Murder Strikes a Pose (18 page)

the brush, skidded to a stop next to me, and shook itself dry.

Water flew through the air like a sprinkler system on high. Bella looked incredibly, insanely proud of herself. She danced, wiggled, pranced, and play-bowed, ears cocked forward with a huge doggy

grin on her face.

Did you see me? Did you see me?
She looked like a kid on a bike yelling, “Look, Ma, no hands!”

She suddenly stopped, staring at me curiously and cocking her

head to the side. The look on her face clearly asked:
Why in the
heck are you lying here on the ground?

I wanted to yell at her. I wanted to shake her. In fact, I think it’s fair to say I wanted to kill her. But my sense of relief was too pro-141

found. Instead, I wrapped my arms around her neck, hugged her

with all my might, and sobbed into her wet fur. “Thank God you

came back, Bella.
Goooood
girl.”

Slowly, tentatively, painfully, I made my way back up the em-

bankment, a completely self-satisfied Bella walking calmly by my

side. That damned duck swam slightly offshore, watching our slow

progression and mocking me.

Once we arrived on the trail, I took inventory of my injuries.

Not nearly as bad as I’d feared—just a couple of scrapes and a few bruises. My back felt tight, but I could take care of that with some yoga poses later. The only things really damaged in the incident

were my clothes, which were shredded and filthy, and my pride,

which was much more bruised than my body.

I drove home to change clothes. Now that I had the luxury of

perspective, I had to chuckle. “What a sight we must have been,

Bella: careening downhill, chasing after that wily waterfowl. I’ll bet that biker tells that story for weeks!”

I hobbled back into the studio at five-fifteen—forty-five min-

utes before my Yoga for Healthy Backs class was scheduled to start.

My mind told me to spend those few precious minutes returning

the day’s neglected phone messages, but my body disagreed. My

low back had tightened up considerably on the drive back to the

studio. If I wasn’t careful, it would go into a full-blown spasm. I rubbed the aching muscles along my spine and considered my options.

Option one was by far the most appealing: drive back home,

soak in a hot bath, and self-medicate with a huge glass of Merlot.

I closed my eyes and mentally traveled to my cherished jetted tub.

In my imagination, eucalyptus-scented bubbles eased the aches

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from my body. The wine’s soft hints of black cherry, cedar, and

currant teased my tongue.

Meanwhile back at the studio, fifteen angry, abandoned stu-

dents pounded on the studio’s door.

No deal.

Option two was to ice the injured area. But somehow I doubt-

ed that my Yoga for Healthy Backs students would be impressed if

I limped through class wearing an ice pack—even if I decorated it with OM stickers.

The obvious solution was option three: ease away my body’s

aches with over-the-counter pain relievers and a short dose of

yoga. I scrounged around in the bottom of my purse until I found

an ancient bottle of Advil, popped two of the candy-coated pills

into my mouth, and rolled out a mat.

With less than thirty minutes to practice, I had to make ev-

ery pose count. I deepened my breath, and my tightened muscles

relaxed in an almost Pavlovian response. I inhaled and swept

my arms out to the side and up, then laced my fingers together

overhead and lifted my ribs, feeling my chest open. As I exhaled, I swept my arms down and gently lowered my chin to stretch the

back of my neck.

So far so good.

From there I performed several kneeling poses designed to gen-

tly warm my body and stretch my low back. I groaned in delicious

agony as I transitioned to my belly and did several repetitions of Cobra Pose, using my back muscles to lift my head, collarbones,

and rib cage away from the floor. At first my back threatened to

spasm in a show of not-so-passive resistance, but by the third repetition, even it decided to relax and join the party.

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A few minutes later, I moved to standing. My legs felt stable

and strong as my heart opened in Warrior I. Sweat beaded the

back of my neck when I moved sideways for Warrior II. My whole

body trembled with effort as I lowered my hips half way to the

floor in several Half Squats.

