Dead Giveaway by Joanne Fluke

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.
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    Twenty-five Minutes before 10:57 AM
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    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.
    â€œThat’s quite a sight, Rachael. You look like a drunken windmill.”
    Rachael turned to look at him, an action that turned out to be her