Murder Strikes a Pose (9 page)

have blamed me for what happened, but I definitely blamed my-

self.

As I finished the story, Bella rested her chin on my belly, closed her eyes, and fell asleep. The warmth of her body on mine felt oddly comforting, and I finally relaxed enough to do what I’d needed to do for hours. I broke down sobbing as I held Bella and allowed her rhythmic breathing to rock us both to sleep.

_____

When I arrived at the studio the next morning, the area seemed

unfathomably normal—as if the prior evening’s nightmare had

never occurred. I’m not sure what I expected. News helicopters

buzzing overhead, vying for the opportunity to video an empty

lot? Armed policemen standing guard over parking space 137? At

least some black and yellow crime scene tape warning people to

stay away from the now desecrated area.

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I yearned for a physical marker—an acknowledgement of what

had been lost. But no telltale chalk drawing outlined the place

where George’s body had lain. The only echo of the prior night’s

evil was a subtle red tinge, left by the blood from his shattered brow.

Thankfully, my students didn’t yet know about the murder; I

could never have faced retelling the story so soon. But I knew my reprieve of silence would be short. The death of a homeless man

might not make the early morning headlines, but it would be all

over the local news blogs by noon.

I needed a better story than the one I had now, both for my

business’s sake and my own. “Drunk Dies in Drug Deal Gone Bad

at Yoga Studio” wasn’t exactly the free publicity I’d been hoping for. And no matter what the police thought, I didn’t buy their theory. George had not died in some drunken altercation. I had to

find out what really happened last night, not just for George, but also for myself. Otherwise, I’d never feel safe closing up the studio again.

Detective Martinez had been kind, but Henderson was obvi-

ously in charge, and I’d freeze to death in Hell before I got more information out of him. Luckily, I had another source—if he

was still speaking to me. I hadn’t been a very good friend to John O’Connell since my father’s death. In fact, I’d been more like a

stranger. But if I thought about that, I’d chicken out for sure. So I pushed all non-yoga thoughts to the side and tried, unsuccessfully, to focus on teaching my class.

I barely remember the seventy-five minutes of mindless blath-

er that tumbled out of my mouth, but suffice it to say that the session wasn’t my best effort. I fidgeted through the beginning breath work; I said left when I meant right and fingers when I meant toes; 65

I impatiently drummed my fingers against the hardwood floor

during Savasana. And although I don’t know for certain, I’m pret-

ty sure that I made the class do Warrior I three times on the same side. My students didn’t comment on my lack of verbal acuity, but they popped up like Pop Tarts at the end of class and tried not to make eye contact as they said their goodbyes. Part of me felt bad about their awful experience, but most of me was simply relieved

the ordeal was over.

As soon as the last student grabbed her yoga mat and scurried

out the door, I joined the monster-dog snoozing in my car and

drove south on I-5. Destination: the Seattle Police Department’s

West Precinct. I pulled up to a shady spot in front of the familiar cement building, placed my hand on the car door handle—and

froze, seemingly super-glued in place.

“I don’t know, Bella. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.”

I hadn’t seen John in months, and I hadn’t visited the West Pre-

cinct in even longer. Being at the station reminded me too much

of Dad. I wasn’t proud of my actions, but I had to move on with

my life, and avoiding painful reminders seemed like the best strategy. But that strategy wouldn’t work today. Today I needed infor-

mation.

I sat in the car for what felt like a century, trying to gather

enough courage to enter the building. I’m still not sure how I convinced myself to actually walk through the front door, but seeing John’s beaming face was worth every step.

“Katydid! I haven’t seen you in forever!” He crushed me in one

of his famous bear hugs. “Where have you been?”

“John, I go by Kate now. You know I always hated that nick-

name.”

66

“Nonsense. You’ll always be little Katydid to me.” He made a

circling motion with his index finger. “Now, let me take a look at you.”

I reached my arms out to the side and spun around for him,

just like I did as a little girl.

