Murder Strikes a Pose (26 page)

I turned to face them. “Hi, everyone,” I said feigning significant-ly more confidence than I felt. “My name is Kate Davidson. I knew George, the vendor who was killed in Greenwood, and I’m looking

into his death. Who here has information that can help me?”

The crowd murmured and shuffled, but no one shouted, “I did

it!” or volunteered any other useful information. Tali stormed out from behind her desk and roughly grabbed my shoulder. “Get out

of my office.”

I threw off her hand and shouted, “A man was murdered! Why

doesn’t anyone besides me care about that?”

Tali was firm. Not the slightest bit friendly. “I said get out.
Now
.”

I had no intention of leaving until I got my information. Tali

may have been a few pounds heavier than me, but I was tougher. I

planted my feet, placing my hands on my hips.

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“No. I’m not going,” I said belligerently. “You’ll have to make

me.”

Big mistake.

A huge man with multiple tattoos, a pierced ear, and more than

a little body fat stepped between us. He looked like a cross between a sumo wrestler and a strip club bouncer. I looked up—way up—

to his face, seeking eye contact. His deep voice boomed. “I believe the lady asked you to leave.”

He left me with one intelligent option. Retreat. I said I’d solve George’s murder even if it killed me, but I didn’t mean
literally
.

“Fine. I’m going.”

I made one last-ditch effort to get my message out to the

crowd. I yelled over my shoulder as the sumo-bouncer pulled me

to the door. “I’ll be waiting out in the parking lot, and I work at Serenity Yoga. Find me if you know something. I’ll pay one hundred dollars for any information that helps solve the case!”

I waited by my car for forty-five minutes, until every vendor

had left the building. Most studiously avoided my gaze, quicken-

ing their pace as they passed. Two stopped to see if I wanted a paper. Only one brave soul offered any information about George’s

murder. Momma Bird marched straight up, frowning. With a look

of apparent disbelief, she said, “What are you, stupid? I told you already. George was blackmailing someone. That’s who killed him.”

She turned and walked away, shaking her head in disgust.

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twenty-three

I spent the next few days locked in mortal combat with my most

feared adversaries—guilt and depression. Getting out of bed each

morning was a major victory. Summoning the energy to teach,

nothing short of a miracle. Interacting with the steady stream of newcomers to the studio, well, that almost killed me.

No, I didn’t finally obtain my much-needed flood of new stu-

dents. Each visiting stranger had one goal only: to walk away a

hundred dollars richer. As I’d hoped, word of my reward traveled

far beyond
Dollars for Change
. In fact, most of Seattle’s homeless seemed ready to take me up on my offer. While a hundred dollars

felt like a lot of money to me, to the desperate people lined up

outside my door, it was a fortune—a fortune worth waiting for, a

fortune worth lying for. I began to think the police might be right.

For some, a hundred dollars might even be a fortune worth killing for.

By Wednesday, I had interviewed a dozen “witnesses.” By and

large, their stories were obvious works of fiction. A few were simply heart-wrenching delusions ranging from CIA cover-ups to

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alien abductions. Although I gave away several small bills to my

most desperate visitors, no one received the magic c-note. After

three days of dodging unbathed con men and trying to reason

with well-meaning schizophrenics, I was ready to throw in the

towel. My visit to
Dollars for Change
had been a waste of time.

The thirteenth visitor changed my mind.

I was hiding in the studio’s storage room, ostensibly taking in-

ventory while the studio’s most valiant teacher—the instructor of the Mommy and Me yoga class—wrapped up her weekly hour of

self-torture. From what I could hear, the theme of today’s class was cultivating inner peace in the midst of screaming. I peeked around the door. The intrepid instructor sat on a large green yoga ball

bouncing two red-faced, screaming infants—one on each knee.

They obviously weren’t doing Happy Baby Pose. The tiny humans’

red, wrinkly, puffy faces were covered in tears; fluid I didn’t wish to identify dripped from their nostrils and flowed from their gaping mouths; the scalp of the child on the right sported unruly, horn-like spikes of dark brown hair.

