Gossip Can Be Murder

by Connie Shelton

  “No, we’ve been out all day. He would have gotten bored at the wine festival, I’m afraid,” I told her. “But he’ll be jealous that we came here without him.” I knew we’d get a huge sniff-over from the dog the minute we walked in the house and he’d know exactly where we’d been.

  She set the hot plates down and scanned the table. “Just a minute.”

  About the time I’d blown the steam off my first bite and put it into my mouth she came back with a basket of fresh sopapillas—three of them. “Here’s a spare napkin. Take Rusty one of these and the extra chips. So he won’t be angry with me.”

  Drake laughed as she walked away. “Good thing that dog isn’t spoiled.”

  I pulled one corner off my little pillow-shaped pastry and let the steam billow out. As I poured honey into the hollow interior I told Drake, “Well, I’m not performing this part of the routine for the dog. Can you imagine what a mess he’d make? He’ll just have to eat his sopa without the sweet.”

  Thirty minutes later we made our way to the truck, carrying our little bundle of doggie goodies. An hour after that, with two duffle bags packed and waiting near the front door, we fell into bed. Drake reached for me hungrily.

  “I hate time apart,” he said, nuzzling into my neck.

  We spent the next forty-five minutes relieving that sadness before we fell into a deep sleep. The alarm went off way too quickly as the first light of Sunday’s dawn began to gray the windows. I rolled over, planning to snuggle into Drake’s warmth, only to find that he was already wide awake staring at the ceiling. My little whimpery sounds got his attention and he pulled his hands out from behind his head and wrapped me in a cozy embrace. That lasted about three minutes before I could tell he was antsy to get moving. First day of a new job.

  We grabbed a quick breakfast of cereal and I stuck the bowls in the dishwasher while he walked Rusty over to Elsa Higgins’s house next door. Bless her heart, she’s always a willing sitter even on a moment’s notice. When I’d called her as we were leaving the wine festival she’d even offered to come over and pick up the pooch right then. I felt guilty that my requests had become so routine that she assumed the need was immediate. I vowed to bring her something from Santa Fe and to manage to spend more time with her. Our times together are becoming precious, as she is approaching ninety. She’s an amazing lady, putting up with me all these years, and now caring for my dog as well.

  Drake came back with a baggie full of homemade chocolate chip cookies, picked up his duffle, and we both walked out to our vehicles. He watched me as I started my Jeep, asked me if I’d checked the oil and topped off with fuel (the answer to both of these was that I was going to stop at the first station I came to), then he kissed me so well that I wanted to switch off the engine and take my husband and our bags back inside. With a reluctant smile I backed out of the driveway and watched him do the same. He turned left at Central, heading out to the airport on the west side of town, while I aimed for that promised gas station. I even remembered to check my tires’ air pressure while I was at it. Marriage to a pilot. He’d done a good job of training me in the wisdom of being prepared.

  At the office I pulled out the files on the crash case and reread the notes. I felt a pang of sadness that Drake and Ron were at odds over the case. More so that I’d had words with my brother yesterday. Normally, we work together really well. I pushed the thoughts aside, resolving to keep doing my best for the business, but not to let Ron’s wishes take over my life. He’s got his own set of problems.

  Turning back to the file I saw that, in a phone message from Graham and Valdez, Rick Valdez had requested copies of several of the documents Ron had obtained, along with Drake’s informal notes. Soon, Drake would be required to give an official deposition—something he was looking forward to like a case of the flu—but for now Valdez simply wanted to review the initial findings. I stacked the pages and started the fax machine. Once they’d gone through I re-inserted them into the files in the correct order and noted the date and time the faxed pages had been sent.

  I typed letters to a couple of other important clients, paid some upcoming bills and entered monthly statements into the computer before I realized that most of the day had slipped away and I really ought to be heading north. I locked the files away again, making sure to leave Ron one of our loosely coded messages telling him what I’d done with them. I scanned the rest of the office to be sure I hadn’t left anything terribly crucial undone. I couldn’t imagine having a whole week—especially spur of the moment as it was—to myself. There was always some little crisis that brought me back into the office but I would leave things in good shape for now.

