Gossip Can Be Murder Page 5

  “Much better,” Rita said. She turned toward Gerald, whose position truly didn’t look very close. I got ready for a critique. But just then Rita’s attention wavered to the other side of the room. “What on earth are you doing!” She practically shouted the words.

  Chapter 7

  All heads turned, cartilage crackling. In the front row, Tahlene was standing, arms above her head, fingers linked. She swayed in time with the sitar music, stretching to the left and then the right. Her eyes were nearly closed and a dreamy little smile played at the corners of her mouth. Rita was practically on top of her by now but she stretched to the left, front, and right again before acknowledging her.

  “I can’t seem to begin yoga that way,” she said. “So I’m just doing my own thing.”

  “This is a class!” Rita’s face looked like something might burst. “You can’t just ‘do your own thing’.” Her head bobbed furiously as she spoke and her square, white glasses slipped down her nose again.

  Tahlene continued to sway to her own rhythm and it became apparent that the only way Rita would bring her into line would be to get physical with her. She looked like she was considering it for a minute. She sputtered a couple of times and finally shoved her glasses back in place and stomped away.

  “Class, we’ll now move into a Downward Facing Dog.” She resumed her place at the front of the room, reestablishing the idea that she was in charge.

  I had no clue what a Downward Facing Dog was and couldn’t even comprehend the official name Rita used for it, but I watched Dina who seemed to know her way around a few yoga moves. I did my best to copy her. On my left Trudie fumbled her way into a rough approximation of the posture.

  “Heads down,” reminded Rita. “Take slow, steady breaths.” She seemed to be making a concerted effort to do the same as she stayed on her own mat and performed the move with us. “Hold that arm position, hold it, hold it . . .”

  About the time I thought my eyeballs would pop she moved us into an easier position. Trudie let out an audible groan and a few of the others snickered.

  “Rise slowly now,” Rita said. “Deep breath, Sun Salute.”

  This seemed to be a popular set of maneuvers that everyone knew. Everyone but Gerald Mayhew and me. Trudie clomped along, about three beats behind everyone else, while Gerald and I each focused on someone who knew what they were doing and tried our best to keep up.

  “Nice, nice,” Rita coached. As we finished the set with hands in a prayer position, she glared at Tahlene, who had gone along with the maneuvers but at double speed.

  Gerald glanced at his watch and nudged Nicole. They began gathering their possessions.

  “What?” Rita strode toward them while the rest of us held our prayer positions.

  “Thanks, Rita, really,” Nicole said. “Uh, good class.”

  “It’s just that I’ve got this . . . call . . .” Gerald said. “Need to catch . . .”

  Rita watched helplessly as they rolled up their mats and laid them aside then gathered their tote bags and folders. “Tomorrow, then. Same time,” she said. The door closed a little too loudly as they left. Dina and I both had wistful looks on our faces.

  “Okay, back to work,” Rita announced. “Balancing. Feet directly under you. Deep breath. Lift your left leg, grab toes with the left hand. Balance on the right foot.”

  No one exactly felt balanced by this point but everyone except Tahlene made a valiant effort. Trudie swayed dangerously and had to let go a couple of times. When we made the switch to balance on our left feet, I took a giant step back to put myself out of Trudie’s way. Sure enough, first try, she toppled onto my mat, landing at my feet. I dropped position to help her up. Once I had her back on her feet again, I caught sight of one of the other girls tiptoeing out the door. Rita had clearly lost her fragile control.

  By the time we got to the final few moves, the class was down to about half its original size. We were in a posture that required us to lie on our backs, hips raised, toes pointed skyward. Dina fumbled the move and muttered something about a bad back. She relaxed, leaving her feet on the floor and her knees bent.

  “Hips higher,” Rita said, nudging me on the rump. “What are we doing here with hips on the floor?” The we she referred to was poor Dina. The Italian singer tried to tell Rita about her back problems, but had hardly gotten the words out before Rita had grabbed her by the ankles and yanked upward. With one foot she shoved a foam block under Dina’s hips, forcing them off the floor.