No doubt about it. These were the spawn of Satan.

The words “Thank God it’s not me … Thank God it’s not

me …” pounded through my head, keeping rhythm with the un-

happy cries. I glanced around the room, wondering if I should in-

tervene somehow.

No one other than me seemed to notice the clamor.

Eight resting moms lay flat on their backs, legs draped over

cylindrical bolsters. Their eyes were closed, their jaw muscles relaxed, and they wore slight smiles on their faces. The six babies not being bounced, rocked, and cooed by the grinning yoga teacher

were self-entertained by a variety of activities, from playing with plush, animal-shaped toys, to crawling around on brightly striped 212

yoga blankets, to sleeping in car seats. The sleeping children must have been deaf.

I closed the door again, cursing myself for not selecting a bet-

ter hideout. I pretended to count yoga mats, paper cups, and toilet paper rolls while I waited for the eight yogi supermoms to gather their progeny and move to the lobby. The screaming quieted to a

dull roar. If I was lucky, I could hide out in here until everyone left.

If I was lucky—

The Mommy and Me teacher opened the door and hit me

squarely on the butt, knocking me to the ground. She didn’t ap-

pear happy. “Sorry about that, Kate, but you need to come out

here. There’s another creepy guy hanging around by the front en-

trance. He’s freaking out my moms.”

I sighed and grabbed my jacket. “I’ll talk to him.”

When I entered the lobby, the eight formerly blissful new

moms stared worriedly out the window, clutching their babies to

their chests. Their instructor gave me a grumpy look, then smiled at them confidently. “Everything’s okay, ladies. Why don’t you

leave from the back door today.”

They murmured agreement and gathered their various baby-

centered belongings—blankets, diaper bags, toys, car seats, and

strollers—before moving en masse to the yoga room door. They

stopped at the doorway, staring at my “No Shoes Allowed” sign.

The first few moms in line turned back and frowned.

I smiled in return. “Go ahead and keep your shoes on. And

don’t worry,” I said, hoping I wasn’t about to lie. “I’ll make sure this gentleman doesn’t bother you next week.”

Seemingly satisfied, the caravan of sixteen humans and all of

their earthly belongings stomped through the studio and out the

back door, leaving a trail of dirt, scuff marks, and dropped toys be-213

hind them. Sighing, I slipped on my coat and prepared to perform

my thirteenth waste-of-time interview.

The man on the other side of door didn’t quite look at me as

he shifted left and right. “You the woman giving out a hundred

dollars?”

I took a step back and swallowed the acid taste of my morning

coffee. It was Charlie, the man I’d seen talking with George the day of his murder. He stood in front of the studio, leaning on his bag-laden bicycle and wearing that same filthy camouflage jacket.

“Um … well, um … I’m looking into George Levin’s murder.

Do you have information that can help me?”

He nudged the ground with his boot.
“Maybe. I have his stuff.”

I snapped to attention, captivated by those two short sentences.

George’s gym bag
. As far as I knew, the police had never found it.

The bag could contain important clues—incriminating receipts,

perhaps a calendar, maybe even a Post-it note brazenly displaying the killer’s identity. Excitement overcame my apprehension. I had no idea what might lie among George’s possessions, but I had to

find out.

I glanced at the bike. “Can I take a look?”

“I don’t have it here. It’s hidden. You’ll have to come with me.”

A hollow sensation tugged at the pit of my stomach. “Go with

you? Where?”

He frowned. “To where I hid it.” He didn’t volunteer any ad-

ditional information, but his look spoke volumes: clearly yoga

teachers didn’t have to be very bright.

“Tell you what,” I replied. “Why don’t you go get George’s be-

longings and bring them back here. I’ll wait for you.”

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Charlie looked at me, frowning slightly. “I already went out

of my way to come to you once. If you want George’s stuff, you’ll come with me.” He shrugged. “If not, so be it.”

