Murder Strikes a Pose (31 page)

student-teacher boundary with Alicia yet again. Our time together was supposed to be about her, not me.

“I’m sorry, Alicia. You’re probably right. And in any case, we’re not here to talk about me.” I looked at my watch. “Let’s start your practice. Do you want to work more strongly today?”

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Alicia didn’t want to change the subject, but she acquiesced.

When we finished our gentle flow sequence, her breath sounded

strong, vital, and deep. She finished sitting upright, to maintain the energy she’d worked so hard to build.

I rang the chimes, indicating it was time to come out of medi-

tation. She sighed, smiled, and opened her eyes. But instead of

finishing with our normal “namaste,” she placed her hand on my

arm. “Kate, I’m sorry for being so short with you earlier. I don’t know what came over me. I
am
concerned about you, but that’s no reason to get angry. I must be more worried about those scans

next week than I thought.”

I smiled. “Don’t worry about it. You may well be right.”

“So you’ll drop the case?”

I didn’t answer right away. Lying to her would be wrong, but

refueling her irritation would be worse. In the end, I compro-

mised. “I’ll think about it, I promise.”

I didn’t break that promise, I swear. I took a full thirty seconds to carefully consider Alicia’s advice.

Then I chose to completely ignore it.

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twenty-eight

I closed the door behind Alicia, double checked the lock, then

moved to the desk to review my notes and gather my wits.

Whose crazy idea was this, anyway?

Playing the role of “Kate the yoga teacher” was hard enough. Pre-

tending to be someone else seemed virtually impossible. If I thought about my planned deception too much, I’d freeze with stage fright.

So I didn’t give myself time to think. I wiped my sweat-drenched

palms on my pants, picked up the phone, and started dialing. The

first two calls went to voice mail. The third was a wrong number; the fourth, disconnected. On the fifth, I got lucky.

“Hello, may I speak to Madeleine Yeates?”

“Who am I speaking with?” Her voice sounded slightly irritat-

ed, like someone about to hang up on a telemarketer.

I smiled and hoped my voice was engaging. “My name’s Jes-

sica Oppenheimer. But don’t worry, I’m not trying to sell you anything. I’m a writer for
Seattle Life Magazine.
”

“I’m Madeleine. What can I do for you?” She still sounded suspi-

cious.

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“Are you the Madeleine Yeates that was married to George Levin?”

“Yes, but we divorced years ago. What’s that got to do with a

magazine?”

My pretend smile morphed into a huge, excited grin. I’d found

her! I held back a one-sided high five and forced my voice to stay calm.

“I’m writing a human interest story on the ups and downs of

the Seattle high-tech industry. Sort of a ‘rags to riches, riches to rags’ piece. I’m particularly interested in telling Mr. Levin’s story, since it ended so tragically.” I lowered my voice and whispered, as if telling a secret. “Are you aware that he was recently killed?”

“Yes,” she said warily, “but I’m not sure I want to talk about

that, especially with a reporter. This has been a very hard time for my family.”

“I understand, and I promise to only take a few minutes of

your time. In fact, we don’t need to talk about your husband’s

death at all. I’d actually like to learn more about his life—specifically about the company he formed while you were married.”

“That’s
ex-husband
. We were divorced, remember?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “I don’t think I can help you. I wasn’t involved in the day-to-day operations.”

“I don’t need specific details about how he ran the business,

Mrs. Yeates,” I assured her. “I’m more interested in the human aspect of Mr. Levin’s story. How a man who was focused, intelligent, and dedicated enough to build a company from scratch ended up

living on the street. I hope my story will illustrate how quickly life can change. One spate of bad luck, one uninsured illness, one ac-cident—poverty and homelessness could happen to any of us.”

