Murder Strikes a Pose (3 page)

I
rescued
her.”

13

Snatching a puppy from her own yard sounded a lot like steal-

ing to me, but I decided not to argue the point.

“Of course, I couldn’t stay down south anymore. That jerk

might not recognize me, but he sure as heck would know his prop-

erty. Bella and I went on the road that night and came up here to Seattle. That’s been almost a year now. Saving Bella was the best thing I ever did.”

It was a beautiful story—but beside the point. “Regardless of

how you got Bella,” I interjected, “we still have a problem. She can’t stay here. Why don’t leave her at home while you work?”

George’s face remained deadpan. “Ma’am, not to state the ob-

vious, but we’re homeless. Where exactly would I leave her?”

I had to admit, he had a point.

I looked up and down the block, trying to come up with a so-

lution. Seattle prided itself on having more dogs than children, so finding a dog-free zone to park Bella wouldn’t be easy. The sidewalk on my side of Greenwood Avenue would never work. Hun-

dreds of animals walked this path daily on their excursions to

Pete’s Pets.

The other side of the street didn’t look much more promis-

ing. Tying Bella to the bike rack on the corner might work, but the nearby crosswalk would be problematic. I scanned further south.

Mocha Mia, the neighborhood’s most loved coffee shop, had an

outdoor sitting area that was shaded by large green and white

umbrellas. Unfortunately, it was also pet-friendly. On warm days

the crowded, chained-in space was practically a doggy day care.

Tasmanian Devil-like whirlwinds of fur, coffee, china and baked

goods flashed through my mind.

No good.

14

My eyes finally landed on the block’s most infamous dive bar,

The Loaded Muzzle. The retail space next to it had been empty

for months. Only the most desperate of drinkers ventured to that

end of the block. If Bella barked at those poor souls, they’d be too anaesthetized to notice. I pointed to a half-dead tree between the two businesses. “Why don’t you tie her over there? That part of the sidewalk doesn’t get much foot traffic, and there’s plenty of shade.”

George looked down right insulted. He forcefully shook his

head. “No way. I’d never leave Bella over there by herself. That

place is scary. Besides she goes crazy when she’s tied up alone—

sometimes she even hurts herself trying to get loose. She’s still scarred from what that jerk of a prior owner did to her. She only feels safe when she’s with me.” He crossed his arms. “Bella and I stick together. We’re family.”

George and I were clearly at an impasse. I would never call An-

imal Control, and he knew it. Time ticked on as we stared at each other, each waiting for the other to give ground. Finally, inspiration struck. “Wait here,” I said. “I have an idea.”

_____

The chime on the door to Pete’s Pets sang out brightly as I walked into a veritable cornucopia of pet delights. Brightly colored

squeaky toys, rhinestone studded collars, and a thousand variet-

ies of designer pet foods lined the shelves. These were obviously no Alpo dogs.

“Welcome to Pete’s Pets. May I help you?”

Those words came from a man with the most gorgeous blue-

green eyes I’d ever seen. That’s all I noticed before I realized the rest of his face was hidden behind a scraggly, disgusting beard.

Beards always gave me the shivers, and not in a good way. I knew it 15

was superficial of me, but I couldn’t stand beards, and I tried not to get too close to the people underneath them.

My best friend Rene teased me incessantly, claiming I exhibited

all the classic signs of pogonophobia. Clearly she exaggerated. Just because some psychologist coined a fancy term for “fear of beards”

didn’t mean I was neurotic.

It was completely understandable, really. Whenever I saw a

beard, I wondered what its wearer was hiding. I could never get

past the defects that might be buried underneath all that unsightly hair, not to mention the food crumbs, saliva, and multilegged crit-ters that might have taken up residence inside. In a word, gross.

So in spite of his cool eyes, thin waist, and approximately six-foot frame, this man was not my type. Bummer.

I got right down to business. “Hi. I’m Kate, and I need to buy

the biggest cage you have.”

“Sorry, we don’t sell bird supplies, but I can give you direc-

tions to an aviary supply store in Ballard. What kind of bird do

you have?”

