January 8 is the official launch day for my third Downward Dog Mystery, Karma's a Killer, but I can't wait until then to share the book with you. So now, for your reading pleasure, I present to you--the first chapter of Karma's a Killer!
CHAPTER 1
“I can’t believe I let Michael talk me into this. The man is
obviously nuts.”
I reached out my arms and slowly turned a complete circle,
trying to fully take in the deafening chaos around me.
Under different circumstances, I probably would have been the one referred to as crazy. I was,
after all, muttering to myself while spinning like a slow-motion top. But
today, nobody seemed to notice. The soccer fields of Seattle’s Green Lake Park undulated
with a buzzing, beehive-like swarm of people.
And their dogs.
Lots and lots of dogs.
All blocking the path to my destination.
A golden retriever pulled toward me from the front,
practically dislocating the shoulder of an acne-scarred teenager. Behind me, a
yapping Chihuahua flashed piranha-like teeth at the backs of my ankles. To my
right, a geriatric woman tried, unsuccessfully, to restrain an adolescent bull mastiff
that was seemingly intent on saying hello to, well, to everyone.
And that was just the start.
Each time a potential path opened, it was quickly obscured by
a new member of the dense canine stew. I almost squeezed between two
roughhousing pit bulls, but I got distracted by a huge Rottweiler head attached
to six-inch-long wiener dog legs. A Rott-wiener? Was that even physically
possible?
By the time I shook off the image, the momentary opening had
disappeared.
The closely packed crowd shouldn’t have surprised me. Over
two thousand people had registered for Paws Around Green Lake, today’s 5K dog
“fun” walk. Twice as many as my boyfriend, Michael, had anticipated when he
agreed to organize the fundraising event. I should have been happy for Michael,
and I was. I was even happier for DogMa, the no-killanimal shelter that
would receive the day’s proceeds. Or I would have been, if those same two
thousand bodies hadn’t stood between me and my destination.
If only I’d brought my 100-pound German shepherd, Bella,
with me. My treat-motivated tracker-dog would have bee-lined it straight for
the food vendors, parting the crowd with me flying like a kite behind her. But Bella
still didn’t like other dogs, or most bearded men, for that matter. I could
never insert her into this canine carnival—not without risking a multiple-dog homicide—and
it was too warm on this uncharacteristically sunny spring day to leave her in
the car, even if I parked in the shade.
So here I was, on my own.
I took a step back and assessed the event’s layout, trying to
simultaneously decipher an entrance and plot my escape. The normally empty
field had been marked off in sectors. The northernmost end held a multicolored
assortment of receptacles marked garbage, recycle, pet waste, and compost. Where
the trash cans left off, a golden line of stacked straw bales began, outlining the
fenced area allocated to Dale’s goat petting farm.
To the south stood a stage, a registration desk, several
food vendors, and the roped-off area I would later use as makeshift yoga studio.
The rest of the perimeter was lined with about two dozen tent-covered booths. My
goal, should I choose to accept it, was to find the one assigned to my yoga
studio, Serenity Yoga.
Okay, Kate. You
can do this.
I plugged my ears to block out the din, lifted my heels, and
stood on my toes in a tennis-shoed Tadasana, trying to see over the masses.
Maybe if I jag to
the right, dive under that banner and—
“Whoa!”
The Chihuahua sank his teeth into my pant leg and yanked. I flailed
my arms and tried—unsuccessfully—to stay balanced. My left foot got tangled in
the fur-covered piranha’s leash; my right hand connected solidly with his
owner’s coffee cup. The lid flew across the field. Hot, dark brown liquid
spilled down my shirt.
“Hey!” she snapped. “What are you, drunk?”
I opened my mouth to apologize, but the supermodel-thin
woman didn’t give me a chance. She snatched her dog off my pant leg, ignored
the hot liquid soaking my chest, and pierced me with an ice pick-sharp glare.
“Watch where you’re going, you big oaf. You could have hurt Precious.”
My ears zipped right past the word “oaf” and landed solidly
on “big.” Who was she calling big? I’d lost almost twenty pounds in the six
months since my misadventures on Orcas. Even I had to admit that my
five-foot-three-inch body had finally landed on the thin side of normal.
But that didn’t stop me from feeling insulted.
My body reacted much faster than my mind could control it. Anger-laced
adrenaline zapped down my spine. My fingers curled into tight fists. My teeth
clenched together so hard I was afraid I might shatter a molar.
