Текст книги "Dead Giveaway"
Автор книги: Joanne Fluke
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
THREE
February on Deer Creek Road
Fifty Minutes before 10:57 AM
Ellen frowned as she rummaged through her box of mannequin limbs. On days like this, when everything seemed to go wrong, she almost wished she’d never left Minnesota two years ago.
The morning had started off badly. Her thirty-cup pot was the old percolator type and only made good coffee if she filled it to capacity. It had been a parting gift from the Garfield Elementary faculty and Ellen was sure they’d chipped in their books of green stamps to get it. Perhaps they’d assumed opening a mannequin business meant she’d have plenty of employees. In any event, the coffee it made turned to tar before she could drink it all, and she’d finally geared up to go into town to buy a pot to use every day.
The saleslady had shown her the newest model, promising that all she had to do was put in the coffee and water, set the automatic timer, and she would have hot coffee. Ellen had set the timer for eight and gone to bed, but when she’d come into the kitchen this morning there was no coffee to greet her. Checking the instructions, she’d found that the digital timer had a red light for PM and a green light for AM. Since the red light was glowing, her coffee would brew automatically, but not until eight in the evening.
Just as Ellen had switched the timer to manual, the phone had rung. It was the Purple Giraffe in New York, an exclusive chain of children’s clothing stores, frantic because their purchasing department had made an error and they needed two dozen more mannequins by the end of the week. Naturally, Ellen had promised to deliver, and now she’d located twenty-four right arms but no left arms to match. Since she molded the arms in pairs and had never had an order for one-armed mannequins, they had to be somewhere.
Ellen stepped back to survey the boxes of limbs stacked on her workroom shelves, all coded with numbers, the work of her business manager, Walker Browning. When he’d heard that Ellen was looking for a business manager, Jack St. James had recommended his black friend from Chicago for the job, and Ellen had hired him sight unseen. Walker was extremely well organized and he was also a whiz at finding new markets for Vegas Dolls. If Walker were here now, he’d go straight to the proper box, but he was in Vegas picking up supplies.
Deciding it would be a waste of time to look for the arms herself, Ellen wandered back into her large sunny kitchen. When she’d moved into the eighth-floor condo two years ago, Ellen had mentioned that she didn’t care for the ultramodern black enameled cabinets that showed every fingerprint and the gleaming white floors that required constant cleaning. Moira Jonas, their resident interior decorator, had offered her services and in less than a week, she’d faced the cabinets in oak and ordered an antique table and chairs to match. With lacy ferns hanging from wicker baskets, green and white gingham curtains, an array of copper pans and utensils mounted on the rack over the stove, and a braided rug on the new wooden floor, Ellen’s kitchen had been transformed.
Then Moira had started on the rest of the condo, replacing Aunt Charlotte’s stylish white leather furniture with comfortable overstuffed chairs and a couch and loveseat covered in patterned chintz. The black marble fireplace had been redone in aged brick. Matching chintz curtains now graced the floor-to-ceiling windows, and for her bedroom, Ellen had chosen a massive four-poster bed and a dresser set to match. An authentic nineteenth-century quilt in a Double Wedding Ring pattern covered the bed and Priscilla curtains hung at the windows. There was even a spool rocker in the corner to hold her patchwork doll, and a washstand complete with a blue bowl and pitcher.
The bathrooms had presented a problem. Moira had pointed out that in order to be authentic, they should look like privies, but had compromised with wood paneling and antique medicine cabinets. She’d found a claw-footed tub deep enough to accommodate Ellen’s long legs and the shower was hidden behind wooden doors.
When it came to Ellen’s workroom, Moira had consulted with Paul Lindstrom, the building architect. They’d knocked out the wall between Aunt Charlotte’s sitting room and Uncle Lyle’s office, converting it into a huge work space. Paul had installed rafters to give it the look of a farmhouse attic and the wooden floor was treated with several coats of polyurethane so it would be impervious to spilled dyes and chemicals. The high ceiling had been lowered in strategic spots to give the illusion of gables, and tall triangular windows gave Ellen the benefit of the spectacular view.
Ellen was just sitting down at her old-fashioned kitchen table when the phone rang again. It was Laureen Lewis from the first floor.
“Hi, Ellen. Do you have that recipe of your grandmother’s handy? I tried it last night and had a terrible flop.”
