A Killer Retreat (2 page)

I took Michael's hand as we headed south along the beach and away from the ferry terminal. Bella alternated between dragging me along the shore and playing “tug the disgusting, slimy stick” with Michael. I mourned my muck-covered shoes, wiped algae off my shirt, and gazed longingly up at the walking trail Bella had vetoed. The asphalt path was liberally dotted with scenic outlooks, wooden benches, and strategically placed garbage cans. It was obviously where the sane people walked.

There wasn't a dog person among them.

All of us crazy dog people tiptoed through goose droppings while lugging around plastic bags filled with dog waste.

Michael didn't seem to notice. He let go of my hand, picked up a rock, and tossed it deep out into the water. He pointed to a preschool-aged boy scavenging treasures along the shoreline.

“He's cute, isn't he?” Michael's eyes held a faraway look. “Think we'll have kids someday?”

I felt the blood drain from my face. Children? Did he just ask me
about children?

Michael and I had been dating for six months, and until now, he'd never mentioned wanting a family. Kids were fine—great even—as long as they were someone else's. But one of my own? The only experience I had with children was in the Mommy and Me yoga class, and even then, I chose to remain on the sidelines. From what I could tell as an observer, the teacher of those exhausted-looking moms and their cute-but-often-screaming progeny should be nominated for sainthood.

“Kate? You OK? You look a little pale.”

I cleared the tightness out of my throat. “I'm fine.” Time to change the subject. I pointed across the water at the Elwha, slowly chugging its way toward us. “Looks like the ferry's almost here. We should start heading back.”

I silently chided myself as we walked back toward the car. May
be
picking this particular working vacation for Michael's and my first trip together hadn't been such a good idea. When I asked Michael to come with me, ten days away seemed exciting—romantic, even. But I hadn't considered the week's main event: the marriage ceremony of Elysian Springs' two caretakers, Emmy and Josh.

Michael had recently started to give me
the look
. I'd read about that look. I'd seen it in movies. I'd even daydreamed about it. But I'd never had
the look
flashed my way. I bolted long before I allowed any relationship to get that far. When it came to men, Rene said it best: I was a serial dumper.

But Michael was different. I didn't
want
to bolt from Michael. I adored him. Next to Bella, he was the best thing that had happened to me in a very long time.

Still, every time he gave me
the look
, I felt an almost irresistible urge to grab Bella, tuck her hundred-pound body under my arm, and run. Cohabiting for ten days might already strain our fledgling relationship. Attending a wedding? That was just asking for trouble.

Michael interrupted my musing. “Heads up, Kate. Trouble ahead.
”

My heart skipped a beat, and not in the titillating, romantic way Michael's look might imply. Several yards away, a small, yapping, black and white Jack Russell terrier bounded along the beach—by himself. He was almost completely white, with black ears and a single black spot that covered his right eye. Cute, in an incorrigible pirate sort of way.

At least 100 feet behind him walked, or more accurately teetered, a thin, blonde woman wearing spiky red heels, a leopard print miniskirt, and a disgusted frown. She held a cigarette in one hand and a cell phone in the other. I watched her pick her way through the seaweed, rocks, and other beach debris. My first thought was
take a look at that woman's outfit. She's obviously not from Seattle.
My second was
and her dog's about to get slaughtered.

I waved to get her attention, but she didn't respond. I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled, “Please call your dog!” Nothing. Maybe she couldn't hear me.

Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for her canine companion. He turned toward my voice and quivered with excitement. I could even have sworn that he smiled.

Uh oh.

I commanded Bella in what I hoped was an enticing, yet authoritative, tone. “Bella, sit.”

As trained, Bella turned her back to the off-leash dog, faced me, and plopped her rear on the ground, fully expecting the treat she was due. I pulled several pieces of dried lamb from my fanny pack, gave her one, and held the rest in reserve.

The terrier sniffed the air. His brown eyes glinted with interest.

My pretend authority morphed into all-too-real terror. I vigorously gesticulated at the phone-engrossed woman. “Hey!” I yelled, pointing at Bella. “This one doesn't like other dogs!” The oblivious owner looked up from her phone, frowned, and turned away.

The pup took one last glance at Bella, then made his decision.

Target acquired.

