Murder Strikes a Pose (27 page)

“Sit,” he muttered, pointing to the nearest bench. He stood on

another and dug in the rafters, sorting through coats, blankets,

and even more duffel bags. He finally found George’s black bag

and handed it to me.

It felt light, insubstantial. “Is this everything?” How could

something so small hold a man’s entire legacy?

“’Cept a blanket. I already told George. That’s mine now.”

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I didn’t argue. I reached to undo the zipper, but stopped, con-

flicted. This small bag contained everything George held precious.

Snooping through it seemed wrong somehow—an invasion of

George’s privacy, even in death. And yet the act also felt important, as if I’d been gifted one final, completely honest conversation with my friend. I paused, closed my eyes, and asked George for forgiveness. Then I slowly, reverently opened the zipper.

A pair of pants, pockets empty. Two worn shirts, two pairs of
socks, two pairs of underwear, another shirt …

The green flannel shirt wrapped something—a flat, rigid ob-

ject with sharp corners. I laid the bundle on my lap and carefully opened it.

The photo sheltered inside delivered a blow so powerful it felt

physical. A young, vital-looking George stood next to a tall wood-en sailor painted in bright reds and blues. George held a child under one arm and a pretty, dark-haired woman under the other. I

opened the frame and removed the picture. Written on the back

was “Sarah, Maddie and me—Cannon Beach, 1995.” I gazed at

George’s family portrait for several minutes, lightly running my

fingers across the image.

“I ain’t got all day, lady.”

Charlie’s gruff voice brought me back to reality. I carefully

put the photo back in the frame, rewrapped the bundle, and kept

looking. Only two items remained—a small collar and George’s

most valuable possession: Bella’s $200 bottle of medicine. No zippered pockets or hidden compartments. No notebooks, receipts,

or damning Post-it notes.

This was it? I’d wandered off with a stranger for this?

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Heavy with disappointment, I returned the contents to the bag,

closed the zipper, and stood up, placing the bag over my shoulder for the long walk home.

“Where’s my money?” Charlie asked.

My earlier uneasiness returned. “I appreciate your help, but I

don’t see anything in here that will help solve George’s murder.

I’m sorry, but I can’t pay you the reward.”

Charlie’s eyes turned cold. He moved closer, clenching and

unclenching his fists. The fence surrounding us suddenly felt like a prison; Charlie, a not-quite-sane cellmate. I clutched George’s gym bag to my chest and slowly backed away.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he growled.

The hair on my arms vibrated. Every nerve ending screamed

retreat! I grabbed for the pepper spray but couldn’t find it. I

glanced around, terrified. Where had it gone?

Charlie leaned toward me, and I panicked. I turned to run, but

tripped and tumbled face-first into the sand. I pulled myself up

and tried to scramble away, but my feet slipped on the wet ground.

My eyes locked on Charlie’s enraged face and I knew: this man in-

tended to kill me.
Or worse
.

“I
said
, where’s my money?”

My mind screamed run but my legs refused to obey. Why

couldn’t I move? Sour breath flooded my nostrils as Charlie

pushed me deeper into the sand. I squeezed my eyes shut and

tensed my muscles in horrified anticipation. One final thought

tortured me.
Who’ll take care of Bella now?

Time seemed to stand still. My life flashed by in a series of disconnected still-frames, but I felt no regrets. In fact, I felt—nothing. No pressure restraining me, no hands on my windpipe, no

219

painful abuse. Nothing but the deep, ragged gulps of my own des-

perate breath.

One breath became two, became three. After what felt like an

eternity, I relaxed my muscles and cautiously opened my eyes.

Charlie stood several feet away, glowering and holding the bag he had ripped from my shoulder. Once he made sure I was watching,

he conspicuously leaned down, picked the vial of pepper spray off the bench where I’d dropped it, and tossed it in George’s bag.

“When I get my money, you’ll get your stuff.”

I practically wept with gratitude.
Money.
He only wanted money. The math was easy. One hundred dollars wouldn’t buy me any

information about George’s murder, but I
would
net a two-hundred-dollar bottle of Bella’s medicine. And my life, well, that was priceless.

