Fudge Brownies & Murder - Culinary Competition Mystery #4

Chapter 10

(Amy)

Amy winced repeatedly when each little knot of tension in her lower back pressed against the yoga mat as she rolled back into corpse pose. She was so stressed, it felt as though she was lying on a bed of nails instead of the rubber mat, even after forty-five minutes of peaceful yoga stretches. Struggling through several unfamiliar poses that were suggested by the substitute teacher had brought Amy out of her meditative state and deposited her brain into cranky land. She would never believe that some of the positions were humanly possible if she didn't see the teacher actually contorting into the pose herself. It was the first time she had taken a class taught by anyone other than Rori. And Amy's stomach and thigh muscles were feeling the difference in teaching styles.

The new age flute music ended, and the teacher quietly said, "Please feel free to relax as long as you would like. You may leave whenever you feel ready. Namaste."

"I was ready to leave twenty minutes ago," whispered a woman lying on the mat next to Amy. "My Namaste has a muscle cramp."

Amy faked a sneeze to hide a giggle at the comment. She felt the same way. The workout had definitely been more challenging than the class Rori usually taught at that time, causing Amy to emit several undignified grunts during the class. What had prevented the Yoga For You owner from teaching? In the four months that Amy had been attending the weekly gentle yoga class, it was the first time she had encountered a substitute instructor.

Concern raised Amy from the corpse pose—lying on her back, staring at the white, acoustic ceiling tiles. She rolled up her mat and wrangled it into the cylindrical crocheted bag that, while being stylish and adorable, required the dexterity of a master sushi chef to fit the holey lace over the sticky rubber roll. Once that task was over, she retrieved her tote bag from the cubby complex near the door. There was a small sauna in the dressing area of the yoga studio, but a private steam shower for one in her own bathroom at home where she could collapse into a pathetic yoga recovery heap was much more appealing. First, though, she wanted to find out what had happened to Rori.

She stepped into the hallway that connected all of the classrooms. At the end of the passageway, the door to the studio owner's office was halfway open. Light from inside the room spilled out in a distorted rectangle, illuminating a dark corner of the hallway. Someone was, or had been, in Rori's office.

Doors with half windows led into each classroom. As Amy approached the office, she noticed condensation had fogged up the glass on the door to her right. The hot yoga room. The droplets of water sliding down the window reminded her of how the glass lid on her saucepan looked when she cooked potstickers. While she loved yoga, she had no inclination to feel like a steamed dumpling in the 105-degree room.

When Amy arrived at the partially open office door, she tapped on the lavender-painted wood. "Hello? Anybody here?"

"Come in."

She pushed the door the rest of the way open. Rori sat behind a white painted desk that faced the doorway. She was squinting at the screen of her laptop. Her usually wildly free blonde curls were slicked back into a neat bun. Rori looked up from the computer and asked, "Did you just get done with class?"

Amy nodded. "I did. It was a bit different from what I'm used to when you teach, but it's good to mix things up sometimes."

"I wish more people had that attitude. A flexible outlook toward life can open so many more doors."

Amy had never really thought of it that way. Especially since she had made the comment about mixing things up as a hopefully subtle complaint about being Zenfully encouraged to assume the physical properties of unbaked pretzel dough. In return for grumbling, she had received a crumb of wisdom.