by Ellie Hart
“Him. He is skinny, with hair like this.” He uses one age-speckled hand to indicate a dramatic swoop of hair back from his face. I almost groan out loud.
“Sounds like Don Butler,” I say to Marta. “And did he drive a Volkswagen van, white on top with faded gold paint on the bottom half?”
Mr. Flores nods vigorously. “Yes. And he parked it in front of a fire hydrant. I almost called the police.” He leans back against the chair, arms folded high on his shrunken chest and mouth pursed in disapproval.
I chuckle despite my growing irritation. Mr. Flores, the keeper of the street. The guardian of our little galaxy. And full of useful information, as I discover.
“Well, thanks for letting us know.” Marta smiles across at our visitor, shifting on the sofa so she faces him directly. “So, tell me what else is happening? How’s your granddaughter? Any more news on her grades?”
I leave them chatting happily about various neighborhood doings and his granddaughter’s latest academic accomplishment. I need to make a phone call.
I pause just long enough in the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee on my trusty Keurig before heading upstairs to our bedroom. I’ve left the bed unmade, so I feel absolutely no sense of guilt as I kick off my shoes and crawl under the chilly covers. I can talk to Don from here just as easily as from a chair.
There is history between me and the intrepid investigative reporter for the San Leandro Times. He made a name for himself a few years ago, uncovering a very illegal payday loan company’s practice of adding hidden costs and raising the interest rate on a whim. His valiant actions helped thousands of unsuspecting borrowers recoup their money. However, when he stuck his twitchy nose into the drama that was my sister’s disappearance, he lost his patina of heroism for me and became just another newshound looking for a good headline.
Still, the fact that he came to my house following the surprise visit from Chrissy Burton has my radar on high alert.
“San Leandro Times,” says the cheery voice on the other end of the line, mercifully cutting short a tinny rendition of “Dust in the Wind.”
“Don Butler, please.” I don’t explain the reason for my call. Thankfully, I’m not asked. I’m not sure I’d know how to define the reason anyway, given the odd set of circumstances I’ve already experienced.
I’m treated to the rest of the song while waiting for an answer. I finally hear a series of clicks and then Don’s voice: “You’ve reached Don, and I’m either on another call or out saving the world. Leave a message after the tone.”
Gag. His egotistical recording makes me think of Barry Dunwiddy, another reporter who thinks he’s a gift to the modern world. He wormed his way into our lives for a short time when we were in Phoenix last fall until we managed to shake him.
I ask him to return my call, leaving my cell number. Disconnecting, I toss the cell phone onto the bed and fold my arms behind my head as I stare at the ceiling. From the hallway, I can hear Marta bidding Mr. Flores goodbye, then the thud of the front door shutting behind him.
“You can come out now, Gij. He’s gone.” Her voice is light, reminiscent of her pre-pregnancy self. Is it possible she’s suddenly, miraculously past the worst of it?
“I’m not hiding,” I begin to protest, but my words die off when Marta appears in the doorway to our room, a mischievous smile on her face and a sassy tilt to her hips. I’m on high alert, my addled hormones not far behind. I hold out one hand to her, and she falls onto the bed beside me, her face already lifted for my kiss.
My last coherent thought is that Don Butler and his ilk can go to hell.
To my amazement, we sleep through what remains of the day, stirring only briefly whenever we accidently brush against one another in the tangle of sheets. Marta is definitely acting like her old self, and I do my best to match emotion for emotion, touch for touch. It’s as if she’s on fire, determined to burn away every barrier, real or imagined. Trust me, I’m not complaining.
When the sun breaks through the curtains the next morning, I’m both sated and exhausted. Too much sleep, I think drowsily. Or too much Marta. The thought has me grinning before my eyes are even opened.
“What’s so funny?”
I crack open one eye. Marta is standing on my side of the bed, her hair glistening as dark as a seal’s, fresh from her shower. She’s dressed, for goodness sake—dressed. And smiling.
“You’re not going into work, are you?” I lift myself up on one elbow, using the other hand to flatten down my recalcitrant night hair. “I called you in yesterday. For today, I mean.”
She nods in acknowledgment and sinks gracefully down on the bed, her weight tugging the covers from my shoulders. I wince as I struggle to sit up, my body sore from the night’s lovemaking. Marta, on the other hand, looks positively radiant and well rested. Glowing, I think is the word most often used for women in her condition. I’m definitely not glowing.
