Murder Strikes a Pose (11 page)

Against my better judgment, I gave Bella an additional foot

of lead. Still woo-wooing, she tentatively reached toward Michael and sniffed his outstretched fist. I held my breath, silently praying.

I wanted to win the bet, but not at the expense of Michael’s right hand. I mentally cursed myself for agreeing to this insanity.

I couldn’t believe the transformation that came over that dog.

One whiff, and her tail started wagging slowly back and forth;

her facial expression softened; her ears relaxed. She let out a soft

“woof!” and nestled right up to Michael, excitedly nudging his

hand with her nose.

“Remember me, Bella girl? I’m the cookie man.” He turned to-

ward Bella and opened his fist. In it was a heart-shaped dog cookie.

Bella snatched it up with the joy of a child taking a chocolate-covered Drumstick from the ice cream truck man. She snarfed down

the yummy morsel, then proceeded to crawl all over Michael, lick-

ing and nibbling at his hairy face.

“I know! It’s great to see you again, too!” He laughed, vigor-

ously scratching her sides.

I’d been conned.

“No fair! You already knew her!”

“You didn’t think I’d let Bella hang out near the store without

giving her cookies, did you?” He rubbed his hand back and forth

across the top of Bella’s head. She wiggled her entire body with

glee, clearly reveling in doggy heaven. “Bella’s always loved me.”

“The bet is off,” I whined. “You cheated.”

“Absolutely not. At no time did I say Bella and I were strangers.

You assumed.” Michael winked and edged closer. I marveled at his

courage. I was, after all, about to kick him in the shin.

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“You have no one to blame but yourself,” he said, grinning.

“But don’t worry. You can get even by ordering champagne with

dinner on Saturday. Maybe that will make up for the small fortune you’re about to spend on dog supplies.”

I shook my head and watched in amazement as Bella contin-

ued to play and flirt. “I still can’t believe she likes you. She hates men with beards.”

“To tell you the truth, until Bella got a good whiff of me, I

thought you might be right. She must be stressed, but that’s not

surprising. After all, her whole world’s been turned upside down.

She probably doesn’t know who to trust.

“So,” he continued, “Saturday night? I’ve got great taste in res-

taurants, so dress nice. You like Italian?”

Great. Just what I needed. A date with a beard covered in pasta

sauce.

_____

Six hours later, Bella and I returned home. The day’s yoga students were safely tucked in their beds, and Bella was more than tired of hanging out in the car. I dragged in the jumbo bag of dog supplies and prepared Bella’s new organic, hypoallergenic, grain-free kibble according to the instructions provided by Michael’s Good Samaritan customer. Her note indicated that getting the enzyme dosage

right was a “trial and error” process. I laughed. It figured. Nothing about Bella was easy. But since I was already going through the

“trial,” I might as well add the “error.”

I ground up the kibble, added water and medicine, and mixed

up the moist, disgusting-looking concoction in Bella’s brand new

food bowl. Bella watched with anxious anticipation. The instruc-

tions said her food should be the consistency of oatmeal, but to

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me it looked like something significantly less appetizing. Bella

didn’t seem to notice. She danced and drooled, clearly ready to

devour her dinner. I set the timer. “Sorry, girl, it needs to sit for twenty minutes.”

“Bark!”

I ignored her.

She responded with two more ear-splitting barks.

“There’s nothing I can do,” I said in my most authoritative

voice. “We have to wait at least twenty minutes.” I handed her a

bone-shaped piece of plastic. “Take this chew toy.”

Bella retired to the living room and half-heartedly gnawed on

the bacon-flavored dog pacifier. She looked less than pleased, but for the moment, I had won. Score one for the human.

When the timer went off, Bella snarfed down her meal in two

minutes flat. It must have tasted better than it looked.

Bella’s dining requirements satisfied, I could finally attend to

my own needs. Nothing sounded better than a good book and a

long, hot bath. I was about to dip my toes in lavender-scented bliss when I noticed the light blinking on my answering machine.

