by Ellen Riggs
“I’m shocked you’d use my biggest weakness against me, Jilly. I thought we were besties.”
She laughed again and patted my arm. “Driving stick isn’t your biggest weakness. But yoga would help with your pride, too.”
“Pride? I left that in Boston. Here, I’m just a humble country girl.”
“From where I sit—in Keats’ seat—pride is what’s keeping you from joining forces with Chief Harper. Maybe this mystery would be solved by now if you two pooled your knowledge.”
I pulled my bag out of the back seat with so much force that the rolled-up mat poked me in the eye and it started streaming. “Chief Harper has warned me in no uncertain terms about getting involved. He’s hardly going to welcome me as his backup.”
“He just wants you to stay safe. There’s still a murderer at large, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Are you trying to jack up the tension so that I get more out of our private yoga session?”
“More tension would make your still-recovering brain explode,” she said, opening the door. “I’m just saying that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get over your broken heart and team up with Chief Hottie.”
We walked back down the block to Serenity Yoga Studio. “My heart isn’t broken anymore. It’s just off-line for now. I’ve got way too much to worry about without that.”
She tipped her face to the sky and her hair rippled down her back. Her cheery disposition reminded me of sunflowers. Clover Grove was bringing out the best in her, and she’d apparently given up her flat iron for good. But the clean country air hadn’t dulled her mind one bit.
“Your heart’s been off-line since we met,” she said. “And now I know why. Chief Hottie stole it early and never let it go.”
Pressing my lips together, I studied the cute and kitschy shops that had replaced the familiar stores of my youth. The hardware store had become The Tipsy Grape, a wine bar. Mark’s Grocery was now Fresh on the Fork, and the seamstress who’d made prom gowns for nearly every girl in high school had retired to make way for Cheeky Cheats Chocolatier.
“He did steal it early,” I said at last. “He was different in high school. Lighter. Fun.”
“What happened?” Jilly’s voice was soft, as if stepping through a field of land mines.
“Different colleges,” I said. “We thought we could make it work long distance but we ended up a cliché with the turkey dump.” I debated about adding the truth and decided to take the plunge. “He thought I cheated on him. One of our high school classmates told him so, and he believed him over me.”
Jilly’s gasp eased the surprisingly sharp pain that welled up in my chest. “How could he?” she asked. “You’re honest and loyal and I assume that was the case then, too.”
“The other guy obviously told a good story. And I refused to grovel to convince Kellan if he didn’t want to believe me.” I shoved my shoulders back and raised my chin. “It was for the best, Jilly. I wouldn’t have had the career I did if we’d come home together after college like we planned. I wouldn’t have the farm now, and I wouldn’t have Keats.” I gave her a smile. “You know I’ve never been particularly woo-woo, but it feels like everything unfolded as it should have.”
She opened the door to Serenity Yoga Studio. “Well, let’s unfold those yoga mats and see if we can clear the path to your happily ever after.”
“So, no pressure,” I said, leading her up the stairs to the airy, open space.
“Pressure is the enemy of peace,” someone said as we entered the room. I turned to see a handsome man who was probably around 40 but looked far younger. He walked toward us with the elegance of a ballet dancer and his clear blue eyes seemed to see into my yoga-hating soul. He held out his hand and said, “I’m Hayden Rockwood.”
I shook his hand, surprised at his firm grip. “I’m Ivy, the doubter, and this is Jilly, the believer. She knows the magic of yoga well.”
His smile showed perfect teeth and for a second it felt like my heart might not be dead after all. I shook my head to dispel the notion and glanced at Jilly. She had the same dopey look I felt on my features.
“I welcome the chance to convert you,” he said, smiling even harder. “A private session will give us a chance to figure out what class is best for you.”
The next hour was complete torture. With all the hard labor I’d been doing on the farm I figured I was in peak form but it didn’t translate into a sunrise salutation, let alone the revolved triangle pose. Jilly alternated between giggling at me and turning serious again when Hayden’s intense gaze reminded her that the practice of yoga was no joke.
