Murder on the Eightfold Path

by Diana Killian

  She started by spreading a quilt on the bedroom carpet and then lying flat on her back. She stretched her arms out from her side in a straight line with her shoulders. Exhaling, she started to raise both legs perpendicular to the floor, but she immediately felt the burn in her lower back, and had to abandon the pose.

  Dismayed, but still determined, she rested for a few seconds and then rolled carefully onto her left side, raising her right leg—

  The pain halted her.

  No way was this going to happen. She was liable to do more damage even trying. For a few seconds A.J. struggled with her frustration and fear. Had one misstep undone all the diligent work of the last months?

  She refused to give up.

  She sat up, moved onto her hands and knees, and keeping her spine lengthened, she stared straight ahead, breathing normally. Or as normally as she could, given her state of tension.

  So far, so good.

  She started the arch of Marjariasana or Cat Pose—and again she had to stop at the blaze of fierce pain.

  A.J. sat down, forcing herself to breathe evenly, to resist giving into her anguish.

  Her body would not cooperate.

  No. Wrong. Her body could not cooperate. This was not a matter of willpower or discipline. She could not force her injured nerves and muscles to respond the way she wished; to try to do so would merely cause more damage. Surely the lessons of the past year had as much to do with retraining her way of thinking as moving?

  She drew a couple of long, calming breaths. When she had her emotions under control once more, she rose—carefully—refolded the quilt, and went to take a warm, muscle-relaxing shower.

  When A.J. at last made her way to the kitchen, she found her mother whisking eggs for mushroom and cheese omelets while she watched a local TV station replay of herself on the police station steps.

  “I don’t suppose the tiger-stripe jeans matter, do you?” Elysia inquired, critically studying her miniature image.

  “Better than prison stripes.”

  “Ha.”

  Suze MacDougal dropped by around lunchtime, full of grievances over Lily’s high-handed behavior. Suze was one of the junior instructors at Sacred Balance. A short girl with spiky yellow hair and huge blue eyes, she bore an unfortunate resemblance to Dopey the dwarf, and perhaps she was a little ditzy, but she had a good heart and was a loyal friend and employee.

  “Couldn’t you just come in for a few hours? Even if you hung out in your office all day?”

  A.J.’s spine gave a little twinge just considering the idea.

  “I don’t think I’m going to be a lot of use at this point. I’m going to have to take it easy for a while. Standing is hard, sitting is worse, and walking hurts like heck, to be honest. I’m supposed to lie flat until it stops hurting.”

  “For how long?”

  As long as it took. Despite her disappointment over the morning’s failed workout, A.J. was determined to focus on the fact that her back was definitely better. She was going to have to be patient—something that did not come naturally to her—and she was going to have to have faith. But she did not believe, refused to believe, that all the months of practice and discipline could be so quickly undone by the wrong move. This was a temporary setback, that was all.

  She said staunchly, “It won’t be too long.”

  “There’s something going on, A.J. Lily’s up to something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like suits in the studio.”

  “Suits?”

  “Suits. Suits,” Suze emphasized. “Executive types in suits being shown around the studio, kind of like investors getting the grand tour.”

  “We don’t have investors. Sacred Balance is a privately held corporation.”

  “Exactly. And there’s more.”

  A.J. rubbed her forehead. No question: so far the day was off to a not-so-great start. “Maybe they’re potential clients, Suze. Maybe they were reporters.”

  “Mara Allen from Yoga Meridian called asking for Lily.”

  A.J. straightened, wincing. Yoga Meridian, located in the nearby town of Blairstown, was their biggest competitor; they had already lost two important clients to the new studio with its spa and salon facilities. “Called Lily about what?”

  “No one knows. But she called twice.”

  A.J. felt an odd prickling at the back of her neck. “Even so, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  “Okay, but why would Mara Allen be calling Lily? Think about it. Yoga Meridian is our only real rival. I mean, if they—if Mara—wanted to link up with Sacred Balance for some charity benefit or something, why wouldn’t she contact you?”