“No, I need a dog cage.”

“Oh,” he replied, looking surprised. “You must mean a crate!

Follow me and I’ll show you where they are.”

We walked past bright yellow tennis balls, a zoo’s worth of

stuffed animals, and carefully balanced pyramids containing ev-

ery kind of dog treat imaginable. We finally arrived at the back

of the store and an area littered with so-called crates of all different shapes and sizes. Some were made of plastic, others of wood.

Some contained metal rods that looked unmistakably like jail bars.

Each boasted four walls, a ceiling, a floor, and a door with a lock-able front. Frankly, they all seemed like fancy cages to me, but who was I to argue?

16

“Now, what kind of dog do you have?”

“It’s not my dog. But I think it’s a German shepherd. A big one.

I mean huge.” I spread my arms out as wide as they would go. “So

a cage that fits something between a large horse and a small el-

ephant will probably do.”

He laughed. “A big shepherd used to hang out here with her

owner, but they moved down by the yoga studio.” He paused.

“Hey, wait a minute, I recognize you! Don’t you work there?”

“I own it, actually. And that shepherd’s the dog I’m talking

about. She’s freaking out my customers. I hope if we put her in a cage, she won’t bark and seem so threatening. Otherwise, I’ll have to dig an access tunnel to my business underneath the sidewalk.”

“I know what you mean,” he said, grinning. “Bella’s actually a

pretty good dog, but she sure doesn’t like other dogs getting into her business.” He held out his hand. “It’s great to meet you after all this time! I’m Michael, and I own this store.”

I dropped my hand and stared at him, dumbfounded. “Seri-

ously? Your name is Michael and you own a shop called Pete’s

Pets?”

His blue-green eyes sparkled. “Well, I wanted a memorable

name, and all I could think of for Michael was Michael’s Mag-

pies. That name seemed to seriously limit my clientele. Besides,

Pete’s Pets was catchier.” He winked and smiled wider. The crinkles around his eyes hinted that he smiled a lot.

I laughed in spite of myself and hoped
my
eyes were wrin-

kle free. Michael might not be my type, but that didn’t mean
I
shouldn’t look irresistible. He turned around to grab a crate, and I got a good look from behind. A sense of humor and a nice rear.

Really too bad about the beard.

17

When he turned back toward me, those same eyes sparkled

flirtatiously. “You know, we small business owners should help

each other out. I’d like to learn more about yoga.” He flashed a beguiling smile. “Want to go out for coffee some time?”

Crooked smile or not, I wasn’t fooled. He clearly had no inter-

est in perfecting his Downward Dog, or discussing the cat chow

business, for that matter. The business he had in mind was of a

more romantic nature.

The thought of spending time with him was appealing. He was

obviously intelligent, except for the crazy idea he had of running his own business. And he might even be attractive underneath all

that facial hair. For a blissful moment, I allowed myself the luxury of daydreaming. I imagined sharing a bottle of cool, crisp Chardonnay, curled up next to a roaring fire. I mentally snuggled in

close to his broad chest, hugged his lean waist, and leaned in to kiss his …
fur covered lips
.

Nope. That ruined it. The mental image of all those tiny mi-

crobes swarming from his face to mine interrupted my daydream

and brought me back to reality. I didn’t know what lurked in that disorganized tangle of facial hair, and I wasn’t about to find out the hard way. I just couldn’t shake the subtle wave of nausea.

“Thanks, but I’m so busy with the studio I barely have time to

brush my teeth, let alone go out.”

“I hear you,” he replied. “Been there myself. In fact, I’m plan-

ning to hire some help soon, if you know anyone interested. The

pay will be crap, but I hear the boss is fabulous.” I laughed in spite of myself. “As for that coffee, I figure it never hurts to ask.” He winked. “You have to like a dog lover.”

I winked right back. “Maybe you’ll meet one someday.”

