Murder Strikes a Pose (21 page)

us in stunned silence. The young, blonde barista stepped behind

the espresso machine and pulled out a cell phone, presumably to

dial 911. I suddenly had a feeling yelling that the police were idiots might not have been such a smart move.

Momma Bird, on the other hand, finally acknowledged me.

“Let. Go. Of. My. Arm.”

I unhanded her and stepped back, face red-hot with embar-

rassment. Momma Bird gathered her papers and walked away, I

assumed to put as much distance between us as possible. I stood

there, watching her leave and feeling like an idiot. When I screwed up, I did it royally.

After a few steps, she looked back and gestured to a bench. “Are

you coming or what?”

Sensing the drama was over, the caffeine seekers resumed their

conversations. The barista laid down her phone. Rene, once again

the loyal sidekick, wandered back next to me.

Momma Bird sat heavily on the bench. “I’ll say this for you,

honey. You’ve got spunk. And amateur or not, you might be on to

something.” She patted the seat next to her. I quickly sat down before she changed her mind. “George was a nice guy and all, but he was up to no good at the end. No good at all. If you ask me, that’s how he up and got himself killed.”

“What do you mean, ‘He was up to no good’? Was George in

some kind of trouble?”

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Momma Bird looked at a nonexistent watch on her wrist.

“Look, hon, you seem sincere enough, and I’d like to help you, but this is valuable selling time. I got no time to sit around chattin’ my fool head off. Unless, that is, you’re thinking about making me a donation …”

Didn’t anybody talk for free anymore? I’d already spent the

cable money bribing my Surfer Dude friend. I looked at Rene for

guidance. She shrugged and pointed to my purse. The good news

was I’d had the foresight to visit a cash machine after lunch. The bad news was it only gave out twenties. Silently swearing, I pulled one out and handed it to Momma Bird.

“You know, for another twenty, I could have a nice warm bed

to sleep in tonight, maybe even a nutritious meal.”

Forget shutting off the cable. If all of my sources were this

expensive, I’d have to start shopping for groceries at the Ballard Food Bank. I pulled out my one remaining twenty and handed it

to Momma Bird, hoping it would be enough.

“That’s it. Bank’s closed. Now talk.”

“Well,” she began, “I saw George the day before he was killed.

He was all uptight over some plan of his. Seems old George had

the goods on someone, and he thought they’d pay a pretty penny

to keep him quiet. I figure that’s what he was doing when he got

himself killed—meeting with the money tree, if you know what I

mean. Only he got himself stumped for his trouble.” She laughed,

obviously amused at her own joke.

Could George have been involved in blackmail? My heart broke

at the very idea. The man I knew had made some mistakes, sure,

but he had never deliberately harmed anyone. Not for money. I

didn’t want to know the answer, but I asked anyway.

“George was blackmailing someone?”

168

“You can call it that if you want. I like to think of it more like he was getting paid to do a job. Only in this case, his job was keeping his mouth shut.”

I had at least a thousand questions, but two were most im-

portant. “Who was he blackmailing? What did he know that was

worth killing over?”

Momma Bird shook her head. “I don’t poke my nose in other

people’s business. He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. Sometimes in my world, the less you know the better.” She leaned down and picked

up her stack of newspapers. “Now unless you got another twenty

in that purse of yours, it’s time for me to get back to work. These papers don’t sell themselves.”

I walked to the car feeling unaccountably depressed. For once,

even Rene sensed my dark mood and allowed me to sulk in si-

lence. I should have been pleased, or at least self-satisfied. After all, I’d found the information I was looking for, and I was ostensibly one step closer to solving George’s murder. Even so, a part of me hoped Momma Bird had been lying. The George I knew wouldn’t

resort to something slimy like blackmail. The George I knew was a good man. The George I knew had honor.