Every fiber of my being wanted to lash back, which wasn’t
surprising. I’d struggled with my Hulk-like alter ego since my first
two-year-old temper tantrum. But I was trying to change—to better embody the
yoga principles I believed in.
My father’s voice echoed inside my head.
Don’t do it, Kate.
Not today. You don’t want to create a scene today.
Three years after his death, Dad was still right. Today’s
event was important to Michael—too important to risk ruining. Besides, I had
vowed not to lose my temper anymore. If I’d learned anything on Orcas, it was
that bad things sometimes happened when I got angry. Sometimes people got hurt.
I shuddered.
I couldn’t let myself think about that.
Instead, I took a deep breath, consciously relaxed my jaw,
and forced my lips into a smile.
The Chihuahua’s owner thrust her empty cup in my face. “You
owe me a new mocha.”
Honorable intentions be damned. I seriously wanted to punch
her.
My only alternative was to retreat.
I tossed her a five-dollar bill, took three large steps
back, and bumped into the teenager. “I’m sorry.” I turned right and tripped
over the mastiff. “Excuse me.” I stumbled and “excused me’d” and “I’m so sorry’d”
my way through the crowd, toward the water. I burst onto the path and bolted past
the Green Lake Community Center to my new destination: a large, T-shaped wooden
dock. The clamor faded to silence.
Empty. Thank
goodness.
The scarred wooden dock was normally occupied by local fishermen,
but for the moment, it was mine. The crowds, noise, and limited parking kept everyone
but the dog walkers away from Green Lake today.
I stood at the dock’s southernmost end, as far away from the
pandemonium as possible. For several long, lunacy-free moments, I found peace.
I stared at the lake, smelled the crisp, clean scent of the water, and took slow,
soothing breaths. Hypnotizing light jewels rippled off the lake’s surface. The boards
underneath my feet gently swayed. My nervous system rebalanced, forcing my inner
demon back into her lair.
When I finally felt ready, I touched my palms together in
the prayer-like Anjali Mudra, bowed my head to reconnect with my center, and
turned back toward the soccer fields.
Bummer.
If anything, they looked more chaotic. I couldn’t deal with all
of those people. Not yet.
Perhaps a short visualization practice would help.
I sat cross-legged on a relatively goose-dung-free spot,
closed my eyes, and touched my fingertips to the wood’s warm, rough surface. The
sun melted my shoulders; a cool breeze pinked my cheeks.
I mentally transported myself to the beach near the soccer
fields. Soft, white energy floated above the water and spilled over the lake’s borders.
The fog-like mist expanded, filling the grassy area. It stilled the crowd,
creating more space. In my mind’s eye, I reached out my hand. The field still
wasn’t empty, but at least it was permeable. I could sift through the crowd,
untouched. I took a deep breath, lifted my right foot and—
Angry whispers interrupted my meditation.
“No one asked for your opinion.”
I opened my eyes and turned toward the sound. Two quarreling
women huddled near the shore, hidden behind a half-dozen bright yellow paddle
boats. Their hushed voices carried across the water as clearly as if they were
using a megaphone.
I considered ignoring them, and frankly, I should have. The Yoga Sutras might not explicitly condemn eavesdropping, but I
was pretty sure it was considered bad karma. Still, I was curiously drawn to
their conversation. Something about them felt oddly familiar …
I shaded my eyes from the sun and tried to make out their
faces. Both women dressed completely in black: black long-sleeved T-shirts, deep
black jeans, black tennis shoes. The only touches of color were the bright orange
flames embroidered above each woman’s left breast.
The woman speaking was about my age—early to mid-thirties.
She cradled a stack of picket signs in one arm and gesticulated wildly with the
other. The sign on the top said “Apply the HEAT” in bold red letters.
Her fingernails matched her deep black outfit, except for the middle fingernail
of each hand, which was painted blood burgundy. Long, curly dark hair bounced
off her shoulders with every emphatic shake of her head.
“You have to choose, Dharma. Either you’re one hundred
percent on board, or you’re out. Which will it be?”
The second woman, obviously named Dharma, didn’t answer immediately.
She was small—about my height and maybe five pounds heavier—and at least ten
years older than her friend. She wore black, wire-rimmed glasses, and her gray-streaked
brown hair was tied back from her shoulders in a single long braid. When she
spoke, she sounded exasperated, as if she had repeated this argument many times
before.