“Beautiful as always,” he said, smiling. He pointed to the eleva-

tor. “Now let’s go talk.”

I looked at the floor as the elevator doors closed behind us.

“I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls, it’s just—”

John held up his palm. “You don’t have to say anything, Katy-

did.” I heard a catch in his voice. “Believe me, I know. I miss him, too.” We rode the rest of the way to the tenth floor in silence.

When we arrived at his desk, John got right to business. “That

was some phone call I got last night. How’d you go and get mixed

up in a murder?”

“I’m not mixed up in it; I just found the body. But thanks for

vouching for me. I would have gone crazy if they hadn’t let me go home. They kept asking the same questions over and over again,

but I didn’t have any answers. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“That can happen, Katydid, that can happen.” He playfully

nudged me on the shoulder. “Hey, I hear you adopted the vic’s vi-

cious dog. Funny, you always struck me as one of those crazy cat

ladies.”

“Why does everyone say that? It’s not funny.” I gave him a dirty

look, and he was smart enough to look chagrined. “Besides, I’m

not keeping the dog. I just didn’t want her to end up in the pound.

That’s why I’m here, though. I didn’t get off to a great start with the detective in charge, and I need your help.”

67

John pulled out a chair and motioned for me to sit. “How’s

that?”

“George, the victim, mentioned once that he had family. I got

the impression that at least his daughter is local. Can you get me her phone number? I’d like to offer my condolences and see if

she’s willing to take Bella.”

I didn’t fool him, at least not completely. He remained stand-

ing and peered at me through narrowed eyes. “Katy, what are you

up to?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, trying to look innocent.

“You know exactly what I mean. You have a bad habit of stick-

ing your nose in where it doesn’t belong. It used to drive your

father nuts. He always said you took after your mother that way:

nosy, argumentative, and stubborn.”

“Very funny, John.” I held back a smirk. My temperament may

have driven Dad nuts, but I
clearly
inherited it from him. But I didn’t share that insight with John. Instead I gave him the Scout’s Honor sign. “I swear. I’m not up to anything. I just want to get this dog off my hands.”

John crossed his arms and gave me
the look
—the same look

Dad used to give right before he caught me in a lie. Seasoned psy-chopaths couldn’t hold up to
the look
. How could I be expected to fare any better?

“But you’re right. I wouldn’t be averse to learning more about

what happened to George. He was a friend of sorts, and I don’t

buy the detectives’ theory of what happened.”

John leaned against the edge of his desk. “I’m not working the

case, but from what the officer told me last night, your friend was killed in some drunken brawl. Sorry, Katydid. I know that’s not

68

what you want to hear, but it’s probably what happened, all the

same.”

I was afraid he’d say that. John and Dad might have solved

George’s murder in the old days, but I wouldn’t put money on

Henderson today. Seattle’s priorities had changed. In this time of deep, city-wide budget cuts, Seattle barely had enough money to

keep convicted criminals in prison. The city had zero resources to waste on low-profile cases that would likely go unsolved. I envisioned George’s cold-case file covered in dust, buried in a ware-

house full of forgotten boxes.

My voice grew a tad louder than I intended. “But John, that

doesn’t make any sense! I told Henderson last night. George didn’t have a violent bone in his body. And he always had Bella with him.

His being alone has to mean something!”

John actually had the nerve to pat me on the shoulder. “Ka-

tydid, leave crime fighting to the professionals. I know you mean well, but stick to stretching hamstrings or whatever it is you do in those yoga classes of yours. Keep your nose clean and safe. I promised your dad that if anything happened to him, I’d keep you out

of trouble. And that’s a promise I intend to keep.”

“I’m thirty-two, John, not thirteen. You don’t need to keep

promises you made to my dad when I was a teenager.”