In the end, all I felt was a sense of deep betrayal. Blackmail

might not be up there with armed robbery and murder, but it was

still a crime. In spite of all of my protestations to the contrary, it looked like George had been a common criminal, after all. How

could I have been so wrong?

_____

I called Sarah as soon as I got home. No doubt about it, I was still upset about George. But criminal or not, George deserved justice, 169

and this extortion theory was my best lead so far. Maybe Sarah

could tell me who he might have been blackmailing and why.

I’d barely said hello when she interrupted.

“I told you, I’m not taking that frigging dog. If you call here

again, I’ll block your number and charge you with harassment.”

“I’m not calling about Bella. Hear me out for a minute, please.”

Nothing but silence. I hoped that meant she was listening, not

that she’d hung up.

“I’m sorry I misled you before, but I need your help. I’ve been

looking into your father’s murder, and one of his co-workers told me something interesting. Your father started blackmailing someone shortly before he was killed.”

I waited for a response. Still silence, but no dial tone. I took

that as a good sign and continued. “Do you have any idea who that might be? Blackmail would be a pretty powerful motive for murder.”

When Sarah finally replied, her tone was so bitter I could al-

most taste it. “Co-workers, huh? Is that what you call them? I’d call them beggars and bums. Asking strangers for money is hardly a

legitimate career. And why should I care what he did? He certainly didn’t care about me.”

Trying to justify George’s actions would only further irritate

Sarah. “I know you’re angry at your father, and you have every

right be. But he didn’t deserve to die. Not like that. Not beaten like an animal and left to die in a parking lot. Please try to think. You might know something that can help me find his killer.”

“Like what?” Sarah asked, clearly annoyed. “What exactly do

you think I know?”

“Your husband said George made some enemies when his

business went under …”

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“Of course he had enemies,” she snapped. “He bankrupted his

business, drank himself into a stupor, and dropped off the face of the earth. I’m sure his investors weren’t too happy—neither was

Mom’s side of the family, for that matter. But that was years ago.

If anyone was going to kill him over that, they would have done it back then.”

I slowly exhaled, hoping the soothing rhythm of my breath

would calm her. “You’re probably right. But extortion has a way of reopening old wounds. Shortly before he was killed, George mentioned to me that someone ‘owed’ him. Does that mean anything

to you?”

She answered automatically, without reflection. “No, nothing.”

“Please think about it for a minute, Sarah. Did someone harm

your father or your family? Someone he might have resented

enough to blackmail?”

“I already told you, we weren’t close. And extortion isn’t ex-

actly the subject of intimate father-daughter chats.” She paused, as if carefully considering what she should say next.

“Look. My dad was a lowlife. He walked out on us when I was

thirteen, and he never looked back. He left Mom and me com-

pletely on our own. Sure, my grandparents had money, so we

didn’t starve or anything, but what we really wanted was him.” Her voice cracked. “But he didn’t care about that. He didn’t care about us. He only looked out for himself.”

I wanted to tell Sarah I knew how she felt, but truth be told,

I didn’t. No matter how tough life got, no matter how bad we

fought, Dad was always there for me; his support was a given. A

life without him never even occurred to me.

I couldn’t imagine the agony Sarah must have felt when George

abandoned her, especially at that vulnerable age. The yogi in me—

171

the human in me—wanted to acknowledge her suffering and leave

her alone. But I couldn’t.

I felt like a bully, but I ignored her pain and pressed forward

anyway.

“You’re only remembering that time from your point of view.

Try remembering that time from your father’s perspective. Was he

angry with anyone—someone from his old company, perhaps?”

Sarah laughed derisively. “You are truly unbelievable. You don’t

give up, do you? You’ve got it the wrong way. My father was the

bad guy. He may have been self-centered, but he wasn’t delusional.

He was the one who messed up, and he knew it. Why do you think

he started drinking? I can imagine lots of people who might have

wanted to get back at him, but not the other way around.”

I toyed with the phone cord, thinking. “What about his busi-

ness partner? Could he have done something to make your father

hold a grudge?”

