Double Vision

by Ellie Hart

  When her cell phone rings, Giselle Cutler answers it—and finds herself speaking to a dead woman.

  As Giselle and her partner Marta Perry get ready for the birth of their baby, the last thing they expect is to be drawn into another mystery. But there’s been a horrible mix-up with identification of a body found in the bay, and Marta’s supervisor Chrissy Burton is very much alive and desperate for their help.

  Intrigue turns deadly as they uncover illegal organ transplants, black market sales, and ties to international terrorism. The killer is willing to do anything to keep the public from knowing how the transplant system really works, even if it means killing Giselle and Marta.

  Double Vision

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  Double Vision

  © 2019 By Ellie Hart. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-386-4

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: March 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Jerry L. Wheeler

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Tammy Seidick

  By the Author

  The Deep End

  Double Vision

  For G,

  whose patience with animals and small children always amazes me.

  Chapter One

  I hate mornings. I was never a morning person like my sister, perky and ready for the day as soon as her eyes opened. I am the night owl of the family, better suited to activities performed under cover of darkness. I am more enamored with the sunset than the dawn, with the stars rather than the sun. And you can chalk it up to karma, fate, or payback, but I am in love with a lark.

  The lark, however, is currently bent over the toilet, retching and moaning, cursing the day she decided to have a baby. I do my part, holding her head and handing her a glass of water, careful to keep my own nausea hidden. I am beyond elated we are going to be parents, but I am very glad she’s the one carrying our child. I would have chickened out as soon as I realized what the physical commitment involved.

  “Can you call in to work for me?” Marta’s voice is muffled as she leans into her crossed arms, face hidden. “There’s no way I can even drive this morning.”

  “Sure, babe.” I pat her on the shoulder, glad to be doing something besides waiting for her to stagger back to bed. “Should I tell them you’ll be out tomorrow as well?”

  Marta’s only response is a grunt, followed by the sound of dry heaving. The obstetrician has assured us this phase will pass, and I can hardly wait. Marta doesn’t comment, at least not in words, whenever I try to encourage her. She’s gotten good at conveying her thoughts with a look, and I’ve gotten good at understanding what she’s trying to say, which is usually something along the lines of “get lost.” I’m sure she means it with love.

  I leave her and head back to our room. I need to call in for her before her boss has a fit. Marta is one of the best social workers employed by Alameda County, and the amount of work she takes on would amaze anyone else. It certainly puts the rest of her office in a pissy mood whenever she’s gone. Just having to divvy up her caseload can send some of the less motivated employees ducking for cover.

  My phone is ringing as I walk around the bed and stumble over the scuffed tennis shoes I dropped there the night before. Call it an atavistic response, but I always attempt to answer before it goes to voice mail. Why? I can’t tell you. It’s just one of my many idiosyncrasies Marta says she loves. When she’s not pregnant, that is. Right now, anything I do can irritate her without rhyme or reason.

  “Dr. Cutler,” I say into the mouthpiece. I can hear the sound of frenzied barking in the background and have to grin. There’s only one person who can be calling me from the veterinarian clinic I run. “What’s up, buttercup?”

  “Your butt on a platter, that’s what’s up. Did someone forget she promised to run the free clinic today?”

  I groan. It’s my turn to oversee the monthly clinic for pets belonging to the homeless population. When I first volunteered, I figured a couple hours a month, give or take, would be the extent of it. To my surprise, we had enough dogs and cats—and even a couple of ferrets and a hairless rat—to fill two days’ worth of checkups, minor surgeries, and vaccinations.

  “Lou, is there any chance you can get someone else to fill in for me? Marta’s tossing her cookies again, and I don’t think I can leave her on her own today.” I cross my fingers in a superstitions gesture. Dr. Louise Grafton, my partner at the clinic and an excellent vet in her own right, doesn’t suffer fools gladly.

  I hear Lou give a snort on the other end of the line, and I grimace. That’s not a good indication.

  “This’ll make it three times this month, Giselle. You two should have known what you were getting into when you decided to go the natural route, you know?”

  You’re preaching to the choir. “Just chalk it up to newbies, Lou. So, whaddya say?”

  “Fine.” Her voice has softened a tad, the first suggestion of victory. I stop myself from giving a fist pump. “But I’m keeping score, girlie.” She pauses, then adds in a much kinder tone, “Tell that woman of yours to sip ginger ale. That always helped me.”

  “I will,” I say fervently, feeling as though I’d just taken down a brick wall with my bare hands. “And thanks, Lou. You’re a gem among women.”

  Lou laughs into my ear, a hearty sound that makes me grin.

  “And don’t I know it. All right, Giselle. See ya when I see ya.”

  With that battle out of the way, it’s time to tackle Marta’s boss. She’s not as understanding as Lou, not by a long shot. I try not to think negative thoughts about the woman, I really do, but she’s never made it a secret how she feels about a child being raised by two women.

