Murder Strikes a Pose (13 page)

“Yeah, but my dad always said things happen for a reason, and

I came up with a great idea!” I flashed my biggest, brightest smile.

“I don’t like the sound of this at all,” Michael replied, frowning in return.

It was time to use all those skills I rehearsed in my visualization.

I leaned in closer, played with my hair, and batted my mascara-

covered eyes. Michael responded by taking a step back, crossing

his arms, and looking at me suspiciously. Undaunted, I tried my

next move. I coquettishly looked away for a moment, only to ac-

cidentally lock eyes with Tiffany.

Tiffany’s evil stare sapped my superflirt sex appeal faster than

kryptonite. Instead of embodying the irresistible temptress of my imagination, I suddenly felt inadequate—like my pants were un-zipped, I wore lipstick on my teeth, or I had toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

I continued anyway, talking considerably faster. “Well, you like

Bella, and she adores you. You said yourself that you’re good with dogs, and what better person to take her than someone who owns

a pet store! You have all the food right here and lots of toys. You’re obviously the right home for her!”

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Michael shook his head slowly. “Sorry, Kate. As much as I’d like

to, there’s no way I can take Bella.”

This was
not
the response he gave in my visualization.

“Why ever not? You two are perfect together!” I paused and re-

alized the obvious. “Wait a minute. Do you already have a dog?”

“No, and I can’t. My apartment doesn’t allow pets.”

I stepped back and looked at him incredulously. “Doesn’t allow

pets? What kind of idiotic animal lover lives in a place that doesn’t allow pets?” Insulting Michael while throwing a temper tantrum

wasn’t in my plan, either, but I was frustrated.

“I thought the apartment would be temporary. I’ve been sav-

ing to buy a house, but the economy is terrible and business is

slower than I’d hoped. Even in this abysmal housing market, I’ll be lucky to have enough money for a down payment by the time I’m

seventy-three.

“Besides, I don’t have time for a pet,” he continued. “I hope

hiring Tiffany will help, but until now I’ve been working twelve-

hour days, every day. That’s not fair to an animal, especially a dog.”

I stepped back and frowned, reassessing my strategy. Michael

was the solution to my problem; he simply didn’t know it yet. I

hadn’t counted on the no-pet housing fiasco, but I had another

idea. I added a tiny pout to my lips. “Gosh, that’s really too bad. I guess I’ll have to take her to the pound.” I sighed and looked at the floor in pretend despair. “They’ll probably put her down …”

I walked away, counting the seconds. At five, I turned back

around and looked at Michael with what I hoped was an expres-

sion of guileless innocence. “Unless, that is, you could keep Bella in the store. She’d love it here. You’d be with her all day and then she could guard the place for you at night!”

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Michael wasn’t fooled. “Come on, Kate,” he chided. “You know

that would never work. Bella would go after every dog that came

in here. I’d be out of business in a week!” His expression turned wry. “Besides, you can’t con me. You’ll never put down George’s

dog. Sorry, but I’m out. You’ll have to find another sucker.”

“What in the world am I going to do?” Flirting didn’t work;

throwing a temper tantrum didn’t work. I don’t know what pos-

sessed me to think whining would fare any better.

Michael didn’t seem moved by my plight. “The first thing I’d

do is buy a bigger bag of dog food. That five-pound bag I gave

you will only last a few days. I can connect you with some no-kill shelters, but honestly, Bella’s going to be hard to place. People generally want to adopt healthy dogs. She’s got an expensive disease.

That’s strike one.”

“But that’s not her fault—”

“And her behavior issues are strike two. You know I like Bella,

but she’s not an easy dog. Whoever adopts her is going to have a

lot of training in their future.”

I had gone through my entire repertoire of persuasive tactics:

flirting, cajoling, guilt-tripping and begging. Michael wasn’t coming to Bella’s rescue. “I guess you’d better give me that list of shelters,” I said, resigned. I grabbed a second five-pound bag of kibble, hoping it would last the week. Surely I’d find a place for Bella by then. Michael followed me to the cash register.