He bounded toward Bella, wearing a huge doggie grin. I swore I could read that crazy pup's mind.
This is going to be so much fun! First I'm going to eat all of those treats. Then I'm going to grab that big shepherd by her scruff, and we're going to wrestle and roll around on the ground. I'll jump on her back, and pull on her ears, and—

Bella glared at the approaching menace, furrowed her brow, and sent me her own silent message.
I know it upsets you when I get angry. Therefore I will allow the annoying mosquito-dog to live. As long as it doesn't touch me or my food.

This was not going to end well.

I grabbed Bella's harness, held on tight, and fed her a rapid-fire stream of treats. Michael stepped in front of us, pointed his index finger at the misfired rocket-dog, and yelled. “Go home! Now!”

That crazy dog never even slowed down. It ducked underneath Michael's outstretched arm, jumped straight up like pogo stick, and snatched Bella's treats from my hand.

Michael soared through the air like an unpadded football player.
He reflexively grabbed the tiny creature midair then ran off in the opposite direction, putting as much distance between the two dogs
as possible. The clearly unhappy pooch wiggled, squirmed, scratched,
and yelped, trying to get away.

Bella made no attempt to hide her opinion of the rude
stranger-dog. Her muscles tensed; her hair stood on end; she almost decapitated my treat hand and growled under her breath between swallows. But even though her eyes gleamed with malice, her body didn't move.

The overdressed dog walker finally reached us. She ended her phone call with a well-placed poke from a razor-sharp, burgundy-painted fingernail. Up close, I could tell that my first impression had been correct. This woman couldn't possibly be from Seattle. Pacific Northwesterners are notorious for wearing down-to-earth, casual attire. The heavily made-up woman before me wore a huge diamond ring on her fourth finger, matching full-carat studs in her earlobes, and a soft, buttery leather jacket that cost more than the average yoga teacher made in a month. I pasted on a warm smile, hoping to soften her brittle expression.

“I'm sorry about all of the fuss. Would you please hang on to your dog for a minute so we can get by?”

She ignored me and stomped up to Michael.

“Don't. Ever. Touch. My. Dog.”

She snatched the wiggling pup from his hands and gave me a look that would have frozen a Popsicle. “There's nothing wrong with
my
dog.” She pointed a sharp talon at Bella. “If you can't control
that
disgusting creature, you shouldn't take it out in public.”

Prickly defensiveness needled the back of my neck. Who was she calling disgusting?
Her
dog was the one with the problem.
Bella hadn't so much as twitched during the entire incident.

The burgundy-nailed socialite dropped her cigarette and stubbed
it out underneath her stiletto. She tottered about ten feet away, then
turned back to give one final comment.

“Bandit can run wherever he wants. Control your own damned dog!”

She dropped the still-off-leash terriorist back on the ground, pulled out her cell phone, and resumed walking. Bandit bolted toward Bella again.

I had no choice; the only way out of this predicament was up. “Bella, come!” I yelled. I pulled on her leash and ran toward the elevated trail as fast as my stubby five-foot-three-inch body could take me. Bella and I scurried up the rock wall to the path above, claws and shoes slipping on the steep incline. Michael played goalie, fending off the fifteen-pound fur ball. Once Bella and I were safely out of range, he scaled the rock wall after us.

I leaned on a picnic bench and gasped for air, reeling from a tornado-like storm of conflicting emotions: heart-stopping panic, growly defensiveness, righteous indignation—and more than a little leftover twitchiness from Michael's comment about children. In the midst of the chaos, my rattled mind grasped the familiar.

Rage.

“Stay here with Bella,” I said through clenched teeth. My entire body was hot—ready to burst into flames. I felt like a fire breathing dragon covered in gasoline.

Michael blocked me and grabbed my arm. I tried to duck around him.

“What was that woman's problem?” I tried to pull my arm
away,
but Michael held on tight. “Let me go. I'm going after her. She can't let her dog charge Bella like that!”

Michael spoke in the tone used by parents of recalcitrant toddlers. “Leave it, Kate.”

Leave it? Did he just say leave it?

“Leave it” was a common dog command, one I'd been trying to teach Bella for weeks. When I said “leave it,” Bella was supposed to ignore whatever she was going after and pay attention to me.

Unfortunately for Michael, I wasn't yet trained.

I was about to tell Michael
what
he could leave and precisely
where
he could leave it, when a voice sounded over the loudspeaker. “Now boarding walk-on passengers for the three-fifty sailing to Orcas Island. Drivers, please return to your vehicles.”