  Downstairs, in the reception room, I left my outgoing mail and jotted a note for Sally including the name of Casa Tranquilidad and the central phone number, just in case my cell didn’t quite connect there in the mountains. I also reminded her that Ron had an optometry appointment mid-week and that he probably wouldn’t go unless someone nudged him. Sometimes I feel like everyone’s mom.

  I snacked on a granola bar that had probably been in the console of my car for at least six months and managed to hit a bunch of the weekend traffic on I-25 heading toward Santa Fe. By the time I reached the edge of town I felt more than ready for some classes on how to relax.

  Chapter 3

  They don’t call Santa Fe the City Different for no reason. The street layout follows no sort of grid but is instead a meandering maze of twists and turns that can lead a driver in circles. I know it’s historic, I know you can’t redesign a city that’s been around since before 1600, but moving around this place is a pain in the ass. I absolutely hate getting entangled anywhere around the plaza or government offices so I took the St. Francis Road exit and made my way north.

  Gradually I left the commercial areas behind, then the smaller residential streets. Following Linda’s map, I drove a winding dirt road north of the city, into foothills dotted with piñon trees and juniper. In the higher elevations near the ski area, distant aspens had already begun to turn, and their myriad shades of gold, yellow and celadon painted the hills in a palette of autumn. The contrast with the pure blue sky felt almost startling. This is the sky for which the Spanish azul celeste surely must have been invented. I began to relax at the sight.

  As I rounded the final curve at the top of the hill, I got glimpses of Casa de Tranquilidad between stands of piñon and ponderosa pine. A winding adobe structure, it seemed designed to fit the hills like a boa draping a woman’s shoulders. Late afternoon sun burnished the various buildings in rose-gold. The drive was paved in slate tiles, which curved around a circular entrance and framed a planter of brilliant purple petunias. I pulled my Jeep to the front door, under a wide, shady portico.

  A valet, uniformed in green and gold, met me and offered to park the car but I told him I’d rather do it myself. It’s just a quirk of mine. He directed me to a small, discreet lot on the north side of the building, behind an adobe wall. I grabbed my duffle bag and walked back to the front of the building.

  A woman was pulling two large trays from the back of a small SUV parked under the portico. The trays, stacked high with homemade cookies that smelled like they’d come from the oven minutes earlier, looked like they were about to get the better of her.

  “Can I give you a hand with those?” I asked, dropping my duffle beside her vehicle.

  “Oh, sweetie, you sure can.” She lifted one tray toward me, leaving the other one balanced a little precariously on the edge of the vehicle’s cargo space. I reached out and caught mine, just as she had to let it go and make a grab for the other. “Whoa, that was a little too close.”

  We stood there, frozen in a little ‘what’s next?’ moment in time. I have to admit that it was tempting to make a run for it, keeping five dozen elegantly decorated butter cookies all for my very own.

  “I’ve got to get these to one of the conference rooms,” she said. “Could you spare a second out of your way?”

  “Sure.” I foll
owed her lead. We walked through a lobby filled with heavy, hand-carved furniture and Two Gray Hills rugs. Enormous arrangements of fresh flowers topped a table in the center of the room and several side tables. Down a corridor and past a dining room, doors to a meeting room stood open and a jacketed waiter was setting up a large coffee service. He tilted his head toward an empty stretch of table and we deposited our treasures there.

  “Whew! Thanks so much!” The woman turned to me and held out her hand. “Samantha Sweet.”

  I introduced myself. She was a stocky woman in her late fifties, short graying hair in a shaggy cut, smile wrinkles at the eyes and mouth. She had that jovial, open friendliness that reminded me of the actress Kathy Bates.

  “I don’t know why I tried to handle both of those at once. I know better. Just get myself in a hurry sometimes.”

  “Hey, no problem.” We walked back outside where I retrieved my duffle.