“Kate, this is Tiffany,” he said. “She moved into the apartments

upstairs a few weeks ago and noticed my ‘Help Wanted’ sign. She

started work here today.”

Tiffany flashed Michael a sparkling white smile—the kind you

see in toothpaste commercials. “Michael, would you please help

me ring this up? The computer is so confusing …”

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Great teeth or not, she was obviously dumb as a post.

Michael joined her behind the desk. She leaned into him, us-

ing a bit more body contact than strictly necessary. Michael leaned away and glanced up at me, wearing a sheepish grin. “We still on

for Saturday night?”

“Sure!” My voice sounded overly excited, even to my own ears.

Why should I care if Michael associated with tramps? Going out

with him was simply my penalty for losing a bet. I turned my vocal volume and my enthusiasm both down a notch.

“I mean, yes, we’re still on, but I’ll have to make it an early

night. I have to teach early the next morning.”

“Oh, really?” he replied. “I looked at the schedule. Your first

class is at noon. According to my calculations, that means I don’t have to get you home until eleven on Sunday.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Romeo,” I said, starting to smile

again.

“Yeah,” Tiffany replied. “I’m sure she needs her beauty sleep.”

I signed the receipt, grabbed the bag of dog food, and quickly

left the store before I did bodily damage to the little tart.

“Pick you up at seven o’clock sharp!” Michael yelled as I

slammed the door behind me.

If Tiffany was the kind of woman he liked, this was going to be

the shortest date in history.

_____

I stomped back to the studio and stormed past the surprised-look-

ing teacher checking in students at the front desk. The yoga room was occupied, so I barricaded myself in the storage room and

pulled out my cell phone. I was in a foul mood anyway. I might as well pick a fight with John O’Connell.

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“Was George bludgeoned with a brick?”

“Well, hello to you, too, Miss Katy. How nice of you to call.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suite you, John,” I said testily. “Now tell me.

Was he killed with a brick or not?”

“Simmer down, Katy. As far as I know, they still haven’t found

the murder weapon. But no, it wasn’t a brick. From the shape and

size of the wound, the coroner thinks it was something smooth

and heavy, like a baseball bat or a bottle of some kind.” He paused.

“Hey, wait a minute, why do you ask?”

“I went to the daughter’s house today, and something’s not

right there. I think she or her husband might be involved in

George’s death.”

John’s suspicion turned to irritation. “Now wait one cotton-

pickin’ minute, little one. You promised me you would stay out of this.”

I hesitated, wondering how much to tell him. “I took Bella to

George’s daughter, exactly like I told you I would. It’s not my fault Sarah and her husband started volunteering information. But I’m

telling you, someone needs to talk to them. They’re hiding some-

thing.”

“Katy, Katy, Katy,” John replied, sounding disappointed. “I

knew you’d stick your nose in this. You always do. But as it hap-

pens, I’ve been keeping my eye on the case. You’re wrong. The

daughter and her husband have solid alibis.”

“They were with each other, right?”

“Well, yes.”

“Did anyone else see them? How do you know they’re not lying

to protect each other?”

John exhaled the long-suffering sigh of a parent dealing with

an obstinate teen. “Katydid, I already told you. You’re making too 103

much of this. There is absolutely no evidence that this wasn’t exactly what it appears to be: two drunks fighting over a bottle or a buck.”

“But, John—”

“But nothing, Kate,” he interrupted, clearly annoyed. “Be qui-

et now and listen. I’m sorry your friend got killed, but there’s no great conspiracy here. You’re in way over your head, and frankly, you’re starting to make a fool out of yourself. Now I’ll say this one final time. Let the professionals do their job and stay out of it!”

I slammed down the phone in a gesture of frustrated determi-

nation. John’s reaction was exactly what I’d feared. If the police were going to stick to their asinine theory, I didn’t have a choice. I would have to solve George’s murder myself.

