“Oh, that,” laughed Pina, never totally appreciating how close it came every class.

Twenty minutes later the class was over, after a last Tai Chi movement in which Clara meditated on murder. It was a good thing she adored Pina and needed the class.

Toweling off and rolling up her mat, Clara wandered over to the cluster of women who’d formed in the middle of the room. After a minute or so Clara managed to get the conversation around to where she wanted it.

“Did you see Inspector Beauvoir’s back in the village?” she asked, nonchalantly, dabbing at a trickle of sweat down her neck.

“Poor guy,” said Hanna Parra. “Still, he seems better.”

“I think he’s kinda cute,” said The Wife. Her eyes were large, expressive and without guile. An earth mother, married to a carpenter.

“You don’t,” said Myrna with a laugh. “He’s too skinny.”

“I’d fatten him up,” said The Wife.

“There’s something about that Inspector. I want to save him,” said Hanna. “Heal him, make him smile.”

“Mr. Spock,” said Clara, though this conversation wasn’t exactly going as she’d hoped and she hadn’t helped by just taking it off into outer space. “The Vulcan?” she explained when a few of the women looked perplexed. “Oh, for God’s sake, you can’t tell me you don’t know Star Trek? Everyone had a crush on Mr. Spock because he was so cool and distant. They wanted to be the one to break down his reserve, to get into that heart.”

“It’s not his heart we want to get into,” said Hanna and everyone laughed.

They put on their coats and ran across the snowy road to the inn and spa for the regular post-exercise tea and scones.

Clara was still amazed every time she entered the inn and spa, remembering it as the crumbling old Hadley house before Dominique and her husband Marc had bought it. Now their hostess sat relaxed and elegant, smiling and pouring tea.

Had Dominique killed the Hermit? Clara couldn’t see it. No, if Clara was being honest, the most likely suspect months ago, and the most likely one still, was Marc Gilbert. Dominique’s husband.

Clara brought the conversation around to murder once again.

“Hard to believe Olivier’s been gone almost six months,” she said, accepting a fragrant cup of tea from Dominique. Out the window she could see the clear blue day, always the coldest. Snow caught up in a whirlwind swirled by the window, making a slight sprinkling sound, like sand against the glass.

Inside the inn and spa it was peaceful. The room was filled with antiques, not cumbersome Victorian oak, but simple pine and cherry pieces. The walls were painted pastel shades and felt restful, serene. A fire was lit and the place smelled delicately of maple wood smoke, moisturizers and tisanes. Chamomile, lavender, cinnamon.

A young woman arrived with a plate of warm scones, clotted cream and homemade strawberry jam. This was Clara’s favorite part of exercise class.

“How’s Olivier doing?” The Wife asked.

“He’s trying to adjust,” said Myrna. “I saw him a few weeks ago.”

“He still insists he didn’t kill the Hermit,” said Clara, watching everyone closely. She felt a fraud, pretending to be a homicide investigator, play-acting. Still, there were worse stages. Clara smoothed clotted cream on her warm scone, then strawberry jam.

“Well, if he didn’t do it, who did?” Hanna Parra was a stout, attractive pillar. Clara had known her for decades. Could she be party to a murder? Might as well ask.

“Could you kill anyone?”

Hanna looked at her with some surprise, but no anger or suspicion.

“Now there’s an interesting question. I know for sure I could.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked Dominique.

“If someone broke into our home and threatened Havoc or Roar? I’d kill them in a second.”

“Kill the women first,” said The Wife.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Dominique. She sat forward and placed her delicate teacup on its saucer.

“It’s a training booklet put out by the Mossad,” said The Wife. Even the therapists who were giving Myrna and Hanna pedicures stopped what they were doing to stare at this lovely young woman who’d said the ugliest thing.

“How would you know that?” asked Myrna.

The Wife smiled fully. “Got you scared, don’t I?”

They all laughed, but the truth was, they were thrown off a little. The Wife let them stew for a moment then laughed.

“I heard it on CBC Radio. A show on terrorism. The theory is that women almost never kill. It takes a great deal to get a woman to murder, but once she decides to, she won’t stop until it’s done.”