by Tracy Weber
I picked up the pamphlet, then laid it back on the desk again. “Before we sign on the dotted line, I have a couple of concerns.”
“Concerns?”
“About your clinic.”
Dr. Steinman’s smile thinned.
“She means about that doctor who was killed,” Tiffany added.
The thinned smile turned into a scowl. “You mean Dr. Jones. Is that why you asked Daria about him?”
“Yes. He was the doctor we planned to use when we first learned about Reproductive Associates. A friend told us he was the managing physician here. The real star of the practice.” I’d heard no such thing, but I hoped the comment would annoy Dr. Steinman into saying something he might otherwise keep quiet.
It worked. At least the annoyed part. Droplets of spittle spewed from his lips. “I don’t know where you heard that, but it’s a lie. Richard and I were equal partners in the business, and we shared the same vision. But I was the more experienced physician. I was helping create families before Richard started med school. Trust me. We can give you excellent care now that he’s gone.”
“Are you going to be financially stable without him?” I asked. “I mean, IVF is expensive, and I know it can take multiple attempts. I don’t want to waste my money on a clinic that may not be around for the long term.”
Dr. Steinman’s jaw hardened. His eyes shifted warily from me to Tiffany and back again. “I have a feeling you’ve been misleading me, Ms. Davidson. I was told that you’d researched Reproductive Associates before making this appointment. If you truly had, you’d know we’re the highest-ranked fertility center in the Pacific Northwest. Trust me, we’re more than financially solvent. I’m a doctor, but I’m also an astute business person. The business was protected should either Dr. Jones or I become permanently disabled or die. Dr. Jones’s death is a tragedy, but it will not impact the longevity of this practice or the quality of our care.”
“So you had an insurance policy on him?”
“It’s none of your business, but yes, we did.”
Tiffany jumped in. “What about the lawsuit?”
Dr. Steinman’s energy changed. From guardedly annoyed to piercingly defensive—like a porcupine cornered by a mountain lion. “What lawsuit?”
She opened her eyes wide, pretending surprise. “Why, the sexual harassment one, of course. Were there others?”
“I don’t know how you heard about that, but that lawsuit died when Richard did. I’ll admit, my ex-business partner didn’t follow appropriate boundaries with his employees, and part of that was my fault. I should have insisted on no-fraternization policies. But that simply points out flaws in our employment practices, not in our quality of care.”
Tiffany placed her palms on the desk and leaned toward him. “So in a way, you’re better off now that Dr. Jones is dead, aren’t you?”
Dr. Steinman leaped to his feet, smashing his chair into the wall behind him. “I don’t know what kind of scam you’re pulling, but you’re obviously not here to become our clients. You’re wasting my time. I have real patients to attend to.”
He stormed from behind the desk, grabbed Tiffany and me by our upper arms, and marched us to the door.
“Leave my clinic. Now. Tell whoever sent you that if they harass me again, I’m calling my lawyer.” He shoved us into the hallway and slammed the door behind us.
I rubbed my bruised triceps and gaped at Tiffany, a little shell-shocked.
She cringed. “Sorry, Kate. That didn’t go well, and it’s my fault. You told me not to talk.”
“You’re right, I did. But I’m glad you ignored me. Your questions worked.” I nodded toward Dr. Steinman’s closed door. “He transitioned from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde pretty darned quickly. I think we just found another suspect.”
Tiffany looked confused. “Dr. Jekyll? Is he on Grey’s Anatomy?”
“Geez, Tiffany. Do you even read?”
Daria appeared before Tiffany could answer, looking significantly less friendly than when she’d delivered our lattes. “I’ve been asked to escort you two ladies out of the building. Let’s go.” She walked us through the waiting room, out the door, and onto the elevator, like two unwelcome crashers of an elite baby-making party.
Which, come to think of it, we were.
She pressed “L” as the elevator doors closed. “You two aren’t even gay, are you?”
Tiffany backed into the corner, seeming to have lost the ability to speak.
I shook my head no.
“Why were you really here?”
