Dial Om for Murder Page 6

  Jake had definitely been closemouthed last night, although it was obvious to A.J. that he was looking hard and long at Lydia Thorne—whoever she might be in real life—as a suspect. He had gone out of his way to stress to A.J. and Andy that Stillbrook PD were entertaining a couple of ideas about this high-profile homicide, and that they had more than one suspect, but as Andy had said after Jake departed, that could just be Jake trying to keep A.J. and Andy from jumping to obvious conclusions.

  “Not exactly a barrel of laughs, is he?” Andy asked as they had listened to the sounds of Jake’s SUV dying away in the summer night.

  A.J. said defensively, “Murder isn’t funny. Anyway, he has a great sense of humor once he relaxes.”

  “So he does occasionally relax?”

  A.J. made a face. Jake was pretty serious, but that wasn’t a bad thing necessarily. The only thing that bothered her was the feeling that maybe Jake didn’t trust her. Not in a serious thought-she-might-be-capable-of-murder way, but just on general principles. She figured it was a cop thing. She hoped it was a cop thing.

  The parking lot behind Sacred Balance was empty as A.J. pulled into her space. Unlocking the glass front door of the studio, she stepped inside and disarmed the alarm. She turned on the full-spectrum lighting, and the iconic black and white posters of women doing yoga were sharply illuminated. Beneath each poster was the slogan that embodied Diantha’s philosophy for the studio and her students: It Could Happen.

  One of the posters was of a very young Diantha, circa 1960. She looked like one of those sleek English fashion models from an early Beatles film. A.J. smiled at the poster. She loved arriving at the studio before anyone else got in, loved the quiet and the peace of the place before the activities of the day began.

  Not that she didn’t love the energy and focus of Sacred Balance when it was buzzing like a spiritual hive, but in the cool quiet of the morning she fancied she could feel her aunt’s presence. It was comforting. It helped her believe that she was up to the challenge of fulfilling Diantha’s legacy.

  In her office, A.J. started the small indoor fountain, switched on the hot plate for tea, and turned on her laptop. She checked her e-mail while the hot water brewed and the fountain softly played over the polished stones. Elysia had sent photos of diving and snorkeling in the Red Sea—and of herself enjoying various shipboard activities.

  Shuffleboard? Did people outside of Agatha Christie novels really play shuffleboard on cruise ships? Apparently so. Elysia appeared to play with gusto.

  Faintly smiling, A.J. studied the digital images of her mother. She was mildly surprised to realize that she missed her. During the past few months they had grown close for the first time in A.J.’s life. The vacation seemed to be doing Elysia good. She looked radiant in a variety of summery ensembles that showed off her new golden tan.

  Who had taken all these photos of her?

  A.J. thoughtfully considered the image of a very handsome, very tall, very young Egyptian man beaming down on Elysia in two of the photographs. Hmmmmm.

  A.J. sincerely hoped her mother would not be bringing home a new daddy for her—especially not a daddy young enough to be her brother.

  There was no message with the photos, but then Elysia had never been one for letter-writing.

  A.J. sipped her tea and started on the resumes she hadn’t finished checking Saturday—it seemed a very long time ago now.

  She found it astonishing the things job candidates put into their resumes. One young man included his complete medical history. One young woman submitted a resume on colored paper with animal stickers in each corner.

  A.J. sighed and kept reading. After all, she wasn’t looking for nuclear physicists, just a conscientious, reliable, reasonably intelligent person to answer phones and open mail.

  Outside her office she could hear the other instructors arriving—shortly followed by the first of the day’s students.

  “Morning, A.J.!” Simon Crider, who taught the sunrise yoga course, poked his head in. Simon was a very trim, very fit sixty-something. Handsome and pleasant, he apparently provided the incentive to drag over twenty women out of bed at the crack of dawn, for his classes were always packed. “I heard about Nicole,” he said. “Unbelievable. Have the police said whether they’re closing in on a suspect?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  They chatted briefly. Simon wandered away, and Denise Farber, their Pilates instructor, looked in. “A.J., you poor thing! How are you holding up?”

