Murder Likes It Hot
Page 1
Copyright Information
Murder Likes It Hot: A Downward Dog Mystery © 2019 by Tracy Weber.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First e-book edition © 2018
E-book ISBN: 9780738755885
Cover design by Kevin R. Brown
Cover Illustration by Kim Johnson / Lindgren & Smith
Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Weber, Tracy, author.
Title: Murder likes it hot : a Downward Dog mystery / Tracy Weber.
Description: First Edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2019] |
Series: A Downward Dog mystery ; #6.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018037596 (print) | LCCN 2018039694 (ebook) | ISBN
9780738755885 (ebook) | ISBN 9780738750699 (alk. paper)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3623.E3953 (ebook) | LCC PS3623.E3953 M85 2019 (print)
| DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018037596
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Manufactured in the United States of America
To the real Ed and Lonnie.
Thanks for keeping me moving all these years.
Acknowledgments
This book would never have been possible without a wonderful network of people who helped with research, gave feedback, and supported me every step of the way.
First of all, thank you to editor Sandy Sullivan at Midnight Ink. Your keen eye for detail has improved my writing many times over. Thanks also to my agent, Margaret Bail, and editor Terri Bischoff at Midnight Ink, who both worked with me as a newbie author and believed that a dog-crazy yoga teacher could, indeed, plot murder.
Special thanks go to three lovely women: Heather Jaynes, Katie Arrants Okun, and Jill Corddry. Heather helped me understand the joys and challenges of working with homeless teens. Katie shared her experiences teaching yoga to at-risk youth through Street Yoga in Seattle. Jill graciously and openly spoke with me about her personal experiences with IVF. Of course, any misperceptions, errors, or misinterpretations are strictly my own.
Physical therapists and practical jokesters Ed Elder and Lonnie Sellers get full credit for the inclusion of rats in this novel. I’m delighted to incorporate both of these gentlemen in my work in such a fun way. They’re the reason I’m healthy enough to keep typing.
Hubby, Marc Martin, and German shepherd pup, Ana, get extra special bonus points for keeping me smiling, being my inspirations, and generally making life worth living.
Finally, I know I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. Thank you—so much—to my readers. I appreciate every Facebook post, email, note, kind thought, and review. You’re the reason I keep writing.
one
The emptiness rolled in quietly, like a thick, cold fog. A hollow ache of longing so insidious that I didn’t notice its arrival until I’d been consumed by it. The yoga teachings give it a name: dukha. An empty cavity. A hole in the heart.
In my case, dukha was a black hole I never knew existed. It hadn’t existed, in fact, until the day I witnessed the birth of Rene’s twins, Alice and Amelia. Since then, dukha had grown into a yawning cavern that devoured all of my enthusiasm—all of my passion. A cavern I desperately hoped to fill.
Tonight.
Michael and I sat on the couch, knees inches apart but not daring to touch. He raised his hand to place a reassuring palm on my shoulder, and I involuntarily flinched. He stopped, pretended to examine his wedding band, and then lowered the hand back to his lap. I pretended not to notice.
We were stuck in a painful Groundhog Day loop six times in the running. I felt oddly detached, yet painfully present. The sofa’s worn fibers chafed the backs of my thighs, making my skin itch. The yeasty scent of Michael’s half-consumed Guinness invaded my nostrils. The mantle clock’s tick, tick, tick drummed against my eardrums. No, not drummed. Pummeled. Like Poe’s tell-tale heart, pounding out each second of the longest two minutes of my life.
Why hadn’t we gotten this over with on Monday?
We’d waited three extra days this time, in superstitious agreement that if we pretended to have more patience, the outcome would be different.
It wouldn’t.
I went through the motions for Michael, but I already knew the outcome of our charade. We’d get the same answer we’d gotten the last five times. If it was different, I’d know, wouldn’t I? I’d feel the life burgeoning inside me. I’d feel some connection. Some tickle of nausea not caused by apprehension. Some achiness in my breasts. Some … something. But my trickster mind toyed with me. Taunted me. Gave me false hope. Maybe not, Kate. Every pregnancy’s different. You expect too much.
The timer on the end table dinged. My heart fluttered. My trickster mind stopped teasing, suddenly dumbstruck.
Michael flashed a reassuring smile, but worry clouded his blue-green eyes. “Are you ready?”
Answer? No. Of course not. If I didn’t look, the possibilities were endless. If I didn’t look, I could go on pretending. Like with Schrödinger’s cat. If I didn’t look, Mr. Whiskers would be both alive and dead. I would be both pregnant and not pregnant. If I didn’t look, I’d never know. I’d never be disappointed.