The prospect of missing the ferry quashed my inner inferno. If we missed this sailing, we were in for a long wait. The next ferry didn't leave until eight. I took several deep breaths, trying to rein in my Mount Vesuvius-like temper.

Michael's voice softened. “Kate, honey, let it go. Not everyone understands how dangerous it is to let their dogs run out of control like that. You won't change her mind, anyway. We need to head back to the car.” He released my arm. “Besides, we'll probably never see her again. She doesn't seem like the roughing-it type.”

My spine still tingled with electric annoyance, but deep down inside, I knew Michael was right. Nobody wore an expensive leather jacket and diamond studs to a vegan retreat center. I'd gain nothing by creating a scene. Nothing but embarrassment and a four-hour wait for the next ferry.

The sound of starting car engines rumbled from the holding area.

I frowned toward the beach; Bella whined and pulled toward the parking lot.

“Kate?”

“OK. Let's head back.”

Michael admonished me as we hurried back to the ferry. “That temper of yours is going to get you into real trouble some day.”

two

“I still can't believe
the nerve of that stupid b—”

Michael gave me a stern look.

“Of that stupid
beach witch
.”

“Don't call her a witch, either. Ease off on the mean nicknames. There's no need to be snide.”

“But she
was
a witch! How could she call Bella disgusting? Bella was an angel! Her dog, on the other hand …”

Michael gripped the Explorer's steering wheel so hard his
knuckles
turned white. I'd managed to complain for three hours straight about our ill-fated dog encounter. I fumed during the sixty-five
minute ferry ride, griped the entire drive to Eastsound, Orcas
Island's largest city, and grumbled through every bite of our otherwise delicious Mexican dinner. My irritated complaints burned hotter than the jalapeño
margaritas I slurped between sentences.

No doubt about it, I was still angry. But I was also practicing a skill never taught in
The Yoga Sutras
: active avoidance. After listening to me rant for 180 minutes straight, Michael would be in no mood to discuss our future progeny or daydream about weddings.
I glanced at my watch. Three hours down, 237 more to go. If I didn't
come up with a new way to distract him soon, it could be a very long trip.

“I'm telling you, Michael, that woman—”

“For goodness sake, Kate. Don't you need to check your voice mail or something?”

I continued grumbling, but I pulled out my cell phone—which Michael had returned to me on the ferry—and poked at it repeatedly with my index finger until it finally turned on.

Michael reached over and turned up the radio.

Twenty music-filled, conversation-free minutes later, we arrived at Elysian Springs. Michael drove down a long gravel driveway and parked next to a multi-acre field dotted with picnic tables, fire pits, and volleyball nets. A large, six-sided yurt stood on one end; children's playground equipment occupied the other.

I opened the car door and took a deep breath of nature's finest air freshener—a mixture of salt, pine, and a scent I could only describe as pure, unadulterated oxygen. The sky had turned blue-black, but the moon glowed pale yellow, illuminating the area around me.

I stretched the stiffness out of my back and slowly turned a full circle to take in my surroundings. The property was huge—much larger than I'd imagined. An eclectic variety of ancient log cabins, small painted sheds, and multilevel houses dotted the horizon. Signs pointed the way to the beach, several hiking trails, the center's campgrounds, and an organic garden. A newer-looking group of buildings housed some of the facility's recently added amenities, including a library, restaurant, hot tubs, and sauna. Michael and I would have no trouble occupying our free time.

Michael took Bella for a brief walk to explore her new territory while I followed a dimly lit path to a building marked “Office.” Each crunch of my shoes against the bark-covered trail released more of my tension. According to MapQuest, Michael and I had only travelled 120 miles from Seattle, but I felt like I'd disembarked on an entirely different planet.

As a yoga teacher, I made a living—albeit one barely above poverty level—helping others find inner peace. But I could never fully escape the noise of the city. The rumble of cars trapped on traffic-snarled highways, the pounding barrage of construction, the ever-present buzz of ambient electricity. Sound waves battered my eardrums 24/7, pummeling my nervous system with energetic dissonance.

But not here.

Here, my nervous system unwound in a soothing vacation from
mechanized sound. All I could hear were the soft, breath-like sounds
of the ocean punctuated by the hollow clunking of bamboo wind chimes. I'd been at Elysian Springs less than ten minutes, but I had already fallen in love. Someday I might have to move here.