  “Because I’m out of the office.”

  “She called asking for Lily on Monday morning. Now how could she have known you were going to be out Monday morning when you didn’t even know you were going to be out?”

  “Who says Mara called Monday morning?”

  “Emma.”

  A.J. thought this over. Emma Rice was not given to idle gossip. Nor was she someone who got her facts wrong.

  Suze said eagerly, “And if it was something like hooking up for a charity benefit, why hasn’t Lily called you to discuss it?”

  “Because I’m on sick leave and it isn’t anything urgent. Because, knowing Lily, she wouldn’t think my input was necessary.”

  “Why hasn’t she mentioned it to anyone at the studio?”

  “Maybe there isn’t anything to tell yet. Maybe it isn’t anything at all. Maybe Mara was calling for information or to check a reference.”

  “What reference? The last time anyone left Sacred Balance—” Suze broke off uncomfortably. The last time there had been an opening in Sacred Balance’s staff roster was Diantha’s murder.

  A.J. brightened as a delightful thought occurred. “Maybe Mara’s offering Lily a job.”

  Suze’s lips parted as she, too, was transfixed with momentary rapture. “Do you think so?” Her face fell almost at once. “But what about the executive types Lily was giving the grand tour to?”

  “I don’t know, but we can’t—shouldn’t—speculate. Is everyone talking about this at the studio?”

  Suze looked uncomfortable. “Well . . . you know what it’s like.”

  A.J. did. Only too well.

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” Suze said. “You’ve only been out for two days. If Lily is up to something, she’s moving pretty fast. There’s some time factor involved.” Suze stared at A.J. “Whatever this is, it’s not good.”

  Seven

  Wednesday stretched out, long and tedious. A.J. rested her back and caught up on her reading. She browsed articles on weight-loss vitamins, the medicinal value of whole foods, and the obesity epidemic. Epidemic was the word the article used, and as A.J. read, it appeared to be advisedly. According to the article, for the first time in history two-thirds of all Americans were overweight. Those were some pretty scary statistics.

  Inevitably, all that reading about dieting made her hungry and A.J. snacked on the last of the lemon madeleines while she flipped through stories on learning to unwind, learning to get one’s life back under control, and learning to balance work and play. All the while, she was conscious of Elysia prowling the house like a caged animal. Mr. Meagher had not phoned so far that day.

  “Maybe there isn’t any news,” A.J. pointed out when her mother began another lap of the antique Savonnerie carpet.

  “How can there be no news?”

  “Well, they’ve already arrested and charged you. So now it’s probably just a matter of the police continuing to collect evidence and build their case while your attorney collects evidence to mount your defense. It takes a lot longer than it does on TV.”

  Elysia disapproved of this. Several times already she had called the criminal lawyer Mr. Meagher had found her, but apparently he had no news either. No news was good news in A.J.’s opinion, although the fact that there was no news was not for lack of trying. Elysia received several requests
for interviews from both print and visual news media. To A.J.’s fervent gratitude, she turned them all down.

  “I do have one idea,” Elysia said, taking the chair catty-corner from the sofa where A.J. reclined.

  “What’s that?” A.J. asked warily.

  Elysia held up a key. “We could search Dicky’s flat.”

  After what seemed like a long time, A.J. closed her mouth. “What are you doing with a key to Massri’s place?” She held up a hand. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

  Perhaps the possession of the key was a point in her mother’s favor. After all, it would be a pretty stupid—or totally eccentric—murderess who decided to kill her victim in her own front yard when she had a key to the victim’s home. In fact it would be a pretty stupid murderess who killed her victim in her own front yard whether she had a key to the victim’s home or not.

  “Does Jake know you have a key to Dicky’s home?”

