“Yoga Cikitsa?” Lily stared at A.J. with an odd expression.
“What are we talking about here?” Denise asked, looking from one to the other.
“Yoga as a therapeutic-based practice,” Simon explained. “Medical or healing yoga. The program is grounded in classical yoga. We’d have to either get certified or hire another instructor.”
A.J. said, “I’ve been reading up quite a bit, and yoga therapy has been found to be useful in treating musculosk eletal problems, autoimmune disorders, MS, fibromyalgia, Chronic Fatigue, arthritis pain, hypertension, diabetes, asthma—”
“It would probably be very popular with my seniors,” Simon put in.
Lily said slowly, “And it’s had encouraging results with PTSD and other stress-related disorders as well as ADD, ADHD.”
“You want to hire a doctor as well as a new instructor?” Denise asked.
“I’m considering the idea.”
“I would love to train and get certified in Yoga Cikitsa,” Suze offered.
Lily made a dismissing sound. “The last thing we need is an inexperienced yoga instructor working with ill and disabled students. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
Suze flushed painfully. A.J. pressed her lips together and kept her irritation to herself. Most Cikitsa programs required applicants to have three or more years teaching experience. Lily was right, but as usual she had phrased her objections in a belittling and hurtful way guaranteed to wither Suze’s youthful enthusiasm.
But if Suze was chastened, the other three instructors were guardedly enthusiastic, and A.J. felt that she had regained some of the ground she had lost in her recent clash of wills with her co-manager.
When the meeting ended, she went down to her office and to her surprise was joined by Lily a few minutes later.
“That wasn’t a bad idea,” she said grudgingly. “Actually, neither idea was bad. Starting Cikitsa sessions and bringing a doctor on staff. This doctor . . . did you have anyone in mind?”
“Not really.” Other than a couple of visits to a local chiropractor, A.J. hadn’t even seen a doctor on her own behalf since arriving in Stillbrook.
She couldn’t help it. Lily being pleasant made her more uneasy than Lily openly hostile. Warily, she asked, “Do you?”
“No. But I could ask around.”
“That would be . . .” A.J. discarded several possibilities, settling on, “helpful.”
Lily nodded, accepting her due.
A.J. waited. Lily seemed to have something on her mind. And after drumming her fingers absently—and irritatingly—on the edge of A.J.’s desk, she said, “Have you had a chance to look over the new slogans for the studio that we discussed?”
A.J. hadn’t really thought that battle was over, had she?
She said, trying to keep her tone neutral, “Lily, I’m not convinced that we’re at a point where Sacred Balance’s image needs a facelift.”
And Lily, also clearly striving to keep her tone noncon frontational, said, “We’ve already been over this, A.J. And we agreed that it’s time for a change.”
“We’ve discussed it, but we didn’t agree on anything. I said I would think about it.”
“Do you really not see how unreasonable you’re being?”
“I really don’t!” And once again, despite her very best of intentions, A.J. was agitated. “Why is this so important to you? Why is it such a matter of urgency?”
“Why are you fighting me every step of the way?”
“I’m not. I just . . .” Her gaze fell on Aunt Diantha’s photograph, and registering the serenity in her aunt’s expression, A.J. made a conscious effort to let go of her de fensiveness, her resistance.
Maybe if she could be more open, more vulnerable with Lily, they might make some progress. “Maybe it’s because I feel close to Aunt Di here. It’s comforting for me to feel like I’m carrying on her legacy.” She expelled a slow breath. “I guess emotionally I’m not ready to make a bunch of changes. Not that I won’t ever be—just that it’s too soon for me.”
Lily said in the patient tone of one speaking to a child, “It’s not just your decision, A.J. I’m co-manager here, and I think it’s time for change. I think this is the strategic moment for such a change.”
Okay. So much for openness and vulnerability.
“Then we’re in a deadlock.”
Lily smiled. “Maybe not. Why don’t we ask the rest of the staff how they feel about a change? We could vote on it. You keep saying you want us to be a real team.”