I gave him a tentative nod, closed my eyes, and said a final quick prayer to the universe. Please? I read the answer on Michael’s face before I glimpsed the single blue line. Negative. Again.
Michael tried to hide his disappointment, but the tremor in his voice gave him away. “It’s okay, Kate. We’ll keep trying. Next month will be different.”
A familiar refrain—a mantra—said by my wonderful husband over and over and over again. What was once reassurance now felt like a dirge. Deep down inside, I knew he was wrong.
I forced on an empty smile. “I know.” I went to the kitchen, poured a goblet of Chardonnay, and drained it in two large gulps. I refilled the glass before I rejoined Michael in the living room. “I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”
For the sixth month in a row, Michael didn’t follow me upstairs.
two
The flagship store for Rene’s no-longer-online-only infant accessory business had opened three months ago. The space—which used to house Zorba’s Greek Deli—was next door to my yoga studio, Serenity Yoga. I’d dropped by a grand total of four times since she’d opened the store, which was four more times than I’d wanted to. I’d been avoiding Rene and her husband, Sam, and I had a feeling she knew it.
It was time to put on my big girl pants and talk to her, but what was I supposed to say? How could I explain my reluctance to spend time with my best friend when I barely understood it myself?
I should have been happy for Rene’s astounding success. I should have been ecstatic to have her and her twin toddlers within whispering distance. At the very least, I should have been grateful for the clientele she passed my way. I’d needed to add a third Mom and Baby Yoga class to keep up with demand.
And I was.
But watching Rene’s customers stroll past my business was like being subjected to a perverted form of Chinese water torture.
Smiling, twenty-something brunette cradling an infant in a Baby Bjorn.
Drip.
Baby Booty exercise class thundering by to check out Rene’s new line of infant workout wear.
Drip.
Tuesday afternoon Mothers of Multiples group, pushing multi-child strollers.
Drip.
Swollen-bellied, exhausted woman herding three toddlers while wearing a T-shirt proclaiming, This is my last one. Seriously.
Drip, drip, drip.
So I tried not to look. I spent hours in the studio’s back room arranging and rearranging the toilet paper. I managed the studio from home, much to the delight of Bella, my hundred-pound German shepherd. When I taught, I skulked in and out of the back entrance like an accused pedophile afraid of facing the press.
Today, I couldn’t avoid it anymore. Today, I needed to talk to my best friend.
If she was still speaking to me.
I glanced through the window into Rene’s light-filled space. She sat at the checkout counter, waving goodbye to a customer pushing a baby stroller. My stomach lurched.
Drip.
Maybe stopping by the store wasn’t such a great idea.
I turned to leave, but I’d hesitated too long. The blonde, thirty-something woman backed through the door, pulling the stroller behind her. She collided with my back.
“Oops! Sorry. I swear, I need to install a rearview mirror on this thing.”
“No problem,” I replied. I held the door open while she maneuvered the stroller and two large cloth shopping bags through the opening. One bag read Gratified Mom. The other, Gratified Baby. The newest of Rene’s marketing swag.
“Thanks, Rene,” the woman whisper-yelled over her sleeping infant. “See you next week.”
Rene wiggled her fingers in reply. She looked gorgeous, as always. Her dark, shoulder-length hair fell in elegant layers, and her makeup had been applied with the usual natural-looking perfection. When she spied me, her hand dropped to her lap. Her expression turned Barbie-doll plastic. Friendly, but too stiff to be genuine. “Well, if it isn’t a blast from the past. The elusive Kate Davidson. How nice of you to drop by. Finally.”
I slinked through the doorway, avoiding eye contact by taking in the space. “Wow. You’ve made some upgrades.” The last time I’d visited, the walls had been eggshell white. Now they were painted in a palette of summer-day blues accented with white puffy clouds. To my right was a safari-themed area, decorated with balloons sculpted into giraffes, monkeys, and a surprisingly detailed lion. Twin Town, an area of the shop dedicated to all things multiple, was to my left. Brightly colored signs highlighted displays of baby accessories that were labeled Identical, Coordinated, and Consciously Clashing.
Rene had started her business with a small line of custom-designed pacifier purses and quilted infant stilettos. Eighteen months later, Infant Gratification was rapidly becoming the Tiffany’s of the toddler crowd. Jewelry included, as evidenced by the glass case in front of me, which was filled with platinum infant ID bracelets, teeny-tiny toe rings, and matching mother-and-daughter necklaces. Nursery-themed jewelry boxes decorated its top.
I pointed to a pair of impossibly small tennis shoes with soles made of pink Swarovski crystals. “No self-respecting baby would ever walk in those.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Kate. They’re designed for newborns! Babies don’t start walking until … ” She paused and narrowed her eyes. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you.” It was an accusation, not a question.
