Murber Strikes a Pose Page 19

  At least, that is, until my adrenaline levels returned to normal and my rational mind reengaged. I looked at Bella, read the confusion on her face, and realized what I’d done. I’d lost my temper and lashed out exactly like I had that night with my father. No matter how much I wanted to, I’d never change.

  All the emotions I’d fought to suppress for the past two years came flooding back. My body felt heavy—so heavy I could barely lift my head. This was exactly what I’d been afraid of. I’d deluded myself into thinking I could open up again, but I’d been wrong. I didn’t want a relationship. I didn’t deserve a relationship. Michael was better off without me. I was better off alone.

  Bella whined, clearly uncomfortable with my pain. She lay down beside me and licked at my tears. I hugged her back and sobbed, rocking slowly back and forth.

  “I know girl, I know. We’re on our own again.”

  _____

  I gave up on sleep at five-thirty the next morning, crawled out of bed, and shook off the fog of depression threatening to envelop me. Ten days had passed since George’s murder, and the police still didn’t have any viable suspects. If my conversation with Martinez and Henderson was any indication, they weren’t even actively working the case. Well, police be damned. Michael be damned. Now that I was single again, no one would stop me. I would get to the bottom of George’s death, even if it killed me.

  But how? I’d obviously stirred someone up, but I had no idea who, how, or why. I considered interviewing every Dollars for Change vendor in the greater Seattle area, but how many papers could one girl buy, anyway? My best bet was to go back to the source.

  I didn’t want to stir up trouble; in fact, the last thing my heart could take was more conflict. But depression’s cold tongue licked at my heels. If I didn’t force myself to take action soon, I would give into it entirely. So I rented a car and drove, solo this time, to Dollars for Change. I walked into the office with my head held high, praying that Ralphie and Tali hadn’t compared notes.

  “You again. You lied to us!” Tali hissed. “If you’re going to make fools of us, you and your friend should at least get your stories straight. Poor Ralph was heartbroken. He waited for Suzie for over two hours.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I replied. “I had no idea she was going to set him up like that. But we meant well.” I spoke loud enough to be heard throughout the entire office. “I’m investigating George Levin’s murder, and I need information.”

  A small crowd gathered around the desk. Even Ralph emerged from his cubicle to see who was causing all the commotion. This time, we weren’t alone. At nine o’clock in the morning, dozens of Dollars for Change vendors of assorted ages, ethnicities, shapes, and sizes loitered about the office, waiting to pick up the daily edition.

  I turned to face them. “Hi, everyone,” I said feigning significantly more confidence than I felt. “My name is Kate Davidson. I knew George, the vendor who was killed in Greenwood, and I’m looking into his death. Who here has information that can help me?”

  The crowd murmured and shuffled, but no one shouted, “I did it!” or volunteered any other useful information. Tali stormed out from behind her desk and roughly grabbed my shoulder. “Get out of my office.”

  I threw off her hand and shouted, “A man was murdered! Why doesn’t anyone besides me care about that?”

  Tali was firm. Not the slightest bit friendly. “I said get out. Now.”

  I had no intention of leaving until I got my information. Tali may have been a few pounds heavier than me, but I was tougher. I planted my feet, placing my hands on my hips.

  “No. I’m not going,” I said belligerently. “You’ll have to make me.”

  Big mistake.

  A huge man with multiple tattoos, a pierced ear, and more than a little body fat stepped between us. He looked like a cross between a sumo wrestler and a strip club bouncer. I looked up—way up—to his face, seeking eye contact. His deep voice boomed. “I believe the lady asked you to leave.”

  He left me with one intelligent option. Retreat. I said I’d solve George’s murder even if it killed me, but I didn’t mean literally.

  “Fine. I’m going.”

  I made one last-ditch effort to get my message out to the crowd. I yelled over my shoulder as the sumo-bouncer pulled me to the door. “I’ll be waiting out in the parking lot, and I work at Serenity Yoga. Find me if you know something. I’ll pay one hundred dollars for any information that helps solve the case!”

