by Tracy Weber
“Your father adored Bella,” I continued. “And part of him still lives within her. He’d want nothing more than for the two of you to be together.”
Sarah said nothing. Her body was rigid, her face stone cold.
Desperation overwhelmed me. I had to make her understand—I had to do right by George. “I know you and your father had a difficult relationship. I get that. I know he put you through things I can’t possibly comprehend. But perhaps Bella is his way of reaching out to you. Perhaps through her, you and he can re-create a relationship of sorts. She’s a great dog and she obviously likes your son. Your dad loved her so much—”
“Believe me,” Sarah exploded, “I know he loved that frigging dog. More than he loved anything else, including me.” She shook her head, outraged, as tears streamed down her face. “Do you know how many years Mom and I begged him to go into rehab? How many times I asked him to be part of my life? He never once considered it.
“Then, after all these years of nothing—no contact whatsoever—he showed up on my doorstep last Saturday, expecting some kind of redemption. He even had the nerve to tell me that he wanted to be a grandfather to Davie.” She pointed a shaking finger at Bella. “That this stupid dog taught him the importance of family. He promised to go into rehab if I took his precious pooch and helped pay for its medical bills.”
I wanted to interrupt. To say something—anything—that would calm her, but Sarah didn’t give me a chance.
“I practically slammed the door in his face. I told him I wouldn’t give him one penny. I swore I’d kill him before I’d let him anywhere near my son—that he’d never hurt Davie the way he hurt me.” Her bitter tears turned into frustrated, aching sobs. “I can’t believe how naïve I was. I thought now that he was dead, he couldn’t hurt me anymore. But he’s still the same selfish SOB he always was, even after death. Even now, all he wants is another favor.” She took one final, seething look at Bella. “Well as far as I’m concerned, he and that mangy mutt can both go straight to Hell.”
Before I could tell Sarah that her father really did love her, before I could share any of his regrets, before I could explain that caring for Bella was George’s damaged way of making amends, Sarah was gone. She stormed back to the house, dragging the bewildered toddler behind her. I stood frozen, still stunned, as the screen door’s slam echoed around me.
I laid a calming hand on Bella’s shoulder. “Well, sweetie, that didn’t go exactly as I had hoped. I guess we’d better head back.”
I had every intention of leaving, and leaving quickly. Sarah was less than rational; lord knew what she’d do if she came back and found Bella and me still on her property. But before I could get Bella loaded in the car, the screen door opened again, and a tall, somber-looking man rushed out. He had Davie’s blue eyes and those same tempting curls.
“Bella, wait,” I said, tightening her leash. “I think we’re about to meet the man of the house.” I closed the car door and returned to the yard.
“I’m sorry about my wife,” Rick said. “She’s usually quite level-headed. She rarely loses her temper. But all of this has really caught her off guard.” He looked back at the house and lowered his voice. “First her father shows up here, asking for money. I’ve never seen Sarah so furious. Not that I blame her, not one bit.
“Then, a few days later, she finds out he’s dead. I don’t think she’s gotten over the shock yet, much less the guilt of how they ended things. I’m honestly not sure who she’s angrier with—her father or herself.” His eyes hardened. “But soon enough she’ll realize she has nothing to feel guilty about. I never knew her father before last week, but if you ask me, that deadbeat had a lot of nerve showing up here after all that time.” He clenched his fists. “My only regret is that I didn’t throw him off the property myself.”
Sarah and Rick weren’t exactly vying for president of George’s fan club. Either one of them might have wanted George gone—permanently. I tried to empathize, but all I felt was righteous indignation. George had been flawed, that much was certain. But he was a good man. A good man who had been brutally murdered. And nobody, including his family, seemed to care. Nobody, that is, except me.
“Just how angry was your wife?”
Rick flinched, startled. “What do you mean?”
“Her father was murdered, you know.”
His mouth dropped open. “You can’t possibly think Sarah had something to do with that.”
