to stick. She pulled it out, tried again, and heard something tear.

  “There’s something here.”

  A.J. pulled the drawer all the way out and Elysia rushed to take it from her.

  “You’re not supposed to lift!”

  Letting Elysia take the drawer, A.J. reached inside. Jammed into the wooden track was a crumpled greeting card. She freed it carefully, drew it out, and smoothed the stiff paper, examining it curiously.

  Elaborate gold script on embossed white stock read Happy Birthday to My Husband.

  Heart pounding in hope, A.J. opened the card. Beneath the usual lavish and saccharine sentiments was scrawled xo and a name: Medea.

  “Hey, take a look at this.” She held the card out to her mother.

  Elysia took the card and opened it. She seemed to go very still.

  “He was married,” A.J. said.

  Elysia said nothing.

  “He was already married to someone else. Married to someone named Medea. If we could find this woman, this Medea, we would probably have the answer to who killed Dicky.”

  Still Elysia did not speak—and that was so odd that A.J. fell silent, too.

  And in that profound silence she heard a key scrape in the front door lock and the sound of the front door opening.

  “Hide!” gasped Elysia, attempting to shove the drawer soundlessly back in its track.

  “Hide where?” squeaked A.J.

  There was no more time than that. Elysia dove beneath the bed. Her arm poked from beneath the bed skirt, beckoning wildly to A.J., but A.J. knew there was no way her back would permit her to climb under the bed—not if she planned on ever climbing out again. She backed into the crowded walk-in closet, ducking behind the suits and silk shirts, listening tensely. Yes, someone had definitely entered the apartment.

  The scent of Dicky’s aftershave was disconcerting. A.J. tried to blank it out and concentrate on the voices. Blanketed in sport coats and shirts, she could see nothing, and though she could hear voices, they were too low to discern more than that there were two more people in the apartment and that one was—possibly—female.

  Her first panicked thought had been that she and Elysia had been discovered by the apartment complex manager, but she realized now that that was probably incorrect. The intruders sounded as though they might be arguing. Then A.J. heard the distinct slide of blinds across the front window.

  Perhaps these were the hitherto unknown friends or family of the dead man? Oh God. What if they had arrived to pack all his things?

  She heard the floor creak. A male voice close to the bedroom door said, “I still don’t see the point of this.”

  The answer was indistinct.

  “Well, we better make this fast. That gardener is coming down this way.”

  A muffled response.

  “How do I know? I don’t want to take the chance of being spotted walking out of here.”

  Over the pounding of blood in her ears A.J. could just make out the hurried swing and bang of the kitchen cupboard doors. What were they looking for?

  This was very bad. Unless they found what they were looking for in the kitchen—and given how bare the cupboards were, that was unlikely—they would undoubtedly search the bedroom and the closet.

  “I think you’re giving him too much credit,” said the same voice irritably.

  And then, very distinctly, a female voice said, “His answering machine is missing.”

  “The cops will have grabbed it.” The man’s voice was moving away from the bedroom doorway. A temporary reprieve, A.J. knew.

  “A.J.” hissed a frantic whisper.

  A.J. poked a cautious head out of the closet and saw Elysia at the far wall with the window open. She beckoned frantically and A.J., ignoring the pain in her back, tiptoed as quickly and as silently as she could manage across the room.

  Elysia shoved the window screen out of its track and into the shrubbery beneath. “Can you climb?” she mouthed.

  A.J. had no idea if she could climb or not, but she was not about to be caught in that room. It had already occurred to her that if the intruders were not the apartment management or Massri’s family, one or both of them might have had something to do with his death.

  From down the hall the woman said, “Stop complaining. The faster we do this, the faster we get it over with.”

  “You should have been a philosopher.”

  The philosopher said something very rude. A kitchen drawer banged hard.

  Elysia made a cup w
ith her hands, and A.J., biting her lip against the flare of pain shooting down her hip and leg, stepped into the makeshift step and boosted herself up. Even though she was braced for it, the pain caught her by surprise. She closed her mind to it, and hauled herself out through the wide sliding window and lowered herself to the hedge below. It made for a prickly but reasonably sturdy landing, and she half-rolled, half-wriggled off, landing gracelessly on the walkway in a shower of leaves.