  “If you ever need customized, homemade baked goodies, that’s what I do,” she told me, reaching into the pocket of her white slacks and pulling out a business card. “Sweet’s Sweets.” She rummaged into a large paper sack in the car and came out with a baggie that held four exquisite little cookies. “There you go—a sample.”

  I swear that my salivary glands went into overdrive just looking at them.

  “Thanks, Samantha. Nice meeting you.” Knowing about this great lady might give me the excuse to hold an office party at Christmas this year.

  She thanked me again and climbed into the SUV, waving through her open window as she pulled away. I hefted the duffle again and headed inside.

  The front desk was made of golden pine, topped with hammered copper. An extremely polite young lady greeted me, tapped my name into the computer and scrunched her eyebrows slightly.

  “I don’t seem to have your reservation, Ms. Parker,” she said.

  “Sorry. I’m rooming with Linda Casper.”

  “Ah, yes. Dr. Casper arrived earlier. I have you in Room 12, a very nice double just beyond the garden.” She finished clicking the computer keys and shuffling papers then handed me a tiny folder with a plastic key card in it. “Just out this way, take a right through those double doors.”

  By the time I’d made my way through shady cloisters beside lush gardens of autumn flowers to Room 12, I was suitably impressed.

  “Hey, you came this afternoon after all!” Linda greeted me with her usual dimples and a hug.

  “Afraid I might not be great company for the evening,” I said. “It was a very early morning and the traffic up here was a mess.” I eyed the undisturbed bed on the far side of the room as I set my bag on the floor beside a desk carved with Mexican designs. “A quick little nap would feel so good.”

  She didn’t pick up on my hint. Just bustled over to the desk and handed me a folder with an Eastern-looking emblem on it and the words “Lightness in Living.”

  The daylight through our gauzy drapes had faded to deep lavender and I guessed it must be around six o’clock. I sat down on the polished cotton spread on my bed and flipped open the folder.

  “Save that,” she said. “Let’s freshen up and check out the dining room. Bring your folder with you, and later I can show you around.”

  I quickly unpacked my meager wardrobe of jeans, sweaters, and five sets of clean undies. Linda had told me to expect casual-comfortable wear, and I’d brought one broomstick skirt and tunic, in case there was a dress-up dinner at some point. Unfortunately, I’m not one of those women who’s ready with a chic outfit for every occasion. If I couldn’t attend a nutrition class in jeans, well, too bad.

  I almost regretted that stance when I saw the dining room. It was one of those with a black-tie maitre d’, real linen, and three goblets at each place setting. After I noticed that most of the other patrons were also dressed very casually I relaxed a little. The menu was about ninety-percent vegetarian, with a couple of fish dishes thrown in to pacify us rabid carnivores. Luckily, I love veggies too and we were both able to quickly choose dishes that sounded wonderful.

  “So, here’s the program schedule,” Linda said, flipping to a page in the folder. The name badge in mine said that I was Alex Hudson but Linda told me that would be fixed by morning. “The inspiration behind the program is Dr. Celeus Light.”

  “Ah—‘Lightness in Living’—catchy.”

  She pressed on. “He studied in India under some of the great maharishis. Apparently, some of his healing techniques have worked miracles, although he’s been poo-poo’d by the medical establishment.” She glanced up at me. “That’s one of the reasons I’m interested in finding out what he has to say. I’d never admit this to another of my patients but there’s so much in Western medicine we don’t know. And there are so many procedures we could be doing but are afraid to because we’re crippled by the insurance companies. But that’s a major rant that I won’t get into.” She took a deep drink from her water glass.

  The brochure pictured a tall, slender man in his forties, with dark hair and bronzed skin. He wore some kind of modified sari with purple and gold trim, making him look like a cross between Gandhi and Caesar. In the photo he was shown in a Jesus-like pose with his hand stretched out to a small child. A real man for all cultures. Despite all the obvious image management his credentials looked impressive, including degrees from major universities in both America and England. The testimonials from doctors and patients alike were glowing.

