Murber Strikes a Pose

by Tracy Weber

  Rene finally talked me into meeting her at Mocha Mia, only to harass me mercilessly. I tried to ignore her by inhaling the sweet, steamy aroma of my hazelnut mocha. When that didn’t work I stared down at the table, pretending to be mesmerized by the cartoon “coffee buzz” bumblebee printed on my coffee mug. Earplugs would have been much more effective.

  “You’re being pig-headed, even for you! And don’t give me any of that ‘What if he dies?’ bull crap. That may be true for Bella, but Michael will likely outlive us both.” She leaned back and glared, so intent on browbeating me that she hadn’t touched her dessert. “Frankly, you’re acting like a commitment-phobic little girl, scared of rejection. The first time in years you find a guy who’s completely compatible with you, and you bolt at the first tiff.”

  “Officially, it was our second tiff—and after one date. Not great odds for the future, if you ask me. Why should I waste my time with someone who will inevitably try to control me?” I tried to distract her by threatening her food. “Now, shut up and give me a bite of that brownie.”

  Rene stopped talking and uncharacteristically pushed over her plate. Her mouth remained blissfully silent, but her eyes practically screamed with concern. At first I ignored her. I chewed and stared hollowly off into space, not even tasting that delicious concoction of chocolate, butter, and confectioner’s sugar. I felt strangely disconnected from everything, including myself. My body may have sat next to Rene, but my mind was off wandering, lost in a fog.

  But only at first.

  As the minutes passed, the fog began to dissipate; shapes became clearer; my heart and my mind reconnected. By the time I pushed away Rene’s empty plate, something deep inside me had shifted.

  Who knows why? Maybe I was finally ready. Maybe I was moved by Rene’s unusual patience. Maybe she laced that chocolate fudge brownie with truth serum. Whatever the reason, when my mind returned, it brought with it unusual clarity. The time had come: I needed to share my secret.

  I looked up and met my friend’s worried gaze. “We fought the last time I saw him, you know.”

  “You and Michael? Of course you did. I know that. But what couple doesn’t fight? If I had a dollar for every time Sam and I got into an argument—”

  “No. I mean Dad and me.”

  Rene looked confused. “You lost me. I thought we were talking about Michael.”

  “You were,” I replied. “I stopped listening twenty minutes ago.”

  She gave me her trademarked “wounded Rene” look, but remained silent.

  Beads of sweat dotted my hairline; my heart raced erratically; for a moment, I even forgot to breathe. I never felt more vulnerable.

  Here goes …

  Everything.

  “Two nights before Dad’s heart attack, we had a fight. I’d been dating Jason for about a month—”

  “That creep. That’s one even I thought you should dump.”

  “I know. Everyone saw through him but me. I fell head over heels.” I smiled ruefully. “Dad was the worst, though. He loathed Jason, and he made no secret of it. That was bad enough, but he finally went too far. He ran a background check.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Doing that was over the top, even for Dad. I was beyond furious. Even worse, he was right. Turned out Jason had a record. Nothing violent, just slimy: a conviction for check fraud and a DUI. The kicker, though, was that Jason was dumb enough to get arrested not once, but twice for soliciting a prostitute—once while he and I were dating.”

  Rene shuddered and pretended to gag.

  “I should have been mad at Jason for being such a pig or even at myself for being so stupid. But I wasn’t. I was furious at Dad for meddling in my life.” My throat tightened. “It certainly wasn’t the first time Dad and I fought, but it was the last.”

  Rene grabbed my hand. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

  “Yeah, me too. The kicker was that I calmed down a couple of days later. I was planning to apologize. But before I could, I got the call from the hospital—”

  “Oh, Kate, honey, you can’t possibly think you caused that heart attack.”

  I shook my head. “No, a blood clot in Dad’s coronary artery did that. I’m sure the stress of our fight didn’t help any, but it wasn’t the cause.”

