Chapter 12. Is Downward Dog the Worst Position?
Is Downward Dog the Worst Position?
“And breathe out slowly, taking everything in, releasing everything out as you do your sun salutation and flow into downward dog, placing your hands wide, fingers extended. Feel that sand, smell the ocean, what a time to be alive,” the yoga instructor says in a melodious voice that matches the tempo of the waves rolling gently into the shore.
And yet here I am doing yoga because I couldn’t sleep after Guy died right next to me last night, and Oliver suggested that yoga might help me to relax.
Um, no.
Putting aside the whole second dead body before the first day of this weekend is over thing, yoga doesn’t relax me. Instead, it frees my mind to do what it loves to do the most: act like a hamster on a wheel that’s chasing a dangling piece of cheese or whatever the hell it is that hamsters eat.
So, no, yoga wasn’t a good idea.
And yet here I am in spandex that’s making me feel like I’ve been stuffed into it, in a group of people that likely contains a murderer.
Did you know that once you’ve committed two murders, you’re considered a serial killer?
Oh, wait, no, you need to kill or attempt to kill four people before you get that label.
Great.
They aren’t a serial killer yet. Assuming Brian was their first kill (though why I’m assuming that, I have no idea), can we expect two more bodies, or are they just going to quit while they’re, um, ahead?
Ha.
No.
Which brings me back to Guy.
Needless to say, no one was interested in ghost stories when we had a real murder to solve.
Not that anyone’s said “murder.”
The working theory—according to Officer Rolle, who looked so pleased to have to come back to the property for the third time and second body that day—is that Guy had a heart attack.
A man in his fifties who hasn’t made the best dietary choices in his life in a stressful situation who keels over after a large meal. I get the assumption, I do.
But we know better, don’t we?
Because people don’t just coincidentally die of heart attacks in these types of situations.
Like how twins are never the answer to a murder mystery.
It’s never twins, and it’s never a heart attack.
So he was poisoned, and for some reason, the police don’t seem that interested in solving it, even though there’s been one murder already.
Instead, Officer Rolle questioned the people at my table for a couple of hours, and most of the conference participants acted like they were in some parlor game.
That they’d signed up for one of those fake-murder mystery tours where you’re acting out a murder in real time instead of attending a how-to-write-a-perfect-murder-mystery conference.
I guess the two have merged into one. Which I should’ve seen coming.
Stefano was right in the thick of it, making TikToks about how he had massive news to share, but they’d have to come back for the next part because his video was getting too long and he wasn’t sure what he was legally allowed to say.
Officer Rolle eventually issued him a warning, but unless he confiscates Stefano’s phone, he’s not going to stop.
I already know him well enough to know that.
Take right now: He’s at the yoga class, covertly filming us and narrating who we are. He’s several people over from me, so I can only hear snippets.
“… suspect number one … New York Times … best works behind her…”
He better not be talking about me.
“And now let’s bring up our heart’s center and transition into a sun salutation.”
The yoga instructor has a perky name, like Cindy or Crystal, and 0 percent body fat. But she also looks happy and peaceful, so I make a half-hearted attempt to mimic her body motion and promise myself for the thousandth time that I’ll start stretching more.
“You holding up okay?” Oliver says next to me. He’s not a yoga guy, but he is my guy, so he came along for the ride or whatever this is.
“I guess? I mean, if the yoga doesn’t kill me, then…”
He shakes his head slowly. “Not funny.”
“I make jokes to cope with my fears.”
“I know.”
We share a shy smile, and I flash back to the scene when we arrived back at our room last night.
It was close to midnight, and I was keyed up and exhausted, and all I wanted to do was swan dive into my bed.
But instead of the crisp white sheets with too many throw pillows I’d imagined, the bed was strewn with rose petals that collected into a large heart in the center.
Oliver blanched when he saw them and immediately started clearing them off while I stood there in stunned silence.
Was my proposal interrupted by a murder?
That tracks.
Oliver wouldn’t say. He just muttered something about the hotel being confused because we were in the honeymoon suite, and then he locked himself in the bathroom for way longer than it usually takes for him to get ready at night, while I got into my pajamas and took off my makeup like a robot.
But there wasn’t any sleeping after that.
I feel like I may never sleep again.
Instead, I crafted fantasy proposal after fantasy proposal where no one was dead and Oliver said romantic things and I said “yes” before he was finished getting the words out.
“I can’t believe they didn’t question us more,” Harper says. Unlike me, she’s very bendy and has her body folded over in a half-hinge position with her head between her legs. And yet she looks perfectly normal, her face composed, her hair in a perky ponytail.
“I can’t believe they think it was a heart attack,” Connor says next to her. He’s wearing red running shorts that are a little too short and a black tech shirt.
Only Connor doesn’t run unless it’s away from responsibility.
“I believe it,” Sandrine says, lifting her foot off the ground and holding her hands in a prayer position over her heart. “Guy never turned down a piece of red meat in his life.”
“Fat-shaming, nice.”
Sandrine shrugs her toned shoulders. She’s no stranger to a yoga class. When we were friends, she used to try to convince me to go with her, but after I pretended, once, that it was a pole dancing class and cracked jokes through the whole thing, she stopped asking.
Or the instructor told her I was banned.
Same, same.
“I call them like I see them,” Sandrine says. “Unlike you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve never had an original thought about anything.”
“For the love of God, Sandrine, I did not steal your book plot.”
“So you say.”
