Karma's a Killer (13 page)

I winced at her poor choice of words.

Maggie blanched. “You know what I mean.”

“Why didn't you tell me about any of this?” Michael asked. “If Raven was planning to organize a protest on Saturday, shouldn't I have known?”

“I was as surprised as anyone. She'd made some threats, but I never thought she'd actually go through with them.”

I gestured toward the closed bedroom door. “From what I overheard, picketing wasn't all Raven had planned.”

Maggie looked suddenly wary. “What do you mean?”

“According to your aunt, Raven had something on you. Something that would get her back into your grandmother's good graces. Any idea what that might have been?”

Her shoulders stiffened. “My aunt is grieving. And drunk. And frankly, a little delusional. As far as I know, Raven did exactly what she intended to do this past weekend: cause a scene, embarrass me, and leave.”

Maggie was hiding something. She knew it. I knew it. From the look on Michael's face, he knew it too. These two cousins had karma: past actions that were now bearing fruit. In Raven's case, karma might have been a killer.

Michael spoke in a low, stern tone. The tone Dad always used when he knew I was lying. “Maggie, where were you on Saturday night?”

Maggie's eyes grew wide. “Where was I? You think I had something to do with Raven's death?” She took several steps back. “Look, I loved my cousin, but she hung out with a bunch of crazies. Half of them are on drugs. And before you accuse someone, you should at least pick up a newspaper. The police already arrested the loony old cougar who drowned Raven.”

I felt my face flush. True, I didn't think Dharma deserved to win Mother of the Year, but “loony old cougar”?

My mouth opened before my brain could stop it. “I don't know, Maggie. Seems like you had more reason to harm Raven than my mother did.”

Maggie gaped at me, mouth open in a hollow O. “Your
mother
?” She whipped her head back and forth between Michael and me. “Who are you two, really? Have you been conspiring with Raven all along?”

Michael answered by repeating his question. “Maggie, where were you on Saturday night?”

She pointed a shaking finger toward the door. “Get out of this house. Both of you.”

“We'll leave,” I promised. “But first answer the question.”

Her eyes flashed with stubborn indignation. “I said leave. Now.”

I would have pressed her again, but a ratcheting sound startled me silent.

Maggie looked up and screamed. “Aunt Ginny, no!”

Michael grabbed my arm and yanked me behind him.

Raven's mother stood five feet away, leveling a hunting rifle against her shoulder. It pointed at Michael's chest. A small crowd of shocked-looking people f illed in behind her.

“You have a hell of a lot of nerve coming here today. I believe Maggie asked you to leave.”

She gestured with her head toward the door. “If I were you, I'd get moving.”

Thirteen

My hands were still
shaking when Michael parked the Explorer in front of Pete's Pets a half hour later. He turned off the ignition and faced me.

“Way to go incognito back there, Kate.”

“I know, I really stepped in it, didn't I? I can't believe Raven's mother pointed a shotgun at us in front of all of those people.”

“At least it wasn't loaded.”

“Or so the grandmother said. Did you see the look on her face when she snatched that rifle from Ginny? I don't trust any of those people.”

The right side of Michael's mouth lifted in a lopsided grin. “You know, for a minute there I thought your head was going be the next one mounted on that big game wall. Maggie certainly won't be giving you a tour of DogMa anytime soon.”

“She wasn't all that happy with you, either. I doubt she'll have much to say to either of us from here on out.” I shook my head. “What on earth possessed me to call Dharma my mother?”

“Maybe you're starting to think of her that way.”

I shuddered.

“It wouldn't be such a bad thing, you know.”

“No way. I just got caught up in the moment. Like I told Rene, Dharma might as well have been an egg donor. I'm helping her because … I paused. “Well, because it's the right thing to do.” My denial sounded flat, even to my own ears.

I changed the subject before Michael could dig any deeper. “Do you think Maggie killed Raven?”

Michael thought for a moment. “She's hiding something, but I'm not sure it's murder. Maggie never struck me as the violent type. Besides, it sounds like Raven had more of a motive to murder Maggie than vice versa. After all, Maggie was the one inheriting the money.”

“Maybe.” Something tugged at my mind, but I couldn't place it. I felt like a child staring at a puzzle a little too advanced for her grade. Something didn't quite fit, but darned if I could figure out what it was.

“What if money's not the motive?” I asked.

“It might not be. What are you thinking?”

“I keep coming back to the question of
why
.”

“Why kill Raven?”

“No. Why protest DogMa? It couldn't have been easy. Raven had to convince almost two dozen people to travel over seven hundred miles to protest an organization that she founded.”

“Yes, to get even with Maggie.”

“Maybe, but Raven was written out of the will over a year ago. What made her come after DogMa now?”

“If what you overheard Ginny say is true, Raven had dug up some sort of dirt on Maggie.”

“You know Maggie better than I do. Any thoughts on what that might be?”

Michael shook his head. “None.”