“What happened?” Ellen frowned. She knew she’d copied the recipe correctly.
“The caramels never set up. It turned out to be the most luscious chocolate frosting I’ve ever tasted, but that’s not what I was after. It just doesn’t work with a five-ounce can of Hershey’s syrup.”
“Hold on a sec.” Ellen reached for the red loose-leaf cookbook on the shelf by the phone. Laureen was doing a chocolate program on her cooking show and had been very interested in Grandmother Wingate’s recipes. Ellen flipped through the book until she came to the page with a smear of chocolate on the corner. She remembered making that smear as a child, helping Grandma Wingate make caramels for Christmas.
“Yes, it says five ounces. At least I think it’s ounces. It actually looks more like a cent sign to me.”
“That could be it!” Laureen sounded excited. “Does she have any other notations on the recipe?”
“Yes. At the top it says it’s from Mrs. Friedrich, the Lutheran minister’s mother. And Grandma wrote a note on the side. It says, ‘Never serve to Bill Carr. False teeth.’”
“I love it.” Laureen laughed. “Is there a date on the recipe?”
“No, but the one on the next page is for Mrs. Friedrich’s watermelon pickles and it’s from the summer of forty-five.”
“That’s close enough. I’ll call Hershey’s in Pennsylvania and ask for an old price list. Thanks, Ellen. And I’ll bring you some caramels this afternoon if they turn out right.”
“That would be a real treat.” Ellen’s mouth was watering when she hung up the phone. She hadn’t tasted Grandma Wingate’s chocolate caramels in years and it was a sure bet she’d never make them. Grandma Wingate had been an excellent cook, and so had Ellen’s mother, and both had looked cute in their ruffled aprons. Unfortunately, neither attribute had been passed on to Ellen. She’d learned to fry an egg and broil a piece of meat, but that was the extent of her talent in the kitchen. Everyone said that a man wanted a wife who was pretty and knew how to cook. She flunked on both scores. No wonder no one had ever wanted to marry her.
Forty-five Minutes before 10:57 AM
Laureen’s stomach gave a protesting growl as she opened the refrigerator door. All this wonderful food inside and she couldn’t eat any of it.
Harry Conners, her producer, had delivered an ultimatum when she’d shown up twenty pounds heavier after the Christmas holidays. If she didn’t lose ten pounds by the end of next month, he’d have to replace her. Laureen had explained that there was no way to test a recipe unless she tasted it, but Harry wasn’t one to listen to reason.
Naturally, Laureen had tried. She’d even gone on the newest fad diet, which promised miraculous results if she ate only an unsalted rice wafer four times a day, washed down by a vile-tasting concoction of food supplement powder mixed with grapefruit juice. But three days after she’d finished the recommended two-week stint, she’d stepped on the scale and found she’d regained her lost pounds and then some.
A package of thick-sliced bacon beckoned, and Laureen yearned for bacon and eggs for breakfast. She was tired of being constantly hungry. Her stomach growled at the most embarrassing times and all she could think of was piles of creamy mashed potatoes awash with savory brown gravy. Grace claimed that dieting was a simple matter of balancing the calories consumed with the amount the body burned up through exercise, but of course that was easy for her to say. She was naturally thin. And the daily exercises she’d recommended only made Laureen hungrier.
As Laureen reached for the bacon, she had almost managed to convince herself that her problem was hereditary. One of Laureen’s earliest memories involved sitting on a bench in some kind of health club, waiting for her mother to get out of a steam cabinet. She’d expected her mother to emerge thin and beautiful, but her face had been as red as a lobster’s and she’d been just as plump as ever.
With a sigh of remorse, Laureen shoved the bacon in the very back of the refrigerator. She’d have a small glass of skim milk and a piece of diet toast with sugar-free jam. And then she’d make her husband’s breakfast, even though he didn’t deserve it.
Alan Lewis looked out his window and frowned despite the lovely scene, a glistening expanse of white snow unbroken by human footprints. The pines in the grove loomed dark and tall, a frosting of snow on their branches and three bright blue mountain jays and a vivid red cardinal were pecking at the feeder Paul had designed. The whole picture was worthy of Currier and Ives, but Alan found it difficult to appreciate. Ever since Laureen had found out about Vanessa, his treatment had been colder than the icicles that hung from their balcony.
