Karma's a Killer

by Tracy Weber

  Michael’s grumbled answer contained words never written in The Bhagavad Gita. I changed the subject.

  “Why are we going to Queen Anne, anyway? I thought we’d meet Maggie at the shelter. I would have enjoyed seeing it.”

  Michael shrugged. “Honestly, there’s not much to see. The main building has offices, a clinic area, and a large training room. The one next door houses the animals.”

  “That’s the part I’d enjoy visiting.”

  “No you wouldn’t. Not unless you like spending time in a crowded space filled with desperate-looking animals.”

  “Desperate-looking? I thought DogMa was supposed to be good.”

  “It’s a shelter, Kate. They do the best they can, but it’s not a home. Maggie’s facility is state-of-the-art and well maintained, but like most shelters, it’s also understaffed and overcrowded. The animals who end up there are frightened and confused, and they have no idea why they’ve been separated from their human families. Maggie uses trainers and volunteer dog walkers to enrich the animals’ lives as much as she can, but it’s still not perfect. The kindest thing she can do is get the animals she rescues into new homes as quickly as possible.”

  He reached over and took my hand. “Very few abandoned pets are as lucky as Bella, Kate. Some of them truly suffer, especially emotionally, even in the best of shelters. If I spent too much time at DogMa, Bella would have a whole slew of new siblings.”

  I grimaced. Bringing one other dog into Bella’s territory would be a disaster. “Just what I need. Another murder.”

  “Of me or the dog?”

  “Don’t test me, funny man.” I winked to let him know I was kidding.

  Michael grinned. “Maggie said that the shelter will be closed for a couple of days, but I’m sure she’d be happy to give you a tour when she gets back.”

  “Closed? Is someone taking care of the animals?”

  “I assume so, but we can ask when we see her.”

  “How’d you convince her to meet with us on her day off?”

  “I told her I’d received several large cash donations for DogMa, and that I wasn’t comfortable keeping them in the store. She gave me this Queen Anne address and said we could come by any time today.”

  “Is she going to believe you? I mean, do you have enough money to give her?”

  “My customers are very generous, and I’ve been harassing them about the DogMa fundraiser for weeks. Even with the fire, Maggie took in over fifty thousand dollars at the event. I’ve collected almost three thousand more at the store.”

  I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Have I ever told you that you’re wonderful?”

  Michael smiled. “Once or twice, but I never get tired of hearing it.”

  We drove up to the Queen Anne mansion a few minutes later.

  Or rather, drove by it.

  Every parking spot in a five-block radius was taken. We finally squeezed into a not-quite-legal spot near a fire hydrant and took our chances with a ticket.

  “It’s a good thing Rene was able to watch Bella again today. We’d never have found a spot in the shade.”

  Michael locked his Explorer and we started the five-block hike to the top of Queen Anne Hill and the front gate of the huge Victorian mansion. I paused at the entrance and stared, gape-mouthed.

  “Wow.”

  Not super eloquent, I’ll admit, but appropriate. Even for Queen Anne, the house and its grounds were impressive. Seattle’s Queen Anne neighborhood was named after the architectural style of its early homes, most of which were custom-built mansions designed for the city’s social elite. At the time of its construction in the early 1900s, this house must have been one of the finest. Its precisely trimmed evergreen hedges lined the yard’s front border and provided privacy from the street; the southern-facing windows opened to a gorgeous cityscape view.

  Michael gestured to a crowd of uncomfortable-looking people congregated behind the living room’s sheer curtains. “No wonder we couldn’t find parking.”

  “Did Maggie say she was at a party?”

  “Nope. She just asked me to meet her here.” He rang the bell.

  A woman I didn’t recognize answered the door. Her breath—which smelled like a mixture of bourbon and breath mints—arrived a second before she did. She wore a form-fitting black dress, black pumps, and a solemn expression.

  Michael spoke first. “Hi, we’re friends of Maggie’s. Is she here?”