A “Closed” sign hung from the office's door, but a large manila envelope with my name on it was taped to the front. The envelope contained two sets of keys to our cabin, a map of the grounds, and an invitation to attend an open house the following evening. A second, smaller envelope contained a key to Shanti House—the yurt I'd seen earlier—and a list of the classes I was scheduled to teach in exchange for my stay. I smiled.
Shanti
was the Sanskrit word for peace, the perfect name for a yoga and meditation space.

I returned the contents to the envelope, turned to walk back to the car—and froze.

What was that smell?

I took three quick sniffs, like Bella scenting a cat near her territory. Acrid cigarette smoke stung my nostrils.

A female voice whispered from around the corner. “I can't talk long. Bruce will get suspicious.”

My shoulders crept up to my earlobes. My teeth ground together. That voice sounded familiar. Frighteningly, annoyingly familiar.

It couldn't be …

I tiptoed toward the sound, praying that my suspicions were wrong.

“I know. I'd rather be there with you, too.” No reply. I assumed she was talking on a cell phone. “I told you. I
had
to come. Bruce would have blown a gasket if I missed the wedding.”

I didn't want to eavesdrop—or at least that's what I told myself. No self-respecting yoga teacher would engage in such boorish behavior. But I had to confirm the speaker's identity, if not for myself, then for Bella. I flattened my body against the building, leaned to the side in a poorly executed Crescent Moon Pose, and peeked around the corner. All I could make out was the orange glow of her cigarette.

“Don't be stupid,” she whispered. “You know I can't risk being
seen with you here. Besides, this place is perfectly awful. You wouldn't
like it at all.” She took a long drag from her cigarette. “It's bad enough that we had to fly all the way across the country to meet
Emilee's countrified boyfriend and his hillbilly family. Couldn't
she at least have had the common courtesy to get married some place decent, like Canlis?”

Emilee? Does she mean Emmy?

The name screeched through my psyche like two pieces of Styrofoam rubbed together. Emmy was one of the center's two caretakers.
Canlis, one of Seattle's fanciest restaurants. The type of restaurant a diamond-encrusted beach walker might like to frequent.

I sagged against the cool wood siding and continued listening.

“Well, Bruce certainly shouldn't have to pay for it. That old battle axe got plenty of money in the divorce settlement. Surely, she could spring for something better than this rat trap.”

Deep in my core, I already knew the speaker's identity. I didn't want to believe it, but I knew. Still, a girl can dream can't she? There was only one way to find out for sure. I held my breath and silently counted.

One, two …

At three, I flew forward, quickly glanced around the corner, and jumped back again.

Suspicions confirmed.

It was the Beach Witch. And she was here for the wedding.

Her whispers grew louder and more agitated. “Helen will get more money out of Bruce over my dead body.”

Now
there
was a thought …

“Don't you
dare
threaten me.”

I flinched. Had I said that out loud?

I peeked around the corner again, half-expecting to find myself nose-to-agitated-nose with a stiletto-heeled blonde. I saw the back of her jacket instead. She faced away from me, phone still firmly glued to her ear.

“I told you, I'm working on it. First I have to get those interminable alimony payments stopped.” She took a final drag from her cigarette and dropped the butt on the ground. “Yeah, well, we'll see how guilty Bruce feels when I tell him her little secret.”

Michael yelled from the parking lot. “Kate? Are you coming?”

She glanced furtively toward the sound. “Someone's coming. I have to go.” She hung up the phone with an audible click, shoved it into her jacket pocket, and scurried away.

I emerged from my hiding place, stomped out her still smolder-
i
ng cigarette, and shook my entire body, like Bella did when she forced
water from her deep black coat.

I tried to reassure myself that my discovery wasn't all bad. True,
the Beach Witch and I would have to coexist on the same ninety acres for the next several days. But on the plus side, she didn't seem like the yoga type. She'd probably kick a down dog before she'd practice one.

I chose to ignore the quiet voice in my head urging me to grab Bella and race back to Seattle, while we could still escape.

_____

Michael and I followed the map to our cabin and parked directly outside of it.

“I'll bring the bags inside in a minute,” Michael said. “Let's go check out the space.” He led me to the tiny deck and opened the door with a flourish. “After you, Madame.”

I stepped into the living room and flipped on the lights. One of the two remaining bulbs in the overhead fixture flickered, sizzled, and went out, plunging the room into dingy grayness.