“Hey, Katydid, it’s John. I have some information on that

woman you’re looking for. Give me a call.”

I threw on a robe and grabbed a pen. “Bella, our luck may be

changing.”

O’Connell answered on the first ring. “Great. I was hoping

you’d call. I spent some time on the phone with Detective Hen-

derson today. You were right, by the way. You didn’t exactly make a good impression. Is it true you barfed all over his crime scene?”

Lack of sleep left me irritated. “Well, pardon me if I’m not used to stumbling over dead bodies.”

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“Settle down, Katydid, settle down. No need to get your draw-

ers in a bunch. I’m doing you the favor, remember?”

I bit back my snarky reply and stared longingly at the bathtub.

“Sorry, John, but I’m in a hurry. Do you have something for me?”

“Henderson’s convinced your friend’s murder was a drunken

brawl gone bad,” he continued. “They haven’t found the murder

weapon yet, but nothing about this looks premeditated—more

like a fight that got out of control.”

“I don’t buy it, John,” I argued. “George wasn’t the fighting

type. And Greenwood may not be Mercer Island, but we’re not ex-

actly Belltown, either. We don’t have a lot of street crime in this neighborhood.” I tapped my pen on the notepad, thinking. “Maybe I should talk to Henderson again.”

John’s irritation surged through the phone line. “Katy, we

made a deal. I’d get you some information to satisfy your curiosity, and you’d stay out of this. A murder investigation is no place for an amateur, especially one who’s also a witness.”

“But—”

“I mean it, Kate,” he barked. “Keep messing in this investiga-

tion, and you’re liable to really screw it up. Now are you going to fight me, or are you going to be a good girl and let me tell you how to contact the vic’s daughter?”

I scowled and made a gesture—the kind not readily accepted in

polite company. Nobody called me a “girl.” Especially not a “good girl.” Not even my father’s oldest friend. I didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty lying to him, under the circumstances.

“You’re right, John. I’m out of my league. I’ll stay out of the

investigation and leave it to the professionals. You found George’s daughter?”

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He exhaled with relief. “Good job, Katydid. As it turns out, you

were right. She’s local, sort of. Her name’s Sarah Crawford and she lives in Issaquah. I’ve got her number here.” I wrote it down. “Detective Henderson didn’t think she’d be too happy to speak with

you, but that’s your concern. I did my part.”

I disingenuously thanked him for his help, hung up the phone,

then immediately picked it up again. The bath would have to wait.

I had no idea what to say, but under the circumstances, I figured the fewer details, the better.

“Hello, Ms. Crawford? My name is Kate Davidson. I have

something valuable of your father’s that you might want.”

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ten

“Don’t worry, girl, they’ll love you. After all, you’re family.”

I hoped I was right. As Bella and I drove across I-90 the next

morning, I worried about our reception. My phone conversation

with Sarah had been brief, and I didn’t volunteer much informa-

tion. I certainly didn’t tell her that the “item” I planned to deliver was of the canine variety. Sarah sounded tired—too tired to think clearly—so I talked fast and used vague terms like “father’s most precious possession” and “family heirloom.” I may have even fibbed a little about my connection to the Seattle Police Department.

I felt bad about deceiving her. The yoga teachings clearly pro-

moted honesty. But my story was an exaggeration, not really a lie. I may not
officially
work for the police, but they
did
give me Sarah’s phone number. Besides, there were extenuating circumstances. My

work with Bella was a mission of mercy. I pulled into the driveway and hoped for the best.

The property was exactly what I had envisioned for a Bella-

sized dog. The pale yellow house nestled in the corner of a gor-

geous green lawn. Large fir trees blocked neighboring houses from 87

view and would provide cool, dappled-gray shade puddles, perfect

for napping on hot summer afternoons. I smiled as I imagined

Bella happily protecting her yard from intruding cats, wandering

deer, and hapless mailmen.

“Bella, this is perfect. Look at that huge fenced-in yard! You’ll be able to run and play all day.” Bella did, indeed, look impressed as she smashed her nose against the car window. “I don’t see any

other dogs, so unless there’s one in the house, you’ll have this place all to yourself. And look! There’s a tricycle in the front yard. I’ll bet a kid lives here. You love kids!”