He must have mistaken my silence for assent. He blatantly

looked me up and down, assessing my outfit. My light jacket and

leggings were perfectly suited for the unseasonably cold morn-

ing—as long as I spent it inside a toasty-warm yoga studio. Only

five minutes outside, and I was already freezing. “We should drive,”

he muttered.

Dad’s scolding voice rang through my head.
Do not get into a

car with this man.
But my own trickster mind was far more persuasive. After all, it reasoned, I had Bella. She’d never let anyone hurt me. Besides, George had assured me that Charlie was harmless—that the two of them were friends. He would have warned

me if Charlie were dangerous, right?

I grabbed my purse, told the instructor I was leaving, and led

Charlie to my car, nervously filling our walk with mindless chatter.

I didn’t even consider how Bella would react to his beard.

Bella awoke as my key turned in the passenger side lock. She

took one look at the grizzly-man standing behind me and roared,

clawing and snapping at the partially opened window.

I shrieked in surprise and stumbled away, startled by her

outburst. Charlie, on the other hand, didn’t even flinch. He just stared, deadpan, at Bella and the trail of saliva dripping down my car’s interior.

“Guess we’ll walk,” he said. He picked up his bike and ambled

off in the opposite direction.

I didn’t want to follow. What if George had been wrong? What

if Charlie was the killer? Without Bella, I’d be defenseless. I’d be crazy to wander off with Charlie—crazier than Rene, Momma

215

Bird, and all of my schizophrenic sources combined. But I couldn’t
not
go, either. If I let him leave, I’d never get a chance to look through George’s possessions.

Charlie obviously didn’t share my ambivalence. He didn’t even

look back to make sure I was following. He just kept walking.

My trickster mind taunted me again.
What are you afraid of,

Kate
?
It’s broad daylight
. I felt the weight of my purse against my hip.
And you do have the pepper spray …

I started after Charlie, but immediately stopped, ashamed of

myself. I relocked the car, took two steps back toward the studio, and froze. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t take the third.

Curiosity pulled me toward Charlie like a magnet. I opened my

purse, took the pepper spray off safety, and tucked it in the palm of my hand.

“Hey, wait up! I’m coming!”

I caught up with Charlie a half block later. We walked together

in silence for a good ten minutes before turning right on Aurora

Avenue N. “Where are we going?”

No response. Nothing but the sounds of cars zooming by on

the busy roadway.

Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea
. I shivered under my rain-soaked jacket, kicking myself and feeling like an idiot. But my feet kept on walking. I’d made it this far. Why turn back now?

When we reached Woodland Park twenty minutes later, my

mind finally caught up with what my intuition had known all

along. Coming here with Charlie had been a terrible
mistake. As we entered the ninety acres of mostly deserted forest, I understood why he chose this location. With nothing in view but pine trees,

squirrels, and the occasional abandoned bunny, the park was the

perfect place to hide your most prized possessions—or the body

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of a newly slaughtered yoga teacher. Aurora’s traffic sounds no

longer gave me much comfort. Even if someone heard me scream,

they’d be too far away to help.

Depressed or not, I wasn’t yet suicidal. It was time to cut and

run—literally. Straight down the hill to Greenlake, where there

would be dozens, if not hundreds, of people to witness my execu-

tion. I slowly, tentatively backed away as Charlie continued for-

ward. I glanced left and right, searching for a path not covered

with fallen branches. The trail on the left looked promising, but I’d have to be careful. Stumbling would cost me precious seconds; a broken ankle would seal my fate. I just needed a head start—

enough time to get to the road.

Wait for it … Wait for it …

“In here.”

I gasped at the unexpected sound. “Here” was a fully fenced

grassy area containing over a dozen sand-filled horseshoe pits. It seemed oddly out of place and yet fully at home in the deserted

park—a reminder, somehow, of more innocent times. The fenced

area contained multiple benches and was covered by two partial

roofs, providing both protection from rainfall and the illusion of gated safety. Empty bottles littered one corner; a transistor radio sat in the other. Charlie closed the gate, leaned his bike against the fence, and turned on the radio. We’d arrived at his home.