Alan flipped the lock on his office door and sat down at his father’s desk. His office was his refuge, a replica of the one his father had maintained in the back room of his country hardware store. Moira Jonas had decorated the walls with antiques. There was an old red Flexible Flyer hung from the rafters over his head, along with assorted shovels and rakes and even a hand plow. Laureen thought the room looked cluttered, but Alan loved the sense of hands-on merchandising that was difficult to maintain in the modern world of computer-generated orders and automatic restocking. His father hadn’t needed a computer to know what was on his shelves. Of course, his father hadn’t owned fifty-three stores in six different states, either.
He pulled out the center drawer and felt in the back for the hidden compartment where a carton of unfiltered Camels was secreted away from Laureen’s prying eyes. Opening a pack, he withdrew a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers almost reverently. As he touched the flame of his lighter to the tip of the cigarette, the intercom crackled into life.
“Alan? Do you want oat bran pancakes for breakfast? Or would you rather have egg substitutes and oat bran toast?”
Alan gave a guilty start and dropped the cigarette into the ashtray. Laureen would confiscate his Camels if she knew they were here.
“Alan? Can you hear me?”
“I hear you, honey.” Alan sighed deeply. The last thing he wanted was more oat bran. Ever since Laureen had read that it reduced serum cholesterol, she’d been sneaking it in everything she cooked. “I guess I’ll have fake eggs and toast. But if you’re working on something important, I can wait.”
Laureen’s voice was impatient. “Of course I’m working on something important. You know I’m doing the chocolate show next week.”
“It’s all right, honey. I’m not very hungry and I can always fix something later.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I always cook for you when I’m home. Five minutes, and don’t be late!”
The intercom crackled again and Alan was glad he couldn’t see Laureen’s expression. “Thanks, honey. I’ll be there.” Alan switched off the intercom and picked up his cigarette, coughing slightly as he inhaled. Laureen had been up late last night with the chocolate caramels, and her unaccustomed failure, coupled with the strain Vanessa had put on their marriage, had put her in a foul mood.
Alan leaned back and puffed on his forbidden Camel, wishing he could turn back the clock. Hal Knight had married two years ago and since then his wife, Vanessa, had gone after almost every man in the Deer Creek Condo complex. The moment Alan had recognized Vanessa’s little game, he’d been very careful to give her a wide berth, even though she was younger than anyone in the building and probably lonely. He’d even begun to feel a little sorry for her, alone every day while Hal was off on his business trips.
Looking back on that day, a month earlier, Alan could honestly say he hadn’t suspected a thing. Vanessa had called to say her garbage disposal wasn’t working right, so he’d grabbed his toolbox and headed right up to the third floor. When he found her waiting in a see-through pink negligee, Alan had thrown his previous caution to the winds. It had only happened a couple of times before Laureen had caught them, and Laureen wasn’t the forgiving kind.
Almost time. Alan put out his cigarette and hurried to the attached bathroom to flush the evidence down the toilet. He brushed his teeth, used some mouthwash, and headed down the hallway to the kitchen to try to make peace with his wife.
Forty Minutes before 10:57 AM
Moira Jonas took a blue and gold caftan off the hanger and slipped it over her head, careful to avoid her reflection in the mirrored closet doors. Her newest outfit, decorated with ropes of shiny gold beads on a cobalt-blue background, had long sleeves and a high mandarin collar to hide the crepe that was beginning to show on her neck. She’d tried all the expensive creams and moisturizers, but nothing seemed to help, and Grace had noticed; she was sure of it. Of course Grace was much too kind to say anything critical, but she worked with gorgeous showgirls all day long and even though she insisted she loved Moira just the way she was, comparisons were inevitable.
Moira brushed her long red hair and pulled it up into a tight bun she’d been wearing lately. It hurt, but it smoothed out some of her wrinkles. Last night she’d casually broached the subject of a face-lift and Grace, ten years younger and blessed with skin as smooth and elastic as a baby’s bottom, had been less than sympathetic. Didn’t Moira realize that any surgery, no matter how minor, was dangerous? Subjecting yourself to elective cosmetic surgery just because you had a few character lines was totally insane.
As Moira walked through the bedroom, she stopped to study several swatches of material tacked to the wall. She’d vowed to decorate their unit by Christmas at the latest, but three rush jobs had come up and she’d put it off. What was the old adage about doctors’ wives never getting the proper medical attention? Or dentists’ wives having rotten teeth? Grace was probably sorry she’d fallen in love with an interior decorator since she was still living in a million-dollar condo with bare white walls.