“Explain to me how I did this. I want the details. Which book? Which plot? Which book of yours?”
“Ladies!” The yoga instructor claps her hands together loudly. “Please. This is not the Zen I was hoping for in this class.”
We both mutter “Sorry,” and I try to focus on the instructions the instructor gives for the next ten minutes and get into the flow. But it’s no use. All I can see is Guy’s distended face and the way his eyes accused me before he was removed to the floor and covered with a sheet by the medical tech.
Because I was supposed to be the victim.
He drank a poisoned soup that was meant for me.
Metaphorically, I mean.
Soup wasn’t on the menu.
I was.
How do I know this?
Well … remember that thing back there about how to write a murder and what’s supposed to happen in the first act? That technique of showing the reader all the reasons the assembled suspects would want them dead?
That was me, right?
I’m the one with a list of suspects who want me dead.
Sandrine, Stefano, Ravi, Connor, Cathy—I can’t even remember which order I placed them in because I’m exhausted … If they all hate one person, it’s me.
But I’m not dead. Maybe there’s another explanation.
Maybe it was Guy who was the target after all.
Because I’m not believing this heart attack shit for one minute.
I said that before, didn’t I?
This is not good. I remember reading once that if you get less than six hours of sleep, you lose ten IQ points for every hour. So if you start with a 120 IQ, for example, and you get no sleep, you are operating at 60, which is somewhere below primate, I believe.
The science might not be exact on this, but I do feel deeply dumb.
Still, I’m going to press on, because remember that thing about hamster-wheel brain that I also mentioned back there?
ANYWAY, bear with me.
Can I make a list of people who hated Guy?
Not that hate is the only motive for murder. There are lots of reasons to kill someone. Greed. Fear. Love. Revenge. But something about this feels personal.
Which means that if Guy was the intended victim, then Connor is suspect number one.
Why is Guy here? Why would he take a job as head of security if it wasn’t to get close to me? Was it to get close to Connor? But why?
Brian was blackmailing guests, according to Guy. Or was that Inspector Tucci? Regardless, nothing Guy said is reliable, and for all I know, he was Inspector Tucci’s source.
Guy doesn’t need to spy on Connor to get information to blackmail him with. I’m sure he has more than enough fodder for that.
So what was he up to? Maybe they were working together? Him and Brian, the other dead guy. Right, that makes sense. They’re both dead. They have to be connected. But—they’re both dead, so there’s someone else involved.
So how did it work? I’ve been fed some facts, but I don’t have to accept any of them.
I shouldn’t.
Maybe the crazy wall in Brian’s room was a distraction put there by Guy to throw everyone off his trail.
I didn’t get that good a look at it, but there are lots of pictures of me on the internet.
It wouldn’t be that hard to print some up and post them in Brian’s room and make it look like he’d been stalking me.
Guy could’ve lured Brian to my room to kill him. He could’ve erased himself from the camera footage. And maybe there’s another way into the room so it’s not a locked-room murder at all; it just looks like one.
But why would he kill Brian? Was he going to give up the plot? Which was what? To kill Connor? After all this time? Why?
“Breathe, El,” Oliver says, touching my arm.
“What?”
“You’re bright red. I don’t think you’ve taken a breath in two minutes.”
I breathe in slowly, the oxygen flooding my brain. Oliver’s right. My heart is racing, and my mind feels like it’s about to descend into mania.
“Did you do it?” I say to Connor. He’s struggling to stand on one leg while his left foot is resting against his right calf. I’d laugh if I weren’t too tired to think straight.
But this. I think I’m right about this.
He gives up trying to balance and lowers his foot to the sand. “Did I do what?”
“Kill Guy.”
“What? No.”
“I don’t believe you.”
His eyes look up toward the sky. “This again. You always think I’m up to no good.”
“Because you are.”
“El, leave it,” Oliver says. “We’re all tired.”
I stare at him for a minute, then pull Oliver aside. “What is going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“No, it’s something. Usually, you’re right there with me in hating on Connor. But ever since we got here, you’ve been chill. Why?”
“Don’t you think we need to move on from Connor? He’s taken up too much space in our relationship.”
“I agree.”
“I let it go. Him. All of it.”
My eyes feel like they’re going to bug out of my head. “Like Elsa?”
“What?”
“You know that song from that kids’ movie.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter. Go on.”
Oliver takes my hand and squeezes it. “I found peace with it. He’s in your life. He’s in mine. Are we going to be best friends? No. But I can’t change that, so I’m choosing to accept it and keep it from impacting me.”
“Wow.”
“You should try it.”
“Right. Only … what if he killed Guy?”
Oliver frowns. “What evidence do you have for that?”
“He’s the only one here with a motive to kill him.”
“You sure about that? And what about the other victim?”
“I have an explanation for that. I mean, I think I do.”
“I know you’re scared.” Oliver puts his hands on my shoulders and gazes into my eyes. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
“Will we?”
“Yes. And in the meantime, I won’t let you out of my sight.”
“You still think I’m the intended victim?”
“Regardless, we need to figure it out.”
“Obvi.”
He smiles. “This class blows. Should we get some breakfast?”
“Good idea.” I turn toward the rest of the class, all of whom have stopped doing their exercises and are looking at us expectantly. Stefano has his phone facing me at his hip, probably hoping I won’t notice he’s filming. “All eyes on us, I guess.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
And that’s where Oliver and I are different. Because he’s always expecting the best. In us, in himself, in me.
But me?
I’m always braced for impact.