“No way,” Sarah replied quickly—too quickly. “My father

might have resented the way things turned out, but he wouldn’t

have
dared
pulling anything on Robert.”

The hair on the back of my arms stood up. “What do you

mean?”

I waited several seconds for Sarah’s reply. “Never mind. I mis-

spoke. Robert and my father were fine.” I felt, rather than heard, the door close on our conversation.

Sarah was hiding something, but pressing her now would be

useless. I decided to try a different approach. “I’d like to talk to Robert. Do you know how I can get in contact with him?”

There was a long pause, punctuated only by the sound of Sar-

ah’s breathing. I was about to ask again, when I heard her clipped 172

reply. “I have no idea. I’m done talking with you. Don’t ever call here again.”

The dial tone left no room for doubt. Sarah had hung up.

I loathed the thought of calling her back, but I needed one fi-

nal piece of information: her mother’s phone number. If Sarah

wouldn’t help me, perhaps George’s ex-wife would. I redialed, held my breath, and steeled myself for what was sure to be an unpleas-ant conversation.

An automated message answered my call. “We’re sorry. The

number you have dialed does not accept calls from this number. If you believe you have received this message in error, please hang up and dial again.”

173

nineteen

Wednesday night passed brutally slowly, in an insomnia-

laden, tossing and turning nightmare. All of my breath practices, all of my meditations, failed me. I obsessed about George and his alleged crimes, haunted by an odd sense of betrayal. I had believed in George. I knew he wasn’t perfect, but blackmail? If he was capable of blackmail, what else had he done?

I staggered out of the house at seven-fifteen and propped my-

self up with caffeine. Sleep or no sleep, I had a business to run. I arrived at the studio a full two hours before the first class, locked the door securely behind me, and tackled the monthly bookkeeping. I was drinking my third fully caffeinated triple macchiato

when the phone rang.

“I hear you’ve been harassing the victim’s family now.”

Fueled by a mind in caffeine-induced hyperdrive, my words

tumbled out at twice their normal speed. “Detective Martinez, I’m so glad you called. Did you know that George was blackmailing

someone? That’s probably who killed him. And that daughter of

his is hiding something, I know it. But don’t worry, I’ll figure it 174

out. All I need is for you to connect me with George’s ex-wife. I’ll talk to her and—”

“Slow down, Kate,” Martinez interrupted. “Take a breath.

You’re not talking to anyone.”

“But something’s obviously going on in that family,” I contin-

ued, talking even faster. “And I can get George’s ex-wife to open up, easy. I’m good at getting people to talk.”

Martinez’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You could have fooled

me.” So far, all you’ve been good at is pissing people off and dodging harassment charges. It took me thirty minutes to calm that

Crawford woman down. She was determined to take out a no-

contact order.”

I took another long swig of coffee. “Doesn’t that make you sus-

picious? There’s no way she’d be that upset if she weren’t trying to hide something. Maybe she killed George!”

I heard a telltale squeak as Martinez sat heavily in her chair.

“Kate, I know you mean well, but you’re not helping. You may

think Henderson and I are incompetent fools, but we know what

we’re doing. And your friend O’Connell has been harassing us on

your behalf. Believe me, no one’s skating on this.”

“But George’s daughter—”

Martinez didn’t disguise her impatience. “I checked out the

daughter’s alibi days ago. She was at home from nine-fifteen until well after ten last Tuesday night. Her phone records verify it. She’s not the killer.”

“Well then, couldn’t her husband have done it? They weren’t

both on the phone.”

“Likely not, but they verify each others’ alibis.”

175

How could she be so gullible? “Of course they do. But do you

really think that’s credible? I’ll bet they’re in on the murder together.”

“Kate, just because someone
could
have been the killer doesn’t mean he
was
. Where’s the motive?”

My head throbbed and my shoulders knotted in frustration. “I