  “It’s none of his business.” Elysia selected a cigarette from the silver box, but did not light it. She’d been talking about quitting for the last month or so but being charged with murder was probably not doing much for her resolve.

  Was it Jake’s business that her mother had a key to the murdered man’s home? A.J. wasn’t sure. “Did he ask?”

  “No.”

  A.J. studied her mother’s austere profile. “What on earth did you two talk about?”

  “I assume you mean Dicky and I?”

  A.J. nodded.

  “We talked about all kinds of things. Oh, nothing of earth-shattering importance. We laughed a good deal. He was very good-natured. Very good company. He knew how to listen. Or how to pretend to listen, which is nearly as good.”

  Keeping in mind Stella’s observations on loneliness, A.J. said, “But why him?”

  “Oh, he chose me, pumpkin. I told you I wasn’t looking for anything like that.”

  “Why do you think he chose you?”

  At Elysia’s look of affront, A.J. said, “He was blackmailing you, Mother. It obviously wasn’t just about your sparkling personality.”

  Elysia half-closed her eyes, considering. “Mmm. Tactless but true. There were several of us on the cruise. Unattached women of a certain age. Dicky was very pleasant, very charming with all of us, but gradually he seemed to narrow his focus. I remember the others taking the mickey out of me about it.”

  “Do you think you were more receptive to his advances?”

  “I don’t know that I was,” Elysia said. She seemed reflective not defensive. “Nor was I the wealthiest. I was, if I may say so, by far the best looking.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “Thank you, pumpkin. Women my age do have a tendency to let themselves go. So I think it was probably a combination of factors. I was attractive, receptive, and sufficiently well off.”

  “Do you think it was the first time he’d ever tried anything like that?”

  Again Elysia seemed to have to cogitate. “As much as I’d like to think so . . . no.”

  “Why?”

  Elysia sighed. “Looking back, I can see that it all seemed to go rather like clockwork.” She clarified, “As though we were on a timetable—his timetable.”

  “So you do think he was a professional blackmailer?”

  “It obviously wasn’t full-time. He was employed by the cruise line.”

  “But imagine what a nice supplementary income he could collect if he scored one blackmail victim per cruise.”

  “I’d like to think it wasn’t quite as common as buses running . . .” Elysia made a face. “I suppose it was, though. He did seem to have it down to a science.”

  “How did he approach you? Once the deed was done, I mean. Did he present you with photos?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he must have had an accomplice. Unless the camera was in his bow tie?”

  Elysia tittered at some mental image. Then she sobered. “He did have an accomplice. One of the stewards. A little rat-faced man. I’m quite sure they were in it together.”

  “Did the little rat-faced man emigrate, too? Have you ever seen him since?”

  “I never saw any sign of him after I left the cruise ship.”

  “Maybe he didn’t like the partnership being broken up?”

  Elysia tapped the unlit cigarette meditatively. “I think that’s weak, pumpkin. It’s very hard to picture a man following another halfway across the world just to twep him for breaking up their partnership.”

  “Twep?”

  “Terminate with Extreme Prejudice,” Elysia said tartly.

  “Ouch.”

  “Qeb, the ship steward, was quite a different sort of person from Dicky. Such a trip would have been extremely difficult and frightening for him. He was rather . . . rustic.”

  “All right. Scratch Qeb. So it must have been one of Dicky’s other victims.”

  Elysia said nothing.

  “Unless he had some other means of support? Obviously he couldn’t continue to work for the Egyptian cruise line, but maybe he found something else?”

  “I doubt it. I never saw any sign of gainful employment. Frankly, it would have been a pain working our trysts around a nine-to-five schedule.”

  “Yes, I’m sure most people agree with that. Mother, are you sure you have no idea about any of Dicky’s other lady friends?”

  “He wouldn’t have introduced us, pumpkin.”

  “You never heard him mention anyone? Never saw a name on a note or an envelope?”

  “I would hardly read his mail, Anna.”