“What do you know about her background before DogMa?”

Michael frowned, as if thinking. “Nothing, now that you men
tion it. I wonder what I'd find if I scoured the Internet?” He
drummed the Explorer's steering wheel with his fingertips. “Tell you what. I'll do some digging around online tonight. It would be easier if I knew what I was searching for, but I can look.”

“If you get a chance, try calling Sally, too.”

“What for?”

“I'll bet she knows all of Maggie's skeletons, and she trusts you. She might be willing to spill.”

“It's worth a try.” He looked at his watch. “For now, I need to get to work. Tiffany was supposed to go on lunch break two hours ago.”

I gave Michael a long kiss goodbye in front of Pete's Pets, smiled and waved pointedly at a grumpy-looking Tiffany, and told Michael I'd meet him for dinner at PhinneyWood Pizza at six. Date night plans set, we parted company to spend the afternoon managing our separate businesses.

Rene was watching Bella and I wasn't scheduled to teach the rest of the day, so I had the entire afternoon to do paperwork without any dog-related interruptions. First up was writing a blog article about yoga practices that could reduce belly fat. Then I'd send the studio's long overdue newsletter. After that, I'd start planning the summer series and workshop schedules. Perhaps filling my mind with creative distractions would entice my subconscious to do some work of its own. Like figure out how to get more information on Raven, her organization, and her dysfunctional family.

I glanced at my watch: 2:20 p.m. The Power Yoga class would end in ten minutes. I'd never get any work done in the flurry of post-class activity. Besides, my nerves were still shot from staring down the hollow end of a double-barreled shotgun. Time for some liquid fortification.

A quick stop at Mocha Mia secured my drug of choice, a triple soy macchiato. I commandeered my favorite table by the window, sipped from the
Zombies Are People Too
mug the barista had chosen for me, and stared across the street at my studio. A discouragingly small number of students filtered out the front entrance. Hopefully today's class size wasn't an omen for the future.

I waited another fifteen minutes, then drained the dregs from my cup and left for my blissfully empty studio.

Or so I thought.

When I opened the door, I saw Chai, the Power Yoga instructor, sitting at the front desk looking overwhelmed. A crowd of students huddled around her.

This couldn't possibly be good.

All eight women turned toward me in unison.

“Kate, thank goodness you're here. It's injured. You need to do something.”

At the word “injured,” my stomach dropped to my toes. Yoga—
especially the gentle style I taught—was relatively safe, but no physical activity was completely risk-free. A yoga teacher protected her students by designing an intelligent sequence, choosing poses appropriate for the level of the class, and adapting the form of the poses to each individual student.

Likewise, a yoga studio owner protected her business by hiring qualified instructors and purchasing an ironclad liability insurance policy. In the three years Serenity Yoga had been open, I'd never had reason to call my insurance adjuster. I had a feeling that today might be my day. Visions of heart attacks, ambulances, herniated cervical discs, and legal depositions danced through my head. They were doing the hustle.

I slipped—pardon the pun—automatically into damage-control mode. Thought number one: calling a student “it” wasn't the best choice of words, given the circumstances. Thought number two: if a student was hurt, why was everyone hanging around the front desk instead of attending to her? I put on my responsible, take-charge business owner facade and said, “Don't panic. I'll get the first aid kit. Who got hurt, and where is she? Have you called an ambulance?”

Chai gaped at me like I'd just suggested she teach outdoor nude yoga in Iceland.

“An ambulance? For a pigeon?”

Now I was the one confused.

“A pigeon?”

“Yes, the gray pigeon. You know, from the back doorway. Something's wrong with it, and we don't know what to do. He's on the ground by the bottom stair and, from the mess, he's been there awhile. He barely moves when we walk by, and he doesn't fly at all.” She picked up the phone. “Should we call building maintenance?”

I took the phone out of her hand and placed it firmly back on the receiver. “Absolutely not.” If Alicia's maintenance manager got his hands on the bird, things wouldn't end well for Mister Feathers.

“Well, we can't leave him there. The Kids' Yoga class starts in an hour. We can't let a bunch of five-year-olds find a hurt bird—or worse, a dead bird—on our doorstep. What if one of them touches it?”

Ugh.

Part of me wanted to give in and let the instructor call the maintenance manager. Part of me wanted to ignore the issue and hope that it would somehow magically resolve on its own. Part of me wanted to find a stray alley cat, release it in the stairwell, and let nature take its course. After all, the animal was “just” a pigeon, and one I'd been trying to get rid of at that.

But I couldn't.

I had witnessed way too much death in the past year. I couldn't stand another. Not today. Not on my watch.

“I'll go take a look. He's probably already gone.”

I slipped off my shoes and walked through the yoga room, praying that the bird had miraculously recovered. When I cracked open the back door, the gunmetal gray pigeon that had happily roosted above my entrance two days before huddled, looking helpless, on the ground next to the stairs. I quietly closed the door and went back to the desk.

