Murder Has Nine Lives (13 page)

Chapter 20

Y
ou'd expect a Reiki healer to be a New Age-y gal in yoga pants, dripping with kabbalah bracelets, right? Not Emmy. I blinked in surprise when she showed up at my doorstep, a frumpy fortysomething with tightly permed hair and a housedress straight out of the Ethel Mertz collection. She strode into my apartment in no-nonsense orthopedic shoes, a massive tote bag slung over her shoulder.

“So nice to meet you,” she said, grabbing my hand in a firm handshake.

Then instantly she pulled away, frowning.

“What's that goo on your hand?”

“So sorry. I was eating an egg roll. I'm afraid my hands are a little greasy.”

“Egg rolls, eh?” she said, giving my body the once-over.

“In case you're interested, I also do special healing for weight loss and appetite control.”

“Oh?” I replied, more than a hint of frost in my voice.

“Just something to consider.”

With that, she tossed her tote down on my sofa and took out an oversized appointment book.

“I never go anywhere without this baby,” she said, tapping it with pride. “Don't believe in computers. Soul-sucking hotbeds of negative energy.”

Cancel that grant from the Bill Gates Foundation.

“Now, let me see,” she said, riffling through the pages of her appointment book. “If I remember correctly, I'm here for . . . ?”

“Prozac.”

“Why on earth would I need any Prozac?” she bristled. “I'm perfectly happy, thank you very much.”

“No, Prozac is my cat.”

“Really? Most unusual name,” she said, eyebrow raised in disapproval. “If you ask me, pharmaceuticals are an insidious crutch destroying the moral fiber of this nation.”

She certainly was chock-f of opinions, n'est-ce pas?

Then, consulting her appointment book, she said, “I see here that Prozac is depressed.”

“Very. She was supposed to star in a cat food commercial, but everything fell apart, and she hasn't been the same since. In fact, your client Deedee was there at the shoot. She's the one who referred me to you.”

“Deedee,” Emmy beamed. “Such a lovely woman. Such a noble spirit.”

Could she possibly be talking about the same unscrupulous cat doper who'd conned me out of a pricey lunch at the Peninsula?

But then I realized that this was a golden opportunity to confirm Deedee's alibi.

“Deedee told me she had a phone appointment with you the day of Dean Oliver's murder. In fact, she was on the phone with you when Dean was killed, right?”

Emmy shot me a steely glance.

“I'm sorry, but I never give out confidential information about my clients. I'm sure you'll come to appreciate that if you ever consult me about your eating issues.”

The woman was really beginning to get on my nerves.

“Now where's your kitty?” she asked, tossing her appointment book back in her tote.

“In my bedroom.”

I'd left Prozac lounging on the bed next to a cashmere sweater, hoping the lure of the expensive wool would stir her out of her funk.

“Right this way,” I said, leading Emmy to my bedroom, where we found Prozac sprawled out on the bed, staring dully off into space in Stepford Kitty mode, my cashmere sweater untouched at her side.

“Prozac, honey,” I cooed. “Look who's here. It's Emmy, the Reiki healer.”

Emmy's pinched face softened at the sight of her.

“Oh, my,” she tsked. “That's one sad little cat.”

At this, Prozac seemed to take umbrage, lobbing Emmy a withering glare.

“Well, let's get started,” Emmy said, scooting Prozac to the edge of the bed. “With human patients, I usually do hands-on healing. But with animals, I don't make contact with the body. My hands will just hover over your beloved animal, transmitting the healing energy from my palms.”

She held out her arms, palms cupped over Prozac, eyes shut in concentration.

Prozac sniffed the air, her pink nose twitching.

Emmy continued to hold her hands over Prozac, moving them above her body, in a trancelike state.

Prozac looked up at her, baffled.

Something told me this Reiki thing was going to be a bit of a bust.

But it needn't be a total waste of time. I remembered the appointment book in Emmy's tote bag, where she made notes about her patients. A quick peek inside would tell me if Deedee was really on the phone with her at the time of the murder.