18

Ultimately, he sold me an extra-large collapsible wire crate that would hold Bella during the day and fold flat for storage behind

the studio at night. The extra-large crate came with an extra-large price tag, but I swallowed hard and gave him my credit card, silently praying that the early morning yoga class would fill the next month. Either that or I’d have to keep the thermostat set pretty

low this winter.

I crossed my fingers and hoped that, like I’d been taught, ev-

erything happened for a reason. Maybe there’d be a silver lining

in all this. After all, hot yoga was all the current rage, but it was bound to die out eventually. Maybe I’d make my fortune in shivering cold yoga.

Michael threw in a few dog cookies to soften the blow. Bella

was impressed.

19

three

Less than twenty-four hours later, I ventured across the street

to Mocha Mia for a sacred girl’s coffee date with Rene. While I

waited for her to finish ordering one of her thousand-calorie desserts, I sipped my nonfat soy latte and considered—not for the

first time—how Mocha Mia’s eclectic décor represented every-

thing I both loved and hated about the Greenwood neighborhood.

Sparkling Tiffany-style lamps sat atop ancient, scarred wooden

tables, which were surrounded by a mismatched assortment of

formal dining room chairs. The café’s exquisitely framed paintings competed for wall space with flyers for local businesses and crude crayon drawings taped up by neighborhood school children.

Even the drinks were a study in contrasts. Each artisanal bever-

age was served in a faded coffee mug that had either been scav-

enged from a local thrift store or donated by one of the cafés many loyal patrons. Today’s barista had obviously chosen a cartoon

theme; my nonfat latte was topped by a Curious George coffee

swirl and served in my favorite Looney Tunes mug.

20

Likewise, the neighborhood around Serenity Yoga seemed

trapped between the forces of decay and renewal. Frozen by a poor economy and various environmental factors, the Greenwood business district sandwiched ghetto-like empty buildings in between

trendy new construction—like a sort of architectural split personality. Well-dressed professionals and trendy antique shops vied for dominance with addicts and skid-row-type bars. It wasn’t yet clear who would win.

I chose to open Serenity Yoga in these unusual surroundings

for two very simple reasons: the rent was cheap and the studio’s

mixed-use building was only a ten-minute drive from my home

in Ballard. I ignored The Loaded Muzzle and the early morning

drinkers that frequented it. I ignored the annoying sounds that reverberated through the ceiling from the apartments above. I even

ignored the empty storefronts of several recently-failed businesses.

I should have known better.

I would have continued beating myself up over my poor busi-

ness acumen, but Rene sat down with a flourish and waved her

hand in my face. “Earth to Kate … Are you there?” She pointed at

my mug. “No fair. You got Tweety Bird.” She deposited her dou-

ble chocolate mocha on the table with a disappointed thud. “That

barista hates me. She always gives me one of the boring brown

pottery mugs.” Rene stopped talking long enough to swipe her

tongue through a heaping mound of chocolate-drizzled whipped

cream.

I considered pointing out the whipped cream mustache adorn-

ing her upper lip, but I launched into the story of my frustrating week instead. I told Rene all about the studio’s new smelly salesman, his horse-dog companion, and my collection of unread

21

newspapers. I’d finally gotten to the part about buying a giant dog cage, when she shoved her palm in front of my face, interrupting.

“Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You met a perfectly

good guy, and you turned down a date because he had a
beard
? Are you
crazy
?” Rene’s voice belted across the cafe. She clearly wanted everyone inside Mocha Mia to hear about my transgression. Perhaps even the pedestrians walking by on the sidewalk.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved Rene; she’d been my best friend

since grade school. But most of the time I still wanted to kill her.

She had this annoying habit of homing in on my nonexistent love

life like a heat-seeking missile. I wanted to complain about the annoying drunk outside my studio, not get all goofy-silly about a

cute guy in a pet store. I sipped my coffee and jealously eyed the pastry on her plate, tempted by the sweet smell of vanilla icing.

Maybe if I stole her cinnamon roll, I could distract her and get

back on topic.

“I knew I never should have told you,” I replied. “And it wasn’t

a date. He invited me to a business meeting. Besides, I’m very hap-py on my own. The last thing I need is some stupid man distract-