A quick stop at the nearest cash machine secured my freedom.

Charlie put the five crisp, new twenty-dollar bills in his pocket, handed me George’s bag, and shuffled off, pushing his loaded-down bicycle.

My teeth still chattered hours later, long after I’d peeled off my wet clothes and scrubbed my skin raw in a scalding shower. I tried to tell myself that I’d never been in any real danger—that my terror was the product of an overactive imagination. But deep inside, I knew better. Charlie only backed down because he got what he

wanted. George had been wrong; the man was insane. What if I

had refused?

I knew I should file a police report, but I was still too shaken, so I called John O’Connell instead. I didn’t have a chance to tell him what happened in Woodland Park. In fact, I’d barely started telling him about my visit to
Dollars for Change,
when he exploded.

“You did
what
?”

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“I was desperate, John. I’m not making any progress, no one

else seems to care, and—”

“Of all the
stupid, reckless, irresponsible
—”

This time I pre-empted the inevitable dial tone by hanging up

first. I avoided further conflict by leaving the bag and a detailed letter on John’s front porch. I knew John would be furious, but

I asked him to deliver George’s belongings to Detective Martinez

anyway. Well, at least most of George’s belongings. I told myself it wasn’t really stealing. After all, I paid a hundred dollars for that bag. Sarah might want the photo someday, but she’d never miss

the enzymes or Bella’s puppy collar. Those I kept for myself.

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twenty-four

Life, as the saying goes, went on, but slowly and without mean-

ing. I functioned, but barely—heart and mind co-existing in one

body, yet strangely disconnected. My heart dragged, weighted by

the dual anchors of loneliness and depression, while my mind

raced, running on the hamster wheel of obsession. I would have

thought that facing death would reinvigorate me—make me ap-

preciate how precious and fleeting life could be. But the effect was exactly the opposite. That day with Charlie drained every last drop of my energy, every last drop of my will. I barely muddled through each passing hour, step by agonizing step.

After two-and-a-half weeks, the chances of anyone—police of-

ficer or concerned citizen—solving George’s murder were minis-

cule. But that didn’t stop me from obsessing about it. I became

consumed with solving the mystery of that note. What did I know

that was worth threatening me over? My visit to
Dollars for Change
may have been reckless, but at least it had provided a welcome distraction. Once I exhausted that idea, all I had left were the endless repetitions of my own useless thoughts.

222

So I did everything I could to keep from thinking. I cleaned

my house, cleared out the attic, landscaped the yard—and ignored

Michael’s phone messages. In spite of his many recorded apolo-

gies, our relationship was over. When it came to romance, Rene

was right. I didn’t give second chances. More importantly, I didn’t
deserve
second chances.

Bella and I spent our time together avoiding fur-covered crea-

tures of any kind, canine or human. Forcing her to live in total

social isolation didn’t seem fair, but I was out of ideas. I permitted one tiny spark of hope to illuminate my otherwise defeatist attitude. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, I still believed in the basic law of karma: that on balance, good things happened to good people. Bella and I had clearly experienced more than our share of hardship lately. If the universe was even slightly fair, we were due for a break. I hoped it would come on Saturday afternoon.

My phone rang Saturday at three-thirty on the dot.

“Hi, Kate, it’s Melissa. I’m here for Bella’s evaluation.”

“Great! Come on up!” My perky confidence sounded forced,

even to me.

Melissa paused. “Why don’t you bring Bella outside so I can

meet her on neutral ground. German shepherds can be territorial.”

My stomach did flip-flops as I snapped on Bella’s lead. Was Me-

lissa’s reticence a good sign or a bad one? I kneeled down, placed my hands on either side of Bella’s face, and gazed into her deep

brown eyes. “Please be good. You and I both need this to work.”

I walked Bella outside but stopped on the porch, confused.