I grinned, and for the first time in weeks, the expression felt genuine. “Gotcha.” I lifted my heels in a tennis-shoed Tadasana and peered at the space behind the desk. “The girls aren’t with you today?” The prior times I’d visited, Rene’s sixteen-month-old toddlers, Amelia and Alice, had been at the store wreaking havoc. “I thought they were your designated models.”
“Having the girls here was a disaster. Once they started running, I couldn’t keep track of them. I used to think Ricky and Lucy were hard to control.” She shuddered. “Believe me, labradoodle puppies have nothing on twin toddlers. Sam and I finally gave up and enrolled the girls in toddler school from nine to noon. The nanny picks them up after school, feeds them lunch, and babysits the whole menagerie until one of us gets home.”
“Toddler school?”
“Don’t mock me, Kate. It’s never too early to start preschool prep.” She frowned. “You’d already know all of this if you’d come around lately.” She didn’t disguise the hurt in her voice.
Honestly, I didn’t blame her for chastising me. Rene and I had been inseparable since we were teens. My avoidance of her had to feel like a betrayal, especially since I’d kept my fertility issues a secret. I knew that hiding Michael’s and my troubles was unhealthy, but until today, I hadn’t been able to make myself talk about it.
“You’re right, and I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been a terrible friend, but I need to talk to you. Can you spare a minute?”
Rene didn’t reply for several seconds. Long enough that I thought she was about to say no. Then she pulled a sign out from underneath her desk and looped her purse over her shoulder. “I’ll give you thirty of them.” She held up an index finger. “On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“You’re buying coffee.”
Five minutes later, I sat across from Rene at one of Mocha Mia’s outdoor tables, relishing Seattle’s rare autumn sun on my shoulders. Rene stirred extra sugar into her double-whip, double-chocolate mocha, then plunged her fork into her version of health food: an extra-large slice of Dutch apple pie à la mode. I sipped a soy cappuccino and stared across the street at the four-story brick building that housed both of our businesses.
The newer, mixed-use building contained shops at street level and housing units above. Serenity Yoga, Infant Gratification, the PhinneyWood Grocer, and my husband’s pet supply store, Pete’s Pets, occupied the four business suites. The upper three floors consisted of a mixture of studio and one-bedroom apartments, some with fabulous views of the Olympic Mountains. The Yoga over Fifty class was in session, so Serenity Yoga’s lobby was empty. A woman pushing a baby carriage stopped at Rene’s storefront and read the sign taped to the door.
“I never understood signs like that,” I said. “How is it useful to say Back in thirty minutes when customers don’t know what time you left?”
Rene licked ice cream-laced pastry off her lips. “It’s genius, actually. If customers think you’ll be back soon, they hang around the area and keep checking back. And if they don’t know what time you left, they can’t complain if you’re late.”
It actually made sense, in a demonic, Rene sort of way.
“Are you sure you should be away from the shop right now?” I pointed at the woman, who was pushing her stroller toward the parking lot. “I’m costing you business.”
Rene shrugged. “I’m on lunch break. Like the sign says, I’ll be back in thirty minutes. If she doesn’t stick around today, she’ll come back tomorrow. Besides, if I don’t snag you now, you might make like a groundhog.”
I flinched. Groundhog’s Day, of course, was what my Kate-torturing mind called pregnancy test day. Could Rene have intuited that somehow? I pretended confusion. “Groundhog?”
“See your shadow and disappear for another six weeks.” She scowled. “I was beginning to think the Great Kate Disappearing Act was going to be permanent. I haven’t heard from you in weeks, and you didn’t return my last five phone messages. Not that anyone’s counting.”
I swallowed.
“We’ve been friends for years, Kate. I shouldn’t have to scour Facebook to make sure you’re still alive.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Things have been tough lately.”
Her voice grew irritated. “Tough? That’s your excuse?” She made a repeating series of finger quotes. “Things were ‘tough’ when your father died. They were ‘tough’ when I almost lost the babies. They were ‘tough’ when Dharma showed up and then got arrested. They were ‘tough’ when you found out Michael was married to Gabriella. We’ve seen each other through plenty of difficult times. You’ve never ghosted me before.”
“Ghosted you?”
“Dumped without warning. Disappeared.” She made fists and quickly opened her hands as if performing a magic act. “Poof!”
I opened my mouth to defend myself, then closed it again.
“What did I do? Was it opening the store? Did I invade your turf somehow? If you wanted that retail space for yourself, you should have said something.” Rene pushed her dessert to the side, a move so uncharacteristic that it shocked me out of my silence.
“Invade my turf? You think I’m acting territorial?” I smiled, hoping to lighten the mood. “Better be careful or I’ll pee on your onesie collection.”