  Elysia came scrabbling out the window a moment later, flopped onto the hedge, and dropped to the walk.

  “Scarper!” she gasped.

  One of her best ideas in a long time, that was A.J.’s opinion as she scuttled after her mother.

  They hurried down the path to the parking lot. With all the gratitude of a shipwrecked sailor spotting land, A.J. recognized the blue and white Land Rover right where they had left it.

  Elysia used her key fob to unlock the doors while they were still a yard away. They sprinted the last few feet and slammed inside the vehicle.

  Hand to her throbbing back, A.J. gasped, “That was too close!”

  Elysia smirked—in between pants—and turned the key in the ignition.

  “Never again, Mother. I must be insane to have gone along with this. I must be taking way too many pain meds. I must be—”

  “Don’t be so poor spirited, pumpkin.”

  “If that had been the apartment manager, we’d be on our way to jail right now. In fact that’s probably optimistic. Never mind getting caught, we could have been in real danger. For all we know one of those people was Medea.”

  Elysia wrinkled her nose. “I don’t believe so.”

  “I didn’t catch any names. Did you?”

  Elysia shook her head. There was a dead leaf in her dark hair, which somehow made her certainty all the more annoying.

  A.J. demanded, “Well then? Why couldn’t that woman have been Medea?”

  Elysia’s wide green eyes met hers. “Because I know who Medea is.”

  Eight

  “Yes?”

  They were hurtling down Interstate 80 back toward Stillbrook, Elysia driving pedal-to-the-metal as though the combined law enforcement agencies of New Jersey were in hot pursuit.

  She answered absently, “Yes what?”

  “Who is she?” A.J. demanded.

  “Medea Sutherland.”

  A.J. lowered her car seat trying to find some relief for her throbbing back. “Why is that name familiar?”

  “You remember Maddie. She’s an old mate of mine.” Elysia sighed reminiscently. “I remember once when she made a guest appearance on 221B Baker Street to help us solve the murder at the Peking Opera—”

  “Oh my God,” A.J. exclaimed. “Maddie Sutherland. I remember now. She’s the one who used to make those Hammer Horror films.”

  “Yes. Among other things.”

  “The crazy one.”

  Elysia made a disapproving sound.

  “Mother, she invited the National Enquirer into her home to interview the ghosts she thought lived there. That’s pretty crazy by any definition.”

  “You do have such a long memory for other people’s . . . foibles. Anyway, Maddie believed the house was haunted.”

  A.J. decided to overlook the “foibles” crack although her tone was crisp as she responded, “Then she should have called an exorcist or whatever they’re called. Because it looked like either a publicity stunt or that she was stark, raving bonkers. Or both.” She examined Elysia’s uncommunicative profile. “What makes you think this Medea is your Medea?”

  “When was the last time you met someone named Medea?”

  “There must be women around named Medea. Especially in Greek communities.”

  “Be serious, pumpkin. Anyway, I recall Medea writing me a few years back to tell me she was getting married. And she does rather fit the profile of the kind of woman Dicky used to . . . romance.”

  “Crazy old ladies?”

  “So amusing, Anna,” Elysia murmured, sounding not the least amused.

  A.J. considered the ceiling of the Land Rover as they raced along. “Maybe Medea knocked Dicky off when she found out he was two-timing her?”

  The Land Rover suddenly reduced speed. “It’s hard to imagine a less violent soul.”

  “Even so, the spouse or lover is usually the prime suspect. And your old mate Medea certainly always seemed a little . . . unpredictable.”

  “But I don’t think they were still married.” Elysia’s eyes were in the rearview as a police cruiser drew behind. “Try to act natural, pet,” she said out of the side of her mouth.

  “Why?”

  “The coppers are after us.”

  A.J. gulped. “How much more natural can I act than sitting here?” She did her best to appear to be innocently and leisurely enjoying the spring landscape as it slid by at a much more sedate pace.

  She couldn’t help worrying. Had there been some development in the case? Was there now an APB out on Elysia’s car?

  Neither had much to say for the next few miles, and then the cruiser suddenly put on his lights and zoomed ahead of them.

  Elysia relaxed. “Bloody coppers,” she muttered as the cruiser disappeared in the distance.