“Oh man,” I said, finally collapsing on my back. “I feel something, but it’s more like nausea than peace and serenity.”
“You did great,” Hayden said, without a trace of mockery. “Obviously Jilly has technical proficiency, but it seemed like you were really channeling spirit and that will take you far.”
“Channeling spirit. That’s what I want.” I sat up and smiled. “I heard the hot yoga class will clear out all the blocks and bring on the spirit.”
“Definitely. But it’s more advanced than you might enjoy right now,” he said. “Given the nausea.”
“You’re probably right,” Jilly said. “But she’s got to see it to believe it. You livestream classes, right? I saw one on your social media page. How about showing Ivy the misery of hot yoga?”
“Sure.” Rising gracefully, he led us out of the room to the front desk. There, he cued up the laptop and showed us a video capture. I bent over the screen to study it more closely and saw Nadine Boyce in the front row.
Jilly beckoned to Hayden. “Would you mind giving me support for my headstand? I felt some pain in my neck earlier and I don’t want to end up paralyzed.”
“No one breaks her neck at Serenity Yoga Studio,” he said, leading Jilly back to her mat.
I worked quickly, finding the footage from the day of Lloyd’s murder. There were eight fit bodies sweating it out in the five p.m. hot yoga class… and none of them belonged to Nadine.
When they returned I was watching footage from the day before. Hayden leaned over me and said, “What do you think?”
I pressed pause at precisely the point where Hayden had bent over Nadine with his hands resting on her hips. Both of them had silly smiles on their faces.
“I think it looks like fun,” I said. “Nadine Boyce could be the poster girl for hot yoga.”
Jilly leaned in for a look. “Hot indeed.”
Hayden’s handsome face had flushed. “It’s just a normal correction. Nadine and I have worked together a long time so we’re casual.”
“Casual,” I repeated. “Nothing wrong with casual between two single yogis.”
“It’s not like that,” he said, sounding alarmed. “We have a policy here about dating students.”
“Shame that,” Jilly said, sticking her rolled-up mat back in her bag. “It’s probably hard to find spiritually minded souls in this town.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, leading her out. “Maybe there’s a hill country dating site where we can find you a self-actualized farmer. I’m sure there are one or two.”
“All it takes is one,” she said, smiling.
“Thanks, Hayden,” I called back up the stairs. “That was totally enlightening.”
“After all that relaxation I need a walk with my bestie,” I said, parking the truck outside the barn.
“You got it,” Jilly said. “Although I’d rather get back to the kitchen. Sleuthing with you is costing me valuable recipe testing time.”
I laughed. “Run to your spatulas. I meant my other bestie, anyway.”
“Ah, the truth comes out. I’ve become a distant second to Keats. I’m only useful when dogs aren’t permitted.”
“Untrue,” I said, grinning. “But I will say that Keats never asks me probing questions about my past. He leaves memories alone that are better buried.”
“And he probably won’t remind you to call Chief Hotti
e to tell him Nadine’s alibi is full of manure.”
“Keats trusts my judgement implicitly.”
The dog was howling in the house as if his heart had broken. He wasn’t used to being left behind.
“Sounds like it,” Jilly said, heading up the path. “I’ll let him out and you can make it up to him in the fields. But listen to your second-best friend, Ivy: call the cops.”
I started down the trail that led to the meadow. “Got it, second-bestie. Stop nagging and you might make it back to top dog.”
“And be careful,” she yelled after me. “It’ll be dark in an hour or so.”
“I’ve got my pepper spray,” I said, waving my fanny pack before putting it on. Before farm life, I’d judged fanny packs far too harshly. They came in very handy.
Keats caught up to me fast and all was forgiven as he raced through the long grass. He sank to his belly, leapt in the air and flushed out a rabbit. Just for fun, he chased it and tried to herd it with evident joy and no success. His antics made me smile. This was exactly what I’d dreamed about when I rescued him two months ago.