This is it? Seriously?

Our cabin was, to put it mildly, a dump. It looked nothing like the opulent, eco-sensitive, fair-trade-decorated accommodations bragged about on Elysian Springs' website. Nothing at all.

The accommodations online featured gleaming bamboo floors, brightly colored area rugs, and soothing indoor water fountains. Our cabin boasted scuffed pine flooring, an ancient, filthy welcome mat, and water dripping from a leaky kitchen faucet.

At first I felt profound disappointment, but after a few moments
I let go of my expectations and tapped into the energy of the space. The energy felt deep. Quaint. Peaceful. To my surprise, I
liked
Michael's and my new dumpy digs, even if they would never grace the cover of
House Beautiful
.

Bella didn't share my initial dumpy-digs disappointment. She charged gleefully through the door and explored her new surroundings, completely ignoring the “Please Keep Dogs Off Furniture” signs. First she ran into the kitchen and placed her paws on the counter, hoping to find pot roast, I assumed. Then she jumped on the couch and furiously dug, as if searching for buried treasure. Finding nothing of interest there, she leaped onto the room's only guest chair, sat, and regally stared across the room at Michael and me. A German shepherd queen commanding her subjects.

“Bella, off,” I said uselessly.

Bella atypically complied. Living room secured, she galloped off to the bedroom, where she jumped on the sagging, headboard-free
mattress, turned a quick circle, and flopped on her belly. The an
cient box spring groaned in metallic complaint; Bella moaned in pure canine pleasure. She rolled to her side, spread her body diagonally across the mattress, and claimed it as her own. Evidently, Michael and I could sleep on the floor.

While Bella took a well-earned nap and Michael brought in the luggage, I did some exploring of my own. A little cleaning was definitely in order. A fine layer of dust covered the windowsill; intricate cobwebs decorated the corners; dust bunnies peeked out from under the sofa. The chipped porcelain sink in the kitchen was bare, except for a single threadbare towel draped over the faucet. I opened the cupboards and discovered several mismatched plates, four plastic glasses, and an assortment of chipped coffee mugs.

I vowed to take a dust rag to the place the next morning and brighten the living room with a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers. In the meantime, I grabbed the first two duffle bags off the floor and started unpacking the myriad of treats, toys, food, and medicines that I had packed for Bella. I opened one of the plastic containers of Bella's food and admired my handiwork. A small pile of powdered medicines sat at the top. I laid its twenty-nine identical friends out on the table and lined them up like soldiers in formation.

Michael set the final two bags on the floor. “Didn't you say we were staying in a cabin for four?”

“I thought so. When I agreed to take lodging as part of my fee, they said I could bring up to three friends.” I gestured around the room. “But where would the other two sleep?”

Michael tugged at the edge of the couch. It flopped open in an undignified a flurry of dust, fur, animal dander, and debris.

Bella charged from the bedroom and skidded to a stop. An exposed, uninaugurated surface would never do. She jumped onto the middle of the sofa bed, flipped on her back, and proceeded to roll back and forth, waving her paws in the air. Michael sneezed.

I laughed. “It's a good thing Rene and Sam didn't come, after all. Can you imagine Rene sleeping on that hide-a-bed?” Rene was my best friend, my touchstone. During the tough months after my father's death, she had even been the source of my sanity. But her idea of
roughing it
was staying in a suite without in-room Jacuzzis. I'd never live it down if she had to sleep in the middle of this dust bowl.

“Have you heard from her since we left?” Michael asked.

I pulled the Yoga Chick out of my purse and pressed on the screen. For once she magically came to life. Still no missed calls. “No, she hasn't called once.”

“That's not like her.”

“No, it's not. Neither is cancelling at the last minute.” I bit my lower lip. “Do you think I should be worried?”

“Anyone can get the stomach flu, Kate. You'd just be stressing
out over nothing.” He paused a beat. “But then again, when has that
ever stopped you?” He grinned and scooted away before I could hit him with one of the couch's throw pillows.

Michael meant well, but he didn't know Rene—not the way I did. Rene's stomach was tougher than mummified shoe leather. In the eighteen years she and I had been friends, Rene had never missed a meal. And she lived for the opportunity to make my life miserable. Forgoing a week-long vacation with nothing better to do than torture me? She'd have to be terminal.