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twelve

I spent the next several hours grumbling to myself about sleazy

pet store clerks and incompetent police detectives. Before I knew it, Alicia had arrived for her Thursday afternoon appointment.

“I’m so glad to be here,” she said as she walked into the studio.

Each step was achingly tentative, as if moving took almost more

effort than she could bear. Dark smudges beneath her eyes con-

trasted starkly with pale, translucent skin. Her hands trembled

slightly as she unrolled her mat.

“How do you feel today?” I asked.

“Well, I have good days and bad days, you know. This is one of

the tough ones.” She smiled wanly. “But your life is more interesting than mine, anyway. How are you?”

We chatted for a few minutes, though I studiously avoided all

but the most superficial of topics. I generally liked to keep my personal life private, but Alicia seemed to appreciate our small talk, as if hearing about the minutiae of my life gave respite from the Hell that was her own.

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When we were ready to begin, I invited her to lie on the mat

and completely relax, releasing her body into the embrace of the

earth. I started by leading her in a centering, breath-focused meditation.

“Allow your mind to be anchored in this present moment. Not

concerned with the past, not worried about the future. All that

matters is now. Every time your mind wanders, simply bring it

back to the sensation of your breath.” Alicia closed her eyes and began lengthening her breath. “Each time you inhale, imagine a

white light entering your lungs, filling your body with life-giv-

ing energy.” Her rib cage visibly widened. “Each time you exhale, imagine a dark fog exiting your nostrils, carrying with it all tension, exhaustion, and fear.” Alicia wiggled her shoulders and settled deeper into her mat. I would have sworn that the room itself sighed.

After several more minutes of meditation, I guided her

through a sequence of yoga poses designed to be gentle, yet pur-

poseful, subtle, yet powerful. Light traces of color returned to her cheeks; worry lines eased from her brow. As I witnessed Alicia’s

transformation, I felt myself relax. Even after years of experience, I was amazed at how teaching yoga to others could so deeply and

personally impact me.

We wrapped up her movement practice with a treasured pe-

riod of rest. I asked Alicia to lie on the floor with her body draped over a bolster. She extended her legs straight out on her mat and arched her spine over the oval-shaped cushion. Once her head,

neck, and back were safely in place, she reached her arms out to

the side and faced her palms toward the ceiling. This restorative, heart-opening position subtly built energy, something Alicia so

desperately needed.

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She rested in silence for ten minutes, until I rang the chimes

and asked her to finish her practice. “Begin with small movements, such as wiggling your fingers and toes or even simply taking a

deep breath or two. When you’re ready, roll to your side for a moment, then gradually press yourself up to sitting.”

Alicia slowly sat up, looking not exactly healthy, but at least

refreshed. A slight smile graced her lips, and a light pink color enhanced her cheeks. We brought our hands together in prayer

position, planning to end the practice by saying namaste: “The

light in me honors the light in you.”

“Nama—”

What the heck?

The studio lights shattered our Zen-like practice, flickering on

and off like strobe lights in a seventies disco—from Hell. The newest of the many annoying idiosyncrasies of the space.

“I’m so sorry about that,” I said. “I’ll go turn them off.”

Alicia smiled. “Seems like I should be the one apologizing. We

must be having problems with the electrical system again. I swear whoever built this building should have his license revoked. I’ll tell Jake to come and take a look at it.”

As if my week wasn’t going badly enough. “Don’t worry about

it,” I said quickly. “I’ll call an electrician.”

“You have got to be kidding,” Alicia chided. “Do you have any

idea how much they charge?”

Unfortunately, I did. The last time I had an electrical issue, the bill was well over $1,000. Jake was terminally annoying, but if he could fix the problem, he was also free.

“Perhaps you’re right,” I admitted. “Maybe it’s a problem with

the dimmer switch. I’d be foolish to call an electrician for that. Have Jake give me a call and we’ll set up a time for him to come over.”

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“It might be a few days,” Alicia replied as she rolled up her mat.

“This whole murder business has everybody in an uproar. The po-