Karma's a Killer by Tracy Weber Page B

Mexican blanket for knee padding, rolled out her mat, and sat cross-legged on the floor. I lit a candle for ambiance, rang my Tibetan chimes three times, and asked her to deepen her breath. After coaching her through a few gentle poses to help her connect her mind with her body, I led her in the first of several Sun Salutes.
    She performed them almost effortlessly, cycling through Head-to-Knee Pose, Downward Dog, Upward Dog, and Cobra Pose. Her biceps bulged as she held a core-strengthening Plank Pose before lowering her body an inch from the floor and hovering, seemingly weightless, in a perfectly straight Chaturanga. I couldn’t help but admire her resilience. Ten months after literally fighting off death, she was stronger than most of the yogis I knew, including myself.
    We continued through a standing sequence with twists, squats, and balance poses, and eventually finished with some delicious-looking seated forward bends. After leading her through a luxuriously long Savasana—yoga’s pose of quiet rest—I rang the chimes three times again to signal the end of class.
    â€œStart by wiggling your fingers and toes, maybe yawning and stretching. When you’re ready, roll to your side, then slowly press yourself up to sitting.”
    Alicia placed her palms together at her heart. We finished by saying the word “Namaste,” which loosely translates as “the light within me acknowledges the light within you.” When she opened her eyes again, her skin seemed to glow.
    â€œThat was amazing, Kate. Thank you.” Alicia rolled up her mat, gathered her belongings from the reception area, and handed me a check. “I need to do some work in the office, so I’ll leave through the garage.”
    I grabbed my keys and walked her to the studio’s back entrance. “See you on Wednesday at our normal time?”
    â€œDeal.”
    I opened the door, but Alicia stopped, unwilling to take the first step. “That’s disgusting!”
    Dozens of bird droppings decorated the steps to the parking garage. Similar splotches painted the handrails.
    â€œSorry. I noticed it on my way in, but I didn’t have time to clean it up.” I pointed at the Road Warrior–like assortment of chicken wire, netting, and metal spikes that Alicia had installed above the back entrance. A gunmetal-gray pigeon roosted comfortably between two metal spikes. “Looks like your newest bird-deterrent didn’t work any better than the others.”
    Alicia scowled. “I’m getting really sick of that flying waste generator. The apartment residents have started complaining, too. But every time I come up with a new plan to keep him out, he figures out how to overcome it. I swear that bird is smarter than I am.” She paused. “I know we’ve talked about this before, but … ” Her voice trailed off.
    I shook my head emphatically. “Absolutely not. I don’t want you to use anything that isn’t completely humane. It’s my studio’s entrance that he’s messing up, so I should have the final word. I don’t want him harmed.”
    She sighed. “Okay, fine. I’ll get maintenance to pressure-wash the cement. Again.” She trudged toward the office, mumbling words never uttered by the Dalai Lama. At least not in front of his yoga teacher.
    Contented cooing filtered down from the ceiling.
    I lifted my eyes to the feathered menace and scowled. “You don’t have to be smug about it.” I double-checked to make sure that the studio door had locked behind me and skirted around the mess toward my car. Time to give Bella a bio break.
    Figuring out where to leave Bella during the workday was always a dilemma. When I originally fostered her, I tried letting her hang out at the yoga studio. What a disaster. She’d made it her life’s work to chase intruders and junk mail–wielding psychopaths—aka customers and mailmen—out