  Rene looked confused. “Then what? What aren’t you saying?”

  I held back a guilt-ridden, terrified sob. Rene was my best friend —in many ways, my only true friend. What if she hated me after I told her? What would I do if she left me too?

  “You don’t know how bad it was, Rene. How bad I was. Dad and I fought a lot, but never like this. Right before I stormed out the door, I told him to get out of my life—and to stay out for good.” Tears threatened my eyes. “And I never got a chance to take it back. I never told him what a great father he was. I never even told him how much I loved him. His last image of me was my butt with a door slamming behind it.” I finally broke down, quietly sobbing.

  Rene grabbed my shoulders and forced me to look at her. I’d never seen her so earnest. “Kate, you listen to me, and you listen good. Your father knew how you felt. You two fought all the time, but it always blew over. You adored him, and everyone, including your father, knew it. Don’t you ever doubt that.” She pointed to the ceiling. “If there’s a heaven up there, your father is looking down at us right now, and he’s furious at you for wasting even one single second on this guilt trip.”

  I hesitated, afraid to ask. “So you don’t think I’m a horrible person?”

  Rene’s shocked expression admonished me. “Don’t be ridiculous, Kate. Of course not. And neither did your father. If he were here, he’d say, ‘Kate-girl, you knock off that pity-party this instant. I didn’t raise some guilt-ridden Catholic school girl. I raised an intelligent, confident, resilient woman. Now act like one!’”

  I could almost hear my father in Rene’s voice. For the first time in two years, I even sensed his presence. I felt lighter, brighter somehow, as if a leaden trench coat had been lifted from my shoulders. And suddenly I knew: my father’s spirit had never truly left me. I’d simply been too ashamed to let him in.

  Confessing my guilt somehow extinguished its power. I was like a child who’d finally shone a flashlight under her bed, only to discover that the scary monster had been just a big dust bunny all along. For the first time since my father’s death, I found my missing piece. For the first time in two years, I felt—whole.

  I dabbed the napkin at my eyes. “That does sound like one of his tirades.”

  “You bet it does. I didn’t spend every Saturday at your house and not pick up on a thing or two.” She paused. “Is this why you’ve been obsessing about your friend’s murder? Are you trying to make up for some overblown mishap with your father?”

  I’d wondered that myself but had no answers. “Honestly, Rene, I don’t know. In some ways, this situation feels so familiar. In others, it’s completely different. But I can’t stop thinking about George’s death. I have to know what happened.”

  Rene squeezed my hands. “Kate, you know I’d do anything for you. All you have to do is ask.”

  I had no qualms about taking Rene up on her offer; I just didn’t know how she could help. My head swam, and it had been swimming for days. The answer was there, hovering barely out of reach. It was like having all the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, but no photo or form to guide its construction. I needed context. I needed perspective.

  Perhaps she could help after all.

  “Can you come over tonight?”

  We agreed to meet at my house at seven o’clock. Before then, I had one more task. Even Nancy Drew needed a sidekick, right? And the past few weeks proved one thing for certain: I was no Nancy Drew.

  I needed two.

  The phone rang three times. I was about to hang up when I heard a welcome voice on the line. “Pete’s Pets, how can I help yo
u?”

  “Michael, it’s Kate. I need your help.”

  twenty-six

  At seven o’clock I was nervous. By seven-fifteen I was two minutes away from a full-blown panic attack. Butterflies didn’t just flutter in my stomach, they did the mambo. Even Bella looked concerned. I hadn’t seen Michael in almost two weeks. What if he’d gotten over me? What if he was dating Tiffany? What if he’d grown back that god-awful beard? Rene plied me with alcohol and tried to bolster my confidence.

  The doorbell finally rang at seven-twenty. “Hi, stranger,” I said, not quite meeting Michael’s gaze.

  “Hi yourself,” he replied. His tone was civil but distant. No mischievous wrinkles softened his eyes. Michael and I may have negotiated a temporary cease-fire, but a permanent peace treaty was far from certain.