As A.J. stared at Lily she became uncomfortably, painfully aware that she did not want to put this motion before the rest of the staff—she wanted to have her own way on this. It was important to her. She did not want to compromise about something that meant so much.
And as this unpleasant realization took root, it occurred to her that perhaps this was why Aunt Diantha had thought it would be good for A.J. and Lily to work together.
“We could do that,” she managed.
“Good!” Lily was still smiling. “I’ll put something together for our next staff meeting.”
Twenty-one
One week and a day following her murder, Nicole was buried in Blairstown, New Jersey.
The little chapel was crowded with mourners and media—and sightseers. Sure that she would run into Jake, A.J. had hoped to lure Andy into keeping her company, but he excused himself from the festivities on the grounds of fatigue—and, worryingly, he did seem exhausted again despite the care he was taking.
But his spirits were good, and she had left him reading a thriller on the sofa under the watchful eye of “Old Yeller.”
Instead, Elysia volunteered to drive, and A.J., after delivering the now routine warning about no more sleuthing, gratefully accepted the offer. She was especially grateful when, entering the chapel, she came face-to-face with Jake. Jake, looking handsome and severe in a charcoal blazer, his dark hair disciplined into something like smoothness, nodded politely and looked right through her before moving on.
Elysia muttered a word not often heard in church, and they squeezed into a pew at the back of the chapel. A.J. couldn’t help reflecting, as she observed her fellow mourners, that the odds were very high that someone in this crush of people had probably killed Nicole.
It seemed odd, now that she thought about it. Odd that someone as . . . frivolous as Nicole should have inspired murder. Yes, she had been superficial and self-centered, but those seemed like fairly minor sins.
The service was brief and then the mourners filed out in the sunshine to the graveside.
“No one should die in the spring,” Elysia said as they walked through the old graveyard toward the grave site. A.J. threw her a curious look. She understood what her mother meant, though. It was a lovely, soft evening, and the dying light filtering through the trees and limning head-stones and crosses in old gold made everything somehow more vibrant—poignant.
For the first time A.J. felt the haunting power of the words: In the midst of life we are in death.
The graveside ceremony was even briefer, and then the crowd slowly dispersed.
Nicole’s parents were having a small group of people back to the house. A.J. had not been invited to this gathering, and she ignored her mother’s hints that she should speak to J.W. and try to get them invited.
“You don’t give up, do you?” she asked as they made their way back to the parking lot, trailing behind the rest of the crowd. “What part of no sleuthing do you not understand?”
“The part where we fail to catch the villain.”
“Or he catches us.”
“We cannot live our lives in fear.” Elysia sounded like she was trying out for the part of Winston Churchill via Cate Blanchett.
“We also can’t live our lives like characters in a TV show.”
Elysia bridled. “It was a very good TV show, you know. The critics rather liked it. We had a nice long run.”
A.J. laughed—against her will, because the la
st thing she wanted to do was encourage her mother in this lunacy.
She stopped laughing as she spotted Jake walking a few yards ahead. He moved well, at ease and confident, his alert gaze trained on J.W. Young and Bryn Tierney who were strolling ahead of him. Tracking them, A.J. thought cynically.
“Police at the funeral,” Elysia remarked, apparently also noticing Jake. And after a beat, “He is a good-looking brute.”
A.J. said nothing.
“Is it over between you then?”
A.J. glanced at her mother. Elysia’s face gave nothing away.
“I think so.”
“I’m sorry, pumpkin.”
A.J. managed a twisted smile. “No, you’re not.”
“I’m sorry for anything that hurts you, love.”
And A.J. couldn’t find anything to say in answer to that.
As usual Elysia drove like the hounds of hell were in pursuit; A.J. wouldn’t have been surprised to see flames shooting out the exhaust pipe of the Land Rover as they fled back to Stillbrook. Scenery flew by in picture-postcard flashes of old rock walls stained pastel shades from lichen, glittering snatches of the Delaware, an ivy-covered brick mill, the pink and silver shadows of the clouds unfurling in the blue dusk above the canopy of trees.