  “This is such a disaster. Because we were in that apartment illegally I can’t even tell Jake about the other intruders searching it.”

  “You could. He’ll probably throw you in the hoosegow, but if you feel it’s your civic duty . . .”

  “Don’t you see that if Jake knew about those two it would take some of the heat off you?”

  “I wish that were true. But the fact of the matter is that, given Dicky’s occupation, it’s no surprise that people are attempting to search his apartment. The only surprise is we didn’t run into more people searching it.”

  She had a point. A.J. reflected how alarming it would be to find out that someone with access to your deepest, darkest secrets had died—perhaps leaving those secrets where anyone might stumble over them.

  She watched unseeing as trees and barns and road signs flashed by. A sign for a winery, a sign for Yards Creek Soaring glider rides, a sign for Yoga Meridian.

  “Do you mind?” A.J. said on impulse. “I want to check something out.”

  Elysia threw her a curious look but nodded. They drove down Blairstown’s Main Street. Though a little larger than Stillbrook, Blairstown had the same quaint, old-fashioned vibe to it—which wasn’t surprising given that the area had been settled all the way back in the 1700s.

  “Did you know they filmed scenes from Friday the 13th in Blairstown?” A.J. murmured as they passed the bright blue historic building Roy’s Hall. “They always pick peaceful places like this for horror movies, don’t they?”

  “Still waters run deep.”

  As the Bard said? A.J.’s attention was caught by another sign advertising the yoga studio and she said quickly, “Turn here!”

  Yoga Meridian was housed in what had once been a huge old Greek Orthodox church. The white stone building featured a large blue domed roof surrounded by three golden cupolas and several enormous stained glass windows. The large parking lot was packed.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Elysia murmured.

  It was, though A.J. couldn’t bring herself to admit it.

  “Remind me what we’re doing here,” Elysia inquired as A.J. got out of the Land Rover.

  “Reconnoitering.”

  Elysia raised her eyebrows but said no more.

  Inside the lobby—formerly the church nave—A.J. took in a series of slogans in bright, cheerful colors:

  Come On, Stretch Yourself!

  Yoga for Every Body!

  Real Yoga for Real People!

  What did that last one even mean?

  She glanced at the list of offered classes. It was a smorgasbord of traditional and trendy: everything from Hatha Yoga to Laughter Yoga.

  One thing that was no laughing matter was the prices. How could Mara Allen afford to stay in business? Especially with a sta
ff this size?

  She muttered, “We couldn’t keep the doors open at these prices.” That wasn’t exactly true, but it was a source of pride to A.J. that Sacred Balance pay for itself without her needing to dip into the cash reserves of Aunt Diantha’s other investments.

  “If they bring in enough new customers it will be worth it, I suppose.”

  A.J. nodded. Perhaps that was Mara Allen’s gamble. Or maybe Yoga Meridian was simply beating the prana pants off them.

  Followed by Elysia, she walked through to the salon and spa center located in the former narthex of the church.

  “It’s nice, I have to admit,” A.J. said grudgingly. “In fact it’s more than nice. It’s really well laid out, and the prices are more than competitive.”

  “Very.” Elysia, watching her, asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s Michael Batz.”

  Elysia followed her gaze to where a young, athletic man with a head of hair like a Renaissance angel was working on the mat. “And?”

  “He resigned his Sacred Balance membership about a month ago. He said he was taking a break from yoga.”

  “I wouldn’t take it personally. No place is right for every person, after all. Sacred Balance probably had too many painful memories for Michael.”

  Remembering the role Batz had played in her aunt’s murder investigation, A.J. nodded, but she was still unconvinced. That made three Sacred Balance clients that she knew of who had defected to Yoga Meridian in the past five weeks. If the exodus continued at this rate, they’d be out of clients before Christmas.

  “A.J. Alexander,” a carefully modulated voice remarked from behind them. “Welcome to Yoga Meridian.”

  A.J. turned. Mara Allen, tall and willowy in a white leotard, came to greet them. Mara had striking blue eyes and a long, curly, prematurely silver mane made famous by her TV spots.

  “Hello, Mara.”

  “Namaste, A.J.” Mara put her palms briefly together, prayer fashion. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

  “Er, we were in the neighborhood. Truly.”

  Mara smiled graciously. “May I show you around our facilities?”