  “Thank you for coming. I’m Ginny.” She gestured with a highball glass for us to come inside. “Maggie is with her grandmother right now, but she should be able to see you shortly.”

  We followed her into a large foyer lit by a three-tiered chandelier. She pointed toward a long, dark hallway. “Put your coats in the first bedroom on the left. Food is in the living room to the right. Alcohol is at the wet bar. Believe me, you’ll need it.”

  She closed the door behind us, rested her fingertips on the wall for balance, and then teetered back to the crowd.

  I looked at Michael and silently mouthed, “What is this?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  I could say this much—if this was a party, it was the creepiest one I’d ever attended. Somber-looking people whispered, gripped platters of food, and avoided eye contact. The energy of the space was stilted, as if the guests were anticipating something decidedly unpleasant, though I couldn’t imagine what.

  Michael and I put our coats in the bedroom and wandered to the living room. I glanced around the crowded space, trying to get my bearings. Ivory furniture and Oriental rugs precisely matched the room’s eggshell-white walls. Every decoration, every detail seemed painstakingly positioned—as if super-glued to a specific location. In spite of the floor-to-ceiling views of downtown Seattle, I suddenly missed my messy, chaotic Ballard bungalow.

  The room’s temporary centerpiece was a gluttonous-looking buffet containing every edible species of the animal kingdom. Prime rib, peeled shrimp, chicken, salmon, a leg of lamb, even a large, pink bone-in ham. I always tried not to judge other people’s food choices, but the sheer number of dead beasts on the table made my stomach churn a little. I ignored the smell of cooked flesh, picked up a plate, and filled it with a colorful collage of fruits, vegetables, breads, and desserts, hoping that holding something would make me feel less uncomfortable.

  Michael glanced at me and surreptitiously covered his slice of prime rib with a pile of mixed salad greens.

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  He nodded sheepishly, then added four bright pink shrimp tails and a large chunk of salmon.

  Of the concessions Michael and I had made when we moved in together, his biggest was agreeing that our shared kitchen—aside from Bella’s special food preparation area—would be completely vegetarian. I knew that he still ate meat outside of our home, and it wouldn’t have been fair for me to ask him to stop. But I still cringed internally whenever I saw the man of my dreams eat the food of my nightmares.

  Then again, it wasn’t much worse than watching Rene snarf down one of her jalapeño pineapple pregnancy concoctions.

  I pointed to a relatively uncrowded area across the room. “I’ll meet you over there.”

  I wandered to a display table covered with photographs.

  What the … ?

  Over a dozen Ravens smiled back at me.

  As in Raven, the murder victim.

  The photographic display created a visual timeline of Raven’s life. Brunette-haired baby, gap-toothed grade schooler, college graduate. A pedestal toward the back displayed an eleven-by-seventeen framed photo of Raven standing next to Ginny, the black-clad woman who’d greeted us at the door. From the creases surrounding the two women’s eyes, I assumed the photo had been taken recently.

  I took in the hushed room with new awareness. This wasn’t a celebration; it was a send-off.


  What was Maggie doing at Raven’s wake?

  I set down my plate and examined each photo, trying to get a better sense of who Raven had been. Young Raven seemed happy, light, and carefree. Over time, she’d transformed. Her clothes became darker; her eyes angrier. Until, in the final photo, her forced smile seemed like a paper doll’s outfit, cut out and taped to an unhappy face.

  Michael’s expression, when he joined me, looked as confused as I felt.

  “What is this?”

  Maggie’s voice sounded from behind us. “It’s my grandmother’s shrine to Raven. Displaying photographs of the dead is a family tradition.” Her mouth hardened. “Grandma values nothing as much as tradition.”

  I gestured toward the large photo. “Is that Raven’s mother?”

  “Yes, that’s my Aunt Ginny. Leave it to Grandma to make that one center stage. Raven always hated that picture.”

  “Wait a minute,” Michael said. “You and Raven were related?”

