catchy.
“Where are the cops?” I wondered aloud.
As if on cue, a siren screamed in the distance, growing louder and finally stopping right outside the front door.
“About damn time,” I muttered, more than ready for a good stiff drink.
Chapter 8
As the sirens faded outside the building, I had a sudden realization. What was I doing here? Why was I the one protecting a crime scene as if it were my job? As if I were some officer of the court? I wasn’t. I was just some poor schnook who’d seen too many dead bodies lately and knew the score. I realized the area needed to be as undisturbed as possible so that evidence could be saved and justice served. This time, I’d even left a fabulous old book on the floor, untouched. I wish I’d taken it, though. After all, it wasn’t like the book had killed her, right?
I’d done my duty, but now I was starting to freak out over my recent proclivity for finding bodies. I couldn’t blame my head for screaming, Get away from the dead body! People are starting to talk!
I heeded the message and signaled Mitchell over. “I need to return to the classroom.”
He was taken aback. “You’re starting up the class?”
“No, no. No more class tonight. I just need to get away from here. Can you watch her for me?”
Mitchell glanced over at “her,” and said, “Sure. Go. I’ll let the cops know where you are.”
“Thanks, I think.”
He chuckled as I scurried off, back to my empty classroom. I toed my shoes off and curled up in one of the cushioned high chairs stationed around the worktable. Now that it was quiet, I took a moment to wonder, again, what was up with my karma. Why me? Why dead bodies? Was the universe sending me a message? Whatever it was, I couldn’t read it.
Layla was dead and I felt nothing. I mean, I was alarmed that a killer might be getting away with murder. But otherwise, I felt nothing except complete relief that I’d never have to deal with her crap again.
Maybe I would break into tears later, or struggle all night to get the picture of her dead body out of my head. But for now, I felt nothing. And that probably wouldn’t help my karma situation much.
Since I planned to drive to Sonoma this weekend, maybe I would ask my mother for suggestions. She was dabbling in Wicca lately and could run a happy positivity spell on me. If not, I could always undergo some ojas replenishment. Or, what the heck, I might even get my chakras lubed. I was desperate.
And not that it was all about me, but did Layla have to die on a night when I was wearing my cutest outfit for my big night out with the hot British guy?
Yes, I was whining, but I’d gone to a lot of trouble earlier, calling up my best friend and fashion maven, Robin, and opening myself up to possible mockery by asking for her advice. So I deserved to whine for a minute in the privacy of my own brain.
Sure enough, Robin had enjoyed a few laughs at my expense. Then she’d gotten down to business, insisting that I wear the one dress I owned with my sexiest pair of black heels. She knew I owned them because she’d forced me to buy them a few weeks back for an art opening I’d attended that featured some of her newest sculptures.
I’d done exactly as she suggested. Why ask for expert advice if you’re not going to take it? I’d even managed to fix my straight blond hair the way she’d instructed, using a touch of gel on my bangs for a chunky, punky look. Those were her words.
And it all seemed to work, if my students were any gauge. I was looking good. I was uncomfortable and my feet were killing me, but I looked good. And I felt good. Until Layla had to go and die.
So here I sat, feeling sorry for myself and guilty for it, plus worrying about my karma and my feet and Derek Stone and the future of BABA. Because even though I disapproved of some of Layla’s methods, I couldn’t see Naomi or Karalee or Alice running this place with the same skill and panache.
“Meow.”
“Hey, Baba,” I
“Where are the cops?” I wondered aloud.
As if on cue, a siren screamed in the distance, growing louder and finally stopping right outside the front door.
“About damn time,” I muttered, more than ready for a good stiff drink.
Chapter 8
As the sirens faded outside the building, I had a sudden realization. What was I doing here? Why was I the one protecting a crime scene as if it were my job? As if I were some officer of the court? I wasn’t. I was just some poor schnook who’d seen too many dead bodies lately and knew the score. I realized the area needed to be as undisturbed as possible so that evidence could be saved and justice served. This time, I’d even left a fabulous old book on the floor, untouched. I wish I’d taken it, though. After all, it wasn’t like the book had killed her, right?
I’d done my duty, but now I was starting to freak out over my recent proclivity for finding bodies. I couldn’t blame my head for screaming, Get away from the dead body! People are starting to talk!
I heeded the message and signaled Mitchell over. “I need to return to the classroom.”
He was taken aback. “You’re starting up the class?”
“No, no. No more class tonight. I just need to get away from here. Can you watch her for me?”
Mitchell glanced over at “her,” and said, “Sure. Go. I’ll let the cops know where you are.”
“Thanks, I think.”
He chuckled as I scurried off, back to my empty classroom. I toed my shoes off and curled up in one of the cushioned high chairs stationed around the worktable. Now that it was quiet, I took a moment to wonder, again, what was up with my karma. Why me? Why dead bodies? Was the universe sending me a message? Whatever it was, I couldn’t read it.
Layla was dead and I felt nothing. I mean, I was alarmed that a killer might be getting away with murder. But otherwise, I felt nothing except complete relief that I’d never have to deal with her crap again.
Maybe I would break into tears later, or struggle all night to get the picture of her dead body out of my head. But for now, I felt nothing. And that probably wouldn’t help my karma situation much.
Since I planned to drive to Sonoma this weekend, maybe I would ask my mother for suggestions. She was dabbling in Wicca lately and could run a happy positivity spell on me. If not, I could always undergo some ojas replenishment. Or, what the heck, I might even get my chakras lubed. I was desperate.
And not that it was all about me, but did Layla have to die on a night when I was wearing my cutest outfit for my big night out with the hot British guy?
Yes, I was whining, but I’d gone to a lot of trouble earlier, calling up my best friend and fashion maven, Robin, and opening myself up to possible mockery by asking for her advice. So I deserved to whine for a minute in the privacy of my own brain.
Sure enough, Robin had enjoyed a few laughs at my expense. Then she’d gotten down to business, insisting that I wear the one dress I owned with my sexiest pair of black heels. She knew I owned them because she’d forced me to buy them a few weeks back for an art opening I’d attended that featured some of her newest sculptures.
I’d done exactly as she suggested. Why ask for expert advice if you’re not going to take it? I’d even managed to fix my straight blond hair the way she’d instructed, using a touch of gel on my bangs for a chunky, punky look. Those were her words.
And it all seemed to work, if my students were any gauge. I was looking good. I was uncomfortable and my feet were killing me, but I looked good. And I felt good. Until Layla had to go and die.
So here I sat, feeling sorry for myself and guilty for it, plus worrying about my karma and my feet and Derek Stone and the future of BABA. Because even though I disapproved of some of Layla’s methods, I couldn’t see Naomi or Karalee or Alice running this place with the same skill and panache.
“Meow.”
“Hey, Baba,” I
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