She leans forward and plants a kiss on my forehead, her nose wrinkled in reaction to my “morning aroma,” as we jokingly call it. Her sense of smell has been on high alert since the pregnancy, and I dive down under the covers, leaving only the top of my head and my eyes showing above the covers.
“Sorry,” I mumble. I do not want to be the cause of a dash to the bathroom for a visit to the porcelain throne.
She laughs at me and jerks the covers down. “Don’t be silly, silly. I was just kidding.”
She stands back up, one hand resting lightly on her belly. From this angle, it’s beginning to poke out at an alarming rate. Mr. Flores’s sighting of the reporter the day before creeps back into my mind and I shove it away. I can only handle one issue at a time, and my attention is fully on my partner right now.
I toss back the comforter and get out of bed in one smooth motion, putting my arms around her, pulling her close. I rest my chin on top of her wet hair and take a deep breath, inhaling the invigorating scent of mint and eucalyptus.
“Feeling well enough to use the good stuff, huh?” Since the early stages of the pregnancy, Marta has barely been able to tolerate the unscented soaps and shampoo we had to buy to replace the highly scented washes we normally use.
“Yes, surprisingly enough.” She leans back so she can look me in the eye. “I honestly feel fabulous today, Gij.”
“That’s good to hear, love,” I say, giving her a gentle squeeze. She might be feeling great, but I’m still very conscious of the other person who’s come between us, literally. When I hug her, I can feel the bump that means life as we know it is about to change.
“How about breakfast at the Vineyard?”
Her words take me aback for a second. It’s been a while since we’ve visited any restaurant, fast food or otherwise. The Vineyard is one of our favorite places to go. Just thinking about their signature eggs Benedict makes my mouth water.
“I’d love to, if you think you’re up to it.” I move past her and head for the walk-in closet to choose clothes for the day. A shower is definitely in order, and I’m looking forward to using my own shampoo and body wash again. That unscented stuff just doesn’t cut it.
“You have ten minutes,” she says, and then she’s gone, almost skipping down the stairs. I can hear her humming as she goes to the kitchen, a perky tune that fits the equally bright morning.
It’s hard to imagine anything ruining this perfect day, but Don Butler’s phone call comes just as we pull into the restaurant’s parking lot, casting a slight pall over the sunshine. Not really, but it certainly feels that way.
Marta gives a small sigh and leans back against the padded headrest, her eyes closed behind her fashionably oversized sunglasses.
“Sorry, babe, gotta take this.” I grimace apologetically at her as I answer the phone. “I’ll make it quick.”
“Dr. Cutler? This is Don Butler, San Leandro Times. I’m returning your call.”
“And I was returning your visit,” I say with mild amusement. One would think I’d been chasing the man. “One of my neighbors let me know
you stopped by yesterday.”
“Ah. Well, yes.” I’ve stumped him. Maybe he’s never come up against the likes of Mr. Flores before.
“What can I help you with? I’m just about to go into a meeting.”
Marta’s rotating her forefinger, telling me to wrap it up.
“Is there somewhere we can meet?” he says. “I’ve got a few questions for you, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll have to get back with you, if that’s okay.” We are polite, sidestepping any verbal mines that might explode, trapping us in a commitment.
“Not a prob. Hey, if it’s all right, I’ll call back in, what, two hours or so?”
“Sounds good. I look forward to your call,” I lie, disconnecting. Marta’s either heard both sides of the conversation, or she’s developed a sixth sense. I’m inclined to think the latter.
“What’s up with that?” She turns sideways with one hand on the armrest, ready to get out.
“Just a return call from that reporter. I left a message for him yesterday.” I open my door and get out. “Stay there and I’ll come around.”
Marta snorts but does as I ask. We’ve never been one for ceremony, viewing ourselves as a pair of strong women who are quite capable of getting our own doors, thank you very much. Why I’ve suddenly reverted to this almost archaic behavior surprises both of us, but she smiles up at me as I take her hand and tuck it into my arm.
“Thanks for taking such good care of me, love.”
“My pleasure,” I reply, dropping a brief kiss on her forehead.
The Vineyard is busy but not unpleasantly so, the tables and booths occupied with young professionals and retirees. The hum of voices is muted, and the acoustic music that plays in the background has never been overpowering. Thank goodness. Whether I like to admit it or not, the older I get, the more I tend to dislike music that causes conversations to be conducted at near-screaming levels.