“You’ve clearly lost all perspective, Raven. This protest doesn’t
make any sense. We have more important issues to deal with. Why don’t we go
after factory farming? How about animal experimentation? Heck, I’d rather go
back to Brazil and try to preserve what’s left of the rain forest. Why beat up
innocent, sensible pet owners?”
“Innocent? What’s innocent
about slavery? Do you have any idea how many of these so-called innocent slime bags abandon or
euthanize their pets every year?”
Dharma leaned forward earnestly. “Which is precisely why we
shouldn’t go after a low-kill shelter like this
one.”
Go after a shelter? Were they planning to protest DogMa? Today?
I kept listening, hoping that I’d misunderstood.
“Don’t be fooled by all of their pretty promises,” Raven scoffed.
“These people are frauds, and I’m going to expose them.”
I couldn’t make out Dharma’s grumbled reply, but her tone didn’t
sound friendly.
Raven held up her hands. “Back off, Dharma. I don’t need
your help, but I won’t stand for your insolence. I’m taking this place down with
or without you. Trust me; these hypocrites at DogMa are going to burn.” Her
voice turned low and threatening. “And if you get in my way, I might have to
fry you, too.”
Dharma flinched and glanced warily over her shoulder. “Watch
what you say, Raven. Someone might take you seriously.”
Raven snorted. “Yeah, well, maybe they should.”
Dharma’s mouth opened, but she didn’t respond, at least not at
first. After several long, tense moments, she shook her head, almost sadly. “I’m
sorry, Raven, but this has gone far enough. Eduardo talked me into coming on
this ill-conceived road trip, but we never agreed to violence. I’m out.” She
turned and started walking away. “We both are.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about Eduardo.”
Dharma froze. Her entire body stiffened. When she slowly
turned around, her expression was tight, as if her thinned lips and hardened
eyes had been carved out of stone.
Raven’s lips lifted in a cruel-looking grin. She crossed her
arms and leaned back against the paddleboats. “Sweetheart, you can leave any
time. The sooner the better. I never wanted you here to begin with. But trust
me, Eduardo’s not going anywhere. By the time I get done with him, he’ll be finished
with you, too.”
The older woman
exploded.
She howled and
shoved Raven into the boats, using significantly more force than I would have
expected from someone ideologically opposed to violence. Raven’s face hit the edge
and she fell, splitting open her lower lip. Picket signs scattered in every
direction.
Dharma scooped up
a sign, snapped its wooden handle in two, and waved the jagged edges at her
friend.
“I’m warning you,
leave Eduardo alone, or you’ll be the one who burns.” She jabbed the wooden
stake at Raven’s chest for emphasis. “In Hell.”
Raven’s response seemed more amused than frightened. She
licked the blood from her lower lip, stood, and slowly clapped.
“Well done, Dharma. Well done. We’ll make an anarchist out
of you yet.”
Dharma gaped at her hands, as if surprised to see them
grasping a weapon. A strangled cry escaped from her throat. She took two large
steps back, threw the broken sign to the ground, and stumbled away, sobbing. A
moment later, she disappeared into the crowd.
Raven mumbled several
words I couldn’t decipher, gathered the rest of the signs, and sauntered off in
the opposite direction. I lost sight of her midway through the parking lot.
I stared after her,
torn. Whatever Raven was up to, it couldn’t be good. Part of me wanted to stop
her. But how, exactly, was I supposed to do that? Commandeer her picket signs? Tie
her to a bicycle rack with my shoelaces? Yell the word “cat” and hope the dogs
took care of the rest? I considered trying to find one of Green Lake’s bicycle patrol
officers, but what could the police do? The fight was already over and
picketing, though disruptive, wasn’t illegal.
A confident female
voice called out over the loudspeaker. “Dog walkers, welcome to Paws Around
Green Lake, DogMa’s first annual furry 5K fun walk. Pick up your leashes and
gather your treat pouches. Let the walk begin!”
I glanced at my
watch. Ten o’clock. I should have opened my booth an hour ago. The crowd’s human-canine
duos trickled toward the trail and started jogging, walking, sniffing, and marking
their way around the lake. If the two women I’d witnessed were planning to
protest, they’d likely do it during the post-walk celebration. I still had
plenty of time to find Michael and help him plan for the threat.
I hoped.
"An
atmospheric story of Ireland, filled with myth and darkness. . . Fans
of Erin Hart's dark Irish crime novels should welcome this series."—Library Journal (starred review)
