Murder Strikes a Pose by Tracy Weber Page A

valuable of your father’s that you might want.”
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    ten
    “Don’t worry, girl, they’ll love you. After all, you’re family.”
    I hoped I was right. As Bella and I drove across I-90 the next
    morning, I worried about our reception. My phone conversation
    with Sarah had been brief, and I didn’t volunteer much informa-
    tion. I certainly didn’t tell her that the “item” I planned to deliver was of the canine variety. Sarah sounded tired—too tired to think clearly—so I talked fast and used vague terms like “father’s most precious possession” and “family heirloom.” I may have even fibbed a little about my connection to the Seattle Police Department.
    I felt bad about deceiving her. The yoga teachings clearly pro-
    moted honesty. But my story was an exaggeration, not really a lie. I may not officially work for the police, but they did give me Sarah’s phone number. Besides, there were extenuating circumstances. My
    work with Bella was a mission of mercy. I pulled into the driveway and hoped for the best.
    The property was exactly what I had envisioned for a Bella-
    sized dog. The pale yellow house nestled in the corner of a gor-
    geous green lawn. Large fir trees blocked neighboring houses from 87
    view and would provide cool, dappled-gray shade puddles, perfect
    for napping on hot summer afternoons. I smiled as I imagined
    Bella happily protecting her yard from intruding cats, wandering
    deer, and hapless mailmen.
    “Bella, this is perfect. Look at that huge fenced-in yard! You’ll be able to run and play all day.” Bella did, indeed, look impressed as she smashed her nose against the car window. “I don’t see any
    other dogs, so unless there’s one in the house, you’ll have this place all to yourself. And look! There’s a tricycle in the front yard. I’ll bet a kid lives here. You love kids!”
    I smiled to myself. I guess sometimes stories do end “happily ever after.”
    “Wait here. I’ll go butter them up for you.”
    As I walked up the sidewalk, I examined Bella’s new home.
    Bright white shutters and the smell of freshly mown grass hinted
    that the property was well cared for. Children’s toys littered the lawn, and bright orange poppies bloomed along its edges in well-tended beds. Saying a silent prayer to God, the universe, or whatever else was in charge, I rang the bell.
    The woman who answered the door had the weary look of
    young mothers everywhere. She wore a clean-but-wrinkled blouse
    and frayed jeans that weren’t quite stylish enough to have been
    purchased that way. Her red-rimmed eyes showed evidence of re-
    cent crying. A blue-eyed toddler clung tightly to her leg with one hand and held a plastic dump truck in the other. The remnants of
    a peanut butter and jelly sandwich colorfully decorated both his
    face and his blue-striped T-shirt. I smiled as I imagined ruffling my fingers through his adorable, soft-looking brown curls.
    “You must be Kate. I’m Sarah, and this here’s Davie. Davie, say
    hello.”
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    I half expected Davie to walk up and offer me his paw. Instead,
    he smiled and leaned into his mother’s leg, shyly hiding behind it.
    “I’m Davie,” he said, rocking back and forth. “I’m gonna be three.”
    He held up the correct number of fingers. Sarah gave him a gentle hug and opened the door wider.
    “Come on in. My husband, Rick, is out back, but we can talk
    inside.”
    I followed Sarah to a neat and functional living room. Well-
    worn rugs covered its wooden floors, and the dirt-colored fur-
    niture looked sturdy and easily cleanable—well suited for the
    inevitable mishaps of life with a toddler. I could easily imagine Bella curled up by the fireplace or hiding under the kitchen table, begging for unwanted table scraps from her new young best
    friend.
    Sarah gestured toward the corner. “Davie, why don’t you go play
    with your trucks?” To me, she said, “Please have a seat. I’m sorry, I don’t have much to offer you. Would you