Murder Strikes a Pose (4 page)

ing me from the business. I barely have time to think as it is!”

“Come on! You haven’t been out on a date in over eight

months!”

“It hasn’t been that long, has it?” (It had been nine months,

three days and seven hours, to be exact.)

She shook her head in disgust. “You would have sabotaged a

relationship anyway. You know how you are. You fall head over

heels for the first couple of weeks, and then suddenly Mr. Perfect turns into Mr. Perfectly Awful.”

“It’s not my fault you keep setting me up with jerks.”

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She looked at me incredulously. “Jerks? Are you kidding me?

You’ve gone through every one of Sam’s single friends. And I can

assure you, my husband does not hang out with jerks. What was

wrong with Troy?”

“Too dumb. Couldn’t hold his own in a conversation with a

doorstop.”

“How about Chris?”

“Too boring. Going out with that guy was like taking a triple

dose of Ambien with a Valium chaser.”

“Sean?”

“Too rich. What do I have in common with a guy who owns a

yacht named
Pocket Change
and flies to Vail every other weekend?”

“OK, what about Carl? Surely, you can’t find fault with him.”

“That guy was a football fanatic. I have no intention of spend-

ing my Sunday afternoons hanging out with a bunch of beer-

drinking, junk-food-belching sports nuts in their man cave. Spare me.”

Rene glared at me in frustration. “You dated him for two weeks

in April. There
was
no football. You look for any excuse to dump and run. Ever since your father died, I swear you’ve become commitment phobic.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. Rene didn’t realize it, but

she was getting a little too close to the truth. Make no mistake, I enjoyed a fun night out with a guy as much as the next girl. But

ever since that dreadful night with my father, I couldn’t stand the thought of relying on someone else—or having him rely on me.

“I am not commitment phobic, I assure you. I simply have re-

lationship ADD.” Rene rolled her eyes. “Seriously,” I continued.

“Give me a break. I just haven’t met the right guy yet. But when

I do, I can assure you his face will be clean-shaven and baby

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smooth.” I leaned back and took a deep swig of coffee. “You know, ever since you married Sam, you’ve become obsessed with setting up all of your friends. Just because you’re Mrs. Marital Bliss doesn’t mean the rest of us have to join you.”

“I know, but I do worry about you,” she said, sighing. “You’re

not getting any younger, you know.”

“When did thirty-two become an old maid?”

Rene pretended not to hear me. “And you spend
waaay
too

much time in that yoga studio. You’re not
the only teacher there, you know.”

“Maybe not, but the other instructors only teach a few classes a

week, and they certainly don’t help manage the studio. I can barely get them to take out the garbage.”

“Come on, Kate. You don’t have to personally oversee every-

thing, and you know it. Frankly, I’m beginning to think that you

bury yourself in work to avoid dealing with your own issues.”

She was right, of course. But that didn’t mean I had to admit it.

“How can I possibly avoid my own ‘issues’ when I have you to

remind me of them? Besides, it’s hard to meet people unless you

hang out in bars or join some online dating service. Neither of

those is really my thing. How am I supposed to meet someone?”

“That’s exactly my point!” she said, scowling. “You claim you

can’t date anyone from the studio, yet you spend all of your time there. This pet store guy may have been your last chance. I don’t want to visit you ten years from now only to be surrounded by a

hundred cats. You may not mind being the crazy cat lady, but I’m

allergic!”

“I don’t even own one cat, Rene. But I do own a business. And

in spite of what you seem to think, the studio needs my attention more than I need any man.” If I had any hope of getting out of

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this coffee shop with my ego intact, I needed to change the subject.

“Speaking of which, are you coming to flow yoga tonight?”

“Yes, I guess I’d better,” Rene replied, eating the last bite of pastry and licking the frosting-coated whipped cream off her lips. “I love these sticky buns, but they
stick
right on my ass. I’ve got to work off the calories somehow. You know, I love your studio, but

you really do need to turn up the heat. Nothing like an hour or

two of hot yoga to sweat all those nasty carbs out of your thighs.”

Another reason to hate Rene. As long as I’d known her, I’d

never noticed an ounce of body fat mar those perfect legs. She ate cinnamon rolls, I crunched celery. She had the kind of body found in the swimsuit edition of
Sports Illustrated
, I had thunder thighs.

Hmm … Maybe she had a point about that hot yoga thing …

“Now finish up that disgusting soy latte and let’s get going. I’ve got a pet store owner to check out. If you’re not going out with

him, maybe one of my other friends will.”

_____

Time zipped by, and before I knew it, three weeks had passed.

The great crate experiment with Bella went reasonably well. Cag-

ing Bella like a zoo animal wasn’t the most elegant solution, but the setup cut down on the daily noise and drama, which were my

main concerns. After all, how could students find their internal

Zen if they were forced to inhale flying fur before breath practice and listen to dog fights during meditation? Bella still barked occasionally, but significantly less than before. She seemed basically happy as long as she could be close to George.

For his part, George kept to his selling schedule like a full-time corporate job. He’d arrive at eleven each morning and sell until

seven at night. Over time, I stopped noticing his pungent aroma

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and started looking forward to seeing his friendly face outside my window.

I felt oddly comforted by his presence—as if I had a private

security guard on duty from eleven to seven every day. George

assured me that he and Bella watched out for me; that they kept

would-be prowlers from sneaking in the finicky front door when I

wasn’t looking.

He wasn’t perfect, by any means, but he stayed relatively sober

each day until his selling shift ended. Then he ambled off with Bella and a bottle for his evening reprieve from the struggles of daily life. If I hadn’t known he was destroying his health and shortening his lifespan, I would have found a sort of symmetry and beauty to the simplicity of his existence.