I remained silent, hoping he would continue.
“You’ve got to be kidding! My wife wouldn’t hurt a fly! Besides, what would she have to gain by murdering her father?”
“Rage can be a powerful motive.” I looked pointedly at Davie’s tricycle. “For that matter, so can protecting someone you love. Exactly where were the two of you on Tuesday night?”
Rick’s face turned bright red from his neck to his scalp. “Are you serious? Where we are every night. We have a toddler, for God’s sake. By eight o’clock, it’s bath time. If we’re lucky enough to get two minutes together, we collapse on the couch and watch TV.” He took a step back and narrowed his eyes. “Why are you so interested, anyway? The cops said this was an open-and-shut case. A violent death isn’t all that surprising, given my father-in-law’s life.” His upper lip lifted cruelly. “Live on the street, die on the street. It was merely a matter of time.”
I glared at him, appalled. “I don’t believe that for a minute.”
“So what?” Rick countered. “That still doesn’t mean Sarah or I had anything to do with his death. Sarah’s father didn’t exactly have a shortage of enemies. A lot of people suffered when that business of his went under. Any one of them might have felt completely justified putting a brick to the old man’s head.”
He pointed to my car. “Now please, for my family’s sake, take that dog, get off my property, and don’t ever come back here again.” Like his wife, he stormed off, slamming the screen door behind him.
Two questions plagued my mind as Bella and I drove way. First, no one had mentioned a brick. If George was killed with a brick, how did this guy know it?
Second, what on earth was I going to do with Bella now?
eleven
As I drove across the I-90 bridge back to Seattle, I came up with the perfect plan—so perfect I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it before. All I needed was a little preparation. This time I wouldn’t rush in and improvise, like I’d done with Sarah. This time I would strategize carefully and execute flawlessly. I left Bella parked in the shade, went inside the studio, and did a quick meditation practice to visualize my success. In my mental motion picture I was cute. I was convincing. I was irresistible. No one could possibly have said no to me.
Mental preparation complete, I turned to the physical. I smiled in the bathroom mirror, removed an errant piece of spinach from between my teeth, and pulled my makeup tote out of my purse. I added a little extra blush, some smoky black mascara, even the tiniest amount of shiny pink lip gloss. The clothes I wore would have to do, but I smoothed out the wrinkles and brushed off the dog hair. I hadn’t practiced flirting in quite some time, but I figured it was like riding a bike—once you learned, you never forgot.
I locked the studio’s front door behind me and pep-talked myself down the sidewalk. When I arrived at my destination thirty seconds later, I popped in a breath mint, flashed my biggest, brightest smile, and added the teensiest sway to my hips. The bell on the door announced my arrival as I purposefully strode through the entrance.
“Welcome to Pete’s Pets, can I help you?”
My smile vanished.
Sitting behind the desk was a woman—a child, really. She was no older than twenty. Her thirty-six D chest contrasted nicely with her size six hips, and her too-tight top and hip-hugging jeans left nothing to the imagination. I glanced back at the window. The “Help Wanted” sign was conspicuously missing.
“Um �
�� I’m um … looking for the owner. I mean … I’m looking for … you know … Michael.”
Brilliant, just brilliant. You have such a way with words.
“He’s busy right now, but maybe I can help. I’m Tiffany.”
Seriously? Tiffany? Who in the world named their kid Tiffany? Parents who raised brain-dead sex kittens, that’s who. My esteem for Michael, not all that high to begin with, dropped several notches. My self-confidence rose by twice that amount, and with it, my ability to speak.
“I need to speak with Michael. It’s personal. When will he be back?”
Perhaps I shouldn’t have used the word “personal.” Perhaps I should have continued stammering. Regardless, her attitude toward me changed. Her smile thinned to a smirk, and her eyes shrewdly narrowed. She looked me up and down, mentally sizing up the competition. “I didn’t say he was gone. I said he was busy.”
Game on.