Just as suddenly, however, he circled my legs and drove me backwards so abruptly I almost stumbled. “What is it, boy?”
He ran back and forth in front of me to keep me from advancing. I picked up a long stick and swept the grass back to expose a deep hole about two feet wide. Switching on my phone light I stared down into the deep cavity and saw nothing but roots. The soil piled at the side was still dark and moist, as if the hole were freshly dug.
“That’s odd,” I said. “We could have broken a leg.”
I used the stick and Keats’ nose to explore the rest of the area. It wasn’t far from where Lloyd had died, and the field had been combed thoroughly by the police. This hole had obviously appeared after they’d ended their investigation.
Keats moved quite a ways off and after a few minutes gave a sharp little yip I’d come to know as “Discovery!”
Kneeling bedside him, I parted the grass and found what looked like a smooth, round stone. Holding it up to the setting sun, however, the rays passed right through. The milky white glass was etched with what appeared to be mountains. I guessed that the stone had been set in a ring or a pendant at one time. Probably not long ago, given its pristine condition.
“I think I’ve seen this somewhere,” I told Keats, pocketing it. “My head is too full of facts now, buddy. I don’t make connections like I used to.” He gave a little whine and nudged my hand. “Don’t worry, my neurons are rewiring and I’ll be fully functional before you know it.”
We walked back to the house and I showed the stone to Jilly, who was up to her elbows in flour as she assembled pastry for yet another quiche.
“I’ve seen that before,” she said, dropping the rolling pin onto the counter with a clatter. “Maybe Nadine wasn’t the one after all.”
I picked up a ball of pastry that had splatted on the floor. “And the glop thickens.”
Chapter Eighteen
Margie Hodgson tried to close her front door in my face but I managed to get my foot in the crack first. Steel-toed work boots had proven to be a very wise investment.
“Margie, hold up,” I said. “I just want to chat.”
“We’re busy, Ivy. I’m sorry.”
“But I brought a pie,” I said. “Well, a quiche actually. My friend Jilly’s a whiz in the kitchen. You met her.”
Margie’s oversized eyeglasses appeared in the crack. “She’s a nice girl.”
“I’m a nice girl, too. Whatever I’ve done to offend you, I’m sorry, Margie.”
“It’s not that,” she said. “I just don’t want to see anybody today.”
There was a shuffle of footsteps behind her. “Margie, what’s going on?”
Another set of fingers appeared around the door and pulled it open to reveal both Hodgsons in matching Clover Grove souvenir sweatshirts.
“Let the girl in, for pity’s sake,” Fred Hodgson said. “She could drop that quiche, and despite what people say, real men do eat them.”
I laughed and stepped back as the door opened. “Your lunch has arrived, Mr. Hodgson.”
“Come on in and have a coffee, young lady,” he said. “We were just doing the crossword. What’s an eight-letter word for sapphire?”
“Gemstone?” I said, following them into the kitchen. Keats was close on my heels and sat beside me when I stopped.
Fred took a seat at the old oak table and examined the newspaper. “Nailed it!”
Margie stayed silent as she poured coffee into a mug and when I sat down, she slid it in front of me. The place had the shabby but comfortable look of a house that had been lived in and loved well. Not the home of murderers, surely.
“How come you’re here and not down at Myrtle’s?” I asked. “She said you two are practically fixtures.”
He sighed. “Margie’s gone off the place. Said she got a bad date square.”
“Up all night sick,” she said, fussing around the sink and clattering cutlery. Despite how flustered she was, she filled a bowl with water and put it down for Keats. He fanned his tail politely and took a few licks.
“What a shame,” I said. “I love Mandy’s baking. She’ll be doing all my desserts at the inn when it opens.”
“She’s lovely. I don’t blame her,” Margie said. “We’ll go back at some point.”
“I hope so,” Fred said, peering at the newspaper. “The words came easier there.”
“Gimme another one,” I said, sipping my coffee.