  “We all know a child is better off with a mom and a dad,” she’s said before. “That’s what every child needs.”

  That’s where I stop listening and begin thinking of ways to hex her. Just kidding, of course. Kind of. I’m still carrying on an imaginary argument with her when the ringing on the other end of the line stops and her voice mail kicks in. Interesting. This is a woman who is never late, never misses a day of work, and certainly never misses a phone call.

  I leave my message, telling the machine Marta Perry will not be at work today or tomorrow, and then disconnect before a live person picks up. I only have so much courage to go around, and right now it’s all focused on the pregnant woman in my bathroom.

  “Don’t you think you might be a little old for this?” I asked Marta that nearly a year ago, just before a size seven loafer came sailing across the bedroom, hitting me squarely between the shoulders. I learned two things from that verbal faux pas: never assume a woman over forty is too old for anything, and never turn your back on said woman.

  After that, I kept my thoughts to myself. However, as I lean against the doorframe to our master bathroom and watch her wash her pale face under the tap, I begin wondering once more exactly what we’re getting into. Six more months of this, I
think, not to mention the first eighteen years of the kiddo’s life. That’s a mighty long sentence for something I’m not even sure about.

  “Did you call me in?” Marta turns to look at me, and I am struck by the new thinness of her face. I thought pregnant women were supposed to get, well, chubby, not look like someone who hasn’t seen a good meal for a while. I make a mental note to call the doctor myself as I paste on a smile.

  “That I did, love. And I bought you an extra day as well.” I hold out one hand to her. “Let’s get you back in bed, and I’ll bring you some hot tea and toast, all right?”

  Marta grunts in response, but she pauses next to me and winds her arms around my waist, leaning her head on my shoulder. I close my eyes and kiss the top of her head, careful not to hug her too tightly. This new Marta, the holy temple carrying a new life, feels frail underneath my own arms. You better be nice to your mama, I say silently to the baby. I’ve known her a lot longer than I’ve known you.

  “So what did Lou want?” Marta raises her head so she can look into my face. “Let me guess: get your sorry ass to work.”

  “Something along those lines,” I agree. “And how’d you know it was Lou on the phone?”

  She rolls her eyes and untangles herself from my grasp.

  “Are you going in?”

  I follow her into the bedroom, watching her walk unsteadily toward the bed.

  “Not a snowball’s chance in hell,” I say, pulling back the covers so she can climb in. “And she’s already got someone to cover for me at the free clinic, so it’s all good.”

  She pauses and looks at me over her shoulder, one eyebrow lifted slightly. “Is that today?”

  I nod, motioning for her to get under the blankets. “I’ll go tomorrow if they need me,” I say, tucking the comforter around her feet. “It really depends on how many come to the clinic today.”

  Marta’s hair, cropped short and dark against the white sham, is an art form unto itself. A gel-stiffened strand is bent in two, creating a small hook that looks like it belongs on top of a peacock’s head. Her sideswept bangs nearly cover her eyebrows, and I reach over to push them back.

  “No butter,” she says, and I agree. I’ve always loved taking care of Marta, and this pregnancy has given me ample opportunities to show her how I feel.

  “Dry toast and hot tea coming right up, love.”

  I smooth her hair back once more and head for the kitchen. It’s a chef’s dream in there, all stainless steel and granite, natural gas, and filtered water. Marta is the cook in this house, and I’ve missed her impromptu gourmet meals more than I let on. One can only stand so many pasta-based dishes, you know?

  I’m just putting the bread into the toaster when my cell phone begins a maniacal rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody,” my latest ringtone choice. I don’t recognize the number on the screen. The area code is local, though, so I punch the green icon and answer.

  “Dr. Cutler.”

  “Is this Marta’s roommate?”

  I grit my teeth, tempted to hang up.

  “Yes,” I say, trying to sound halfway gracious. “How can I help you?”

  “This is Chrissy Burton, Marta’s supervisor.”

  Oh boy, I think. Here we go. I gird up my mental loins for battle.

  “I’ve already called her in, Ms. Burton. Is there—”

  “It’s not about Marta,” she says, her voice strident. “It’s about me.”

  “Oh?” I can’t help if it I sound a tad cynical. “Is there a message you’d like for me to pass along?”

  To my amazement, I can hear muffled sobs in my ear. Chrissy Burton is crying.

  “Dr. Cutler, I really need to talk to you.” I hear her take in a shaky breath. “Please.”

  Behind me, the toast has popped up, ready to be plated. I tuck the cell phone between my ear and shoulder, my head at an awkward angle as I reach into a glass-fronted cabinet for a small dish.

  “Is it about your pet?” I ask as I open a drawer under the gleaming stove, pulling out a cookie sheet I press into service as a tray. “I’m not on duty today, but Dr. Grafton is at the clinic.”

  “Pet? I don’t have a pet,” she says, a touch of snappishness underpinning her words. “As I’ve already said, this is about me.”

