Murber Strikes a Pose

by Tracy Weber

  “Where’s my money?” Charlie asked.

  My earlier uneasiness returned. “I appreciate your help, but I don’t see anything in here that will help solve George’s murder. I’m sorry, but I can’t pay you the reward.”

  Charlie’s eyes turned cold. He moved closer, clenching and unclenching his fists. The fence surrounding us suddenly felt like a prison; Charlie, a not-quite-sane cellmate. I clutched George’s gym bag to my chest and slowly backed away.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he growled.

  The hair on my arms vibrated. Every nerve ending screamed retreat! I grabbed for the pepper spray but couldn’t find it. I glanced around, terrified. Where had it gone?

  Charlie leaned toward me, and I panicked. I turned to run, but tripped and tumbled face-first into the sand. I pulled myself up and tried to scramble away, but my feet slipped on the wet ground. My eyes locked on Charlie’s enraged face and I knew: this man intended to kill me. Or worse.

  “I said, where’s my money?”

  My mind screamed run but my legs refused to obey. Why couldn’t I move? Sour breath flooded my nostrils as Charlie pushed me deeper into the sand. I squeezed my eyes shut and tensed my muscles in horrified anticipation. One final thought tortured me. Who’ll take care of Bella now?

  Time seemed to stand still. My life flashed by in a series of disconnected still-frames, but I felt no regrets. In fact, I felt—nothing. No pressure restraining me, no hands on my windpipe, no painful abuse. Nothing but the deep, ragged gulps of my own desperate breath.

  One breath became two, became three. After what felt like an eternity, I relaxed my muscles and cautiously opened my eyes. Charlie stood several feet away, glowering and holding the bag he had ripped from my shoulder. Once he made sure I was watching, he conspicuously leaned down, picked the vial of pepper spray off the bench where I’d dropped it, and tossed it in George’s bag.

  “When I get my money, you’ll get your stuff.”

  I practically wept with gratitude. Money. He only wanted money. The math was easy. One hundred dollars wouldn’t buy me any information about George’s murder, but I would net a two-hundred-dollar bottle of Bella’s medicine. And my life, well, that was priceless.

  A quick stop at the nearest cash machine secured my freedom. Charlie put the five crisp, new twenty-dollar bills in his pocket, handed me George’s bag, and shuffled off, pushing his loaded-down bicycle.

  My teeth still chattered hours later, long after I’d peeled off my wet clothes and scrubbed my skin raw in a scalding shower. I tried to tell myself that I’d never been in any real danger—that my terror was the product of an overactive imagination. But deep inside, I knew better. Charlie only backed down because he got what he wanted. George had been wrong; the man was insane. What if I had refused?

  I knew I should file a police report, but I was still too shaken, so I called John O’Connell instead. I didn’t have a chance to tell him what happened in Woodland Park. In fact, I’d barely started telling him about my visit to Dollars for Change, when he exploded.

  “You did what?”

  “I was desperate, John. I’m not making any progress, no one else seems to care, and—”

  “Of all the stupid, reckless, irresponsible—”

  This time I pre-empted the inevitable dial tone by hanging up first. I avoided further conflict by leaving the bag and a detailed letter on John’s front porch. I knew John would be furious, but I asked him to deliver George’s belongings to Detective Martinez anyway. Well, at least most of George’s belongings. I told myself it wasn’t really stealing. After all, I paid a hundred dollars for that bag. Sarah might want the photo someday, but she’d never miss the enzymes or Bella’s puppy collar. Those I kept for myself.

  twenty-four

  Life, as the saying goes, went on, but slowly and without meaning. I functioned, but barely—heart and mind co-existing in one body, yet strangely disconnected. My heart dragged, weighted by the dual anchors of loneliness and depression, while my mind raced, running on the hamster wheel of obsession. I would have thought that facing death would reinvigorate me—make me appreciate how precious and fleeting life could be. But the effect was exactly the opposite. That day with Charlie drained every last drop of my energy, every last drop of my will. I barely muddled through each passing hour, step by agonizing step.