But the true test of my body’s forgiveness came ten minutes

later. I lay down on my back, drew my knees toward my chest, and

placed my arms out in a low T. As I exhaled, I pulled in my belly and twisted my spine, bringing my knees to the floor on my right

and turning my face to the left. I heard a delicious pop-pop-pop

as vertebra all up and down my spine moved back into place. No

wonder this pose was often called the Chiropractor’s Stretch.

After two more gentle poses, I stood up from my practice,

spine now completely pain-free. I greeted my students with a

bright smile and renewed confidence that yoga did, indeed, work.

Two classes later, I was ready for my well-deserved bubble bath,

not to mention the large glass of wine. Heck, I might even finish the bottle. I’d had a very long day.

I almost made it.

Bella and I were halfway out the door when the phone rang.

I debated letting the call go to voice mail, but I hoped it was Michael. Maybe he wanted to get together for a drink, or dinner, or to snuggle or …

In the end, curiosity won. I should have remembered what it

did to the cat.

“Serenity Yoga, this is Kate. How can I help you?”

“I hear you have my dog.”

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sixteen

The drive to Federal Way took forty-five minutes in good traf-

fic, and Tuesday morning’s traffic was terrible. You’d think Se-

attleites would be wet weather driving experts, but it never fails.

Whenever there’s a significant rainstorm, we drive like we’ve never seen the stuff. The ninety-minute trip in the dark, dank weather

matched my mood perfectly. Even Bella seemed uncharacteristi-

cally subdued as she rested in the back seat.

I should have been happy to take Bella back to her original

home—ecstatic, even. Soon I’d be rid of my unwanted burden. I

could go back to the orderly, focused life I craved. I could concentrate on feeding my new relationship with Michael and building

my struggling business. But the story of Bella’s early life haunted me. I tried to convince myself that Betty was right; that George

had lied to me about Bella’s origins. I tried to imagine happy reunion scenes, complete with misty-eyed adults and joyful chil-

dren, screaming as they reunited with their long-lost friend.

I failed.

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Each daydream was interrupted by visions of a lonely, howling

puppy being violently kicked by a sociopath. My phone conver-

sation with Bella’s prior owner did nothing to allay my fears. He didn’t seem concerned in the slightest about his missing pet. He

didn’t ask about Bella, thank me for taking care of her, or even tell me his name. He just called, gave his address, and ordered me to

return his dog. I hoped he made a better impression in person.

I turned off the car and confirmed the address. Bella’s Dash

Point home was, as George described it, gorgeous. Most of my Bal-

lard bungalow would easily fit in its three-car garage. The front of the house faced a large, open yard, and its abundant west-facing

windows opened to a stunning Puget Sound view. For a moment, I

allowed myself to rekindle a spark of hope. Maybe Betty was right; maybe Bella belonged here. I got out of the car and prepared to

put on Bella’s leash.

A low, menacing rumble froze me in my tracks. I noticed the

stake first, then ran my eyes up the chain. It ended in the spiked leather collar of a large, muscle-bound rottweiler. A rottweiler

with big teeth. Big, pointy teeth. The kind of teeth that would

thoroughly enjoy sharpening themselves on the femur bone of

a trespassing yoga teacher. The term “junkyard dog” suddenly

sounded cute and cuddly. Somehow I doubted Bella would like

her new brother.

“Wait here, Bella. I’ll be right back.”

Bella cowered, hiding in the back seat’s far corner. Frankly, I

wished I could hide back there with her. Instead, I stood frozen in the driveway, debating the wisdom of entering that Rottie’s coveted yard.

Finally, the front door opened, and a short, dark-haired man

swaggered out, closely followed by a timid-looking blonde. He

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wore black ostrich skin cowboy boots and the facial expression

of a mean-spirited long-haul trucker. She wore a tentative smile

and expertly applied makeup that couldn’t completely hide the

greenish-yellow bruise underneath her right eye. I had a terrible feeling that Bella wasn’t the only one this Trucker Man liked to

kick around. My earlier spark of hope fizzled, replaced by a slow, burning rage.