  “Ow!” Dina rolled to one side and lay, panting, in a fetal position.

  Rita didn’t notice; she’d already moved on. I dropped my feet to the floor and asked Dina if she was all right.

  “Sì, grazie,” she said. She rolled to her hands and knees and did a couple of back arches to stretch out the cramped vertebrae.

  The music had come to an end, reminding Rita that we’d had about enough misery for the day.

  “Thank you, everyone, for coming to class,” she said.

  We all gathered our belongings and returned the mats to their storage shelves. I noticed that Rita had approached Tahlene and was conversing animatedly with a smile. She seemed to be explaining away her outburst, without actually apologizing for the prickly attitude she’d exhibited all through class. Tahlene wasn’t buying it for a second. She gave Rita a look that sent the instructor into another round of pacifying non-talk.

  From the front of the room, a cell phone chirped inside Rita’s tote bag. She dashed for it, glanced at the number on the readout and answered with, “What now?”

  I looked at Tahlene, who shrugged and picked up her mat.

  “Forget it!” Rita barked into the phone. “I am not having this conversation.”

  Tahlene and I walked out, back to the calm ambiance of the incense-scented vestibule.

  The medical seminar attendees were apparently on a break. I spotted Patricia Girard with a couple of men near the door. Linda was browsing the books on the table.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Hey—great so far. I’m learning how to read your tongue.” She stuck hers out, wide and flat, as if that would tell me something.

  Eeuuew! Did I need to know that?

  “It’s interesting stuff. I’ll tell you about it later. How was yoga?”

  “Interesting.” My right eyebrow involuntarily twitched upward.

  “Oh?” She glanced over my shoulder, where Rita and Tahlene were emerging from the yoga room. I turned in time to catch Tahlene heading for the restroom and Rita leaving by the outside door. Dina Carlotti stood near the reception desk, talking quietly with Shirley.

  “Tell you about it later. I’m heading back to the room real quick to change back into regular clothes.” The stretchy leggings were beginning to feel way too clingy. I was definitely ready for the comfort of my jeans and a soft sweater.

  I took the courtyard pathway that led to another entrance to the guest wing, rather than crossing through the main lobby. Outside our door, I fumbled a minute for the key card that I’d dropped somewhere into the depths of my purse. I’d just stepped through the doorway when voices caught my attention.

  “Sweetheart, we can’t. This is too important. Please stick with it.” Nicole Mayhew’s voice sounded urgent. A door farther down the hall clicked shut.

  I stepped into my room but didn’t close the door.

  Gerald’s gruff baritone responded from the hallway with an unintelligible grumble.

  “When it’s about your health, no effort is too much,” she said.

  “I absolutely can’t believe she’s here, especially . . .” Their voices faded as they walked down the hall toward the lobby.

  Interesting. Which ‘she’ I wondered. I shut the door, dumped purse and paperwork on my bed and quickly changed clothes. Ten minutes later I’d taken a seat in the classroom, watching the rest of the group assemble.

  Dina walked toward me and I indicated the chair beside mine. “Is your back okay?” I asked. She smiled and n
odded.

  Gerald and Nicole sat across the room, she with notebook and pen at the ready, he staring at his watch and tapping one foot. Tahlene drifted in—drifting was a good way to describe her floaty way of moving. She gathered a couple of big floor pillows, kicked off her shoes, and made herself a little nest on the floor. She wore her fluffy blond hair in the same fabric-banded ponytail she’d sported in yoga class.

  Trudie, who seemed to have latched onto me in yoga, took a seat in the row behind me, off to my right. I avoided eye contact; a new best friend wasn’t something I needed right now.

  “Good morning, everyone.” Shirley greeted us with a smile. Her layered hair looked bouncy and she exuded an herbal freshness. Today’s gauzy outfit was azure, the shade of a hazy day. “We’re going to get right into the program this morning. Let’s talk about the benefits of meditation on our overall health.”

  Her eyes went to the back of the room as a stir ensued. Everyone turned to look.

