Read Online Twisted: A Tracy Turner Murder Mystery Novel (The Tracy Turner Mystery Series Book 1) by Keyla Hunter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Keyla Hunter
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Couple’s Therapist Extraordinaire
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CHAPTER FIVE
I followed the smell of burning camphor and jasmine wafting down the corridor leading to Gina Fey’s room. A quick Google search had confirmed the details on her business card. Gina was the proprietor of an exclusive Tantric yoga studio based in a shopping enclave downtown. Google Street view featured it as a dim-lit venture tucked between The Witches Lair that peddled love potions and good luck charms and Armoires, Antiques & Things, a local store that sold near-new antiques.
Tantric yoga was an ancient Indian practice that was meant to strengthen a couple’s spiritual bond though sensual awareness and soul connection using yoga postures performed in unison. By adding her own spin to the basic poses, Gina, had created her own brand of therapy and charged couples big bucks to get naked and contorted.
Gina had sold Katherine the idea that the only way to save her marriage was to rekindle their intimacy by fanning the fires of desire. She swore that it was the jump start that their relationship needed. Within a week of beginning their sessions, however, the only thing Frank was jump starting was their curvaceous therapist.
First they had sneaked around behind Katherine’s back like a pair of love struck teens, but this was short-lived. A young reporter had snapped up the two canoodling at Fuga d’Amore, an Italian restaurant located near Gina’s studio. The photo featured the couple sharing what the article recorded as Katherine’s favorite dessert, Tiramisu—one bowl two spoons. Celebrity gossip columns across the country were set ablaze with the news. Katherine was devastated, but Gina made no apologies. There was even some speculation that she had tipped off the press.
I raised my arm to knock on the door when I noticed that it was ajar. From inside I heard an “Oooouuummm…” sound that vibrated deep in my belly. I peered into the room and saw Gina seated in samadhi pose with her hands resting on her thighs in chin mudra .
She stopped chanting and unraveled her legs that had been bound in the full lotus posture . She stood up and walked to the edge of her mat and did three rounds of sun salutations in quick succession.
I held the door still and gave it a gentle knock. She didn’t seem to notice and made her way to the end of the room, hoisted her feet up into the air, and rested her legs spread eagled against the wall.
I knocked louder and cleared my throat. “Excuse me, Gina,” I called, “It’s Tracy Turner. Millie Henderson sent me.”
“Come on in, honey,” came a voice as smooth and warm as chocolate fondue. Gina pushed her feet against the wall and flipped backwards. In a trice she was standing on her feet, arms spread out, bowed her head and smiled.
Her bushy tangle of blond curls with dark brown roots was pulled back with a thick elastic burnt orange headband. The leopard-skin leotard she wore left nothing to the imagination. A small brown cotton scarf was twisted and knotted at her throat and was a poor cover for the bare skin that was revealed by the plunging U-neckline.
I averted my gaze and focused on her face shining with a combination of perspiration and soft orange bronzer. Several clumpy coats of mascara accentuated her startling blue eyes.
I smiled back at her. “I’m Tracy, PR and Events,” I said as I offered her my hand. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
In a twinkling, her zen state evaporated like the smoke of the joss sticks littered around the room. “Oh, Frankie, my Frankie, how I loved him,” she wailed. She lost control and began to sob and moan. Exhausted, she collapsed into my arms.
Hating to be touched in this way, I stiffened. Regardless of my discomfort, I patted her back a couple of times, and each time she leaned closer. Suffocating under her weight, I tried nudging her with my shoulder so that she would get the hint. I was careful not to go too hard in case she fell back. The last thing I wanted was
----
CHAPTER FIVE
I followed the smell of burning camphor and jasmine wafting down the corridor leading to Gina Fey’s room. A quick Google search had confirmed the details on her business card. Gina was the proprietor of an exclusive Tantric yoga studio based in a shopping enclave downtown. Google Street view featured it as a dim-lit venture tucked between The Witches Lair that peddled love potions and good luck charms and Armoires, Antiques & Things, a local store that sold near-new antiques.
Tantric yoga was an ancient Indian practice that was meant to strengthen a couple’s spiritual bond though sensual awareness and soul connection using yoga postures performed in unison. By adding her own spin to the basic poses, Gina, had created her own brand of therapy and charged couples big bucks to get naked and contorted.
Gina had sold Katherine the idea that the only way to save her marriage was to rekindle their intimacy by fanning the fires of desire. She swore that it was the jump start that their relationship needed. Within a week of beginning their sessions, however, the only thing Frank was jump starting was their curvaceous therapist.
First they had sneaked around behind Katherine’s back like a pair of love struck teens, but this was short-lived. A young reporter had snapped up the two canoodling at Fuga d’Amore, an Italian restaurant located near Gina’s studio. The photo featured the couple sharing what the article recorded as Katherine’s favorite dessert, Tiramisu—one bowl two spoons. Celebrity gossip columns across the country were set ablaze with the news. Katherine was devastated, but Gina made no apologies. There was even some speculation that she had tipped off the press.
I raised my arm to knock on the door when I noticed that it was ajar. From inside I heard an “Oooouuummm…” sound that vibrated deep in my belly. I peered into the room and saw Gina seated in samadhi pose with her hands resting on her thighs in chin mudra .
She stopped chanting and unraveled her legs that had been bound in the full lotus posture . She stood up and walked to the edge of her mat and did three rounds of sun salutations in quick succession.
I held the door still and gave it a gentle knock. She didn’t seem to notice and made her way to the end of the room, hoisted her feet up into the air, and rested her legs spread eagled against the wall.
I knocked louder and cleared my throat. “Excuse me, Gina,” I called, “It’s Tracy Turner. Millie Henderson sent me.”
“Come on in, honey,” came a voice as smooth and warm as chocolate fondue. Gina pushed her feet against the wall and flipped backwards. In a trice she was standing on her feet, arms spread out, bowed her head and smiled.
Her bushy tangle of blond curls with dark brown roots was pulled back with a thick elastic burnt orange headband. The leopard-skin leotard she wore left nothing to the imagination. A small brown cotton scarf was twisted and knotted at her throat and was a poor cover for the bare skin that was revealed by the plunging U-neckline.
I averted my gaze and focused on her face shining with a combination of perspiration and soft orange bronzer. Several clumpy coats of mascara accentuated her startling blue eyes.
I smiled back at her. “I’m Tracy, PR and Events,” I said as I offered her my hand. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
In a twinkling, her zen state evaporated like the smoke of the joss sticks littered around the room. “Oh, Frankie, my Frankie, how I loved him,” she wailed. She lost control and began to sob and moan. Exhausted, she collapsed into my arms.
Hating to be touched in this way, I stiffened. Regardless of my discomfort, I patted her back a couple of times, and each time she leaned closer. Suffocating under her weight, I tried nudging her with my shoulder so that she would get the hint. I was careful not to go too hard in case she fell back. The last thing I wanted was
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