  We walked into the living room. “I’d introduce you, but I think you two have already met,” I said, smirking at Rene.

  I should have known better than to tease her. In Rene’s world, I had just declared war. She ignored my sarcasm and greeted Michael with a great big hug. Her eyes sparkled with good-natured malice as she looked him up and down, appraisingly. “Kate’s right, you know. You look gorgeous without that beard.” She cemented her victory by claiming the room’s only chair.

  Michael and I sat on opposite ends of the couch, leaving a full cushion’s width between us. I hid my tomato-red face by pretending to study the bottom of my wine glass—not that anyone noticed. Michael and Rene were too busy teasing each other about facial hair, fake cats, and early morning wake-up calls to pay attention to me. Bella, the traitor, joyfully alternated between begging Michael for treats and rubbing fur all over Rene’s tights.

  At least someone was having a good time.

  In spite of my grumpy embarrassment, I couldn’t help but smile. I’d lived in that house for most of my life, but it had never felt more like home. I sipped my wine and watched them playfully banter away the room’s tension. Several drinks and a few dog cookies later, we all sat together in companionable silence.

  I wanted to repair my rift with Michael, but that would have to wait. Instead, I jumped into the evening’s stated agenda. “I can’t figure out where I’m going wrong. Someone obviously thinks I’m close to solving George’s murder, but I have no idea why. As far as I can tell, everything I’ve come up with so far has been a dead end.”

  “Maybe brainstorming a list of suspects would help,” Rene offered.

  I pulled out a notebook. “It certainly can’t hurt. Let’s start with the obvious. The murderer could have been someone from George’s past. The police say George’s old business partner, Robert, has an alibi, but he could have hired a hit man.”

  “I doubt it,” Michael replied. “What kind of hit man bashes his target over the head? Besides, a professional killer wouldn’t waste time threatening you, Kate. He’d either get out of town or make you his next victim.”

  “You have a point,” I conceded. “But Robert might have involved someone who wasn’t a professional. He still has motive. We simply don’t know the means or opportunity yet.”

  “But what’s his connection to you?” Rene asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve never met this guy. You don’t even know his last name. So why would he leave you that note?”

  I thought for a moment. “Sarah could have told him about me. She got pretty cagey when I asked about him.”

  Rene disagreed. “Sounds too convoluted to me. According to that theory, at least three people were involved in George’s death—Sarah, Robert, and the murderer.” She shook her head. “You’re reaching, Kate.”

  She was right. “OK, scratch Robert.” I drew a line through his name. “How about someone George knew through Dollars for Change? Tali was furious that day I went back to the office.”

  Rene absently rubbed Bella’s ears. “Well, you did lie to her. I’d be angry too. Besides, what motive would Tali have?”

  “Just because we don’t know the motive doesn’t mean there isn’t one. I think Tali should stay on the list.” I put a question mark next to her name. “She’s local, she knew I was asking questions about George, and I told her where I work. She’s at least good for the rock through my window.” I took a sip of wine. “For that matter, lots of people at Dollars for Change know I’ve been looking into this. I haven’t exactly kept it a secret. What about that Surfer-Dude guy?”

  Michael frowned. “I’m sure dozens of people knew George. But we won’t get anywhere if we list every homeless person in Seattle. Did anyone you interviewed stand out?”

  My stomach dropped to my knees. “No, no one,” I quickly replied. I had no intention of telling Michael about Charlie’s and my trip to Woodland Park, especially since it ended up being a dead end. Michael had barely gotten over the rock through my window. If I told him about my close call with Charlie, his head might explode.

  I avoided eye contact and pretended to think. My quiet subterfuge didn’t fool anyone—least of all Michael. His facial expression morphed through multiple emotions, from suspicion, to anger, to worry, to frustration. It finally settled on resignation.