  “Good. How was your weekend?”

  “A lot quieter than yours. Any word on who killed Nicole?”

  “I haven’t heard anything.”

  “What does Jake say?”

  A.J. made a face. “Jake makes the Sphinx look chatty.”

  Denise chuckled, they visited for a bit, and she went on to her office.

  A.J. heard Lily walk by, unlock her office, and go inside.

  More students arrived. A.J. could hear cheerful voices in the front lobby. Another day at Sacred Balance was beginning. She looked at the photograph of her aunt and smiled.

  Four minutes before her Yoga for Tweens course was due to begin, Suze rushed into A.J.’s office. “Oh my gosh, A.J.! I can’t believe Nicole is dead. What does Jake say?”

  A.J. looked up from a magazine article on using yoga for pain relief in such hard-to-treat conditions as carpal tunnel, back pain, and even asthma. If only it cured tardiness. She said, “ They’re working on it.”

  “No way!”

  “Seriously, Suze, he doesn’t discuss his cases with me.”

  Suze’s blue eyes went saucer wide with disbelief. “After you cracked his last homicide for him?”

  “I didn’t crack his last homicide,” A.J. objected. She really wished people would stop saying that. “I just had insider’s knowledge. The last thing I would ever want would be to be involved in another murder investigation.”

  “But you already are,” Suze said cheerfully. “You found the body. You took pictures of the murder weapon before it melted. Didn’t you see today’s paper? They referred to you as our local Miss Marple.”

  A.J. stared at her, aghast. “ Tell me you’re kidding. They didn’t. Really. They didn’t, did they?”

  “Sure they did! Well, you did find the body. What’s wrong with being compared to Miss Marple? I think it’s kind of cool.”

  “Sure! Who wouldn’t want to be compared to a ninety-year-old busybody with support hose and sensible shoes?”

  Suze giggled. “Hey, she always gets her man!” Then she checked her watch, exclaimed at the time, and backed out of A.J.’s office.

  A.J. dropped her head in her hands. This was the last kind of publicity she wanted for herself or the studio. And instinctively she knew it wasn’t going to do wonders for her relationship with Jake, either.

  She waited until the first classes of the day were in session before she went down to Lily’s office and tapped on the door.

  “Come in.”

  A.J. pushed open the door and Lily looked up from her laptop without pleasure. “Yes?”

  Somehow Lily always made her feel defensive. It didn’t matter what kind of pep talk A.J. gave herself before approaching the other woman, Lily managed to push all A.J.’s buttons with the uncanny accuracy of a crazy person in an elevator.

  “You wanted to talk on Saturday?”

  “Right,” Lily said, as though it was so insignificant it had skipped her mind. “Have a seat.”

  A.J. pulled a seat out in front of Lily’s desk. She started to fold her arms, remembered that such body language might imply she was closed off to Lily, and tried to find a comfortable way to sit without actually relaxing—because one thing she always felt was the need to keep her guard up with Lily.

  Lily said, “I’ve been thinking—and before you instantly shoot down my idea, just hear me out.”

  Could there be a more annoying start to a discussion? A.J. smiled—she hoped—and said, “Shoot.”

  “I t
hink Diantha has been gone long enough that it’s time to reconsider our direction. Our mission, if you will.”

  As every single molecule of A.J. objected to each and every word of that statement, she was very proud of herself for her calm, “All right.”

  “We don’t have to start remodeling right away, but one of the most symbolic changes we could make is our slogan. That’s fundamental. It’s our philosophy.”

  “You don’t like our philosophy?” A.J. inquired politely.

  Lily’s expression grew cold. “I was here when ‘our’ philosophy evolved. I was part of that process with Diantha, so don’t you dare take that tone with me.”

  “I’m asking a question.”

  “You’re making a judgment.”

  A.J. took a deep breath. She recollected a quote from an ancient samurai text, A Book of Five Rings, one of Andy’s favorite business strategy books:

  In strategy, timing is all.

  “Go on,” she invited. She could see her calm response caught Lily by surprise. That alone recommended it for future use.