Trucker Man turned to the woman. “Go back inside. I’ll take

care of this.” He scowled as the door closed softly behind her. “You the woman who stole my dog?”

I glared right back at him. “I told you on the phone last night.

I didn’t steal her. I’ve just been taking care of her since my friend passed away.” I nodded toward the still-growling Rottie. “I see

you’ve already got another dog.”

“Yeah, a good one this time.”

“I don’t think you should take the shepherd back then. She

doesn’t like other dogs.”

“That’s none of your concern. Give me the dog and get on your

way.”

I stood there a full minute, staring him down, willing my eyes to turn him to stone. I didn’t want to give Bella back to this jerk. In fact, I would have preferred to dance barefoot through a football field covered in broken glass. But Betty’s orders were unequivocal: unless I had proof of abuse, I had to surrender Bella to her original owner, no matter how odious he might be. So I forced myself back to the car, hooked on Bella’s lead, and tried to coax her out of the back seat.

Tried, to no avail. Bella dug her paws into the upholstery and

leaned away from me, transforming herself from an eighteen-

month-old dog to a stubborn eighty-pound pack mule. I pulled

with all my might. She refused to budge.

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“Come on, Bella! You’re home now. Everything’s going to be

fine.” She looked at me with large, frightened, eyes. We both knew I was lying.

“Bella, please,” I whispered. “There’s nothing I can do.” I finally enticed her out of the car with a handful of treats and a battery of empty promises. I coaxed her toward the house as she cowered,

trembling behind my legs.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Trucker Man grumbled. He stomped

down the stairs, reached over Bella’s head, and snatched her leash out of my hands. “Get over here, you stupid mutt.” He gave the

leash, and Bella’s neck, a good hard jerk.

Bella erupted like Mount Saint Helens. She let out a deep roar

and leaped forward, planting her paws on her prior owner’s chest

and knocking him into the mud. He hit the ground hard, swore

like the trucker he resembled, and dropped the leash. Bella wasted no time. She bolted back to the car and scratched frantically at the door, begging to be let back in.

Trucker Man looked like a cross between Big Foot and the Loch

Ness Monster—only meaner. “That’s it,” he yelled, jumping to his

feet and roughly grabbing my arm. “Wait ’til I catch that no-good flea bag. I’ll kick that bark right out of her.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” I yelled back, yanking my arm free. I

imagine I looked like a monster myself. I shoved my palm directly in his face, feeling a good foot taller and at least 100 pounds more muscular than my 130-pound frame. “Stay here. Don’t you
dare

move an inch. If you touch that dog, I swear I’ll kill you.”

I ran to the car and flung open the door. Bella scrambled in,

whining, and tried desperately to crawl underneath the seat. I

stood with her for several moments, consciously slowing my

breath, willing each inhale and exhale to calm my frenzied emo-

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tions. So far, this boxing match wasn’t going well. Round one had gone to Bella and me, but no matter how tough I felt, Trucker Man was tougher. I had to come up with a better strategy than beating the crap out of him.

The authorities would be of no help. In the eyes of the law, Bel-

la was nothing more than a piece of stolen property that should

be returned to its rightful owner. I considered fleeing, but since Trucker Man knew where to find me, making a run for it didn’t

seem like a good plan, either.

Diplomacy was my only option. I waited until my heart rate

slowed to normal, then I returned to the mud-covered jerk and

tried to reason with him.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “We’ve obviously gotten off on the

wrong foot here. Why don’t you let me take Bella back to Seattle?

You’ve already got the rottweiler, and you don’t seem to like Bella very much. Frankly, she’s not fond of you, either. I can’t believe you really want her back.”

“You’re damn right I don’t want that dog back,” he spat. “Any

guard dog stupid enough to get himself stolen from his own yard

is of no use to me.”

She wasn’t stolen
, I thought.
She was rescued
.

But I didn’t say that. Instead, I said, “You know this dog’s a
she
, not a
he
, don’t you?”

Trucker Man responded with a scornful laugh. “Of course I do.