Chapter Twenty-Six

Erin arrived late to yoga class Monday afternoon and stumbled as she bent to unroll her mat in the back of the room. She hated being late. Her favorite spot in the far-right corner was taken, so she had to settle for a spot near the door. Joining the rest of the class sitting cross-legged on their mats, she tried to use her breath to calm her mind.

In the front of the room sat the teacher, Kira Robinson, a slim Anglo-Indian woman with the taut body and unlined face of a devoted yogi. She sat in a perfect lotus position, feet tucked over each other, limber as a cat. Erin frowned as her hips protested the pose; she would never be that flexible, no matter how many yoga classes she took. Years of running had seen to that, the pavement pounding already taking a toll on her joints.

“Pay attention to your breath,” Kira said in a soothing voice. “Don’t try to control it, just observe. In, out, in, out.”

The smell of rubber mats and sweat mixed with the faint aroma of lavender from the burning candle behind the teacher. The flame flickered and blinked in the breeze coming from the ill-fitting window sash.

“In, out, in, out. Breathe in using your diaphragm, taking air all the way down into your belly. Hold it for a moment.”

Erin closed her eyes, savoring the stillness of the room. The only sound was the wind whistling through the building’s ancient eaves, punctuated by the occasional cawing from the family of crows who lived in the gnarled oak tree overlooking the graveyard.

“I invite you to chant the universal sound of om three times,” said Kira.

Erin took a deep breath, letting it release slowly as she joined the rest of the class in the chant. There were a couple of men in class, their voices deepening the resonance of the collective sound.

Ooooomm.

When she’d first begun practicing yoga, Erin had thought the chanting was silly, but now she looked forward to it. The sound of many voices caressed the air in the room, soft as feathers.

Ooooomm.

She deepened her breath, the vibrations soothing her nerve fibers, surrounding her like a blanket.

Ooooomm.

After the chanting, Kira led them through a gentle flow, starting with floor poses before moving on to sun salutations. As she moved into her first Downward Dog, Erin caught a glimpse of curly black hair in the front row. Though nearsighted without her glasses, Erin was pretty sure it was Jonathan Alder. Those curls were unmistakable. What was he doing here? An unwelcome tingle emanated from her lower spine, and sweat dotted her forehead as she held the pose. Her yoga was a time for meditation, a sacred hour away from worldly things like sexual attraction. In class she was the Goddess Diana, pure and chaste, interested only in the hunt for enlightenment.

They moved through the vinyasa to plank pose, the top of a push-up, arms extended, back straight. She could no longer see Jonathan.

“And hold it … a little longer,” Kira said.

Erin groaned as her arms began to shake and a few drops of sweat spattered the mat.

“Almost done,” Kira crooned. She was getting on Erin’s nerves, with that Earth Goddess voice, so full of her own virtue, so damn centered and calm.

“Three more seconds.”

Erin began to pant.

“And move through your flow to upward dog.”

Erin let out a rush of air from her lungs as she sank gratefully to the floor, pausing for a moment before sliding into upward dog. She could see Jonathan up in front, head thrown back, curls splayed across his shoulders. She felt the unwelcome tingle again, and took a deep breath before moving back into downward dog.

Steady on, old girl. The phrase her father used to say to her mother suddenly popped into her head, although she hadn’t thought about it in years. Hardly an “old girl,” her mother, dying before the bloom of youth had fled her cheeks.

“Let’s work on some balancing poses now,” Kira cooed serenely. “We’ll start with tree pose.”

Erin gritted her teeth. She was lousy at tree—not because her balance was bad, but because her joints were stiff, so she had trouble sliding her foot very far up the standing leg.

“Hands in prayer pose or over your head,” Kira continued, effortlessly tucking the heel of her foot into her crotch.

Erin grimly willed her foot to go higher. To her dismay, Jonathan was very adept at the pose, balancing easily on one leg, hands over his head. Show-off, Erin thought, angry at herself for caring. She tried to avoid comparing herself to the other students, to not judge herself or others. That was the yogi way, and it was liberating—but today she failed to live up to the ideal, and it made her grumpy.

They moved through warrior three and half moon, which Erin was very good at. It was satisfying to see Jonathan fail to lift his leg nearly as high as hers. Kira finished the class with a couple of bridge pose back bends, and finally inversions. A few people were advanced enough to do headstands, but Erin was content doing her usual shoulder stand. She noted that Jonathan did not attempt a headstand.

After the final Oooom, Erin bowed to the instructor and rose, gathering up her mat. As she stood in line waiting to put her mat in the big straw basket in the back of the room, she saw Rosita Selario, Sylvia Pemberthy’s housecleaner. Rosita was a good customer of the Readers Quarry, always in search of the latest cookbook. She was talking to a small, older woman with a long, lustrous black braid.

“She told me she was about to break it off with him, and he wasn’t happy about it,” said Rosita. She was a lanky Latina woman with a fashion model’s figure, smooth brown skin, and long, sharp fingernails. Erin had no idea how she did housecleaning with those nails.

The other woman shook her head. “I don’t like that man—there’s something not right about him.”

“So did she break up with him before she was—?”

Rosita leaned down to put her mat in the basket. “Querido Dios, I don’t know.”

“Did you tell the police?” asked the other woman.

“No.”

“They didn’t interview you?”

“Not yet,” Rosita said.

Her friend unraveled her long black braid as the two waited in line to return their foam blocks to a second basket. “You should go to them. Might help catch the killer.”

“I have a policy with the policía. They don’t bother me, I don’t bother them.”

The other woman said something in Spanish Erin couldn’t make out.

The two women walked toward the exit, speaking in hushed tones, their heads close. As Erin put her mat in the basket, her hair barrette came loose and clattered to the floor. She looked up to see Jonathan holding it out to her.

“I think you dropped this,” he said, a friendly smile on his absurdly handsome face.

“Oh, cheers,” she said breezily.

“I didn’t know you were a yogi.”

“I usually come to the earlier class.”

“Got stuck late at the office, eh?”

“‘Life seems but a quick succession of—’”

“‘Busy nothings,’” he finished for her.

“Well played,” she said, taking her mat to the bin in the back of the room.

“Sometimes this class is the only thing that keeps me sane,” he said, following her. “After all day with the kids, you need something like this to clear the mind.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, busying herself tidying the mats in the bin.

“Fancy a coffee?”

“It’s getting late, and I have to—”

“A pint, then?”

There was no dodging it.

“Why not?” she said.