  “I think it’s time for a new slogan. A new direction. A new focus. Frankly, I always thought ‘It Could Happen’ was . . . corny.”

  “I disagree,” A.J. shot back. So much for timing. “I think it’s optimistic, promising—which is what I think Sacred Balance is all about. It’s about opening your life to the possibility of amazing chances and terrific surprises.”

  Lily’s mouth curled. “I know your background was marketing, A.J., but you don’t have to sell me on Sacred Balance. And I think we’re about a lot more than fluffy, sentimental platitudes. Yoga is serious. Yoga is not a trend or a fashion. Yoga is not for everyone.”

  Now there was a slogan: Yoga Is for Nazis!

  A.J. said mildly, “You’ve obviously given this some thought. Did you have a new slogan in mind?”

  Lily smiled. “I’ve been jotting down ideas as they come to me. I was thinking of something along the lines of ‘The Time Is Now.’ Or ‘The Time Is Right.’”

  A.J. said dryly, “How about ‘The Time Is Right Now’?”

  “Nnn.” Lily wrinkled her nose, dismissing that one. “I think ‘Now Is the Time’ is quite good.”

  “‘Now Is the Hour’?” suggested A.J., tongue in cheek.

  Lily said grudgingly, “ That’s not bad.”

  Oh boy. That was enough fun for one morning. A.J. said, “Lily, let me think about it. I have to be honest; I hadn’t given any thought to changing our philosophical direction.”

  “I’m sure you hadn’t. I know you’re still . . . getting up to speed. I’ll jot the possibilities down and e-mail them to you.”

  “Great!” A.J. said brightly, rising. “I’ll look forward to those. Talk to you later.”

  She returned hastily to her office and tried deep breathing exercises until she was feeling lightheaded. Probably more lightheaded than calm, but it was a start. She choked down a cup of green tea and reminded herself that it was probably just as difficult for Lily to make concessions for her as it was for her to make concessions for Lily. She told herself that Lily probably had no idea how obnoxious her behavior was. She told herself this several times. Then she got back to work.

  The morning passed quickly as mornings at Sacred Balance always did.

  Andy arrived around eleven thirty, and Suze showed him into A.J.’s office.

  “Wow,” he said a little grudgingly. “I guess I understand why you decided to give up freelancing. This is really nice.”

  “It is,” A.J. agreed. “I still have to pinch myself some mornings. I loved the first years we were in business together. I loved the challenge of building our client base and landing big accounts, but . . .”

  “You burnt out,” Andy said.

  “It’s such a cliché, but I think I did. It didn’t . . . feed my soul.”

  Andy didn’t say anything. His expression puzzled A.J. Even more than she, he had thrived on the stress, the challenge, the risk of running their own business. Now she wondered if somewhere along the line that had changed for him as well. He did look better today. More relaxed and rested. Perhaps the weekend in the country had done him some good—although he was still limping very slightly.

  “Are we still on for lunch?” he asked.

  “Sure. Why don’t I give you the grand tour first?”

  Andy affirmed, positive and accommodating as ever, and A.J. gave him a quick guided tour through the three-story building. He made all the right noises and approving faces—until they reached the top level.

  “Showers on the third floor,” he commented. “ That is so Diantha. She’s the only person I ever met who believed willpower could defeat gravity.”

  A.J. knew what Andy meant, and it was a little unusual to have showers on the third floor.

  “You have to admit, it is beautiful up here,” she pointed out. “All these windows looking down over the trees. Just clouds and sunlight and water. It’s a lovely experience showering here.”

  “It’s the flying squirrels you have to convince, not me.”

  A.J. grinned, because Andy’s reaction was very much what her own had initially been.

  They finished the grand tour, and A.J. directed Andy into town and the Happy Cow Steak House, which was one of Stillbrook’s nicer places to dine. They had a brief wait in the lobby and Andy scrutinized the waitresses dressed like French maids, the bordello-crimson furnishings, and the sentimental Victorian paintings while the dimple that indicated private amusement creased his cheek.