  “Mr. Storm. Welcome.”

  The black-clad man we’d seen in the lobby this morning stood uncertainly near the back counter where the tea service was set up. He gave a little wave to the gathering at large.

  “Come on in,” Shirley invited. “Sit anywhere.”

  As he moved into the room, three other people followed. Since there were only chairs set up for the participants, the three spares didn’t quite know what to do.

  “I’m sorry, is everyone registered for the course?” Shirley asked in as diplomatic a tone as I’d ever heard.

  “They’re with me,” said Storm.

  The British-accented voice was one that had been heard by nearly everyone on the planet, outside the darkest reaches of the Amazon rainforest. Rex Storm, lead singer of the rock group Scriptor. They’d been so hot in the ’80s that the National Guard had been called in to provide security at two of their U.S. concerts. They were one of those unusual phenomena who somehow appealed equally to male and female, ages fifteen to fifty, the Goths and Godly alike. I’d never followed rock music that closely, but even I had to admit that the heavy beat of their sound captured something primeval.

  The last time I remembered seeing Rex Storm had been a news story about his breakup with his fourth wife, about five years ago. The publicity photo that flashed across news screens showed a vibrant man dressed in his traditional black with a sexy grin spread across his over-large mouth.

  Looking at him now, I could see that the years had not been kind. His slender frame could now best be described as scrawny. His face was extremely thin, with the large mouth way out of proportion to his other features, probably the result of multiple face lifts. The blue eyes, always described by media as ‘sexy bedroom eyes,’ were now sunken dots framed by dark circles. I remembered what Linda had said about his being here to detoxify. I could certainly believe it.

  Shirley drew our attention back to the front of the room. “Okay, let’s get started.” She rubbed her hands together. “Take a seat or a pillow, whichever suits you.” She waited a moment for things to settle. Once Rex Storm took a chair, his little entourage placed pillows on the floor around him. Shirley let it go.

  “The benefits of meditation in our everyday lives are many,” she began. Using the white board and referring us to the workbooks we’d been given, she demonstrated the patterns of brainwaves during the meditative state.

  I copied everything she wrote on the board, trying to follow quickly and keep my handwriting legible for Linda’s later use. Shirley was a good instructor and I felt that my notes would accomplish the goals. I was also surprised to find that the substance of what she was saying appealed to me. When Shirley spoke of releasing thoughts and relieving stress, my mind flashed back to a few times during my helicopter flights when I could have used some technique to loosen a tight stomach and clenched jaw.

  “Now that you know the theory, we’ll put it into practice,” Shirley announced.

  Over the next few minutes she called each of us aside privately to receive a personal mantra. Armed with my little card with the three magic words written on it, I followed the others into the meditation room. Rex Storm came along, too, but I noticed that his followers stayed behind. Shirley must have drawn the line with him and his little groupies.

  The lightly perfumed air in the meditation room exuded a feeling of peace and tranquility. I chose a chair with thick cushions and a high back. Others took cushions on the floor or chairs at various points around the room. By unspoken agreement, it seemed that each person left an empty space or two beside the next person. Gerald Mayhew took the seat closest to the door and Nicole settled on one of the cushions on the floor near her husband. Rex Storm sat near the incense burner and inhaled the stuff. I almost giggled but ignored the urge. If I could get into deep meditation I wanted to try.

  Shirley cast her voice into a soft, relaxing tone and talked us through the opening steps. The room went quiet. As each person mentally repeated his or her mantra, the only sound remaining in the room was the soft susurration of shallow breathing. I remembered Shirley’s instructions and willed my random thoughts away. A feeling of calm settled over me. Then a cell phone rang.

  Chapter 8

  A whispered expletive came from Shirley’s chair. Five sets of eyes peeked through nearly-closed lashes. I watched openly as she rose from her chair and marched over to Rex Storm’s seat. The phone emitted another ring. She took a handful of the wide collar of his silky black shirt and hauled him upward and out the door. As the door whooshed softly closed, I caught her words: “Mr. Storm—”

  I checked out the room. Nearly everyone had given up the pretense of meditating. Nicole Mayhew surprised us all by taking charge.

