Murder Strikes a Pose by Tracy Weber

something significantly less appetizing. Bella
    didn’t seem to notice. She danced and drooled, clearly ready to
    devour her dinner. I set the timer. “Sorry, girl, it needs to sit for twenty minutes.”
    “Bark!”
    I ignored her.
    She responded with two more ear-splitting barks.
    “There’s nothing I can do,” I said in my most authoritative
    voice. “We have to wait at least twenty minutes.” I handed her a
    bone-shaped piece of plastic. “Take this chew toy.”
    Bella retired to the living room and half-heartedly gnawed on
    the bacon-flavored dog pacifier. She looked less than pleased, but for the moment, I had won. Score one for the human.
    When the timer went off, Bella snarfed down her meal in two
    minutes flat. It must have tasted better than it looked.
    Bella’s dining requirements satisfied, I could finally attend to
    my own needs. Nothing sounded better than a good book and a
    long, hot bath. I was about to dip my toes in lavender-scented bliss when I noticed the light blinking on my answering machine.
    “Hey, Katydid, it’s John. I have some information on that
    woman you’re looking for. Give me a call.”
    I threw on a robe and grabbed a pen. “Bella, our luck may be
    changing.”
    O’Connell answered on the first ring. “Great. I was hoping
    you’d call. I spent some time on the phone with Detective Hen-
    derson today. You were right, by the way. You didn’t exactly make a good impression. Is it true you barfed all over his crime scene?”
    Lack of sleep left me irritated. “Well, pardon me if I’m not used to stumbling over dead bodies.”
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    “Settle down, Katydid, settle down. No need to get your draw-
    ers in a bunch. I’m doing you the favor, remember?”
    I bit back my snarky reply and stared longingly at the bathtub.
    “Sorry, John, but I’m in a hurry. Do you have something for me?”
    “Henderson’s convinced your friend’s murder was a drunken
    brawl gone bad,” he continued. “They haven’t found the murder
    weapon yet, but nothing about this looks premeditated—more
    like a fight that got out of control.”
    “I don’t buy it, John,” I argued. “George wasn’t the fighting
    type. And Greenwood may not be Mercer Island, but we’re not ex-
    actly Belltown, either. We don’t have a lot of street crime in this neighborhood.” I tapped my pen on the notepad, thinking. “Maybe I should talk to Henderson again.”
    John’s irritation surged through the phone line. “Katy, we
    made a deal. I’d get you some information to satisfy your curiosity, and you’d stay out of this. A murder investigation is no place for an amateur, especially one who’s also a witness.”
    “But—”
    “I mean it, Kate,” he barked. “Keep messing in this investiga-
    tion, and you’re liable to really screw it up. Now are you going to fight me, or are you going to be a good girl and let me tell you how to contact the vic’s daughter?”
    I scowled and made a gesture—the kind not readily accepted in
    polite company. Nobody called me a “girl.” Especially not a “good girl.” Not even my father’s oldest friend. I didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty lying to him, under the circumstances.
    “You’re right, John. I’m out of my league. I’ll stay out of the
    investigation and leave it to the professionals. You found George’s daughter?”
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    He exhaled with relief. “Good job, Katydid. As it turns out, you
    were right. She’s local, sort of. Her name’s Sarah Crawford and she lives in Issaquah. I’ve got her number here.” I wrote it down. “Detective Henderson didn’t think she’d be too happy to speak with
    you, but that’s your concern. I did my part.”
    I disingenuously thanked him for his help, hung up the phone,
    then immediately picked it up again. The bath would have to wait.
    I had no idea what to say, but under the circumstances, I figured the fewer details, the better.
    “Hello, Ms. Crawford? My name is Kate Davidson. I have
    something