“Damn . . . I mean, darn!” Moira ripped down the swatches and went to put on the coffee. Just as soon as she’d finished her breakfast, she’d make a final decision on the patterns and colors, drive into town to pick up materials, and start turning their condo into a showplace that would make Grace proud.
Thirty-five Minutes before 10:57 AM
Vanessa Knight sat on her pink satin bedspread and pouted. Today was her twenty-third birthday and her husband hadn’t even bothered to say good morning. He was locked in his studio, working on that dumb comic strip of his, and he’d yelled at her when she’d knocked at the door. She wished she could drive into Vegas to have a birthday lunch with some of her friends, but Hal wouldn’t let her go anywhere alone and he refused to take her along on his business trips since that silly incident with the bellhop. All the poor man had done was hold her arm a second too long when he’d helped her into the elevator, but Hal had been furious. He was insanely jealous when any man paid the slightest bit of attention to her.
She got off the bed with a flounce and the towel she was wearing slipped down to her waist. It was a pity there was no audience. Vanessa knew she had a dynamite body. When Hal had first seen her in the buff, he said that with her curly blond hair and vivid blue eyes, she looked exactly like a live version of Little Annie Fanny in the Playboy cartoon.
Vanessa walked over to the window and stared out at the snow-covered landscape. There was no one in sight except a curious squirrel, so she did a bump and grind just for the hell of it. Then she flipped off the towel and tossed it aside with a frown. This particular towel brought back memories, most of them unpleasant. It was royal blue with a pink satin border and it had cost Hal over a thousand dollars. Forty-nine dollars for the towel, twenty for the matching washcloth, and nine hundred and fifty-six dollars for Vanessa’s public humiliation.
The saleslady at Heroldson’s had been very impatient when Vanessa had been unable to make up her mind between royal blue and sunshine-yellow. She was an older, overweight woman with a blue rinse in her hair, the type who secretly envied Vanessa’s beauty and made up for it by treating her with contempt. And when Vanessa had handed her the charge card to pay for the towel, the clerk had taken vicious delight in telling her that it was no longer valid for any purchase over fifty dollars.
Despite the long line, Vanessa had protested. That was ridiculous. She’d charged over fifty dollars just last week. She was Mrs. Hal Knight and her husband would be very angry when he heard about how Heroldson’s had treated her.
The saleslady had smiled and said she didn’t think Mr. Knight would be upset at all, since he’d called the store personally to place a limit on his account. Perhaps Mrs. Knight had been charging excessively?
Vanessa’s face had turned red. She’d whipped out her MasterCard, but the saleslady had informed her that Heroldson’s didn’t accept any other credit cards. Vanessa would have to go up to the credit office on the fourth floor if she wanted to find out the details, but since the account was in Mr. Knight’s name, he could monitor the charges in any manner he chose. And right now she was holding up the line. If she’d be so kind as to step aside?
Naturally, Vanessa had been furious. Her first instinct had been to drive right home to confront Hal. She’d been halfway across the parking lot when she’d remembered that a friend of hers worked in Heroldson’s credit department. Turning around, she took the elevator up to the fourth floor.
Tricia had been only too happy to help. She’d told Vanessa that there were ways to get around the ceiling Hal had placed on his credit card. Since the limit applied to a single purchase, Vanessa could buy the towel on one charge slip and the washcloth on another. Tricia would write it up for her. And while she was at it, she’d be glad to help Vanessa find lots of other items under fifty dollars.
Naturally, they’d had a big fight when the charges had come in and now Vanessa was forced to ask Hal every time she needed anything, even a new toothbrush. She was right back where she’d been as a single girl—short of cash.
Vanessa knew everyone in the building suspected that she’d married Hal for his money, but she’d honestly loved him and thought that their marriage would work. Of course his money was the reason she was sticking it out, but it hadn’t been the deciding factor.
When Vanessa was a child, her mother had told her that it was just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one. Money made everything easier. If her mother had married a rich man instead of the truck driver who’d deserted them before Vanessa was born, Vanessa could have grown up in a nice house with nice clothes and plenty of spending money. And she certainly wouldn’t have been forced to drop out of school to take a job in a factory. She’d gotten out of the small Southern town eventually, but it had taken her three long years of punching a time clock and saving every penny to do it.