  “Yes. Raven is … ” Maggie closed her eyes and swallowed. “She was my cousin. Our fathers were brothers.”

  “Were?” I asked.

  “They both passed away years ago.” Maggie shrugged, almost resignedly. “Cancer.”

  “I’m sorry for your losses.” I pointed at Raven’s photo. “All of them.”

  My words came out automatically. They were, after all, what you were supposed to say at a funeral. But part of me wondered if

  Raven’s death had truly been a loss at all, at least to Maggie. She never mentioned knowing Raven at Green Lake on Saturday. Had she hidden their connection for a reason?

  “Thanks for meeting me here,” Maggie said. “I hated to inconvenience you two, but I couldn’t leave today. Did you bring the donations?”

  “Yes.” Michael patted his pocket. “I have them right here.”

  Maggie glanced around the room. “Let’s go into my grandfather’s office. I’d rather not deal with money issues in front of the guests. It doesn’t seem … ” She paused, as if searching for the right word. “It doesn’t seem respectful, I guess.”

  We followed Maggie down a hallway lined with stilted-looking family portraits to a dark-paneled office decorated with the mounted heads of dozens of animals: deer, antelope, bison—even a moose. An open display case of hunting rifles hung behind an imposing walnut desk. I stared into the blank glass eyes of a nine-foot-tall grizzly and shuddered.

  Maggie noticed. “I know. It’s pretty creepy, especially if you’re an animal lover. Grandpa was an avid big-game hunter. I tried to talk Grandma into redecorating now that he’s passed on, but she won’t hear of it.” She gazed around the space, as if fully taking it all in for the first time. “Frankly, she should skip redecorating and move, but she insists on staying. Aunt Ginny says Grandma won’t leave this house until we wheel her cold, rigid body out on a stretcher.” She smirked. “If I know Grandma, she won’t even leave then. She’ll have her head mounted and hung here in the office.”

  I winced before I could stop myself.

  “Sorry, dead body jokes are inappropriate, especially today. You’d get it if you knew my grandmother, though. She can be a tough old bird sometimes.” Maggie sat on a corner of the desk and turned to Michael. “You said you had some donations for me?”

  He handed her an envelope. “You might want to put this in a safe. It’s almost three thousand dollars. I hope to collect more over the next few days.”

  Maggie grabbed a silver letter opener off the desk, ripped open the envelope’s seal, and ran her thumb across the tops of the bills.

  “Thanks. We can use every penny.”

  Light tapping on the door interrupted our conversation. Sally opened it and peeked through.

  “Sorry to bother you, Maggie, but the caterer needs to see you in the kitchen.”

  Maggie stood. “Sally, do you mind showing these two out?”

  I nudged Michael’s leg, silently asking him to follow my lead. “Is it okay if we stick around until you’re done? Michael has a few other fundraising ideas he wants to run past you, and I’d like to give my condolences to your family.”

  Maggie shrugged. “Suit yourself. Sally will introduce you around.” She left the room before Sally had a chance to reply.

  Sally’s jaw hardened, so subtly that I almost missed it. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I hate this room.”

  “Between the guns and the mounted animals, it’s pretty imposing,” Michael replied.

  “The guns aren’t the problem. They’re a tool, like anything else. I carry a handgun for self-defense. But I’d never use it to kill an animal just so I could hang its head on my wall. It’s barbaric.”

  Michael whispered in my ear as we followed Sally back to the living room. “What fundraising ideas do I have?”

  I whispered back. “I don’t know. It was the best excuse I could come up with on short notice. Suggest a yogathon or something.”

  Sally glanced back at us quizzically. I smiled and tried to distract her with conversation. “Did you know Raven well?”

  “I used to. She helped get DogMa up and running. I lost track of her when she moved to Sacramento and started that vegan activist nonsense. Frankly, I was glad to see her go. I always thought she was unstable, but that’s not surprising, considering that grandmother of hers.”