  “How perfect,” he murmured, once they had been seated and were glancing over the menus. “ They even have a meat bar.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” A.J. said. “But there are trendy places in New York and London and Tel Aviv that offer meat bars.”

  “But do they offer elk sausage with Madeira wine? Or appetizers made from smoked alligator?”

  A.J. tried not to laugh. “They do a really nice filet mignon here,” she informed him. “ That’s all I know. I’m trying to eat less red meat.”

  “You could try the ostrich burgers,” Andy said. “I hear it’s the new white meat.”

  A.J. laughed, but then her gaze fell on a petite red-haired woman sitting by herself at a table across the room. She sucked in a breath.

  “Got a look at the prices, did you?” Andy inquired, his own gaze fastened on the red-bound menus.

  “Don’t turn around,” A.J. said sotto voce. “I think I just recognized the woman sitting on her own at the table near the window.”

  Andy’s elegant brows rose. He stared at the long mirror hanging on the wall opposite. “ The one with the short red hair?”

  “In the DKNY flutter-sleeve top,” A.J. agreed.

  “What about her?”

  “Does she look familiar to you?”

  Andy narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Maybe. Why?”

  A.J. reached for her purse and cell phone. “I’m almost positive that’s the woman I saw running away from Nicole’s house right before I found Nicole’s body.”

  Eight

  “What are you doing?” Andy asked her, still watching the woman reflected in the mirror across the room.

  “Calling Jake.”

  Andy was shaking his head. “She’s already paid the bill. She’s leaving.”

  Glancing up, A.J. saw that he was right. The woman was gathering her belongings.

  A.J. bit her lip. An idea occurred. She said, “I’m going to stall her for a couple of seconds. Can you go outside and see what car she gets into and try to get the license plate number?”

  “You’re going to stall her how?”

  “Just . . . leave it to me,” A.J. said rising.

  She started walking toward the entrance. As she passed the woman who was now on her feet and also moving to the lobby, she stopped.

  “Oh! Aren’t you . . . ?” A.J. paused as though trying to rack her brain for a name.

  The woman hesitated, looking doubtful, and Andy, with a muttered apo
logy, squeezed past the two of them and went out through the lobby and the front door.

  Good old Andy, A.J. thought with genuine affection. Aloud, she said, “You were in . . . that movie, right? I can’t think of the name of it.”

  The woman smiled a sickly smile. She was several inches shorter than A.J. Cute rather than pretty, with very short red hair and freckles so perfectly placed that they could have been painted on.

  “I . . . um . . . I’ve been in a few things,” she admitted.

  “Lydia Thorne!” A.J. said triumphantly. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  The woman shook her head. “Jane Peters.”

  “Right, right. Can I get your autograph?” A.J. looked around as though seeking something the woman could write her name on.

  “I . . .” Jane Peters took a step toward the restaurant entrance. “I really have to . . .”

  “It’ll just take a second!” A.J. now had her purse open and was giving every appearance of ransacking the contents. “I’m so excited to meet a real movie star!”

  “We’re in the way here,” Jane objected, continuing to sidle toward the door.

  “No, no. Here you go!” A.J. grabbed a back page out of her day planner. “Just sign any-old-where.”

  Jane Peters looked at her as though she thought A.J. herself might be missing a crucial page or two, but she scrawled a hasty signature and thrust the sheet back at A.J. “ There you go. Thank you!”

  “ Thank you!” A.J. called.

  Jane had already turned away and was making for the front door.

  A.J. went to the table by the window and picked up the leather sleeve with the restaurant receipt. As she’d hoped, there was a credit card slip. The imprint read Jane Peters.

  The name meant nothing to her. Jane Peters hadn’t so much as blinked at the mention of Lydia Thorne, so it seemed unlikely that it was one of her aliases, but who was she and what had she been doing at Nicole’s the afternoon she was killed?

  She leaned over, trying to see out the window, and spotted Andy walking back from the parking lot. She waved to him, but the window glass was tinted and he did not see her.

  Returning to their table, she met the curious glances of one or two other dining patrons and picked up her cell phone once more, dialing Jake.