  “Ms. Burton,” I say firmly as I assemble the bland breakfast, “I’m home today because my partner is very ill. Right now isn’t a good time for a phone call, so if there’s something you need to tell me, it needs to happen in the next minute or two. Please,” I add, not really meaning it.

  “I’m sorry.” She sounds deflated, all the wind out of her verbal sails. “Would it be better if I call back in an hour or so?”

  I make a snap decision, another one of my foibles Marta puts up with.

  “Why don’t you come to our house? We can talk over a cup of coffee, if that’s okay with you.” I have to admit this woman has my attention, and I’m curious why she needs to speak with me, of all people. Plus, I want to size her up on my own territory. People can be completely different creatures when not in their comfort zones.

  I hastily give her the address and a suggested time, and disconnect. Marta’s toast will be cold if I don’t hurry, and I debate making more. Haste wins out, and I walk as quickly as I can, balancing both toast and tea without slopping the steaming drink over the sides of the mug.

  Marta is sound asleep, lying on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek like a child, her lashes making dark crescents on her pale face. I carefully back out of the room, heading to the kitchen with the tray still in my hands. I’m tempted to see if I can carry it waiter style, balanced on one arm, but decide against it. I’d probably drop it and wake up Marta with the sound of crashing dishes.

  I’ve already showered and dressed, so I flop down on the couch and thumb through my emails on my phone. Chrissy Burton will be arriving shortly, and I want to be distraction-free when she does. Something behind her words, something she didn’t say on the phone, has me intrigued. Besides, I don’t want to make any noise while Marta is getting some much needed rest.

  But a look at my Google News feed sends me reeling. According to the Alameda Dispatch, a body was found early this morning, floating in the water just off the Oakland side of the Bay Bridge, identified as Chrissy Burton of San Leandro.

  Unless Verizon has recently installed a cell tower in the great beyond, I could swear that’s who I was just speaking with, the person I’m sitting here waiting for. I’ve made an appointment with a ghost.

  Chapter Two

  Chrissy Burton arrives with fanfare, her car performing a noisy rendition of misfiring cylinders and spark plugs as she parks in front of my house. I peer out the front window in time to see a curtain twitch in the neighbor’s window across the street, the self-proclaimed guardian of the ’hood. I tend to believe it’s an aspiration for vicarious scandal that motivates old Mr. Flores rather than a true desire to keep the neighborhood safe. Marta tells me I’m too cynical and Mr. Flores is a “lovely man” who tells her the funniest jokes whenever they happen to meet.

  Chrissy, with whom I’ve briefly spoken before at department holiday parties, disembarks from the mustard-colored Nova and checks her phone before heading to my door. She is a living, breathing cliché of the underpaid state worker or she’s hanging on to a beloved car. Either one provides an interesting insight into the woman whose word is law at Alameda County Social Services. Folks who cling to the past tend to be high maintenance, just like the things they surround themselves with.

  And folks who choose a career such as social work or teaching are either true saints or closeted martyrs. Marta is firmly ensconced in the first category, especially since she has to work with people such as Chrissy Burton. The clientele, she’s assured me before, are the impetus behind everything she does. If she could do her job without the politics, she’d be in heaven. Conscious I have already prejudiced myself, I paste on a smile and open the door.

  “Come in, come in,” I say, forcing th
e words out between lips stretched wide in what must look like a parody of welcome. From the startled glance I get in return, Chrissy must agree with me. Something besides my deadhead’s grin has her set on edge, but I guess there’s nothing like hearing about your own death to start the day off on the wrong foot.

  “Thanks for seeing me.” She looks around the entry hall with hesitation as if trying to decide where to go next. “Is Marta all right?”

  “She’s sleeping right now, but it was a rough morning.” I’m not sure if I want to discuss my partner’s health with this woman, particularly after hearing her take on parenting.

  I lead the way into our living room, its décor a modern take on Art Deco. Marta and I had both fallen in love with the remake of The Great Gatsby, and she had gone into a decorating frenzy, scouring estate sales and secondhand stores for facsimiles of the furnishings from the cottage where Nick Carraway, the story’s narrator, had lived.

  The walls are papered in an overlying stripe interior decorators of the ’20s loved, and the furniture is solid walnut, upholstered in rich colors. A streamlined grandfather clock stands against the wall as if holding court, only its face telling how old it is. This is one of Marta’s favorite finds, although it took me a while to get used to its persistent chiming. Now I scarcely hear it unless I’m in a hurry.

  “This is gorgeous!” She halts in the doorway, and I can feel my bias softening just a bit. “Did you have an interior designer do this?”

  “Sort of, and I’m sure she’d be flattered to hear you say that.” I smile, gesturing to a carved sofa upholstered in muted gold and green. “Marta did it all. I’m just the muscle when it comes to things like this.”

  I rub my arms as if I can still feel the ache from all the tugging and moving I’d done until Marta had been completely satisfied with the placement of every piece of furniture.