Where was Melissa? The only person outside was a child stand-

ing next to a blue Chevy hatchback. Surely Melissa hadn’t given up and left already? I scanned the horizon in search of lost dog train-223

ers, but found no one except the child, who was now vigorously

waving. My stomach stopped flopping and dropped to my toes.

Oh, no. It couldn’t be.

I blinked to clear my eyes and looked again. As I’d feared, the

waving munchkin wasn’t a child after all; she was the world’s ti-

niest dog trainer. Upon closer inspection, her shoulder-length

brown hair was streaked with gray. But she stood less than five feet tall and weighed at most 100 pounds—if she carried a backpack

full of rocks.

This woman could never handle Bella. A brand new headline

flashed through my mind: “Pint-Sized Trainer Dragged to Death

by Super-Sized Dog.” I considered hiding, but that would be rude.

She’d already seen us.

Melissa smiled and turned slightly sideways. “Bring Bella up,

but let her decide how close she wants to come.”

Bella enthusiastically pulled me up to her new best friend.

“Hello, there, girl, aren’t you a pretty one!” Melissa cooed, scratching Bella’s throat. To me she said, “Bella’s very thin. How’s her ap-petite?”

I explained Bella’s disease and what I had learned so far about

managing it. “Treating EPI is expensive and lifelong, but the disease can be managed. So far, Bella’s doing really well. She’s gained three pounds since she’s been with me, and she eats great.” I ruffled Bella’s ears. “In spite of her looks, there’s nothing Bella likes better than food of any kind.”

“That’s actually great news,” Melissa replied. “Food-motivat-

ed dogs are much easier to train than those who won’t eat.” She

thought for a moment. “You know, her disease may be causing

some of her issues.”

“What do you mean?”

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“Dogs that are sick often exhibit behavior problems.”

I shook my head in dissent. “I know she’s hungry, and she cer-

tainly begs, but that’s far from our biggest problem. I’m worried about her aggression.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Melissa said. “Think about it.

How do you act when you’re stressed out and hungry?”

I thought back to Martinez’s call and the infamous coffee cup

incident. I couldn’t help but smile.

“I think you get my point,” Melissa continued. “All beings are

crankier when they don’t feel well. Getting Bella healthy may be a huge step in managing her behavior.”

We spoke outside for a few more minutes while Melissa con-

tinued to bond with Bella. Finally she said, “I think it’s OK to go inside your house now. Let’s sit down and talk.”

Once we were seated, she asked to hold Bella’s lead. “Tell me

more about Bella’s issues.”

Melissa pulled out a clipboard and wrote down my description

of Bella’s behavior. Although she ostensibly listened to me, she

closely observed Bella. So far, Alicia was right. Melissa was nothing like Jim, that obnoxious trainer in Snohomish.

“Has Bella ever hurt anyone?” Melissa asked.

I felt my face turn red. “What do you mean?” I knew perfectly

well what she meant; I just didn’t want to answer. Even hearing the question filled me with dread.

Melissa looked up from her writing. Her expression was seri-

ous. “I’m trying to understand the severity of Bella’s aggression, and I need you to be honest with me. Has she bitten before? If so, how many times, and how much damage did she do?”

She was asking if Bella was dangerous. This was, of course, the

core issue—one I needed to face, whether I wanted to or not. I re-225

flected for a minute, both on my time with Bella and on the stories George had shared. “I’ve only had her for a couple of weeks, but

she’s never bitten that I know of.”

“Has she had the opportunity to bite?”

“No,” I replied. “I always keep her on leash.”

“That’s good, but it’s not what I’m asking. Has Bella ever got-

ten close enough to bite?”

I shuddered as I remembered our two closest calls—with

Coalie and that awful Trucker Man. “Yes, but she missed. She

knocked a guy down once, and I saw her jump on a dog, but she

didn’t actually bite it.”

“Believe me,” Melissa countered, “she didn’t miss. If a dog

wants to bite and is close enough to do so, it bites.”

I took a moment to mentally replay Bella’s blowups. “She cer-

tainly creates a scene, but now that you mention it, I don’t think she’s ever actually put her teeth on anyone.”