Chai took one look at my face and said, “We have to do something, Kate. He might be suffering.”

She was right, of course. Fortunately, I had an idea.

“Go keep an eye on him and make sure no one disturbs him. If maintenance comes, tell them I'm handling it.”

Having delegated responsibility for the injured animal squarely onto my shoulders, the students all happily filtered out the front door.

I rummaged around in my purse until I found the flyer that Judith from Precious Life Wildlife Center had given me on Saturday, then picked up the phone and called the number. Judith briskly talked me through a few bird-catching pointers.

“It sounds like he can't fly. If you approach him slowly, he'll likely stay put. Lay a blanket or towel over him to keep him calm, place him in a dark, covered box with plenty of air holes, and bring him to me. I'll help him if I can.” She gave me a single warning. “Whatever you do, don't chase him.” She recited the address for her center and promised to be ready for Mister Feathers when I arrived.

I armed myself with the essentials and did a pre-fight-or-flight check.

Closable cardboard box with air holes punched along the side. Check.

Towels to line said box and place over injured bird. Check.

Goggles and leather gloves in case injured bird is diseased or decides to attack his would-be rescuer. Hmm … that was a problem. Sunglasses and rubber dishwashing gloves would have to do. Check.

I slipped my shoes back on, cracked open the door, and quietly eased outside.

Chai didn't look hopeful. “He hasn't moved since you left. Do you need help getting him in the box?”

“No. Go ahead and stay at the front desk. I can handle this.”

Famous last words.

Of stupid people.

The small, frail-looking bird still huddled in the corner, feathers ruffled, head down. He looked up warily at my approach.

“Easy there, guy. No one's going to hurt you.”

I set the box on the ground, secured my sunglasses, snapped a yellow glove onto each hand, and unfolded the towel. I slowly edged up to the bird and lowered my body into a Full Squat about a foot away from him. I spoke in a low, soft yoga voice.

“Hey there, beautiful. Nice and easy now … ”

I leaned forward, shifted my weight to the balls of my feet, and reached out my arms to drop the towel safely over the bird.

Mister Feathers exploded.

He flapped; he squawked; he jumped; he ran. He spewed feathers in every direction. I let out a loud shriek, instinctively covered my face, and jerked backward, falling squarely on my sitz bones in the day's pile of wet bird droppings.

Well, didn't this give Pigeon Pose a whole new meaning?

I let loose a stream of invectives that should never be uttered within a thousand yards of a yoga studio, ineffectually dabbed at my rear with the towel, and reassessed my options.

Judith's warning taunted me:
Whatever you do, don't chase him.

Did she have a better idea?

I chased that damned bird around the underground parking lot three times, cursing myself for not insisting that the others help me. I dodged between cars; I crawled underneath them. I begged. I pleaded. I muttered at least twelve dozen pigeon-related expletives.

After fifteen minutes of feathered hide-and-seek, I cornered the animal—literally—between the electrical room and the far end of the garage. Mister Feathers either gave up or was too exhausted to continue the chase, because this time he allowed me to gently lay the towel on top of him. I scooped him up, placed him in the box, secured the lid, and victoriously set it on the passenger seat of my car.

I marched back into the studio to call Judith and let her know we were on our way. Chai gaped at me from behind the desk.

“Kate, your pants. Is that … ?”

“Don't ask.”

She tried, unsuccessfully, not to snicker.

I locked myself in the bathroom and cleaned up as best I could. I didn't know how long I'd be wrapped up in the pigeon fiasco, so I wrote a note for the Kids' Yoga teacher telling her I'd be out that afternoon and then left a message on Michael's cell phone asking him to pick up Bella and give me a rain check for dinner. Within five minutes of setting the pigeon-containing box in my Honda, I'd pulled out of the parking garage and headed south to Renton and the animal sanctuary.

Now that I had a moment to find some perspective, I had to admit that the situation could have been worse. Bella could have been in the car with me. She would have taken about twenty-five seconds to devour the entire passenger-seat box and its contents. Then I would have had a dead bird on my conscience. Even worse, I would have needed to guess how much medicine a hundred-pound German shepherd with EPI needed to digest a raw pigeon.

I turned off the radio so the DJ's voice wouldn't frighten the already-
traumatized animal. It was awfully quiet in that box. No bumps, no scratches, no coos—nothing. I lightly placed my hand on the box's lid, hoping to sense movement. More nothing.

Please don't let him be dead
, I silently prayed.

Thirty long, silent minutes later, I turned right on a gravel road and passed a peeling sign that read
Precious Life Wildlife Center
. A few seconds after that, I pulled up next to an old, beat-up station wagon, turned off the ignition, and frowned.

Could this really be it?

I don't know what I was expecting. A sanitized-looking cement building with a neon-lit emergency entrance? A zoo-like fenced pasture filled with happily grazing deer? Maybe a farm, complete with several outbuildings, each providing sanctuary for a specific kind of creature?