After several seconds of silence, I heard the click of a lighter

and Madeleine’s deep inhale. “The human aspect, you say.” Her

255

tone softened. I felt her resistance dissipate, dissolving like the curly wisps of smoke from her cigarette. “Well, here’s something

you can put in your article. George was a good man, with a good

heart. He’d been on the street for a long time, but he was about

to turn his life around. If he hadn’t been killed, things might have ended very differently for him.”

I sat up straight, paying close attention. “You’d spoken to him

recently?”

“Yes, twice, actually. The first time was the Friday before his

death. He told me he’d just come off a three-day bender, but that it would be his last.” She paused. “And you know what? I believed him.”

George’s missing days.
That’s how he spent them—drunk in an alley somewhere. I didn’t know which to feel: elated that I’d finally solved that part of the puzzle or heartbroken that George’s last actions had been so predictably self-destructive.

Madeleine’s voice grew pensive. “George wanted to get in

touch with our daughter. In hindsight, I never should have told

him where she lived. It was unfair of him to just show up on her

doorstep after all that time …”

“How long had it been?”

“Years. George left when Sarah was thirteen. It scarred her, in

so many ways. I’ve tried to get her into counseling, but she’s as stubborn as her father.” Madeleine took another long drag on her

cigarette. “I hoped that if George apologized and came back into

her life, Sarah could finally heal.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I remained silent. At least five

awkward seconds passed before she continued.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. You’re a complete

stranger—a reporter, no less.”

256

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Yeates. I won’t print anything about you or

your daughter.” I smiled at the irony. In the midst of my subter-

fuge, I could still offer one piece of truth.

“Thank you.” Her voice sounded sad. “Honestly, I feel a little

guilty. I had no idea George was looking for money. If I’d known, I would have given it to him myself—anything to keep Sarah from

getting hurt again. But he never asked. I suppose he didn’t want to make waves with my husband.”

“You said he contacted you again?”

“Yes, two days later, shortly after he saw Sarah. Their meeting

didn’t go well. Sarah’s reaction was a real wake-up call for George. He called to say he was sorry for all of the heartache he’d caused, for both of us. He said he’d make it up to us one day …” Her voice trailed off.

Make it up to them? Could George have been trying to recon-

cile? “Sounds like maybe he wanted to get back together.”

“It’s a little late for that now. I’m remarried.”

I thought of the happy-looking family in George’s photo. “That

wouldn’t necessarily keep him from trying.”

“A different man maybe, but not George. George wasn’t exactly

a fighter.” Madeleine paused. “I think he wanted forgiveness—to

know that I didn’t hate him.”

“I’m so sorry.” The words weren’t enough, but they were all that

I had.

“Me too. I’m just grateful that I had a chance to give it to him.”

Madeleine wasn’t exactly the raving lunatic I’d hoped for in a

murder suspect. She still cared about George—too much to have

hurt him. Our conversation was one more dead end in a series of

failures. I should have been disappointed, but honestly, I felt relieved. Before he died, George had made peace with at least one of his loved ones. That had to count for something.

257

“Do you know if Mr. Levin contacted anyone else?”

“I’m sorry. Other than Sarah and me, I have no idea.”

That wasn’t the answer I wanted. “Perhaps someone who

wasn’t as compassionate as you? Maybe an investor or partner

who was still angry about the business?”

“I don’t think you understand,” Madeleine replied. “The only

person still upset about that business was George. He took that

failure harder than anyone. I don’t know if you were around Se-

attle back then, but dot coms started and folded all the time. Investing in one was like buying a lottery ticket. You crossed your fingers and hoped to win big. And a very few people did—make

it big, that is. Most, however, were lucky to get part of their original investment back. George’s investors knew the risks. They only gambled with money they could afford to lose.”

I stood up and paced, nervously playing with the phone cord. I

had to be missing something. “What about his employees?”

Madeleine laughed, but without humor. “Sure, they were upset

at first, but then they moved on to the next big idea. Everybody

moved on but George. He blamed himself way too much. That’s

probably why he turned to alcohol in the first place. He couldn’t take the weight of all that responsibility anymore.”