  I waited by my car for forty-five minutes, until every vendor had left the building. Most studiously avoided my gaze, quickening their pace as they passed. Two stopped to see if I wanted a paper. Only one brave soul offered any information about George’s murder. Momma Bird marched straight up, frowning. With a look of apparent disbelief, she said, “What are you, stupid? I told you already. George was blackmailing someone. That’s who killed him.” She turned and walked away, shaking her head in disgust.

  twenty-three

  I spent the next few days locked in mortal combat with my most feared adversaries—guilt and depression. Getting out of bed each morning was a major victory. Summoning the energy to teach, nothing short of a miracle. Interacting with the steady stream of newcomers to the studio, well, that almost killed me.

  No, I didn’t finally obtain my much-needed flood of new students. Each visiting stranger had one goal only: to walk away a hundred dollars richer. As I’d hoped, word of my reward traveled far beyond Dollars for Change. In fact, most of Seattle’s homeless seemed ready to take me up on my offer. While a hundred dollars felt like a lot of money to me, to the desperate people lined up outside my door, it was a fortune—a fortune worth waiting for, a fortune worth lying for. I began to think the police might be right. For some, a hundred dollars might even be a fortune worth killing for.

  By Wednesday, I had interviewed a dozen “witnesses.” By and large, their stories were obvious works of fiction. A few were simply heart-wrenching delusions ranging from CIA cover-ups to alien abductions. Although I gave away several small bills to my most desperate visitors, no one received the magic c-note. After three days of dodging unbathed con men and trying to reason with well-meaning schizophrenics, I was ready to throw in the towel. My visit to Dollars for Change had been a waste of time.

  The thirteenth visitor changed my mind.

  I was hiding in the studio’s storage room, ostensibly taking inventory while the studio’s most valiant teacher—the instructor of the Mommy and Me yoga class—wrapped up her weekly hour of self-torture. From what I could hear, the theme of today’s class was cultivating inner peace in the midst of screaming. I peeked around the door. The intrepid instructor sat on a large green yoga ball bouncing two red-faced, screaming infants—one on each knee. They obviously weren’t doing Happy Baby Pose. The tiny humans’ red, wrinkly, puffy faces were covered in tears; fluid I didn’t wish to identify dripped from their nostrils and flowed from their gaping mouths; the scalp of the child on the right sported unruly, horn-like spikes of dark brown hair.

  No doubt about it. These were the spawn of Satan.

  The words “Thank God it’s not me … Thank God it’s not me …” pounded through my head, keeping rhythm with the unhappy cries. I glanced around the room, wondering if I should intervene somehow.

  No one other than me seemed to notice the clamor.

  Eight resting moms lay flat on their backs, legs draped over cylindrical bolsters. Their eyes were closed, their jaw muscles relaxed, and they wore slight smiles on their faces. The six babies not being bounced, rocked, and cooed to by the grinning yoga teacher were self-entertained by a variety of activities, from playing with plush, animal-shaped toys, to crawling around on brightly striped yoga blankets, to sleeping in car seats. I could only assume that the sleeping children were deaf.

  I closed the door again, cursing myself for not selecting a hideout with a back exit. I pretended
to count yoga mats, paper cups, and toilet paper rolls while I waited for the eight yogi supermoms to gather their progeny and move to the lobby. The screaming quieted to a dull roar. If I was lucky, I could hide out in here until everyone left. If I was lucky—

  The Mommy and Me teacher opened the door midway through my thought, hitting me squarely on the butt and knocking me to the ground. She didn’t appear happy. “Sorry about that, Kate, but you need to come out here. There’s another creepy guy hanging around by the front entrance. He’s freaking out my moms.”

  I sighed and grabbed my jacket. “I’ll talk to him.”

  When I entered the lobby, the eight formerly blissful new moms stared worriedly out the window, clutching their babies to their chests. Their instructor gave me a grumpy look, then smiled at them confidently. “Everything’s okay, ladies. Why don’t you leave from the back door today.”