“It doesn’t matter. A promise is a promise is a promise. And

you’ll always be the same cute little brown-eyed girl to me.” He

stood up and looked at me squarely, without even a trace of a

smile. “Stay out of this. That’s an order.”

I knew that look, too. I didn’t respond well to edicts, but argu-

ing was pointless, at least for now. “OK, John, you win. I won’t talk to George’s daughter about his death.”
At least not until I meet her
69

in person.
“But I still need to find out if she’ll take this dog off my hands. Will you please get me her phone number?”

I didn’t exactly lie, but I don’t think John believed me, either.

He sighed. “Go home, Kate. I’ll see what I can do, and I’ll call

you if I find anything. But if you want my advice, take the dog to the pound and go on with your life. Nothing good can come from

your snooping around in this. Nothing good at all.”

70

eight

I drove away from the precinct with more questions than an-

swers, but for now, I was forced to wait and hope that John uncovered some useful information. In the meantime, I needed to clear

my head. My mind felt sluggish from lack of sleep and the residue of last night’s trauma. Bella’s digestive system, on the other hand, wasn’t sluggish in the slightest. She needed to do some clearing of an entirely different nature.

Discovery Park would meet both of our needs perfectly. Full

of wooded trails, open beaches, and scenic picnic areas, the park seemed like the perfect place to gather my thoughts and let Bella do her business. The sun peeked through the clouds and provided

a welcome contrast to the chilly morning breeze. A damp, earthy

smell permeated the air, left over from the prior week’s rain. The universe seemed to be offering me hope—reminding me that after

every dismal storm, the sun eventually reappeared. I turned toward the warmth, closed my eyes, took a deep breath—and gagged.

In the name of all that was holy,
what
was that smell?

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Bella had relieved herself of her digestive burden. Without go-

ing into too many details, suffice it to say that Bella’s late night dog chow dinner had not agreed with her.

“Sorry, pup. Looks like we need to find a new brand of dog

food. I’ll add that to our list.” Bella looked at me gratefully. A trip to Pete’s Pets was definitely in order.

But not now. Now, I needed to think. I wandered through the

park, oblivious to my surroundings. Instead of living in the present or even planning for the future, I obsessed about the past.

Where had George gone for those missing days? George hadn’t

volunteered much information about his time away, and I’d been

much too busy harassing him to ask. I mentally kicked myself for

not listening—for not being a better friend. George might still be alive, if only I’d acted differently.

A sudden tightening of the leash interrupted my guilt trip. Bel-

la froze in her tracks. She stood stock-still, muscles tense, leaning forward. I turned to follow her gaze. What was she glaring at?

I saw them too late.

A jogger exercising a golden retriever ran right at us. Bella and I had no time to escape; they were only a few feet away. I wrapped the leash around my hand, pulled Bella in close, and braced myself for the inevitable explosion. Bella lunged, pulling forcefully on the leash. She snarled, snapped her teeth, foamed, and growled. Cujo

would have been friendly in comparison. I planted my feet and did my best impression of a 130-pound anchor.

All things considered, I thought I did pretty well. The leash

held, my wrist remained intact, and Bella’s teeth touched nothing but air. The jogger, however, was not impressed. “What’s wrong

with you, lady? Control your dog!”

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“She’s not my dog, sorry!” I replied, as he ran off into the

blessed distance. If I were him, I’d have kept on running. No good could come from tempting Bella again. But that crazy jogger did a one-eighty and charged right back to us, yelling.

“Yeah, right! Sure she’s not your dog. People like you drive me

crazy. You know, if you didn’t starve that dog, she might not be so vicious. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

People like me?

What was his problem? Bella certainly wasn’t going to win Miss

Congeniality, but she hadn’t gotten anywhere near him, or his dog for that matter. And how could he think I was purposefully starving her? Who would be cruel enough to intentionally starve a dog, but responsible enough to take it for a morning walk?

If Jogging Man wasn’t going to keep running, Bella and I

would. One quick left turn and off we ran down a different path,