If this licentious Lolita wanted a catfight, I’d show her my claws. I considered spraying her with my newly acquired vial of pepper spray, but decided that would probably be overdoing it. I impaled her with my oh-so-sharp-witted tongue instead. “Well, in that case, do you have any idea when he will get un-busy?”
No reply. I was as inconsequential as a housefly—annoying, but not worth the effort of swatting. She stared at me, clearly asserting her authority. I had two choices: I could either leave, or I could provide more information.
I chose option three.
I planted my feet and did my best impersonation of a statue, staring right back at her. Time ticked on, both of us childishly refusing to give ground. I imagined decades passing while we continued our passive-aggressive struggle for dominance. In my mind’s eye, dust and cobwebs covered us both, as our hair turned white and numerous body parts sagged with the inevitable effects of gravity.
Tiffany finally stood up, sighing. “If you wait here, ma’am, I’ll try to find him.”
Ma’am? Who was she calling ma’am?
She walked, or more accurately sashayed, back to the storage room. In a voice more than loud enough for me to hear, she said, “Michael, there’s some older lady out here who insists on talking to you.”
Michael emerged from the storage room, looking confused. His gaze bounced from Tiffany, to me, then back to Tiffany again. He tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a grin.
“Hey, Kate. How’s that food working out for Bella?”
“Much better, especially now that I’ve figured out the enzyme routine. But that’s not why I’m here. I need to talk to you for a minute.” I looked pointedly at Tiffany. “Alone.”
Michael nodded for her to return to the cash register. She reluctantly left, but flashed me a look on her way. Don’t celebrate, it said. This battle is far from over.
“What’s up?” Michael asked.
“I took Bella to meet George’s daughter today, and our visit didn’t go well. I don’t think she’s going to take her.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yeah, but my dad always said things happen for a reason, and I came up with a great idea!” I flashed my biggest, brightest smile.
“I don’t like the sound of this at all,” Michael replied, frowning in return.
It was time to use all those skills I rehearsed in my visualization. I leaned in closer, played with my hair, and batted my mascara-covered eyes. Michael responded by taking a step back, crossing his arms, and looking at me suspiciously. Undaunted, I tried my next move. I coquettishly looked away for a moment, only to accidentally lock eyes with Tiffany.
Tiffany’s evil stare sapped my superflirt sex appeal faster than kryptonite. Instead of embodying the irresistible temptress of my imagination, I suddenly felt inadequate—like my pants were unzipped, I wore lipstick on my teeth, or I had toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
I continued anyway, talking considerably faster. “Well, you like Bella, and she adores you. You said yourself that you’re good with dogs, and what better person to take her than someone who owns a pet store! You have all the food right here and lots of toys. You’re obviously the right home for her!”
Michael shook his head slowly. “Sorry, Kate. As much as I’d like to, there’s no way I can take Bella.”
This was not the response he gave in my visualization.
“Why ever not? You two are perfect together!” I paused and realized the obvious. “Wait a minute. Do you already have a dog?”
“No, and I can’t. My apartment doesn’t allow pets.”
I stepped back and looked at him incredulously. “Doesn’t allow pets? What kind of idiotic animal lover lives in a place that doesn’t allow pets?” Insulting Michael while throwing a temper tantrum wasn’t in my plan, either, but I was frustrated.
“I thought the apartment would be temporary. I’ve been saving to buy a house, but the economy is terrible and business is slower than I’d hoped. Even in this abysmal housing market, I’ll be lucky to have enough money for a down payment by the time I’m seventy-three.
“Besides, I don’t have time for a pet,” he continued. “I hope hiring Tiffany will help, but until now I’ve been working twelve-hour days, every day. That’s not fair to an animal, especially a dog.”