Things had started to look up the moment she’d rolled into Vegas. She’d bought herself some fake ID and landed a job as a change girl in a downtown casino, where she’d met the producer who had turned her into Vanessa Thomas, rising young starlet. Of course, it had been only one movie and she hadn’t spoken any lines, but it had been a far cry from the plastic seat cover factory in Georgia.
And then she’d met Hal and fallen in love. He’d taken her out for dinner almost every night and sent her roses at least once a week. She hadn’t guessed how wealthy he was, not then. Of course, she knew the places he took her were expensive, but lots of guys put fancy meals on their expense accounts.
Then, one night when her roommates weren’t home, she’d invited Hal to her apartment for dinner. Afterward, she’d tried to seduce him and that was when she’d found out about his problem. Poor Hal had been so embarrassed that Vanessa’s heart had gone out to him. She’d told him she loved him anyway, and Hal had said he was crazy about her, too. But there was no way he’d ever ask her to marry him. It wasn’t fair to ask a healthy young woman to live without sex.
After Hal had left, Vanessa had settled down on the lumpy couch and done some hard thinking. She’d had a red-hot affair with the producer, but he’d treated her like an absolute nothing when they weren’t under the covers. Hal was just the opposite. He said he couldn’t make love to her, but he treated her just like a princess.
The next morning she’d told Hal she wanted to marry him anyway. The sex wasn’t that important to her. She’d signed the papers he’d asked her to, and they’d gone off to a wedding chapel to make it legal. She hadn’t found out Hal was rich until after it was all over.
Now, looking back on the whole thing, Vanessa knew she’d set herself up. She hadn’t really believed that a good-looking, masculine man like Hal couldn’t perform in bed. She’d simply thought that he just hadn’t met the right woman yet. And she’d talked herself into believing that she was that woman.
Right after the wedding, she’d bought all kinds of books guaranteed to get results, and treated herself to lots of sexy negligees and kinky outfits. When the books and the clothes hadn’t worked, she’d driven down to the strip and talked to a couple of hookers she knew. She’d tried every single thing anyone had suggested, but Hal had just gotten more anxious and uptight. So she’d moved into a separate bedroom and resigned herself to a celibate life. They would be loving roommates and that was fine with her.
In some ways, Vanessa was an old-fashioned girl. She’d taken her marriage vows seriously. She’d promised Hal she wouldn’t sleep with anyone else, and she hadn’t, not then. But Hal still got angry if he thought her dresses were too tight and someone whistled at her on the street. He stopped taking her to restaurants because he said the waiters leered at her. And he made her give up her acting classes because of a love scene, even though it was right there in the script.
Then he’d started to harass her about the other men in the building. Couldn’t she see that Clayton was staring when she wore her pink bikini? She should wear a modest one-piece suit. And no more tennis in the mornings with Jayne and Paul. He was sure that Paul had gotten an eyeful when she’d bent over to lob the ball.
At first Vanessa had tried to please him. But one day last year, when he’d yelled at her about parading around in front of the man who came to repair the refrigerator, Vanessa had lost her temper. The refrigerator repairman was at least sixty years old and life was too short to put up with this kind of grief. She’d told Hal she wanted a divorce.
Hal had laughed and told her to talk to Clayton about that prenuptial agreement she’d signed. An honest lawyer, Clayton told her all the facts. She’d only get a small allowance if she divorced Hal, but she’d get half of everything Hal had if Hal was the one to divorce her.
Vanessa had set out to drive Hal straight to divorce court. First, she’d spent hours in town, shopping in all the expensive stores and picking out everything she’d ever wanted. But Hal had just cut off her credit. And he’d taken away the keys to her car so she was stuck up here on the mountain like some sort of prisoner.
When spending too much of Hal’s money hadn’t worked, she’d tried to play on his jealousy. Surely he’d divorce her if he knew she was sleeping with his friends. Vanessa was a little ashamed of herself, but she’d set out to seduce them systematically, starting with Clayton. Ever since Darby had died of cancer, he’d been lonely and he’d jumped at the chance to take her to bed. Then there was Marc, who was always up for a pretty woman. And Johnny Day. But Hal hadn’t reacted at all, even though she’d flaunted it.