I had a feeling Daria wouldn’t accept anything other than the truth, so I gave it to her. “I’m a friend of Rachel Jones. I’m trying to prove that she didn’t kill her husband.”
Daria’s eyes widened. “And you think Dr. S did?”
“No. I don’t know. I mean … ”
Daria held up her hand. “Save it. We don’t have much time. I don’t appreciate being lied to, but I’m not your enemy. I wasn’t a huge fan of Dr. Jones, but he didn’t deserve to die.” The elevator door dinged open. She ushered us out and walked us across the expansive marble lobby. “If Dr. Jones’s wife didn’t kill him, I’d like to know who did. But if I tick Dr. S off, he’ll fire me for sure. I can’t afford to lose this job.”
We continued through the revolving door and out to the sidewalk. “I have about five minutes before he starts wondering why I’m not back. You have that long to ask me your questions.”
I got right to the point. “Do you know anyone who wanted to hurt Dr. Jones?”
Daria shrugged. “He and Dr. S had been fighting a lot lately, that’s for sure. Dr. S would never have hurt him, though.”
“Why had they been fighting? Over the sexual harassment lawsuit?”
“You asked Dr. S about that? No wonder he kicked you out. That’s a touchy subject around here. Dr. S was especially pissed because Dr. Jones was doing it again.”
“Doing what?” I asked.
“Having an affair with a staff member.”
“You mean Mariella?”
“The one and only. You know her?”
“No. At least not yet.”
“You’re not missing much. Dr. S wanted to get rid of both of them, but he couldn’t afford to buy out Dr. Jones, and he was afraid Mariella would sue.” She shrugged. “He was probably right. That woman is cold. She hasn’t missed a single day of work since Dr. Jones died. Frankly, she doesn’t seem all that heartbroken.”
“I was hoping to talk to her today.”
“You’ll never get back in the office, at least not while Dr. S is there.” Daria looked at her watch. “You might have another option, though. Mariella’s lunch break started five minutes ago. If you hurry, you can catch her.”
“Where?”
“The same place she goes every day from noon to two.” She pointed to a storefront across the street: Some Like It Hot Yoga.
“She takes yoga?” I asked.
“Yes. But if you go inside, prepare to sweat. That place makes Hell feel like a ski resort.”
Tiffany finally spoke. “Well, how about that, Kate? Looks like I’m finally going to try yoga.”
Seventeen
As Tiffany and I dawdled outside Some Like It Hot Yoga’s entrance, I only knew one thing for certain: “some” didn’t include me. Sweat already poured down my neck and pooled under my armpits, and I hadn’t opened the door yet.
A herd of scantily clad Barbie and Ken dolls filtered around us and drifted through the door. I planted my heels and did my best impersonation of a yoga teacher statue. “We don’t actually have to attend the class, Tiffany. Why don’t we wait out here and ambush Mariella as she leaves?”
Tiffany waved aside my suggestion. “You’re a terrible detective, Kate. It’s a wonder you’ve solved any crimes at all. If we ambush her outside, she’ll know we’r
e up to something. It’s much better cover to take the class and strike up a conversation with her there.” She placed her hand on the door handle.
I grabbed her wrist and pulled it away. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”
“What are you afraid of? That I’ll show you up in my first yoga class?”
Tiffany was more right than she knew. I wasn’t afraid that I’d look stupid in a Hot Yoga class, I knew it. I had survived (barely) my one and hopefully only Hot Yoga class with Rene over five years ago. The memory still made me shudder. At ten minutes in, I’d been reduced to a sweaty, stinky puddle of goo. By twenty, my skin had semi-permanently melted to my mat. At thirty, I’d fled from the room and vomited in the parking lot.
But I could never admit that to Tiffany.
“This isn’t a class for beginners, Tiffany. You might get hurt.” I pointed to the burgundy Band-Aid covering her backside. “Besides, you can’t practice yoga in a miniskirt.”
