Murder Strikes a Pose (17 page)

three-line listing. If a business could afford an ad that size—in color no less—it must have lots of satisfied customers, right? And the quarter-page advertisement contained musical phrases like “Quick

results guaranteed” and “We do the hard work for you!”

133

The man who answered the phone was all too willing to work

with me, in spite of Bella’s issues. When I asked him about the

cost, he quickly assured me. “We’re not the cheapest, but you get what you pay for. And we take all major credit cards.”

“Are you a positive trainer?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” he replied. “I’m positive my methods work.”

I hesitated a moment, underimpressed by his overdeveloped

ego. But then I decided, what the heck? After so much negativity, Bella and I could use a little can-do attitude for a change. I set up an appointment for later in the week.

That settled and Bella’s adoption profile online, I could final-

ly focus on solving George’s murder. But where to start? Almost

a week had passed since that awful night, so the killer’s trail was probably close to stone cold. I considered harassing Martinez and Henderson, but that seemed worthless; even if they were actively

working the case, they’d be more likely to arrest me for obstruc-

tion than give out any useful information.

Thinking about George made my heart ache. I missed him,

and I wished he and Bella were outside causing trouble. For a mo-

ment, I allowed myself the luxury of daydreaming. In my imagina-

tion George waved at me, smiling, as Bella happily drooled by his side. I handed him a one-hundred-dollar bill and said, “Keep the

change.” The paper’s prominent headline declared: “Yoga Teacher

Wins Lottery and Donates Half to Local Homeless Charities.”

I knew the day’s actual headlines said nothing of the sort, but it was
my
daydream, after all. Besides, I hadn’t bought a paper since George’s demise, so—

Of course!
I hadn’t bought a paper
. But there was nothing stopping me from buying one, or from grilling its seller for informa-

tion. A new
Dollars for Change
vendor had set up shop in front of 134

the PhinneyWood Market. Who knew what interesting informa-

tion he might be willing to share, especially if I made it worth his while? The snitches on all my favorite cop shows opened right up

when the savvy detective handed them a bank note.

I grabbed two ten-dollar bills from the cash box, vowing to

cancel cable to make up for the expenditure. Watching television

was a bad habit anyway, and I could always hone my detective

skills at the library. If
Advanced Investigation Techniques for Dummies
and
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Solving Your Friend’s Murder
hadn’t been published yet, they should have been.

The new vendor didn’t remind me of George in the slightest.

Young, blond, wearing frayed jeans and Birkenstocks, he looked

like a down-on-his-luck surfer dude, dreadlocks and all. I could

easily imagine him on Maui’s Baldwin Beach, living for the oppor-

tunity to catch the next big wave. A sweet, smoky smell emanated

from his jacket—much sweeter than the average tobacco, if you

know what I mean.

Hoping to get in his good graces, I handed him one of the tens

and took a paper. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks, lady,” he said, pocketing the money.

“I’m Kate. I work over at the yoga studio. You’re new here,

aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I used to sell over by the Mini Mart, but this is a much

better spot—more foot traffic and better tips.” He smiled, revealing a chipped front tooth. “Pretty sweet.”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,”

“Time is money.” He looked at my purse. “Got another of those

tens?”

So much for my good graces strategy. Vowing never to pay up-

front again, I pulled out the second ten-dollar bill.

135

“I’ll give you this, but first we talk. I’m trying to find a new

home for Bella, and I’m hoping you can help.”

“Who’s Bella?”

“She’s a German shepherd I’m fostering. She belonged to

George Levin, the man who sold
Dollars for Change
here before you.” I lowered my voice. “Did you know he was murdered?”

“Yeah, I heard.” He shuddered. “Gruesome. How’d you end up

with his dog?”

“It’s a long story, but I can’t keep her much longer. I thought

one of his friends would take her, but so far I’m not having much luck.”