Every now and then, I’d pick up sandwiches for us at the Phin-

neyWood Market. On sunny days George, Bella, and I packed up

our lunches and headed to Greenwood Park, a small oasis of green

a few blocks north of the studio. This hidden, two-acre play space restored my faith in the untapped potential of the Greenwood

community.

Adopted by a group of dedicated neighborhood activists,

Greenwood Park had recently been transformed from the run-

down site of a defunct nursery to a beautifully maintained com-

munity gathering place. The park’s many amenities included

something for everyone: Pea-Patch vegetable gardens, multi-use

sport courts, futuristic-looking children’s play areas, and a large open lawn suitable for Frisbee, volleyball, and spirited games of fetch.

But for the three of us, Greenwood Park was a simply a tran-

quil place to relax and spend precious minutes chatting in the

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shade. I liked listening to George’s stories, and he obviously loved telling them.

Much to my surprise, he
had
owned a business.

“It was one of those dot com startups that were all the rage in

the late nineties. I started the company out of my house, which

wasn’t all that unusual back then.” He fed Bella the last bite of his ham and cheese sandwich. “What
was
unusual was that we almost made it. We were
this
close.” He held up a thumb and forefinger about a quarter inch apart.

“We worked night and day, and I never had so much fun in my

life. I wasn’t as young as most of the kids forming the startups in those days, but I could work twice as hard. My partner and I built the company to over fifty employees in three short years. We were growing so fast we could barely keep up.” He smiled and looked

wistfully off into the distance. Although he gazed toward the playground, his eyes seemed blank—as if he had traveled to some bet-

ter, far-away place.

I hated to make him return, but I wanted to hear the end of the

story. “What happened?”

He turned back and shrugged. “Bad luck combined with bad

decisions, I guess. First the tech market hit the dirt; then our investors got nervous. So I took a couple of creative financing risks and, well, let’s just say they didn’t pay off. We went bankrupt almost overnight.” His voice grew sad. “Broke my heart the day I had to

tell everyone we were closing the doors.”

As I listened to George’s story, my heart broke too, for him and

for others like him. The failure he described could happen to anyone, even me. Being forced out of business was my worst night-

mare—one that might soon come true, if business at the studio

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didn’t pick up. I didn’t know how to help, so I kept listening, hoping that would be enough.

“My partner was furious. He never understood the financial

side of the business, and to be honest, I didn’t tell him about our money issues until it was too late.” George paused, shaking his

head. “Helluva way to lose a friend.

“But the worst part was telling those fifty-three people that

they were out of a job. Several of them had families to support.

Every single one of them had put 110 percent into building the

company, assuming their hard work would pay off in the end.” He

rubbed his eyes, as if even remembering that day left him exhaust-ed. “All for nothing.”

He stared at the ground for a full minute, the laughter of chil-

dren paradoxically filling the silence. When he continued, his voice sounded heavy, defeated. “That night I went out and got plastered for the first time. Just couldn’t take how I had let all those people down. One drink became two, became three. The next night,

three drinks became four, and well, the rest is history.” He absently stroked Bella’s fur.

“My biggest regret is what my drinking did to my family. My

wife finally gave up and divorced me, not that I blame her. I wasn’t exactly a good husband. I got drunk every night and disappeared

for days at a time. She gave me plenty of chances to go into rehab, and I said no to every one of them. Last I heard, she had remarried and moved to Denver. I haven’t spoken to my daughter in years.”

As his voice trailed off, I sensed an opportunity. Maybe alco-

holism and homelessness didn’t have to be the end of his story.

“What about now? Have you considered getting help? Your

wife may have moved on, but I’m sure your daughter would love

to see you again. It’s not too late, you know.”

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He sighed. “I keep thinking that one day I’ll get my act together.

But honestly, for now this life suits me. I sort of like disappearing into the woodwork. Nobody’s counting on me, except Miss Bella

here.” He patted her affectionately. “No rent to pay, no employees’

lives to ruin. Heck, I even get to meet nice people like you occasionally.” I smiled. People didn’t call me nice every day.

“Besides, I can’t possibly go into rehab now. What would hap-

pen to Bella? I may not be much, but I’m all she’s got.” Bella stared steadily at him, drooling and hoping for one last morsel. He ran

his hand down her side. “I’m getting worried about her, though.

Does she look skinnier to you?”

I looked more closely; she
did
look thinner. Bella had been skinny the first day I saw her, but not like this. Her ribs clearly showed, and her formerly shiny black fur appeared dull and

brown. Even her eyes seemed sadder, more desperate somehow.

“Now that you mention it, yes,” I replied. “If you’re having

trouble affording food, I can always help out a little.” I had my own financial worries, but an extra ten or twenty dollars a month wouldn’t break me.

“Well, you know I never look a gift anything in the mouth, so if

you want to buy us some dog food, I sure as heck won’t stop you.

But she’s not underfed, believe you me. She eats better than I do.”

He touched his nose to Bella’s and cooed. “I feed you lots, don’t I, Missy Girl?”

He turned back to me. “But she’s always ravenous and she’s

getting grumpier, too. She never liked other dogs much, but she

only used to bark when they got in her face. Now she goes after

them even when they’re clear across the street. And she keeps getting skinnier and skinnier. At first I thought she was having an-

29

other growing spurt, but this seems different. I even caught her

eating dirt yesterday.”

“Wait a minute. You mean she’s not done growing yet?” That

wasn’t the most relevant comment I could make, but I couldn’t

help but be dumbfounded. The Bella-beast was already ridicu-

lously large.

George smiled with obvious pride. “She’s a big one, isn’t she? A

vet told me once that she’d be 100 pounds by the time she stopped growing. I think she could top that. She’s got at least six months’

growth left in her. I’ll bet she hits 110. She’s a purebred shepherd, but some days, I swear she’s part malamute.”

More like part horse
.