“Funerals do make me hungry,” Elysia remarked offhandedly, downshifting past a truck hauling cattle.
“I wouldn’t know. I think we left my stomach back on the interstate.”
“Shall we stop and grab a bite?”
“Who are we meeting?” A.J. was resigned.
“Well, Bradley did mention . . .”
“How did I know?”
But A.J. didn’t put up a fuss as they headed into Stillbrook. Seeing Jake had depressed her, and the thought of going home and spending the evening with an equally heartbroken Andy was more than she could face just then.
They went straight to Mr. Meagher’s office and waited for him while his pet cockatoo—if such an irascible creature could be called a “pet”—threw alternately salacious and insulting comments their way. When Mr. Meagher had wrapped up the day’s business, the three of them drove to a nearby Italian restaurant.
It wasn’t till they were seated and glancing over the menu that A.J. remembered Jake had brought her there on their first official date. Ironically that night had ended badly, too, and for the same reason: Jake’s discovery that A.J. and Elysia were playing amateur sleuth.
“Jane Peters has been denied bail,” Mr. Meagher informed them after the business of ordering drinks was concluded and they waited for their entrees. “She’s been determined a serious flight risk.”
“Now what would give them that idea?” A.J. wondered aloud, and her mother leveled a long look her way.
“There’s some good news, though,” Mr. Meagher said. “The forensics people finished with the clothes Jane was wearing the day of the murder and found nothing suspect. Never so much as a drop of Nicole’s blood touched Jane’s clothes.”
“But that’s excellent!” Elysia said.
“Aye,” Mr. Meagher said, noticeably not jumping for joy.
“What is it?” Elysia asked.
“The Siragusa lad has an alibi. Airtight and cast iron.”
“Bloody hell. You’re joking.”
From her mother’s reaction A.J. gathered that Elysia had recently zeroed in on Oz Siragusa as prime suspect. The funny thing was her own instinctive conviction that her mother was on the wrong trail—funny because she had convinced herself she was not giving Nicole’s murder any thought.
Regretfully, Mr. Meagher shook his head.
“He was at a bon voyage party for another tennis player from noon till four thirty when the news of Nicole’s death came over the television. There are at least twenty people willing to swear to it. It seems the young man made a rare spectacle of himself calling and texting Nicole that day.”
Elysia swore again, and Mr. Meagher blinked. “Is it possible they were bought off?”
Mr. Meagher shook his head. “Most unlikely.”
“Then my next question is, could they be?”
As the other two gazed at her in consternation, Elysia gave an evil chuckle. “Joking, my darlings. A wee jest.”
“What happened to Barbie? I thought she was your prime suspect?” A.J. asked, hurriedly steering the discussion from what felt like perilous waters.
“It won’t wash. The timing is off.”
“What do you mean? I thought we were agreed that the timing would be tight, but just manageable.”
Elysia was shaking her head. “I tried it.”
“You . . . tried it? What does that mean?” A.J. looked at Mr. Meagher for clarification. He looked massively uncomfortable. What was that about?
“This morning. I made a couple of trial runs.” Elysia selected a bread stick and crunched into it with her small, white teeth.
“Wait a minute,” A.J. said. “Are you telling me you did the drive from the studio to Nicole’s mansion? At eighty miles an hour?”
“Ninety-five on the second run. I still couldn’t make it in under half an hour.”
“When did you . . .” A.J. had to stop to swallow. “When exactly did you perform this suicide run?”
“At three and four thirty this morning. There’s no traffic at three and four thirty in the morning, which merely confirms my theory that Barbie couldn’t possibly have got to Nicole’s in time. There would certainly have been traffic last Saturday afternoon.”
“Mother are you crazy? What if you’d hit a deer going those speeds? Or a cow. You’d have been killed.”
Elysia had the gall to look offended. “Really, Anna, I was doing my own driving stunts when you were still in your pram.”
