basically, you two hired this Lydia Thorne to head Nicole’s fan club—and Nicole was all in favor of the idea. Is that pretty much it?”
Andy and A.J. nodded uncomfortably in unison—Raggedy Ann and Andy, judging by Jake’s expression. A.J. said, “You suspect Lydia Thorne? Is that it?”
“Well, I guess we would if such a person existed,” Jake said a little sardonically. “ The fact is, there is no such person as Lydia Thorne. There never was.”
Seven
Even when you loved your day job, Mondays were . . . Mondays.
And when A.J.’s alarm went off at five thirty, she moaned and hit snooze. Two snooze slaps later, she dragged herself out of bed and into the shower.
Judging by the closed bedroom door, Andy was still sleeping. That was uncharacteristic of Andy, but depression could do that, and A.J. was sure Andy was depressed, although he certainly hadn’t said anything to that effect—in fact, he had been unusually uncommunicative about himself.
She left a note for him in the kitchen, fed the critters—who seemed to have achieved an uneasy truce over the weekend—and left for work. On the drive she listened to the radio. The local station was still talking about Nicole’s murder, but it didn’t sound to A.J. like the police were sharing their theories on the case with the media.
Jake had definitely been closemouthed last night, although it was obvious to A.J. that he was looking hard and long at Lydia Thorne—whoever she might be in real life—as a suspect. He had gone out of his way to stress to A.J. and Andy that Stillbrook PD were entertaining a couple of ideas about this high-profile homicide, and that they had more than one suspect, but as Andy had said after Jake departed, that could just be Jake trying to keep A.J. and Andy from jumping to obvious conclusions.
“Not exactly a barrel of laughs, is he?” Andy asked as they had listened to the sounds of Jake’s SUV dying away in the summer night.
A.J. said defensively, “Murder isn’t funny. Anyway, he has a great sense of humor once he relaxes.”
“So he does occasionally relax?”
A.J. made a face. Jake was pretty serious, but that wasn’t a bad thing necessarily. The only thing that bothered her was the feeling that maybe Jake didn’t trust her. Not in a serious thought-she-might-be-capable-of-murder way, but just on general principles. She figured it was a cop thing. She hoped it was a cop thing.
The parking lot behind Sacred Balance was empty as A.J. pulled into her space. Unlocking the glass front door of the studio, she stepped inside and disarmed the alarm. She turned on the full-spectrum lighting, and the iconic black and white posters of women doing yoga were sharply illuminated. Beneath each poster was the slogan that embodied Diantha’s philosophy for the studio and her students: It Could Happen.
One of the posters was of a very young Diantha, circa 1960. She looked like one of those sleek English fashion models from an early Beatles film. A.J. smiled at the poster. She loved arriving at the studio before anyone else got in, loved the quiet and the peace of the place before the activities of the day began.
Not that she didn’t love the energy and focus of Sacred Balance when it was buzzing like a spiritual hive, but in the cool quiet of the morning she fancied she could feel her aunt’s presence. It was comforting. It helped her believe that she was up to the challenge of fulfilling Diantha’s legacy.
In her office, A.J. started the small indoor fountain, switched on the hot plate for tea, and turned on her laptop. She checked her e-mail while the hot water brewed and the fountain softly played over the polished stones. Elysia had sent photos of diving and snorkeling in the Red Sea—and of herself enjoying various shipboard activities.
Shuffleboard? Did people outside of Agatha Christie novels really play shuffleboard on cruise ships? Apparently so. Elysia appeared to play with gusto.
Faintly smiling, A.J.
Andy and A.J. nodded uncomfortably in unison—Raggedy Ann and Andy, judging by Jake’s expression. A.J. said, “You suspect Lydia Thorne? Is that it?”
“Well, I guess we would if such a person existed,” Jake said a little sardonically. “ The fact is, there is no such person as Lydia Thorne. There never was.”
Seven
Even when you loved your day job, Mondays were . . . Mondays.
And when A.J.’s alarm went off at five thirty, she moaned and hit snooze. Two snooze slaps later, she dragged herself out of bed and into the shower.
Judging by the closed bedroom door, Andy was still sleeping. That was uncharacteristic of Andy, but depression could do that, and A.J. was sure Andy was depressed, although he certainly hadn’t said anything to that effect—in fact, he had been unusually uncommunicative about himself.
She left a note for him in the kitchen, fed the critters—who seemed to have achieved an uneasy truce over the weekend—and left for work. On the drive she listened to the radio. The local station was still talking about Nicole’s murder, but it didn’t sound to A.J. like the police were sharing their theories on the case with the media.
Jake had definitely been closemouthed last night, although it was obvious to A.J. that he was looking hard and long at Lydia Thorne—whoever she might be in real life—as a suspect. He had gone out of his way to stress to A.J. and Andy that Stillbrook PD were entertaining a couple of ideas about this high-profile homicide, and that they had more than one suspect, but as Andy had said after Jake departed, that could just be Jake trying to keep A.J. and Andy from jumping to obvious conclusions.
“Not exactly a barrel of laughs, is he?” Andy asked as they had listened to the sounds of Jake’s SUV dying away in the summer night.
A.J. said defensively, “Murder isn’t funny. Anyway, he has a great sense of humor once he relaxes.”
“So he does occasionally relax?”
A.J. made a face. Jake was pretty serious, but that wasn’t a bad thing necessarily. The only thing that bothered her was the feeling that maybe Jake didn’t trust her. Not in a serious thought-she-might-be-capable-of-murder way, but just on general principles. She figured it was a cop thing. She hoped it was a cop thing.
The parking lot behind Sacred Balance was empty as A.J. pulled into her space. Unlocking the glass front door of the studio, she stepped inside and disarmed the alarm. She turned on the full-spectrum lighting, and the iconic black and white posters of women doing yoga were sharply illuminated. Beneath each poster was the slogan that embodied Diantha’s philosophy for the studio and her students: It Could Happen.
One of the posters was of a very young Diantha, circa 1960. She looked like one of those sleek English fashion models from an early Beatles film. A.J. smiled at the poster. She loved arriving at the studio before anyone else got in, loved the quiet and the peace of the place before the activities of the day began.
Not that she didn’t love the energy and focus of Sacred Balance when it was buzzing like a spiritual hive, but in the cool quiet of the morning she fancied she could feel her aunt’s presence. It was comforting. It helped her believe that she was up to the challenge of fulfilling Diantha’s legacy.
In her office, A.J. started the small indoor fountain, switched on the hot plate for tea, and turned on her laptop. She checked her e-mail while the hot water brewed and the fountain softly played over the polished stones. Elysia had sent photos of diving and snorkeling in the Red Sea—and of herself enjoying various shipboard activities.
Shuffleboard? Did people outside of Agatha Christie novels really play shuffleboard on cruise ships? Apparently so. Elysia appeared to play with gusto.
Faintly smiling, A.J.
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