  This had been a sore point for a time during the tumultuous years of A.J.’s parents’ marriage. She said bluntly, “You would if you were sleuthing.”

  “Oh.” Elysia’s expression changed. “True. But unfortunately I didn’t. I suppose I didn’t want to learn anything that might spoil the fun.”

  “What about phone conversations? Or messages on his answering machine?”

  Elysia brightened. “Actually, now that you mention it, I did hear a name once. Dora . . . Boombox. No. Bombeck? Hmmm. Beauford. That was it. She used to ring the poor boy up all hours of night and day. She was besotted.”

  “Besotted.” Now there was a good old-fashioned word. “You mean she was stalking him?”

  “I don’t know if stalking is the right word. She did grow increasingly angry and she did seem to be making rather a nuisance of herself.”

  “Do you know if she ever threatened him?”

  “He could be very exasperating.”

  “So she did threaten him? Mother, maybe this Dora Beauford had something to do with Dicky’s death. Did you tell Jake about her?”

  Elysia shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “Because that was months ago, pet. I don’t believe Dicky was still in contact with her.”

  “But you don’t know. That’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to let the police determine.”

  “Well, if she was still in contact, they’ll know by now. They took his cell phone.”

  A.J. nodded absently, thinking.

  “Well?” Elysia asked after a time.

  “Well what?”

  Elysia studied her unlit cigarette tip. “Shall we try a spot of the old B&E?”

  A.J. stared at her in consternation. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “Joking? I’m most certainly not joking. We’re discussing my life and liberty.”

  “It’s your life and liberty I’m thinking of. Talk about finding the fastest possible way to get yourself thrown back in jail! I can’t believe you’d even suggest it.”

  Elysia’s brows raised. “Never mind the lecture, pumpkin. Yes or no?”

  “It’s no. Absolutely not. Under no circumstances are we sneaking into Dicky’s flat.”

  Dicky Massri lived—formerly lived—in an innocuous two-story apartment building in Hackettstown. It looked like a hundred other places: hardy generic gardens surrounding pseudo-Colonial red brick and black shutters. It did not l
ook like the lair of a master blackmailer.

  “Are you sure this place doesn’t have a security guard?” A.J. asked doubtfully, glancing up at the windows on the second story as they approached the complex.

  Elysia didn’t bother to answer that. “See,” she threw over her shoulder as she led the way briskly up the cement walkway to the side entrance. “No crime scene tape.”

  A.J. followed her, watching uneasily as Elysia inserted the key in the lock and pushed open the door. Far across the expanse of patchy lawn she could see a gardener bouncing along on one of those ride-on mowers.

  “You know the police have probably been all over this place by now.”

  Elysia tossed a furtive look over her shoulder and stepped inside the apartment. A.J. followed her inside, and Elysia closed the door. The apartment smelled stale, empty.

  A.J. looked around. They stood in a long, narrow living room. The walls were dove gray, the carpet white, the furniture dark and severe and modern. The only splash of color came from the primitive abstract paintings on the wall: orange, blue, and green swirls that reminded A.J. of the sort of things a hazmat team generally dealt with. It had the signature look of a mediocre interior decorator: overpriced and impersonal.

  The entertainment system looked especially pricey. But there were only a handful of CDs: Englebert Humperdinck, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Tom Jones. Music to seduce older ladies by. There were no DVDs.

  “It doesn’t look like he spent a lot of time here. Is this where you used to meet?”

  Elysia shook her head. She seemed uncharacteristically quiet.

  They wandered into the kitchen. Another long, narrow room. Pale green walls and white tile. White stove, fridge, dishwasher, microwave. A.J. opened a cupboard and there were two plates, two coffee cups, a few glasses.

  “He certainly didn’t eat here often.”

  “No. We usually ate out.”

  A.J. opened the fridge and found it empty of food beyond a jar of green olives, three bottles of champagne, and a damp looking takeout container of moldy looking koshary.