“That was thirty years ago. In a controlled environment. And don’t tell me you didn’t have professional drivers for all the really difficult stuff because I know damn well you did.”
Elysia waved these tiresome points away. “The important bit is that Barbie is—unfortunately—cleared. If Nicole was dead for an hour by the time you arrived, and judging by both the forensics evidence and the significance of the phone being taken off the hook, she was, then Barbie couldn’t have done it.”
“That leaves Jane.”
“And J.W.” Elysia’s eyes glinted dangerously.
“J.W. has an alibi.”
“Jane does not have a motive.”
Mr. Meagher was shaking his head disapprovingly at the idea of motives.
A.J. said suddenly, “What about Bryn Tierney? Has anyone looked into her movements that day?”
Elysia brightened. “Oh, very good! Who better placed to move unseen through the house? But what’s her motive?”
A.J. shrugged. “Maybe she has feelings for J.W.? She stayed on after Nicole’s death and she certainly seems very loyal to him.”
“Devoted,” agreed Elysia.
“Granted, we’ve seen them together a few times and I’ve never seen anything that couldn’t be explained away by friendship.”
“She would have to be smart enough to hide the depth of her feelings.”
With a bemused expression, Mr. Meagher watched them bat the theory of Bryn’s homicidal tendencies back and forth.
“Or maybe she just got fed up with Nicole,” A.J. said.
“A most annoying young woman,” Elysia agreed. “I like it!”
Mr. Meagher said, “If Bryn Tierney had changed clothes midway through the morning, you can lay odds that someone would have noticed.”
“But she was also best placed to change and shower if she had to.” A.J. wondered what she was doing speculating on this stuff after she had firmly and forever sworn off sleuthing?
“Let’s not dismiss her too hastily,” Elysia said. “I think we’ve proven she had an excellent motive”
“You can’t go by motive,” Mr. Meagher objected. “ Too often motives don’t come to light until the guilty party is revealed.”
“ True, true.” Elysia looked reflective. “Beside
s, one person’s motive is another person’s madness.”
“Let me guess. Shakespeare.”
Elysia raised her eyebrows. “ That was me, pumpkin. But thank you for the compliment. Anyway, there are people who will kill for a pair of shoes. And I don’t mean Dolce & Gabbana, I mean ordinary trainers. You can’t judge a motive by what you would be willing to kill for.”
Was she willing to kill for anything? A.J. couldn’t think of anything offhand. Those true crime shows on television about discarded wives and husbands committing murder? She might as well be watching the Sci Fi channel for all the sense it made to her.
They finished their meals in thoughtful silence. With the dishes cleared and dessert ordered, Mr. Meagher turned to A.J. once more. “Have you come to a decision about Lily Martin and the studio?”
A.J. shook her head. “As much as I’d love to get Lily out of there, I don’t want to go to court. Even if we could be sure of winning, which we can’t, I’m afraid of the effect it would have on the rest of the staff. I hate to admit it, but Lily is an integral part of the studio’s success.”
“If Lily’s ever knocked off, we know who’ll be the prime suspect,” Elysia said cheerfully.
“Thanks, Mother. Hopefully you’ll work as hard to save me as you’re working to save Jane Peters.”
“Harder, pumpkin. For you I shan’t even stop for meals. Well, perhaps breakfast.” She winked at Mr. Meagher.
Ignoring this heartwarming display of maternal devotion, A.J. said, “Anyway, as corny as it sounds, this is what Aunt Di wanted. Well, probably not me and Lily at each other’s throats, but she did clearly want us to work together, and I can’t find a way to justify getting Lily out of there. And believe me, I’ve racked my brain.”
Elysia and Mr. Meagher exchanged looks, and watching them together, A.J. thought how—in an odd way—very well suited they were. It would be harder to find anyone more different from A.J.’s father than Mr. Meagher, but he had that same affectionate tolerance for Elysia’s little foibles—little foibles like harboring fugitives from justice or crashing celebrity funerals or snooping in police business.
Dial Om for Murder Page 18