“Excuse me,” I whispered, eager to get back out to the living room. “I've got something in the oven I need to check on.”

Of course, the only thing I ever used my oven for was to warm my socks on a cold winter's day, but Emmy didn't need to know that.

“For Pete's sake,” she snapped, eyes springing open. “You've broken the healing chain. I need absolute silence for this to work.”

From the bed, Prozac practically rolled her eyes.

Apologizing profusely for breaking Emmy's healing chain, I scooted out, promising there'd be no more interruptions.

Once in the living room, I made a beeline for her tote.

So eager was I to get at Emmy's appointment book that I whipped it out with just a bit too much fervor. Oh, crud. I watched in dismay as the massive tote tipped over, sending its contents clattering to the floor.

“What the hell was that?” Emmy shouted from the bedroom.

“So sorry!” I cried out. “Just dropped a pot. No more noise from now on. I promise!”

I spent the next few minutes on my hands and knees, retrieving lipstick, tampons, tissues, Diet Coke, and—of all things!—a bag of Reese's Pieces.

(And she had the nerve to make cracks about
my
eating habits!)

At last I'd shoved everything back in the tote. Grabbing the appointment book, I thumbed through the pages until I got to the day of the murder.

Sure enough, between eleven thirty and noon, I found Deedee's name. So she
had
been on the phone with Emmy.

And then I saw, scrawled under Deedee's name, the cryptic letters “KD.”

I began to ponder what this could possibly mean when I heard Emmy clomping down the hallway from my bedroom.

Quick as a bunny, I bolted over to her tote to stash the book away. But I was not quite quick enough. Just as I was shoving it inside the tote, Emmy came barging into the living room.

“All through!” she chirped. “The treatment doesn't take much time with small animals like Prozac.”

Then she saw me frozen to the spot, still clutching her purloined appointment book.

“Hey, what're you doing with that?”

With the dazzling sangfroid I'm known for, I replied: “Um . . . er . . . uh . . .”

Suspicion oozing from every pore, Emmy stomped to my kitchen and flung open the oven door.

“So this is what you were cooking?” She held up a pair of long-forgotten gym socks. “What are you going to serve them with? A side of shoelaces?”

She stood scowling at me, arms clamped across her ample chest.

“You didn't come out here to check anything in your oven. You came out here to snoop in my appointment book.”

“Okay,” I confessed. “I needed to find out if Deedee was really on the phone with you on the day Dean Oliver was killed. I'm a suspect in his murder, and I'm trying to track down the killer.”

She thought this over and must have decided I was telling the truth.

“Yes, Deedee was on the phone with me,” she conceded. “Satisfied now?”

“Almost. Just one more question. What does ‘KD' mean?”

“Karmic Detox. I was giving Deedee instructions on how to purge Dean's negative karma from her body. Is there anything else you'd like to know? Details from my sex life, perhaps?”

“You
have a sex life?” were the words I barely stopped myself from blurting out.

“No, thanks. I'm fine. You've been very helpful, and I'm very grateful.”

“You can show me your gratitude with a check for a hundred dollars, please.”

I took out my checkbook and wrote the check. Just as I was handing it to her, Prozac came wandering into the room, dragging her paws, still in full tilt Stepford Kitty mode.

“She doesn't look very peppy to me,” I said.

“No worries,” Emmy said. “I've cured her. She may not show it right away, but one of these days she'll be her old self. I guarantee it.”

Yeah, right
, I thought, watching my hundred bucks eddy down the drain.

Slinging her tote over her shoulder, Emmy bid me farewell and headed off to wave her hands over her next patsy (I mean, client).

No doubt about it. This Reiki thing had been a total waste of money.

But on the plus side, at least I was able to check Deedee's alibi. She had been on the phone with Emmy, as claimed. Of course, for all I knew, their conversation lasted five minutes, leaving her plenty of time to dart over to the studio kitchen for a quick spritz of Raid.

And what about “KD”? Did it really mean Karmic Detox, as Emmy claimed? Or had Emmy been covering for her client?

Was it possible the initials “KD” really meant
Kill Dean
?