  After two-and-a-half weeks, the chances of anyone—police officer or concerned citizen—solving George’s murder were miniscule. But that didn’t stop me from obsessing about it. I became consumed with solving the mystery of that note. What did I know that was worth threatening me over? My visit to Dollars for Change may have been reckless, but at least it had provided a welcome distraction. Once I exhausted that idea, all I had left were the endless repetitions of my own useless thoughts.

  So I did everything I could to keep from thinking. I cleaned my house, cleared out the attic, landscaped the yard—and ignored Michael’s phone messages. In spite of his many recorded apologies, our relationship was over. When it came to romance, Rene was right. I didn’t give second chances. More importantly, I didn’t deserve second chances.

  Bella and I spent our time together avoiding fur-covered creatures of any kind, canine or human. Forcing her to live in total social isolation didn’t seem fair, but I was out of ideas. I permitted one tiny spark of hope to illuminate my otherwise defeatist attitude. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, I still believed in the basic law of karma: that on balance, good things happened to good people. Bella and I had clearly experienced more than our share of hardship lately. If the universe was even slightly fair, we were due for a break. I hoped it would come on Saturday afternoon.

  My phone rang Saturday at three-thirty on the dot.

  “Hi, Kate, it’s Melissa. I’m here for Bella’s evaluation.”

  “Great! Come on up!” My perky confidence sounded forced, even to me.

  Melissa paused. “Why don’t you bring Bella outside so I can meet her on neutral ground. German shepherds can be territorial.”

  My stomach did flip-flops as I snapped on Bella’s lead. Was Melissa’s reticence a good sign or a bad one? I kneeled down, placed my hands on either side of Bella’s face, and gazed into her deep brown eyes. “Please be good. You and I both need this to work.”

  I walked Bella outside but stopped on the porch, confused. Where was Melissa? The only person outside was a child standing next to a blue Chevy hatchback. Surely Melissa hadn’t given up and left already? I scanned the horizon in search of lost dog trainers, but found no one except the child, who was now vigorously waving. My stomach stopped flopping and dropped to my toes.

  Oh, no. It couldn’t be.

  I blinked to clear my eyes and looked again. As I’d feared, the waving munchkin wasn’t a child after all; she was the world’s tiniest dog trainer. Upon closer inspection, her shoulder-length brown hair was streaked with gray. But she stood less than five feet tall and weighed at most 100 pounds—if she carried a backpack full of rocks.

  This woman could never handle Bella. A new headline flashed through my mind: “Pint-Sized Trainer Dragged to Death by Super-Sized Dog.” I considered hiding, but that would be rude. She’d already seen us.

  Melissa smiled and turned slightly sideways. “Bring Bella up, but let her decide how close she wants to come.”

  Bella enthusiastically pulled me up to her new best friend. “Hello, there, girl, aren’t you a pretty one!” Melissa cooed, scratching Bella’s throat. To me she said, “Bella’s very thin. How’s her appetite?”

  I explained Bella’s disease and what I had learned so far about managing it. “Treating EPI is expensive and lifelong, but the disease can be managed. So far, Bella’s doing really well. She’s gained three pounds since she’s been with me, and she eats great.” I ruffled Bella’s ears. “In spite of her looks, there’s nothing Bella likes better than food of any kind.”


  “That’s actually great news,” Melissa replied. “Food-motivated dogs are much easier to train than those who won’t eat.” She thought for a moment. “You know, her disease may be causing some of her issues.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dogs that are sick often exhibit behavior problems.”

  I shook my head in dissent. “I know she’s hungry, and she certainly begs, but that’s far from our biggest problem. I’m worried about her aggression.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Melissa said. “Think about it. How do you act when you’re stressed out and hungry?”

  I thought back to Martinez’s call and the infamous coffee cup incident. I couldn’t help but smile.

  “I think you get my point,” Melissa continued. “All beings are crankier when they don’t feel well. Getting Bella healthy may be a huge step in managing her behavior.”

  We spoke outside for a few more minutes while Melissa continued to bond with Bella. Finally she said, “I think it’s OK to go inside your house now. Let’s sit down and talk.”