  “Raven helped start DogMa?” I frowned. Maggie’s secrecy about Raven was even more suspicious than I’d originally thought. “If she was one of DogMa’s founders, why was she protesting it?”

  Sally didn’t reply, at least not to my question. She waved at a woman across the room. “I see someone I need to talk to. Are you guys okay on your own?” She was halfway across the room before she finished the sentence.

  “That was weird,” Michael said.

  “What about this situation isn’t weird? I know you like Maggie, but I swear she’s hiding something.”

  Michael’s brow wrinkled. “I’m beginning to think you’re right.” He glanced around the crowded room. “We should talk to as many people as possible before Maggie comes back. Want to split up so we can cover more ground?”

  “Good idea.”

  Michael headed back to the food table, ostensibly to talk to the people in line. I suspected he was really after another slice of prime rib.

  I divided my time between unobtrusive eavesdropping and asking hopefully innocent-sounding questions.

  I didn’t learn much. Certainly nothing that would get Dharma out of the King County Jail.

  The general consensus was that Raven had been pretty, intelligent, passionate, and troubled, but no one volunteered what those troubles might have been. When I asked about Maggie, everyone agreed that she and Raven had been close growing up, but then they quickly changed the subject.

  I was about to find Michael to compare notes when I saw two fifty-something women—one bottled blonde, the other bottled red—huddled near the wet bar, whispering. I meandered next to them, poured a glass of Chablis, and pretended to read the label.

  The blonde spoke first. “This whole display is shameful. Everyone acts like losing Raven is such a blow to her grandmother. They hadn’t even spoken for almost a year.”

  “Can you imagine what Raven would have said about the food? Seeing all of that meat would have sent her right through the roof.”

  “It’s the old bat’s way of having the final word.” The blonde nudged her friend and pointed at Maggie, who was setting out another huge platter of seafood. “Have you noticed the way Maggie’s cozying up to her now? She’s angling to get the money back.”

  “Why bother? Maggie will get it all when her grandmother croaks, anyway. How much longer can she live?”

  “I thought the granddaughters were cut out of the will.”

  “Just Raven. It was her punishment for taking up with those California nut jobs.” The redhead leaned in clo
ser. “I heard she went back to that biker boyfriend of hers from high school.”

  The blonde’s eyes widened. “The Mexican one?” She sniggered. “Ooh, I’ll bet Grandma Dearest didn’t like that one bit. She tolerates nothing but the purest white blossoms on her family tree. What was his name again?”

  “Ned … Ed … Something like that.”

  The name popped out before I could stop it. “Eduardo?”

  The redhead glared at me over the top of her glasses. “Yes, that might be it.”

  Both women gave me a scathing look and scurried away.

  So much for any additional gossip I’d glean from that conversation. Still, the tidbits I’d overheard were intriguing. Obviously, I needed to learn more about Raven’s inheritance. Now that she was dead, she could never be added back into her grandmother’s will. An estate likely worth millions would be a great motive for murder. And what about Raven and Eduardo? They had a much longer history than Dharma had implied. Did Dharma deliberately hide it from me, or did she not know? More importantly, did something in that history cause Raven’s death?

  I needed to talk all of this over with Michael.

  He wasn’t in the living room, so I wandered down the hallway toward the office. No luck there, either. I was about to give the coat room a try when I heard angry whispering. I couldn’t make out most of the words, but I would have sworn one of them was “Raven.” I followed the sound to a partially closed door, edged up to the opening, and pretended to examine the photograph hanging on the wall beside it.

  Ginny, Raven’s mother, stood next to an antique armoire in what appeared to be a bedroom. She was speaking with an older woman who wore a dark wool pantsuit and a short strand of pearls. The woman’s lips pressed into a thin, tight line.

  The evil grandmother, I presumed.

  “Get yourself together, Virginia, and lay off the alcohol. I will not tolerate any more drunken displays. Today is not about you. Raven was my granddaughter. I’m grieving, too. ”

  “My daughter was murdered.”