Tracy Weber is the
author of the award-winning Downward Dog Mysteries series featuring yoga
teacher Kate Davidson and her feisty German shepherd, Bella.
Her first book,
Murder Strikes a Pose won the Maxwell Award for Fiction and was 2015 Agatha
award nominee for Best First Novel. The third book in her series, Karma's a
Killer, will released January, 2016 by Midnight Ink.
Tracy and her husband
live in Seattle with their challenging yet amazing German shepherd Tasha. When
she’s not writing, Tracy spends her time teaching yoga, walking Tasha, and
sipping Blackthorn cider at her favorite ale house.
Connect with the Author here:
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Yoga instructor Kate Davidson is ready to marry her boyfriend Michael, so she’s disappointed when a special dinner doesn’t end with a proposal. But disappointment turns to dismay and outrage as she learns the real problem: Michael is already married and his estranged wife is blackmailing him.
When his wife’s body is found―by Kate and her dog, no less―Michael is strangely unable to remember where he was the night she died. Since Michael has no alibi, Kate steps up to uncover what happened. What she walks into is a tangled web of deceit, obsession, and immigration fraud . . . with Michael trapped in the middle.
Excerpt:
I
put Alice back into the carrier and followed Rene to the sidewalk. I would have
kept chiding her all the way to the car, but when we were a few steps away from
the street, Bella froze, halting my forward motion and practically dislocating
my shoulder. “Bella, knock it—” I stopped mid-sentence.
Something
was wrong.
Bella
stared straight ahead, teeth exposed, ears pricked forward. The guard hairs
along her spine stood on end like the quills of an angry porcupine. Low growls
rumbled from deep in her chest.
“What
is it, sweetie?” I kneeled next to her and followed her gaze. She’d locked on a
man who was standing—or rather skulking—in a dark, narrow alley across the
street. He wore a camouflage baseball cap.
“It’s
him,” I whispered.
Rene
glanced left to right. “It’s who?”
The
stranger looked up and we made eye contact. For the first time, I got a good
look at his face. Dark hair. Tan, weathered skin. Light blue, almost icy, eyes.
He turned and bolted down the alley.
As
to what happened next, I can only plead temporary insanity. “Rene, stay here.”
I ordered. I thrust Bella’s leash into her hand and broke into a run,
determined to catch the suspicious stranger.
“Where
are you going?” Rene yelled to my back.
I
ignored her and shoved past an elderly woman. “Excuse me.” I dodged to the
right and twirled past a young mother pushing a stroller. “Sorry!” I leapt over
a low bench and landed—hard—on the edge of my right foot. Pain jolted from my
ankle to my knee. I recovered my balance and kept running, but the camo-capped
man ran faster. He was getting away!
I
didn’t think. More importantly, I didn’t look. I acted on pure instinct. I
darted off the curb and into the busy street. The driver of a black pickup
truck slammed on his brakes.
The
next three seconds passed with petrifying clarity. The horrified expression on
the driver’s face; the ear-piercing screech of locked tires against pavement;
the chemical smell of burning rubber; the sour taste of adrenaline. I gaped
down at my knees, or more accurately at the truck’s bumper, which had stopped
an inch from my legs. The driver leaned out his window and yelled, “Jesus,
lady! Watch where you’re going!”
“My
fault!” I yelled. I started running again. Across the street, down the alley,
and out to the sidewalk on the other side. I skidded to a stop, lungs heaving,
and whipped my head back and forth.
The suspicious stranger had
vanished.
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