“I’ve been thinking about getting a dog myself. Everyone

knows a dog increases the take, especially near a place like this,”

he said, nodding toward Pete’s Pets. “I might even make a sign that says ‘Need money for dog food.’ That gets ’em every time.”

Note to self: Never believe what you read on signs.

“But I’m going to get something cute, little, and floppy eared,”

he continued. “You know, some mutt that’ll attract kids and

chicks. I’m certainly not going to get a monster that looks like an overgrown wolf and acts like a wolverine. Everyone said George

was crazy to keep that dog.”

“So you knew George?”

“
Dollars for Change
isn’t exactly a huge corporation, lady. Everyone pretty much knows everyone else.” He shrugged. “We

weren’t friends or anything.”

“Do you know if he had any enemies?”

“Not that I know of, but like I said, we weren’t friends.” He

looked at me suspiciously. “Why are you asking about George’s en-

emies, anyway? Are you seriously going to give his dog to someone he hated? That’s cold, lady.”

136

My Miss Marple routine needed some work. I changed the

subject before he stopped talking to me altogether.

“Honestly, I’m just curious. I found his body.”

My Surfer Dude friend shook his head, looked at the ground,

and sighed. “That sucks, man. That really sucks.”

Not very eloquent, but accurate nonetheless.

“Yes, and it’s got me a little freaked out. I guess I’m searching for a reason—you know—a reason why this happened to George

and not me.”

“It’s all about karma, lady. Payback. You can’t avoid it if you

try.”

Adrenaline surged from my fingertips to my toes. Now I was

getting somewhere. Only twenty dollars and ten minutes into my

investigation, and I was about to uncover a crucial clue. Not bad for a newbie.

“Payback?” I said, edging closer. “Did George do something

bad? Something worth getting killed over?”

Surfer Dude frowned. “Nah, you’re not listening. I already told

you, I didn’t know the dude. I have no idea why someone offed

him. I’m talking about
karma
. Universal. Life. Karma.” He pointed toward the studio. “Don’t you work at the yoga place? You should

know all about it. The crap that happens to us in this life is payback for all the stupid stuff we did last time. George must have

been really bad in one of his past lives to get himself killed this go-around. Maybe he was a vicious dictator or a serial killer … Heck, maybe he was even a Republican.

“But it doesn’t matter, lady. You can’t stop karma. You can only

ride the wave and hope for a better trip next time.”

137

I ignored my new friend’s flawed interpretation of Eastern

philosophy. If Surfer Dude didn’t know anything about George’s

death, maybe he could connect me with someone who did.

“You’re probably right,” I said, pretending to be relieved. “I’ll stop worrying about it.” I held up the second ten-dollar bill.

“But back to my original question, do you know any of George’s

friends? I still need to find someone who’ll take this dog off my hands.”

“Sorry, lady, like I said, I didn’t really know him. But if I were you, I’d go to the paper’s main office and ask around there. It’s not like they keep a lot of records or anything, but someone there might at least know if George had family.”

“Thanks, I will.” I handed him the money and walked away.

_____

Before heading back to the studio, I stopped at the car to check on Bella. One look at me and she started to whine, squirm, and moan, acting like she’d been stuck in the car for a thousand years. That girl needed a walk, and she needed it bad.

The day was gorgeous: The kind of day we don’t often get in

Seattle—the kind that proves the sky actually
is
blue, not steel gray.

On days like this, Seattle residents emerge from their caves, hang up their umbrellas, and gravitate toward the sun’s golden rays en masse. The local parks would be packed with sun-starved Seattle-ites and their canine companions. Unless I wanted to burn off my

breakfast running away from off-leash dogs and their oblivious

owners, I needed to find some place less crowded.

We drove fifteen minutes south to Fremont and a little-used

section of the Burke-Gilman Trail. Nestled between the University of Washington and the Ballard Locks, this sweet little waterfront 138

path had the city-meets-nature feel so typical of Seattle. Separate bike and pedestrian trails meant Bella and I were less likely to get run over by a speeding bicycle commuter—always a plus.