  They murmured agreement and gathered their various baby-centered belongings—blankets, diaper bags, toys, car seats, and strollers—before moving en masse to the yoga room door. They stopped at the doorway, staring at my “No Shoes Allowed” sign. The first few moms in line turned back and frowned.

  I smiled in return. “Go ahead and keep your shoes on. And don’t worry,” I said, hoping I wasn’t about to lie. “I’ll make sure this gentleman doesn’t bother you next week.”

  Seemingly satisfied, the caravan of sixteen humans and all of their earthly belongings stomped through the studio and out the back door, leaving a trail of dirt, scuff marks, and dropped toys behind them. Sighing, I slipped on my coat and prepared to perform my thirteenth waste-of-time interview.

  The man on the other side of door didn’t quite look at me as he shifted left and right. “You the woman giving out a hundred dollars?”

  I took a step back and swallowed the acid taste of my morning coffee. It was Charlie, the man I’d seen talking with George the day of his murder. He stood in front of the studio, leaning on his bag-laden bicycle and wearing that same filthy camouflage jacket.

  “Um … well, um … I’m looking into George Levin’s murder. Do you have information that can help me?”

  He nudged the ground with his boot. “Maybe. I have his stuff.”

  I snapped to attention, captivated by those two short sentences. George’s gym bag. As far as I knew, the police had never found it. The bag could contain important clues—incriminating receipts, perhaps a calendar, maybe even a Post-it note brazenly displaying the killer’s identity. Excitement overcame my apprehension. I had no idea what might lie among George’s possessions, but I had to find out.

  I glanced at the bike. “Can I take a look?”

  “I don’t have it here. It’s hidden. You’ll have to come with me.”

  A hollow sensation tugged at the pit of my stomach. “Go with you? Where?”

  He frowned. “To where I hid it.” He didn’t volunteer any additional information, but his look spoke volumes: clearly yoga teachers didn’t have to be very bright.

  “Tell you what,” I replied. “Why don’t you go get George’s belongings and bring them back here. I’ll wait for you.”

  Charlie looked at me, frowning slightly. “I already went out of my way to come to you once. If you want George’s stuff, you’ll come with me.” He shrugged. “If not, so be it.”

  He must have mistaken my silence for assent. He looked me up and down blatantly, assessing my outfit. My light jacket and leggings were perfectly suited for the unseasonably cold morning—as long as I spent it inside a toasty-warm yoga studio. Only five minutes outside, and I was already freezing. “We should drive,” he muttered.

  Dad’s scolding voice rang through my head. Do not get into a car with this man. But my own trickster mind was far more persuasive. After all, it reasoned, I had Bella. She’d never let anyone hurt me. Besides, George had assured me that Charlie was harmless—that the two of them were friends. He would have warned me if Charlie were dangerous, right?

  I grabbed my purse, told the instructor I was leaving, and led Charlie to my car, nervously filling our walk with mindless chatter.

  I didn’t even consider how Bella would react to his beard.

  Bella awoke as my key turned in the passenger side lock. She took one look at the grizzly-man standing behind me and roared, clawing and snapping at the partially opened window.

  I shrieked in surprise and stumbled away, startled by her outburst. Charlie, on the other hand, didn’t even flinch. He just stared, deadpan, at Bella and the trail of saliva dripping down my car’s interior.

  “Guess we’ll walk,” he said. He picked up his bike and ambled off in the opposite direction.

  I didn’t want to follow. What if George had been wrong? What if Charlie was the killer? Without Bella, I’d be defenseless. I’d be crazy to wander off with Charlie—crazier than Rene, Momma Bird, and all of my schizophrenic sources combined. But I couldn’t not go, either. If I let him leave, I’d never get a chance to look through George’s possessions.

  Charlie obviously didn’t share my ambivalence. He didn’t even look back to make sure I was following. He just kept walking.

  My trickster mind taunted me again. What are you afraid of, Kate? It’s broad daylight. I felt the weight of my purse against my hip. And you do have the pepper spray …

  I started after Charlie, but immediately stopped, ashamed of myself. I relocked the car, took two steps back toward the studio, and froze. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t take the third. Curiosity pulled me toward Charlie like a magnet. I opened my purse, took the pepper spray off safety, and tucked it in the palm of my hand.