Paul had been polite and friendly, but he hadn’t seemed to understand what she wanted. Vanessa figured it was his Scandinavian background, so she’d finally given up and tried for Jack. He’d been impossible, too. One day, when she’d practically thrown herself at him, Jack had hugged her and told her that he was flattered. She was pretty and sexy and he didn’t blame her for trying to drive Hal to divorce, but he wasn’t about to play her game.
She’d picked Alan next, mostly because Hal liked Laureen. But sleeping with Alan hadn’t worked, either. Hal had shouted at her and called her a tramp, but he hadn’t filed any papers. There was only one man left, Walker Browning, but while Vanessa no longer had a Southern accent, she still had her Southern prejudices. There was no way she’d seduce a black man. At her wits’ end, she’d figured that Moira was nice enough, and Hal might go crazy if she slept with a woman. So she’d spent the past two weeks cozying up to Moira, asking her advice on decorating and pretending to be very interested in learning about furniture arrangement and color schemes. Moira was flattered at all the attention, but Grace kept interrupting at just the wrong times.
Vanessa sighed as she tossed the towel into the hamper. Over a year old, its satin edges were already beginning to fray, just like her nerves. Something just had to happen to take Grace out of the picture for a couple of days so she’d have time to zero in for the kill.
Thirty Minutes before 10:57 AM
The phone on the fourth floor rang three times.
“Hello, this is Johnny. I can’t answer the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Wait for the beep.”
A woman’s amplified voice filled the room. “Johnny? Are you there? This is Karleen and I’m sick of leaving messages on your damn machine! Are you avoiding me, or what?” There was the sound of a dial tone and a moment later, the machine clicked off. Less than two minutes later, the phone rang again. After the required three rings, Johnny Day’s disembodied voice answered again.
This time the woman’s tone was conciliatory. “Sorry, Johnny. I didn’t mean to bitch, but I haven’t heard from you in over a month and time’s running out. I’ve got enough money, that’s not it. But I need to know what you want me to do about our little problem. Please call me.”
There was a dial tone and the machine clicked off. A moment later, it activated again and the tape began to rewind, making way for new incoming calls and erasing five weeks of messages that Johnny Day would never hear.
Twenty-five Minutes before 10:57 AM
Rachael stood in the exact center of Darby’s sitting room, the best place in the fifth-floor condo to practice her Tai Chi. All the other rooms had the look of an exclusive men’s club with ceiling to floor bookcases, standing floor lamps, and leather furniture. This sitting room had been Darby’s domain and she’d decorated it with pink and white poof pillow couches and chairs, lightweight and easy to shove back against the wall. When Rachael had moved in, Clayton had offered Darby’s sitting room as hers to use as she wished. He seldom ventured inside and Rachael presumed the room brought back painful memories of his late wife’s illness.
Dressed in one of her seven compulsory training uniforms, Rachael faced her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. Today’s pajama-like outfit was green, a color that would teach her serenity. She also had red for courage, yellow for vitality, blue for patience, white for purity, brown for modesty, and black for power and determination. Rachael’s dark curly hair was tucked up in a green turban to match, and she looked a bit like an oriental scrub nurse, except for her feet, which were bare and getting colder by the minute. She’d turned down the thermostat because her teacher claimed it was healthier to practice forms in a cold room.
The expensive practice tape was playing something that sounded like the soundtrack from The Last Emperor. The music, guaranteed to focus concentration and clear the mind of distracting influences, wasn’t having its desired effect on Rachael this morning. All she could think of was the Johnson case. She’d spent two arduous months in preparation, but she knew Judge Ulrich would have to be deaf, blind, and dumb to rule in favor of a slum landlord like her client.
Rachael exhaled and assumed the ready position. She’d practiced four forms already and now she was working on the fifth, something called Stork Cools Its Wings II. As the music decreased in volume and her teacher’s voice announced the form, Rachael did her best to follow the complicated instructions. The right foot steps to the side and takes the weight of the body, left toe touching for balance in front. Now the right elbow lifts to guard the throat while the left palm turns in to guard the hip, fingers pointing to the right.
Rachael frowned and shifted from foot to foot. Did the left take the weight, or was it the right? Neither one seemed to work very well. This had all looked so easy when her teacher had demonstrated it in class last week. She was concentrating so hard on maintaining her balance that she didn’t see Clayton as he came in.
