Free Murder Strikes a Pose by Tracy Weber

to the guest bathroom, where she drank her weight in water—from the commode.
    Satisfied we were alone, she sat in the middle of the kitchen
    floor and stared at me with big brown wolf-like eyes.
    “Bark!”
    “What do you want now?”
    She barked again.
    This wasn’t one of Bella’s typical vocalizations. It didn’t sound particularly angry, or even excited. This single, distinctive, sharp bark said, “I demand something. Now !”
    I had no idea what she wanted. I ignored her and tiredly sorted
    through the day’s assortment of bills and junk mail.
    Bella’s bark grew louder and more insistent.
    “Quiet! You’ll wake up the neighbors!”
    She walked closer and barked directly in my ear. I could only
    assume she thought I was deaf.
    “I don’t know what you want!”
    She continued her loud conversation.
    “Oh, for God’s sake, shut up and let me think!” I slumped in a
    chair and rubbed my aching temples, unsure which was worse—
    my pounding head or my growling stomach. It was well after mid-
    night, and I hadn’t eaten since lunch.
    I sat up straight. “Hey, wait a minute. Are you hungry?”
    Bella answered with another series of staccato barks.
    We had a problem. I had no idea when George had fed Bella
    last, or even what she ate, other than leftover ham sandwiches. I vaguely remembered something about her illness that made food
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    problematic, but I was too brain-dead to recall the specifics. And it was far too late to visit a pet store.
    I went to the fridge instead, Bella tagging close behind. “Let’s
    see what I’ve got: lettuce, tofu, a couple of apples, milk …”
    I took a whiff and almost gagged again. Straight into the trash.
    “Forget the milk. Hummus, carrot cake …”
    Bella leaned in closer and started drooling. I snatched the tasty morsel away before she had a chance to grab it. “Absolutely not.
    The carrot cake’s mine. Salad mix, bagels …”
    Bella groaned. A vegetarian household obviously wasn’t con-
    ducive to late-night doggie dining.
    I looked at her and shrugged. “Sorry, girl. I don’t have anything for you.”
    Bella showed her frustration with three more ear-splitting
    barks.
    “I get it! Shut up. I’m thinking.”
    I finally remembered Ballard’s twenty-four-hour Super Mart.
    I knew grocery store kibble was frowned upon in most doggy cir-
    cles, but these were desperate times.
    _____
    Twenty minutes and a grocery store run later, Bella had merciful-
    ly stopped barking. She was too busy wolfing down dog food from
    my favorite crystal serving bowl. I added food and water bowls to my shopping list.
    I looked at the clock and almost cried. It was one-thirty, and
    my early morning class started at six. I’d never felt so bone-weary in my life. My head still throbbed, and my stomach ached from
    hunger. But all I could think about was sleep—deep, dreamless
    sleep. “Come on, Bella. It’s bedtime.” I showed her the bedroom.
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    She hopped on the bed and flopped down, lying squarely on my
    pillow.
    “Sorry, pooch. This is where I draw the line. I sleep on the bed.
    You sleep on the floor.”
    I grabbed a blanket from the closet, laid it on the floor and
    pointed to it. “For you.” It took some convincing, but Bella finally relented. I collapsed on the bed and closed my eyes.
    Huge mistake.
    Images of George’s body, sounds of sirens, the smell of blood,
    and the full knowledge of the evening’s horror invaded every crevice of my being.
    Bella paced the room, panting and whining. I tried to coax my-
    self to sleep with “Kate’s Sleeping Pill,” my favorite breath practice for insomnia. No good. The horrible memories refused to leave.
    But at least now the room was quiet. At least that infernal whining had stopped.
    My mind froze.My eyes flew open. Why had the whining stopped?
    I rolled over and locked eyes with Bella. Her accusing glare
    scolded me. We stared each other down for what seemed like an
    eternity. Finally, I realized what was bothering