  “Hey, wait up! I’m coming!”

  I caught up with Charlie a half block later. We walked together in silence for a good ten minutes before turning right on Aurora Avenue N. “Where are we going?”

  No response. Nothing but the sounds of cars zooming by on the busy roadway.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. I shivered under my rain-soaked jacket, kicking myself and feeling like an idiot. But my feet kept on walking. I’d made it this far. Why turn back now?

  When we reached Woodland Park twenty minutes later, my mind finally caught up with what my intuition had known all along. Coming here with Charlie had been a terrible mistake. As we entered the ninety acres of mostly deserted forest, I understood why he chose this location. With nothing in view but pine trees, squirrels, and the occasional abandoned bunny, the park was the perfect place to hide your most prized possessions—or the body of a newly slaughtered yoga teacher. Aurora’s traffic sounds no longer gave me much comfort. Even if someone heard me scream, they’d be too far away to help.

  Depressed or not, I wasn’t yet suicidal. It was time to cut and run—literally. Straight down the hill to Greenlake, where there would be dozens, if not hundreds, of people to witness my execution. I slowly, tentatively backed away as Charlie continued forward. I glanced left and right, searching for a path not covered with fallen branches. The trail on the left looked promising, but I’d have to be careful. Stumbling would cost me precious seconds; a broken ankle would seal my fate. I just needed a head start—enough time to get to the road.

  Wait for it … Wait for it …

  “In here.”

  I gasped at the unexpected sound. “Here” was a fully fenced grassy area containing over a dozen sand-filled horseshoe pits. It seemed oddly out of place and yet fully at home in the deserted park—a reminder, somehow, of more innocent times. The fenced area contained multiple benches and was covered by two partial roofs, providing both protection from rainfall and the illusion of gated safety. Empty bottles littered one corner; a transistor radio sat in the other. Charlie closed the gate, leaned his bike against the fence, and turned on the radio. We’d arrived at his home.

  “Sit,” he muttered, pointing to the nearest bench. He stood on another bench and dug in the rafters, sorting through coats, blan
kets, and even more duffel bags. He finally found George’s black bag and handed it to me.

  It felt light, insubstantial. “Is this everything?” How could something so small hold a man’s entire legacy?

  “’Cept a blanket. I already told George. That’s mine now.”

  I didn’t argue. I reached to undo the zipper, but stopped, conflicted. This small bag contained everything George held precious. Snooping through it seemed wrong somehow—an invasion of George’s privacy, even in death. And yet the act also felt important, as if I’d been gifted one final, completely honest conversation with my friend. I paused, closed my eyes, and asked George for forgiveness. Then I slowly, reverently opened the zipper.

  A pair of pants, pockets empty. Two worn shirts, two pairs of socks, two pairs of underwear, another shirt …

  The green flannel shirt was wrapped around something—a flat, rigid object with sharp corners. I laid the bundle on my lap and carefully opened it.

  The photo sheltered inside delivered a blow so powerful it felt physical. A young, vital-looking George stood next to a tall wooden sailor painted in bright reds and blues. George held a child under one arm and a pretty, dark-haired woman under the other. I opened the frame and removed the picture. Written on the back was “Sarah, Maddie and me—Cannon Beach, 1995.” I gazed at George’s family portrait for several minutes, lightly running my fingers across the image.

  “I ain’t got all day, lady.”

  Charlie’s gruff voice brought me back to reality. I carefully put the photo back in the frame, rewrapped the bundle, and kept looking. Only two items remained—a small collar and George’s most valuable possession: Bella’s $200 bottle of medicine. No zippered pockets or hidden compartments. No notebooks, receipts, or damning Post-it notes.

  This was it? I’d wandered off with a stranger for this?

  Heavy with disappointment, I returned the contents to the bag, closed the zipper, and stood up, placing the bag over my shoulder for the long walk home.