I smiled to myself.
I guess sometimes stories do end “happily ever
after.”

“Wait here. I’ll go butter them up for you.”

As I walked up the sidewalk, I examined Bella’s new home.

Bright white shutters and the smell of freshly mown grass hinted

that the property was well cared for. Children’s toys littered the lawn, and bright orange poppies bloomed along its edges in well-tended beds. Saying a silent prayer to God, the universe, or whatever else was in charge, I rang the bell.

The woman who answered the door had the weary look of

young mothers everywhere. She wore a clean-but-wrinkled blouse

and frayed jeans that weren’t quite stylish enough to have been

purchased that way. Her red-rimmed eyes showed evidence of re-

cent crying. A blue-eyed toddler clung tightly to her leg with one hand and held a plastic dump truck in the other. The remnants of

a peanut butter and jelly sandwich colorfully decorated both his

face and his blue-striped T-shirt. I smiled as I imagined ruffling my fingers through his adorable, soft-looking brown curls.

“You must be Kate. I’m Sarah, and this here’s Davie. Davie, say

hello.”

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I half expected Davie to walk up and offer me his paw. Instead,

he smiled and leaned into his mother’s leg, shyly hiding behind it.

“I’m Davie,” he said, rocking back and forth. “I’m gonna be three.”

He held up the correct number of fingers. Sarah gave him a gentle hug and opened the door wider.

“Come on in. My husband, Rick, is out back, but we can talk

inside.”

I followed Sarah to a neat and functional living room. Well-

worn rugs covered its wooden floors, and the dirt-colored fur-

niture looked sturdy and easily cleanable—well suited for the

inevitable mishaps of life with a toddler. I could easily imagine Bella curled up by the fireplace or hiding under the kitchen table, begging for unwanted table scraps from her new young best

friend.

Sarah gestured toward the corner. “Davie, why don’t you go play

with your trucks?” To me, she said, “Please have a seat. I’m sorry, I don’t have much to offer you. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

I declined her offer as we both sat down.

“My father’s death took us by surprise, and I haven’t had time

to go to the store. Even in a death like this, there’s so much planning.”

“A death like this?” I asked.

Her facial expression was blank, almost numb. “It’s not like we’re going to have a funeral or anything. My father didn’t have insurance, and we don’t have much money.” She shrugged. “Besides, who

knows if he even had friends anymore? I wouldn’t have a clue who

to invite to a memorial. I thought it would be simple enough to have him cremated, but I still have to make all these decisions. Like, what am I supposed to do with the ashes? I don’t want to keep them, but 89

I have no idea where to scatter them. As far as I know, the place Dad loved best was some liquor store.”

I winced before I could stop myself. Her acrid tone surprised me.

“I’m sorry if that sounded cold, but my father and I weren’t

close. Not for years.”

“I would imagine that makes it even harder,” I replied. “So

much unfinished business.”

“I suppose. But telling Mom was the hardest part.” She rubbed

her eyes, whether from exhaustion or grief, I couldn’t tell. “Mom claims to have gone on with her life, but even after all this time, I think she still loved him.”

“When was the last time you saw your father?”

“Last weekend, but before that it had been a very long time …”

My yogi sense tingled on high alert. George told me he hadn’t

spoken to his daughter in years. What made him reconnect with

her last weekend? And more importantly, did visiting Sarah some-

how lead to his murder?

I waited, hoping Sarah would volunteer more information. But

she stared off into space, her echoing silence broken only by a tick-ing clock and the wooden clunking of Davie’s dump truck as it

deposited blocks into an imaginary landfill.

I gently prodded her. “At least your father was able to spend

some time with his grandson before he passed.”

Sarah stiffened. When she looked back at me, all traces of wist-

fulness were gone. Her lips thinned to a tense line. “I never said that I let him see Davie.” She stood up. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t want to talk about my father anymore. You said you