Read Online Murder Strikes a Pose by Tracy Weber - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tracy Weber
Tags: realtor Darby Farr gets pulled into the investigation and learns that Kyle had a shocking secret—one that could've sealed her violent fate. Suspects abound, south Florida's star broker. But her career ends abruptly when she is fatally stabbed at an open house. Because of a family friend's longstanding ties to the Cameron clan, including Kyle's estranged suicidal husband; her ex-lover, Million-dollar listings and hefty commissions come easily for Kyle Cameron, a ruthless billionaire developer; and Foster's resentful, politically ambitious wife. And Darby's investigating puts her next on the killer's hit list., Foster McFarlin
Ads: Link
feelings.
She stared at the building with laser-like focus, as if daring him to make another appearance.
Martinez frowned. “Are you sure you want to take that animal
home with you?”
“Not exactly,” I admitted. I slowed my breath, trying to calm
my fractured nerves. “But honestly, I’ve never seen her do any-
thing like that before. And George wouldn’t want Bella to go to the pound. She won’t last a day there. I’d rather keep her with me for now.”
I looked at Martinez with what I hoped was an expression of
steady confidence. “Who knows? Maybe George’s family will take
her. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
“It’s your funeral,” Martinez said shaking her head. “But fair
warning. Don’t let her go after an officer again. A cop won’t hesitate to shoot a dog that attacks him or another person. We protect human life over animal. Every time.”
58
seven
“Hey, back there, keep it down,” I muttered to the snoring mon-
ster in my back seat. Bella wasted no time in claiming my ancient Honda Civic as her own. As soon as I opened the door, she crawled behind the driver’s seat, curled up, and immediately fell asleep for the three mile drive southwest to my home in Ballard. She seemed
surprisingly comfortable. Perhaps riding the bus taught her what
to expect from a moving vehicle. Perhaps the small, dark space reminded her of her crate. Or perhaps she simply passed out, ex-
hausted from the trauma of her evening.
I should be so lucky.
As we neared our destination, I worried about how the neigh-
bors would react to my new roommate. They had a hard enough
time adjusting when I moved back in. They liked me well enough, but a yoga teacher was a poor substitute for a twenty-five year vet-eran of the police force. Maybe if I told them Bella was a police dog and signed her up as block watch captain, they’d be more welcoming.
59
Dad and I moved into my 1920s bungalow back when Ballard
was best known as a sleepy Scandinavian fishing village. In the
last decade, it had been radically transformed. Most of the small, single-family homes had been torn down, and the Nordic-themed
businesses had relocated, along with the area’s Scandinavian residents. Today, the Ballard neighborhood was an ethnically diverse
Mecca of multi-story apartment buildings, trendy new restau-
rants, live music venues, and enough microbreweries that it was
now known as a music and beer destination.
When Dad first died and left me his house, I wasn’t sure I could
stand to live there—too many memories, you know? I considered
selling it for about a minute, but the thought of my childhood
home being torn down and replaced by some fancy new McMan-
sion quickly squelched that idea. So I made it my own by painting the exterior a soft shade of violet and filling the flowerbeds with pink roses, multi-colored tulips, and bright yellow sunflowers.
The two-story, 1400 square foot house wasn’t much by most
people’s standards, but I’d grown to adore it. Probably because it safeguarded the very memories I’d been afraid to confront. The
top level contained the master bedroom and a spa-like bathroom,
complete with a jetted bathtub—the one luxury Dad had permit-
ted himself. The main floor was made up of the requisite kitchen, living room area, and a half-bathroom suitable for guests. Just off the kitchen sat my childhood bedroom, now a combination office
and storage space.
I didn’t have much of a yard, but my tiny piece of grass was
enough for what Bella needed right then. Standing next to her and holding the leash, I deeply regretted not getting the yard fenced.
Some things should be done in private. One look at her output
and I realized I’d need to buy some dog waste bags. Big ones.
60
That duty completed, I took her into the house and unhooked
her leash. She ran from room to room, frantically sniffing, as if expecting an evil intruder around every corner. Her only pit stop was a brief visit
She stared at the building with laser-like focus, as if daring him to make another appearance.
Martinez frowned. “Are you sure you want to take that animal
home with you?”
“Not exactly,” I admitted. I slowed my breath, trying to calm
my fractured nerves. “But honestly, I’ve never seen her do any-
thing like that before. And George wouldn’t want Bella to go to the pound. She won’t last a day there. I’d rather keep her with me for now.”
I looked at Martinez with what I hoped was an expression of
steady confidence. “Who knows? Maybe George’s family will take
her. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
“It’s your funeral,” Martinez said shaking her head. “But fair
warning. Don’t let her go after an officer again. A cop won’t hesitate to shoot a dog that attacks him or another person. We protect human life over animal. Every time.”
58
seven
“Hey, back there, keep it down,” I muttered to the snoring mon-
ster in my back seat. Bella wasted no time in claiming my ancient Honda Civic as her own. As soon as I opened the door, she crawled behind the driver’s seat, curled up, and immediately fell asleep for the three mile drive southwest to my home in Ballard. She seemed
surprisingly comfortable. Perhaps riding the bus taught her what
to expect from a moving vehicle. Perhaps the small, dark space reminded her of her crate. Or perhaps she simply passed out, ex-
hausted from the trauma of her evening.
I should be so lucky.
As we neared our destination, I worried about how the neigh-
bors would react to my new roommate. They had a hard enough
time adjusting when I moved back in. They liked me well enough, but a yoga teacher was a poor substitute for a twenty-five year vet-eran of the police force. Maybe if I told them Bella was a police dog and signed her up as block watch captain, they’d be more welcoming.
59
Dad and I moved into my 1920s bungalow back when Ballard
was best known as a sleepy Scandinavian fishing village. In the
last decade, it had been radically transformed. Most of the small, single-family homes had been torn down, and the Nordic-themed
businesses had relocated, along with the area’s Scandinavian residents. Today, the Ballard neighborhood was an ethnically diverse
Mecca of multi-story apartment buildings, trendy new restau-
rants, live music venues, and enough microbreweries that it was
now known as a music and beer destination.
When Dad first died and left me his house, I wasn’t sure I could
stand to live there—too many memories, you know? I considered
selling it for about a minute, but the thought of my childhood
home being torn down and replaced by some fancy new McMan-
sion quickly squelched that idea. So I made it my own by painting the exterior a soft shade of violet and filling the flowerbeds with pink roses, multi-colored tulips, and bright yellow sunflowers.
The two-story, 1400 square foot house wasn’t much by most
people’s standards, but I’d grown to adore it. Probably because it safeguarded the very memories I’d been afraid to confront. The
top level contained the master bedroom and a spa-like bathroom,
complete with a jetted bathtub—the one luxury Dad had permit-
ted himself. The main floor was made up of the requisite kitchen, living room area, and a half-bathroom suitable for guests. Just off the kitchen sat my childhood bedroom, now a combination office
and storage space.
I didn’t have much of a yard, but my tiny piece of grass was
enough for what Bella needed right then. Standing next to her and holding the leash, I deeply regretted not getting the yard fenced.
Some things should be done in private. One look at her output
and I realized I’d need to buy some dog waste bags. Big ones.
60
That duty completed, I took her into the house and unhooked
her leash. She ran from room to room, frantically sniffing, as if expecting an evil intruder around every corner. Her only pit stop was a brief visit
Similar Books