  “Fine,” he said drolly. “Have it your way. No one stood out. But then what about you, Kate?”

  “What about me?”

  “If we’re going to suspect everyone George knew, you should be at the top of the list. After all, we know you have a violent temper.”

  I leaned over and punched him in the arm. “Keep it up, funny man.” I reluctantly crossed out Tali’s name. “You do have a point, though. Most people would never kill without a compelling reason. A killer has to be either highly motivated or insane, especially if the murder is premeditated. Tali and Surfer Dude didn’t seem either.” I paused a moment, thinking. “But Bella’s old owner might be. I think we should add him to the list.”

  “Why him?” asked Rene.

  “He’s obviously violent; my arm had the bruises to prove it. And his wife’s face looked like a punching bag. I may not be able to prove that Trucker Man beat her, but I’d be willing to bet the rest of my savings on it.”

  Rene looked skeptical. “But what motive would he have to kill George? Did he even know him?”

  “I didn’t think so at first, but I’m beginning to wonder. When I took Bella to Trucker Man’s house, he mentioned that the “bum” who stole her should have stuck to selling newspapers. At the time, I assumed Betty had told him about George, but now I’m not so sure.”

  Rene leaned forward. “Why not? Betty must have spoken with him. After all, she gave him your phone number.”

  “Yes, but I was deliberately vague with Betty about Bella’s history. I know I told her George was homeless, but I don’t think I said anything about Dollars for Change. So how did Trucker Man know George sold newspapers?

  I looked at Bella’s puppy collar lying on the mantle. “And the whole blackmail angle has always bothered me. I couldn’t believe George would do something so cruel. But George was fiercely protective of Bella. I never understood how he felt until I met with that awful trainer, Jim.” I suppressed a shudder. “I almost electrocuted Jim with his own shock collar, and he never even touched Bella. Can you imagine what George must have wanted to do to Trucker man? He would have felt justified, righteous even, extorting money from that monster.”

  “Maybe, but—” Rene tried to interrupt, but I was on a roll.

  “And my Trucker Man theory explains George’s missing time. Trucker man lives thirty miles from Seattle and almost forty miles from Sarah. Traveling that distance without a car can’t be simple, especially with a dog as scary-looking as Bella. George could easily have spent several days getting back and forth.”

  Michael took over Rene’s role as devil’s advocate. “But what about the note in your car?”

  “Trucker Man could have thrown that rock. Betty told him where I worked, and h
e knew my car. I drove it to his house.”

  “When was the last time you talked to this guy?” Michael asked.

  I didn’t have to look at my calendar; that morning was indelibly printed on my memory. “Over two weeks ago. The Tuesday after our date.”

  “Did you talk about George’s murder?”

  I hesitated. “Well, no, we were focused on Bella.”

  “That’s what I thought. But then, why would he feel threatened enough to risk vandalizing your car?”

  Damn. The familiar dull throbbing behind my eyes returned. “You’re right.” I sighed. “The problem is nothing makes sense. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks now, but I keep spinning in circles.” I tossed my notebook on the coffee table in frustration.

  Rene stood up and handed it right back to me. “Don’t give up so easily, we’re just getting started.” She refilled her wine glass. “What about George’s daughter?”

  I hesitated. “I’m conflicted about her.”

  “How?”

  “Well, Sarah hated her father, and both she and her husband seemed capable of violence, given the right provocation. Plus, I’m not fully convinced of their joint alibi the night of the murder.” I shook my head, frowning. “But they don’t feel right to me.”

  Rene looked at me, puzzled. “They have motive, means, and opportunity. What am I missing?”

  “George felt horrible about how he hurt his family. He never would have blackmailed Sarah.”

  “What if you’ve got the whole blackmail angle wrong?” Michael interjected. “You’re putting a lot of weight on that one woman’s word. And even if George was blackmailing someone, that person isn’t necessarily the killer. Let’s set extortion aside for a moment. Who else has motive?”