“Nonsense. I hear you tell students all the time: you can wear anything to yoga class. Besides, this isn’t a skirt; it’s a skort. It’s designed specifically for yoga classes!” She lifted the front of her hem to reveal burgundy shorts so tiny, they made the four-inch piece of cloth covering them seem modest. “Until I started working at Serenity Yoga, I never paid attention to yoga clothes. I had no idea they were so stylin’!”
She was right. Yoga was a multibillion dollar industry, and much of that money was spent purchasing outfits so tight and revealing they would have made Patanjali blush. The whole yoga clothing industry was silly, really. As Tiffany pointed out, a student could wear anything—including pajamas—to practice yoga, as long as the outfit allowed her body to move freely.
Except slacks and a long-sleeved blouse in a 105-degree room.
I gestured from my collarbones to my ankles. “I’ll broil in this outfit, Tiffany.”
“Good lord, Kate. Have you ever been to a yoga studio other than Serenity Yoga? You really need to check out the competition. They’ll have clothes for sale inside.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me into the blissfully air-conditioned lobby, which contained a huge retail area. Unlike Serenity Yoga—which sold a small collection of yoga books, blankets, blocks, and yoga mats—this studio sold everything an aspiring yogi could need—and lots of things she didn’t. Racks and racks of designer clothing, towels, straps, jewelry, headbands, water bottles, super-absorbent towels, and aroma-therapeutic map wipes. They even sold small spray bottles labeled Pure Oxygen, evidently for those times when your pranayama practice needed that little extra boost.
Tiffany paid for our class while I rummaged through the sale rack until I found the cheapest items in my size: a sixty-dollar tank top with a purple lotus flower on the front and a pair of supposedly extra large Spandex shorts so tiny, I sincerely doubted they’d cover my privates.
Tiffany pointed at the tiny swatch of fabric. “Those are cute, but they’re way too big for you.” She pulled out a pair half their size and handed them to me. “Try these instead. Class is about to start. I’m going in. I’ll see you inside.”
I shoved Tiffany’s recommendation back onto the rack, paid for the world’s most mortifying outfit, and slipped it on in the women’s locker room. Five dollars for a rental mat later, I eased into the practice space ten minutes after class had already started.
I’m not sure which hit me first. The heat—which sucked every molecule of oxygen out of my lungs—or the stench—which was a disgusting mixture of underarm odor, gym socks, and recently burned sage. Space heaters blasted from every corner, which seemed like overkill considering the amount of body heat radiating from the sixty or so people jammed into the forty-person room. Despite the crowd, I spotted Mariella near the back.
The instructor—a twenty-something Adonis wearing a black Speedo and a headset—gave me the stink eye from an elevated stage. I nodded to Tiffany in the front row, mouthed the word “sorry” to the instructor, and squeezed into an almost-space next to Mariella. She scooted her mat six inches in the opposite direction.
The first drop of sweat oozed down my nose before I’d finished unwinding my yoga mat. The next five hundred joined thirty seconds later. I closed my eyes and prayed for lightning to strike me dead. Five seconds later, I opened them again.
Still breathing. Bummer.
I gave that abominable class my most valiant effort. Truly, I did.
I raised my arms in Warrior I, only to notice that my wringing-wet armpit hairs were long enough to braid. A minute later, I gratefully lowered my arms and pressed my rear to the sky in Downward Facing Dog. Both of my calves cramped at the same time. I reached back with my right hand to rub the knots out of my muscles; my left hand slid forward on the sweat-drenched surface. I tumbled, face-first, onto my mat. I would have burst into tears, but I couldn’t spare the hydration.
As I lay drowning in a lake of my own bodily fluids, I assured myself that I still had one consolation. If I was suffering this much, Tiffany must be in agony. I rolled to my side, pressed myself up to sitting, and peeked around the fifty-nine Barbie Dolls bending in front of me.
Tiffany looked …
Beautiful.
Sure, her form was atrocious. Embarrassing, even. But her face seemed to glow. A few feminine-looking beads of moisture dotted her brow. Her yoga skort magically draped around all of her flaws while wicking away every embarrassing sweat drop.