I could practically feel my last lead slip through my fingers.

Out of sheer desperation, I tried one final maneuver. “That’s very understanding of you. But I’m betting not everyone felt the same

way. One of my sources said that George’s business partner was

pretty upset at the time. I know I’d have a hard time letting go if someone betrayed me that way.”

Madeleine’s friendly tone vanished. “Don’t be ridiculous. No

one betrayed anyone. And what’s that got to do with your story,

anyway?”

258

I backpedaled quickly, hoping to avoid yet another dial tone.

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Mrs. Yeates. I’m just trying to understand the pressures George faced—pressures that may have ulti-

mately led to his demise.”

“Well, scratch Robert off your list. I don’t think George felt too badly about him, in the end. Robert may have lost money, but he

ultimately got what he wanted.”

“What was that?”

“Me. Robert is my second husband.”

_____

We spoke for about ten more minutes, but the conversation felt

more and more like a dead end. Madeleine wasn’t my killer, and

try as I might, I couldn’t get her to name any other suspects. She promised to have Robert give me a call, but I suspected my conversation with him would be equally fruitless. Robert had an alibi.

Unless he had an accomplice, he couldn’t have committed murder

from a full continent away. George’s life story was certainly trag-ic, but it didn’t contain any rage-filled enemies lying in wait for the opportunity to strike.

I felt more frustrated than ever. Almost four weeks had passed

since George’s death, and I wasn’t any closer to solving the mystery than when I started. No matter who I questioned, no matter how

hard I thought, I still ended up in the same place. Nowhere.

So I decided to stop thinking and clear my mind. My yoga prac-

tice was slow and gentle, focused on linking movement and breath.

Forty-five minutes later, I rested in Savasana, hoping meditation would quiet my chatterbox brain. It worked, to a point. My mind

was quiet, but definitely not still. Instead of listening to a barrage of 259

random thoughts, I was besieged by a dizzying tornado of interconnected images.

First I saw Sarah’s beet-red angry face, then mud splashed in all directions as Bella knocked Trucker Man to the ground. Detective

Henderson arrived next—the saliva in his beard reflecting the police car’s flashing lights, followed by George’s broken skull lying in an ever-expanding pool of blood. Rene’s Ralphie appeared, complete

with his ridiculous ponytail, right before I saw Tiffany and her too-tight jeans, Charlie’s beard, and George’s gym bag. Next were my

broken car window and Jake angrily hiding under the desk at Pete’s Pets. I even saw Momma Bird’s crazy pink flamingo hat.

The murderer had to be someone I’d spoken with. Some-

one George would meet in that parking lot. Someone who knew

enough about me to know that I posed a threat. Someone who—

I sat straight up and opened my eyes. I knew exactly who’d

killed George. I even thought I knew why. I’d figure out how to

prove it later, but first I had a more important priority. My prenatal class started in fifteen minutes, so I pulled out a phone book and dialed the first listing.

“AAA Lock and Key. How can I help you?”

260

twenty-nine

I scheduled a locksmith for early the next morning. Sixty min-

utes later, my prenatal students lifted their hips to the sky while pressing hands and heels to the ground in a final Downward Dog.

“This feels delicious,” one of them groaned. Downward Dog

was always a favorite of the prenatal crowd. The inverted position stretched the backs of mom’s legs, released baby’s weight from her back, and gave her a few treasured, ache-free moments.

“Can’t we stay here all night?” another interjected.

I smiled. Yoga is ideally practiced in silence, but this group of future moms liked to chat: before, after, and especially
during
class.

After resting on their sides in a modified Savasana, the moms-

to-be slowly lumbered to their feet and began putting away the

myriad of yoga props needed to support pregnant bodies: blocks,

straps, blankets, bolsters, and yoga mats.

“Great class tonight, Kate.”

“My back feels so much better.”

“I think my ankles are even less swollen.”

261

Jenny gave me a big hug. “See you next week, Kate. You know, I