Free The Yoga Store Murder by Dan Morse Page A

“placemaking.” Buildings were leveled, and new ones constructed, as was a large but concealed parking garage, wider sidewalks, attractive landscaping, a community fountain. Soon enough, there was what Federal Realty called Bethesda Row, a five-block area lined with popular branded stores like Apple and Barnes & Noble, as well as clothing boutiques, specialty shops, and restaurants that stayed open late into the night offering food from around the world on tables that opened onto those new, wider sidewalks. There was even a pedestrian-only, cobblestone avenue called Bethesda Lane, bordered by fetching little stores below a chic five-story apartment building. A canopy of lights stretched across Bethesda Lane, evoking a lazy evening in the plaza of an old European town, albeit one that offered lemon-ricotta gelato for $5.30 a serving.
    The whole thing was a bit of magic. People drove to Bethesda Row, parked, and walked around. They joined forces with the people who lived in Bethesda Row or close enough to walk there. It created a critical mass of humans who kind of appeared to all be living there. And placemaking adherents loved it. “A vibrant urban gathering place,” said the Urban Land Institute, which gave Federal Realty an Award of Excellence. “A retail icon,” was the title of a presentation at a conference of the American Institute of Architects.
    Of the more than seventy-five stores and restaurants, few businesses understood the aspirations of their customers better than the one with a funny name, lululemon athletica, a wildly successful chain of yoga-gear stores that announced its 2008 arrival in Bethesda with a press release describing its planned immersion into the community. “Guests are invited to kick off the opening weekend with a complimentary yoga class on Saturday, June 7, at 9:00 A.M. The celebration continues throughout the day with yoga demos, a live DJ and kids’ face painting.” The store targeted educated, professional family women. “By creating products that help keep people active and stress free,” the company said in its press release, “lululemon believes that the world will be a better place.” A year later, in a presentation to Wall Street investors, the company described target customers of its own: Affluent . . . Confident . . . At the top of her game . . . Looks for quality . . . Shops organic.
    What businesses like lululemon and Apple understood—really, really understood—was how a growing segment of consumers had begun to question the belief that consumption would bring happiness . . . but they still liked to shop. It led down a path of virtuous consumption, or what retail guru Martin Lindstrom, who wrote a book called Buyology , described as the subconscious answer to a subconscious question: “How do I still accumulate my way to happiness?”
    Beyond that core Bethesda shopper, of course, the place offered a broader experience: families strolling down sidewalks, people stopping to pet dogs, the whole notion that they were more apt to meet a guest from Meet the Press than anyone out to do harm. The idea of mayhem, to say nothing of murder, erupting inside a yoga store was unimaginable. At Ginger, an upscale women’s boutique two hundred feet from lululemon athletica, the owner gave her saleswomen mobile panic buttons and had them close the store early, before dark. Customers talked almost exclusively of the murder and masked men. “Oh my God, are you guys afraid?” they’d ask. Workers walked to their cars together, passing white ribbons tied on doors in honor of the two victims from the yoga store, and reported their progress with text messages: “In the car . . . Made it home.” The nearest place people knew to buy pepper spray, Ranger Surplus, saw sales of the product triple in the days after the murder. Business at nearby restaurants dropped by as much as 50 percent. Even patrons who still came to Bethesda at night moved more quickly, eyes peeled for a tall man