“Six-letter word for slaying?” He glanced up quickly. “Let’s pass on that one.”
“Murder,” I offered. “Which I suppose is what’s keeping you two at home these days.”
“What do you mean?” Margie’s voice rose over the running water.
“Well, you had strong feelings about Lloyd. You told me so yourself.”
“Are you accusing us of—of murdering him?”
I shook my head. “I can’t imagine that at all.”
“We already told the police chief everything we know. Which is nothing,” Fred said, setting down his pencil. “But Margie has made harsh comments about Lloyd in the past, and people talk.”
“I’m not the only one who hated him for killing their dog. There’s an army of us.”
“Margie.” Her husband’s voice was soft, but insistent. “That kind of talk is what has us trapped in our kitchen. People our age need community. And quiche.”
“I wouldn’t have harmed a hair on Lloyd Boyce’s head,” Margie said. “But I won’t pretend I’m not glad someone got him. He deserved it.”
“Margie!” This time her husband rose and put a hand on her arm. “Stop.”
I gestured to the seat opposite me and said, “Margie, sit down for a sec. Would you believe I’m here about something else entirely? I just want your advice on a birthday gift for my friend, Jilly.” She still hung back, so I added, “What’s an eight-letter word for sapphire?”
“Gemstone,” she said, managing a faint smile as she perched on the edge of the old oak chair. “You want to get Jilly a sapphire?”
I laughed. “She’s special but not that special. I understand that she liked a pendant you were wearing when you met, and I wondered if I could see it?”
Margie nodded and rose. “I know the one.”
I supplied Fred with a couple of words while Margie was out of the room. She moved slowly and stiffly, and it was hard to believe she could strangle anything bigger than a mouse. When she returned, a long chain dangled from her right hand, which looked gnarled from arthritis.
“Oh, how pretty,” I said, taking the pendant. The stone was similar to the one I’d found, but this was a pale pink. “It’s glass, right? What’s etched on it?”
“Hills,” Margie said. “There’s a jeweller in town who designs these to symbolize our beautiful landscape. Fred gave me this for our 50th anniversary.”
“Well, there couldn’t be a more perfect gift to celebrate
Jilly’s visit to Clover Grove,” I said. “If you don’t mind, that is. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?”
I took a picture of the pendant, brainstormed a few more words with them and then set off for town.
Teri Mason of Hill Country Designs greeted me with a smile when the bell rang to herald my entrance. She got up from a stool behind the counter and came around. Her spiky hair had pink and blue streaks, a bold statement for Clover Grove. I bet she had to drive 60 miles to find a stylist to pull that off. I’d already decided to grow my hair out to become lower maintenance. Priorities.
“What a beautiful dog,” she said, offering the back of her hand to Keats. “That blue eye could give you chills.”
Keats gave her hand a sniff and his tail rose, the white tuft offering an approving twitch.
“It does sometimes,” I admitted. “I feel like he sees more than other dogs.”
She squatted and let Keats come closer. “He’s a mystic fox in sheepdog form. I’m getting inspired.”
I laughed, looking around the shop. There were fanciful watercolor portraits of many dogs on the wall. “It would be torture for Keats to sit still for so long.”
“I can do it from a photo,” she said, rising. “May I?”
“I doubt many dog-owners could resist an offer to have their dogs immortalized like that. Your work is amazing.”
“Thank you. I wish the paintings sold as well as some of my other work, but I paint them for love.”
“I’ll buy a portrait of Keats for my new inn,” I said. “In fact, if you want to display some of your pieces there, I’d be honored.”
Teri made a move as if to hug me and thought better of it. “The honor would be all mine. You must be Ivy Galloway from Runaway Farm. I heard you were opening the doors soon.”
I nodded and pulled a card out of my pocket. “My first guests arrive in about two weeks. Why don’t you come and check the place out? My sister Daisy and my friend Jilly have been giving it the final polish. Not that Hannah Pemberton left much for us to do.”