I glanced down at my own supposedly hot-yoga-approved outfit. The hem of my shorts dug into my thighs like rubber bands around five-pound hams. My tank top was soaked; the lotus flower, wilted. An embarrassing stench radiated from my fur-covered armpits. I gritted my teeth and glared at Tiffany.
She lowered her knees to her mat, opened her eyes, and flashed a thousand-watt smile at Adonis. He flashed an even friendlier smile back at her, then noticed my glare.
“If class is too difficult for you, close your eyes and rest in Savasana.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I lowered what was left of my body to the floor, where it had to be cooler. Heat rises, right?
If anything, I felt hotter.
I closed my eyes and prayed for a heart attack.
The teacher spoke. “I think we should try something a little different today. Let’s finish with some partner poses.”
My entire body constricted. Except for my lips, which lifted into a grin.
Partner Yoga might be the one thing I loathed more than Hot Yoga. On most days. I’d rather practice nude yoga while skydiving through acid.
But not today.
Partnering with Mariella would give me the perfect opportunity to connect with her. I couldn’t ask her about her lover’s death during superheated gymnastics, but a few paired poses would at least allow me to get a feel for her—literally. I turned toward her mat …
And came face-to-face with the sweatiest, hairiest man I’d ever encountered. His grisly, wiry brown beard was just the beginning. Hair was everywhere. His chest, his uncovered shoulders, his back. All the way down past his navel, to parts never meant to be exposed in yoga class.
I’d been working with a counselor to overcome my aversion to beards, although with limited success. If she’d been in the room, she’d have assured me that this was a perfect, real-world opportunity to practice the techniques that she’d shown me.
She’d have been wrong.
The only reasonable strategy was retreat.
I searched desperately for someone else—anyone else—with whom I could partner. Mariella had moved her mat to the other side of the room and was paired with a blonde woman. Tiffany had climbed onto the stage, where she was demonstrating the moves-to-come with Adonis. Everyone else in the room had already found their partner and was preparing to begin.
Hairy Guy (who was undoubtedly mentally calling me Stinky Girl) shrugged.
“Looks like it’s
you and me.”
Gulp.
“Umm. I guess so.”
The experience didn’t start out too badly, all things considered. In the first paired pose, Hairy Guy stayed in Downward Facing Dog while I did a weird L-shaped handstand with my palms on the floor and my feet on his lower back. I can’t say I enjoyed the feet-to-rear-end experience, but I could live with it. At least I didn’t have to stare at his facial hair. He lifted his head and smiled at me—the perfect position for an upside-down kiss. His beard came within two inches of my lips.
Aack!
I tumbled to the floor. My heel connected solidly with his forehead; it was like an advanced move in a blend of yoga and karate.
Yogarate? Was that a thing?
I lifted myself off the floor, rubbed imaginary beard cooties off my cheeks, apologized to Hairy Guy for giving him a concussion, and prayed for Savasana.
God wasn’t listening. Or if he was, he was too busy laughing to answer.
The instructor directed each pair to stand back to sweaty back, link elbows, and lower down into Half Squats. Bodily fluids squished from Hairy Guy’s shirt into mine.
I vowed to bathe in hand sanitizer and tried not to vomit.
When the instructor placed us in an oddly perverted rear-to-rear Child’s Pose and asked us to hold hands, I cried uncle. I stood up, put my hands on my hips, and gave him my fiercest no freaking way glare.
He released hands with Tiffany (who I now hated again) and spoke into his microphone. “That’s enough asana for today. Let’s finish with some partner yogassage.”
Yoga what?
I would have bet Bella’s enzymes that The Yoga Sutras never mentioned the term “yogassage.” Not once. Patanjali would have flipped over in his two-thousand-year-old grave at the thought.
The instructor continued. “We’ll spend about five minutes per person.” He glanced at my fiercely scowling face. “I can see that yogassage makes some of you uncomfortable, which is why it’s such a good practice.” He made eye contact with me and continued lecturing. “Yoga on the mat is practice for your life off of it. In yogassage, you practice asking for what you want. If you learn to ask for what you want, the universe will give you what you need.”