I stepped back and frowned, reassessing my strategy. Michael was the solution to my problem; he simply didn’t know it yet. I hadn’t counted on the no-pet housing fiasco, but I had another idea. I added a tiny pout to my lips. “Gosh, that’s really too bad. I guess I’ll have to take her to the pound.” I sighed and looked at the floor in pretend despair. “They’ll probably put her down …”
I walked away, counting the seconds. At five, I turned back around and looked at Michael with what I hoped was an expression of guileless innocence. “Unless, that is, you could keep Bella in the store. She’d love it here. You’d be with her all day and then she could guard the place for you at night!”
Michael wasn’t fooled. “Come on, Kate,” he chided. “You know that would never work. Bella would go after every dog that came in here. I’d be out of business in a week!” His expression turned wry. “Besides, you can’t con me. You’ll never put down George’s dog. Sorry, but I’m out. You’ll have to find another sucker.”
“What in the world am I going to do?” Flirting didn’t work; throwing a temper tantrum didn’t work. I don’t know what possessed me to think whining would fare any better.
Michael didn’t seem moved by my plight. “The first thing I’d do is buy a bigger bag of dog food. That five-pound bag I gave you will only last a few days. I can connect you with some no-kill shelters, but honestly, Bella’s going to be hard to place. People generally want to adopt healthy dogs. She’s got an expensive disease. That’s strike one.”
“But that’s not her fault—”
“And her behavior issues are strike two. You know I like Bella, but she’s not an easy dog. Whoever adopts her is going to have a lot of training in their future.”
I had gone through my entire repertoire of persuasive tactics: flirting, cajoling, guilt-tripping, and begging. Michael wasn’t coming to Bella’s rescue. “I guess you’d better give me that list of shelters,” I said, resigned. I grabbed a second five-pound bag of kibble, hoping it would last the week. Surely I’d find a place for Bella by then. Michael followed me to the cash register.
“Kate, this is Tiffany,” he said. “She moved into the apartments upstairs a few weeks ago and noticed my ‘Help Wanted’ sign. She started work here today.”
Tiffany flashed Michael a sparkling white smile—the kind you see in toothpaste commercials. “Michael, would you please help me ring this up? The computer is so confusing …”
Great teeth or not, she was obviously dumb as a post.
Michael joined her behind the desk. She leaned into him, using a bit more body contact than strictly necessary. Michael leaned away and glanced up at me, wearing a s
heepish grin. “We still on for Saturday night?”
“Sure!” My voice sounded overly excited, even to my own ears. Why should I care if Michael associated with tramps? Going out with him was simply my penalty for losing a bet. I turned my vocal volume and my enthusiasm both down a notch.
“I mean, yes, we’re still on, but I’ll have to make it an early night. I have to teach early the next morning.”
“Oh, really?” he replied. “I looked at the schedule. Your first class is at noon. According to my calculations, that means I don’t have to get you home until eleven on Sunday.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Romeo,” I said, starting to smile again.
“Yeah,” Tiffany replied. “I’m sure she needs her beauty sleep.”
I signed the receipt, grabbed the bag of dog food, and quickly left the store before I did bodily damage to the little tart.
“Pick you up at seven o’clock sharp!” Michael yelled as I slammed the door behind me.
If Tiffany was the kind of woman he liked, this was going to be the shortest date in history.
_____
I stomped back to the studio and stormed past the surprised looking teacher checking in students at the front desk. The yoga room was occupied, so I barricaded myself in the storage room and pulled out my cell phone. I was in a foul mood anyway. I might as well pick a fight with John O’Connell.
“Was George bludgeoned with a brick?”
“Well, hello to you, too, Miss Katy. How nice of you to call.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, John,” I said testily. “Now tell me. Was he killed with a brick or not?”
“Simmer down, Katy. As far as I know, they still haven’t found the murder weapon. But no, it wasn’t a brick. From the shape and size of the wound, the coroner thinks it was something smooth and heavy, like a baseball bat or a bottle of some kind.” He paused. “Hey, wait a minute, why do you ask?”
“I went to the daughter’s house today, and something’s not right there. I think she or her husband might be involved in George’s death.”