  “Tomorrow starts with an orientation class,” Linda said. “I think there are only a few doctors attending the special sessions with Dr. Light. I’m hoping to get some individual attention and lots of information. At least half the attendees are people who are here to experience the treatments and work on their own problems, or so I’m told.” Linda turned to the program schedule. “Each day starts with a yoga class, then meditation, then nutrition classes, followed by lunch. In the afternoon you get a massage or some other spa treatment, philosophy lectures, and group discussion.”

  I sent her the perkiest smile I could manage. My early awakening, sketchy meals, and the hour-long drive were taking their toll and for a couple of seconds I wondered what I was doing here.

  Our meals arrived, an artistically arranged pile of julienne vegetable strips in yellow, green, orange and red for me. Rice with black beans and glazed carrots for Linda. Pungent spices wafted upward from the plates and we picked up our forks without another word. Finishing the meal with ginger tea and an almond cookie, my energy rebounded. I suggested we check out the rest of the facility and learn our way around.

  Linda glanced at her watch. “Good idea. There’s a get-acquainted gathering at eight tonight, too.”

  She signed the dinner check, waving away my offer to split it. I glanced at the other diners as we left, curious as to which might be in our group for the coming week. Out in the lobby, Linda steered me toward a hallway to our left.

  “According to my little map,” she said, “the classrooms and a library are this way.”

  Through a short corridor, a doorway led to a good-sized vestibule where a reception desk sat with a lamp set to a dim night-light mode. Across the room, shelves held candles, incense and decorative bottles of various oils and potions. A display table contained an impressive array of Dr. Light’s books. I’d just picked up one entitled Shedding Stress From Your Life when a voice startled me.

  “Are you ladies here for our program?”

  I jumped and quickly set the book back in place.

  “Yes, we are,” Linda quickly chimed in. “I’m Dr. Linda Casper.” She extended her hand. “And this is my associate, Charlie Parker.”

  The woman greeted each of us with a smile and warm handshake. “I’m Shirley Broussand.” Cinnamon brown hair framed her face in soft chin-length waves and was scattered with gray strands. Tiny creases radiated from the corners of her vivid green eyes. Her skin had that particular gray-tan hue of a long-term vegetarian and her long, thin face reinforced the fact. She wore a gauzy skirt and top in a shade of sage th
at accented her eyes and brought out the luster in her hair.

  “I’m afraid the offices are closed right now,” she said. “I was just locking up.”

  “Oh.” Linda sounded disappointed. “We thought we’d get a look at the place, so we’d know where we’re going tomorrow.”

  “This is it,” Shirley said. She gestured to indicate the vestibule. “Nicki will be here in the morning and she’ll give a quick tour of the facilities. I’d offer now, but I’m off to get things ready. Are you coming to the gathering tonight?” When we nodded she smiled. “That’s great—I’ll see you there.”

  Subtly, we’d been ushered to an outer door and found ourselves standing in a beautifully landscaped courtyard. The evening temperature had dropped about twenty degrees already and I buttoned my denim jacket.

  “So that was Shirley,” Linda mused. “She’s the one I corresponded with in getting this set up. Funny how phone impressions never come out right. I’d pictured her as a heels and business suit type with hair in a French roll.”

  We chuckled over that and strolled the courtyard, discovering that it was flanked by a number of offices on one side and a low adobe wall on the other. Beyond the adobe wall the night was pitch black. Knowing that the resort sat at the top of a hill, I assumed the terrain dropped off and there were probably fabulous views by daylight. Openings in the courtyard led back to the dining room and, eventually via a softly lit winding path, to the parking lot where I’d left my Jeep. We strolled as far as the parking lot then turned back toward the lobby.

  Near the front desk a discreet sign pointed the way to the Lightness in Living group.

  All this vegetarian, spiritual, lightness of the soul stuff was completely foreign to me but I’m game for new experiences. Signs directed us through another exit to a secondary building where the spa and massage rooms were located. The reception was to be held in the lobby of the spa building. We entered a world of luxury and quiet good taste. The walls were faux-finished in shades of umber and gold. Massive wooden columns framed the doorway, with smaller versions of them leading to other corridors and the hidden wonders beyond.