Even better, the trail nestled up against a steep embankment

overlooking the Lake Washington Ship Canal—a river-like body

of water that connected Lake Washington to Puget Sound. The

beauty of this cliff was more than cosmetic. The cliff prevented

dogs and people from approaching us from the south. One less

thing to worry about.

I enjoyed breathing the fresh air and watching boats make their

way to the Ballard Locks. Bella enjoyed tracking the assorted critters that had traveled the path before her. The sun’s warm rays

baked my shoulders. Seattle’s version of Heaven
.

I daydreamed about Michael’s and my next date. And the next.

And the next. Before I knew it, my mind had created an entire life for us: gorgeous white wedding dress, beautiful house, two perfect kids. I had to laugh at that one. I didn’t even like kids. But I sure could daydream about making those kids …

I should have known better than to let my attention wander.

But in my defense, it wasn’t a dog or even a bearded man this time, and I couldn’t be prepared for everything. Right in front of us,

slightly to the right, waddled a male mallard duck. Evidently, in Bella-speak, the word “duck” meant
delicious
.

Bella roared with delight. She went after that mischievous mal-

lard like a cheetah after a gazelle, completely forgetting she had a human deadweight attached to her leash.

I wasn’t a very effective anchor. Dogs can pull two-and-a-half

times their weight. So, at eighty pounds, Bella could easily pull 200

pounds of yoga teacher. Chunky thighs or not, I was nowhere near

139

that weight. And Bella had an advantage—she was pulling me off

the cliff.

Off we went, after that damned duck, over the embankment. I

slid, bumping along the ground, hanging on to Bella’s leash with

all my strength. One large crashing “oomph!” into the dirt, and I lost hold. Bella took off running, much faster now that she didn’t have to drag her 130-pound burden. I continued rolling down the

hill, straight toward the water below.

I felt each and every bruise assault my body and prayed no

bones were breaking. A few feet from water’s edge I came to a sudden stop—by smashing into a tree. An insane thought whipped

through my mind right before impact.
Isn’t this how Sonny Bono
died?

Stunned, I lay there, afraid to move. Part of me wanted Bel-

la to keep running and never come back. Part of me wanted to

catch her so I could strangle her. Then, the logical, responsible part of me realized what I’d done.
I’d dropped the leash.
Bella was out there on her own, without anyone to protect her from herself.

What if she went after another dog? What if she got hit by a car?

What if she saw Santa again?

The first step in finding her was getting up. Easier said than

done. I slowly wiggled my toes and began the other small move-

ments typically suggested at the end of yoga class. I rolled my

shoulders, turned my head, and moved my legs. Nothing seemed

broken—so far.

A blond, twenty-something biker called to me from the trail.

“Oh my God! Do you need help? Should I call an ambulance?”

The answer was yes. Of course I needed help. As for the ambu-

lance, it could whisk me off to the insane asylum, which was exact-ly where I belonged for agreeing to care for this hound-from-Hell.

140

“I’m OK, but thanks. Did you see where the dog went?”

He looked around. “No, sorry. Hang on. I’ll come down and

help you get up.”

Over my “I-wish-I-were-dead” body.

I was beyond embarrassed, and I wanted to lick my ego’s

wounds in private. I certainly didn’t want that cute jogger to see me flat on my back—at least not this way. What if my hair was

messed up? What if I had mud on my face? What if the butt was

ripped out of my jeans?

“I’m fine, but thanks. You can go. I appreciate your help.”

My Good Samaritan looked unconvinced, but he climbed back

on his bike and rode away. Now for the real challenge. How
was
I going to get up? And if I did, how on earth would I find Bella?

I groaned and covered my face with my hands. Even if I made it

back to the trail, Santa would just sue me for Bella’s soon-to-be dog mauling. I lay back down with a heavy sigh, closed my eyes,

and resolved to let nature take its course.

A creature the size of a water buffalo came crashing through