  Once we were seated, she asked to hold Bella’s lead. “Tell me more about Bella’s issues.”

  Melissa pulled out a clipboard and wrote down my description of Bella’s behavior. Although she ostensibly listened to me, she closely observed Bella. So far, Alicia was right. Melissa was nothing like Jim, that obnoxious trainer in Snohomish.

  “Has Bella ever hurt anyone?” Melissa asked.

  I felt my face turn red. “What do you mean?” I knew perfectly well what she meant; I just didn’t want to answer. Even hearing the question filled me with dread.

  Melissa looked up from her writing. Her expression was serious. “I’m trying to understand the severity of Bella’s aggression, and I need you to be honest with me. Has she bitten before? If so, how many times, and how much damage did she do?”

  She was asking if Bella was dangerous. This was, of course, the core issue—one I needed to face, whether I wanted to or not. I reflected for a minute, both on my time with Bella and on the stories George had shared. “I’ve only had her for a couple of weeks, but she’s never bitten that I know of.”

  “Has she had the opportunity to bite?”

  “No,” I replied. “I always keep her on leash.”

  “That’s good, but it’s not what I’m asking. Has Bella ever gotten close enough to bite?”

  I shuddered as I remembered our two closest calls—with Coalie and that awful Trucker Man. “Yes, but she missed. She knocked a guy down once, and I saw her jump on a dog, but she didn’t actually bite it.”

  “Believe me,” Melissa countered, “she didn’t miss. If a dog wants to bite and is close enough to do so, it bites.”

  I took a moment to mentally replay Bella’s blowups. “She certainly creates a scene, but now that you mention it, I don’t think she’s ever actually put her teeth on anyone.”

  “That’s a very good sign,” Melissa replied, smiling. “That means Bella likely hasn’t wanted to hurt anyone. And that makes all the difference.” She put down her pen. “What you’ve described doesn’t sound like aggression to me. I’d call it reactivity.”

  “Reactivity?”

  “Reacting to a stressful situation without trying to do harm. Essentially, Bella’s trying to communicate that she’s uncomfortable. She’s simply doing it in a way we humans consider inappropriate.” Melissa nodded her head with confidence. “We can do a lot to help reactive dogs.”

  My whole body sighed with relief. “You mean there’s hope for her?”

  “Definitely.” Melissa smiled, but her eyes remained sober. “But I have to be honest with you. This is still a serious issue, especially in a dog Bella’s size. It’s great that she hasn’t bitten so far, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t be pushed to bite in the future.”

  I remained silent, listening intently.

  “And her issues won’t go away overnight. She’ll need consistent work and a lifetime of management in certain situations. But with a dedicated owner like you, she can get better.”

  The familiar queasiness in my stomach returned. “She’s not my dog, though. I’m just fostering her until I find her a new home.”

  Melissa remained silent. Her face bore no expression.

  “You do think I’ll be able to find Bella a new home, don’t you?”

  Melissa spoke slowly, as if choosing her words carefully. “Stranger things have happened. Bella’s a beautiful dog and people love German shepherds.” She paused. “But honestly? I don’t think you’ll find one any time soon.”

  My throat tightened. “What should I do?”

  Melissa’s look was grave. “I can’t tell you that. You have to decide for yourself, and there’s no easy answer here. I’ve helped lots of dogs like Bella. The process isn’t difficult, but it takes time and considerable effort.” She laid the clipboard on her lap. “I’m willing to help, but ultimately you have to do the work.” She leaned forward. “Are you up for it?”

  I considered giving up—but only for a moment. As much as I struggled, as much as I grumbled, I had committed myself to Bella the night I found her owner’s body. It was much too late to give up now.

  “Yes. Definitely.” This time, I didn’t fake my confidence.

  “Awesome,” Melissa replied. “Let’s keep going then. As far as you know, has Bella had these issues all her life?”

  “Well, yes, but they’ve been different lately.”

  “How?”

  “She never got along well with other dogs, but as far as I know, she liked men with facial hair until I took her in.”

  Melissa’s brow furrowed. “And you’re sure this is new behavior?”