  “Come on, everyone, this is important. Let’s get back to it,” she said.

  With a collective deep breath, we all closed our eyes and tried to get back to our peaceful state.

  Forty-five minutes later, refreshed and feeling amazingly light inside, I joined Linda in the dining room for lunch.

  “So, how are you liking it so far?” she asked.

  “Interesting. I’ve got notes for you on meditation techniques.”

  “So . . .” She cocked her head. “Did you like it?”

  “Meditation was great,” I said truthfully. “Really. I never imagined that thirty minutes of quiet time would make me feel so good. I’m going to start using it on those especially crazy days at the office.”

  “Good! I’m glad I didn’t drag you up here for nothing. And yoga?”

  “Well . . . that was also interesting.”

  “What.”

  I took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ve never been to a yoga class before, so I don’t know what it’s supposed to be.”

  “Yeah . . .” Those blue eyes fixed on me.

  “Does the instructor usually yell at people?”

  “Yell? You’re kidding.”

  “Well, she got pretty testy with a few people. Half the class walked out before it was over.”

  A waiter approached our table. “You ladies are with the Lightness in Living conference?” At our nods he placed a small aperitif glass in front of each of us.

  I took a whiff. Ginger?

  “Our lunches are part of the program,” Linda explained. “We’ll be eating the food recommended in the nutrition classes. This is an elixir designed to help stimulate the digestion.”

  A tentative sip zapped me with a sweet-sour-hot flavor. Once past the initial surprise of the unusual combination, the taste really grew on me. I finished off the small glassful in a couple more swallows.

  “So,” Linda said, “you were saying about the yoga class?”

  “Odd. I’d pictured it as a very soothing, centering experience. Rita, our instructor, was anything but centered, I’ll tell you.”

  “Hmm, that is odd. Well, maybe she was just having a bad day.” She shrugged. “You have a massage this afternoon, right?”

  Our waiter reappeared just then, with colorful plates beautifully presented. Lunch consis
ted of a thick bean soup, a small salad, and a vegetable mixture of squash and tomatoes. Everything was delicious and we concentrated on nothing but food for the next few minutes. A minor stir began on the far side of the room. Pat Girard and two other doctors breezed through, on their way to a table.

  “Well, I heard that she actually yelled at one of her students,” Pat said as they took seats at the table next to ours. Her attire today consisted of a brilliant turquoise broomstick skirt and boots of the same shade, a burnt orange top and heavy squash blossom necklace.

  I raised an eyebrow at Linda.

  “Word has it that she won’t be working here long,” Pat continued. “In fact, her last job ended . . .” Her voice dropped as she fiddled with her napkin.

  One of the other doctors, a tall, thin woman in her late forties, piped up. “When I was with Blue Cross we had this patient—” She seemed to realize how well their voices were carrying and dropped hers to a whisper.

  “I certainly hope my doctor doesn’t gossip about me in restaurants,” I murmured to Linda.

  “She certainly doesn’t.” She winked. “But you better be nice to me or I might start.” She took a spoonful of the rich, flavorful soup. “Besides, you’re never sick. What would I say?”

  “Good point. Plus, I’ve still got some dirt on you from eighth grade history class.” We chuckled over the absurdity of it all, and at the three gossipers with their heads together over the other table.

  Linda glanced at her watch. “Oh, gosh, I better make some calls before our afternoon sessions start. I’ve got someone else handling the emergencies, but I told Raylene I’d call in a couple times a day and see if anyone needs me.” She laid her folded napkin on the table. “Take your time over dessert. There won’t be a check so don’t worry about any of that.”

  “Okay, see you later.” I wasn’t about to pass up dessert.

  The waiter brought it a minute later, a stemmed glass of chocolate mousse with a fresh fruit garnish. He set a glass at Linda’s place and rushed away before I could correct the error. Well . . . surely it wouldn’t hurt . . .. Okay, I’ll admit it right now, I finished them both.