  “Yes. At least I think so.”

  She looked away for a moment, absently rubbing Bella’s ears. “This may seem like an odd question, but bear with me.” Her eyes met mine. “How do you feel about bearded men?”

  My expression betrayed me.

  “I see.” She smiled. “Dogs are incredibly intuitive, you know. Some people even believe they’re psychic—that they see images we subconsciously send. I tend to be more pragmatic than that. I think dogs are simply master observers with finely tuned senses. They can smell changes in body chemistry, see slight twinges in body language—even hear subtle differences in breathing. But either way, Bella may be picking up on your feelings.”

  “My feelings?” Had Jim been right, after all? “You mean her behavior is my fault? I really am a bad alpha?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Melissa replied emphatically. “And frankly, assigning blame is useless. However I am saying this: we have no way to know what Bella is thinking, but we can’t discount what she intuits from you. Look at her.”

  I glanced at Bella. She sat, on leash, next to Melissa. But she stared intently at me.

  “Look how closely she watches you. I don’t believe in all that alpha nonsense, but Bella clearly looks to you for guidance. We would be naïve to underestimate the impact of your thoughts on hers.”

  She had to be kidding me. “Now I have to worry about sending out random psychic images?” I looked down at the floor. “This is too much. I can’t do it.”

  Melissa tolerated no argument. “You’re a yoga teacher, right? This should be easy for you. All you have to do is pay attention. Notice how you behave immediately before Bella reacts. Do you tense up? Do you tighten the leash? Perhaps you hold your breath? Whatever you notice will give useful clues.

  “As you learn to change your reactions, Bella may well change hers. In the meantime, we’ll practice some simple exercises to help both of you gain some confidence.”

  Melissa departed ninety minutes later, leaving a very happy Bella, a completely exhausted Kate, and a long list of homework assignments in her wake. Priority number one was perfecting Bella’s recall—her willingness to come to me when c
alled. According to Melissa, there was no margin for error. No matter what Bella was doing, no matter what she was after, she had to immediately stop, turn, and come running when I gave the command.

  Melissa left with these words: “A solid recall may one day save Bella’s life.”

  twenty-five

  Another week passed as I began to reclaim my life. Melissa’s homework provided a welcome distraction—the Bella Project. Bella and I spent hours every day practicing, or in Bella-speak, playing. Our games included chicken delight—in which I rapid-fire fed Bella rotisserie chicken every time she looked at another dog—and hide-and-seek. Hide-and-seek was a slight twist on the childhood favorite. I would ask Bella to stay in one location, then I’d “hide” in another. Once in place, I’d release her by yelling, “Bella, come!”

  And come she did. She ran at me, full speed, knocking me down several times in the process. Her reward? Several pieces of medium-rare flank steak. Hide-and-seek rapidly became Bella’s favorite game, and I became the most popular vegetarian at PhinneyWood Market’s free-range deli.

  Bella trained, and I waited. I waited for the final, elusive clue that would allow me to solve George’s murder. I waited for the day I’d stop missing Michael. I waited for Bella’s adoption requests to start pouring in.

  I waited in vain.

  The three calls I did get about Bella were from crackpots. The first was Trucker Man’s evil twin. He wanted an outdoor-only guard dog and hung up as soon as I told him about Bella’s illness. The second was willing to overlook Bella’s genetic disease—as long as he could still breed her. And although I couldn’t prove it, I was pretty sure the third was looking for his next champion fighting dog.

  Michael finally stopped calling. His last message couldn’t have been clearer. “I guess you’re not willing to work this out. Again, I’m sorry. But this is my last call. From here on out, it’s up to you.”

  I decided avoidance was the better part of valor. Instead of returning Michael’s calls, I found creative ways to get to the studio without passing by Pete’s Pets. I tried and tried again to get my head on straight—to forget about Michael and concentrate on yoga. My teaching was less than inspired. After one particularly lifeless attempt, I overheard a longtime student tell her friend, “Her classes are usually much better than that. Why don’t we try the Tuesday instructor instead.” I should have been mortified, but honestly, I just didn’t care.