It can make a real scream hard to hear. When one reverberates from the parking lot and startles the entire restaurant, I drop Marta’s hand and race back outside. From where I stop just beyond the front door, I see a woman lying on the asphalt, a distraught man kneeling by her side.
Chapter Four
The Vineyard is far from staid, but it has seen nothing like this before. The restaurant’s staff and clientele have spilled out on the sidewalk into the carefully manicured shrubbery, staring at the confusion in the parking lot. From where Marta and I are standing, arms around one another, I can see the man who was kneeling at the woman’s side. His hair is flying wildly about his thin, sun-darkened face, but the way he stands seems familiar to me, the way his uses his hands to tell a story. Maybe he’s a client at the vet clinic.
Making sure Marta has a place to sit apart from the gawping crowd, I push forward and approach one of the officers standing at the scene’s periphery. She is rapidly tapping a note or a text into an oversized smartphone and only looks up when I move in front of her and stop.
“Can I help you?” She tucks the cell phone back into a front uniform pocket and waits for my response, thumbs hooked loosely into her wide leather belt.
I have to tilt my head up in order to look directly into eyes so green their color must be courtesy of contacts and not DNA. Either way, I have to admit they’re rather nice to look at, compelling even. Focus, I warn myself.
“My name is Dr. Giselle Cutler, and I’m the one who called this in to 9-1-1.” I look over my shoulder toward the controlled chaos around the woman’s body and then back at the officer, who stares down at me impassively. “I’m involved marginally in the Chrissy Burton case and just wondered if this might have something to do with it.”
“I see.” The two words are mild, yet they send a wave of heat up my neck and into my face. I sound like a total idiot.
“Can I ask how you’re involved, Doctor? Marginally, that is.” She makes the request in a respectful tone, but I still flush. She’s probably already marked me down as someone who watches CSI. I do, but that’s beside the point.
The allure of those green eyes is beginning to fade ever so slightly. I’ve never been a fan of someone who passively jeers at others, particularly when the taunting is aimed in my direction. I straighten my shoulders and stare back at her. I feel as though I’ve been summed up and found wanting. Or guilty.
“My partner, Marta Perry, is a social worker for Alameda County.” Officer Green Eyes nods ever so slightly. Good. At least she’s following me. “Her direct supervisor, Chrissy Burton, was supposedly found dead in the bay yesterday morning. Actually, it was someone who has the same name and who looks like her, but it’s not Chrissy.” I’m not making much sense but it’s as clear as I can get under such scrutiny. “The real Chrissy Burton came to our house yesterday.”
She unhooks the radio from her belt. “Sarge, I’ve got the caller here, says she may know something about the vic.”
I just stare at her, too aghast to protest. I’ve said nothing of the sort. Has the woman not heard a single word I’ve said?
“Everything all right here?”
I turn to see Marta standing behind me, and I breathe a sigh of relief. She’ll know how to handle this. Her floaty top and delicate features give her a frail, ethereal appearance. She is far from either, though. I almost want to sell tickets to what I’m sure will become a showdown worthy of an audience.
“Officer, this is my partner, Marta Perry.” Marta nods graciously, silently, and slips one hand though my arm. Her presence is more than comforting. It’s strength giving, empowering. I decide to take on the law myself, and I incline my head at the officer. “She thinks I know something about the victim, the woman who was hit.”
To my amazement, Marta twists her mouth into a grimace. It telegraphs irony and sadness as brightly as any neon sign.
“You might not know her, love, but I thought I recognized her. If it’s who I think it is, her name is Beverly Strait, and she’s Chrissy’s PA.” She turns to the officer, who has begun tapping the phone’s screen furiously. “Is she going to be all right?”
Before the officer can answer, I break in.
“Wait a sec. You mean she works with you?” My brain is starting that Tilt-A-Whirl thing again, common sense slamming against incredulity with an almost gravitational force that dizzies me. “What’s going on here, Marta?”
She shrugs, a troubled expression on her face. “Your guess is as good as mine, Gij. That’s why we let the police deal with things like this, right?” She squeezes my arm softly. That’s her signal to move back, to separate ourselves from the action in the Vineyard’s parking lot. The gurgle in my stomach convinces me to listen. “Besides, if it really is Bev, someone will need to call Chrissy.”
“If there’s nothing else, Officer, I need to get Marta in front of some food. Gotta keep the little one happy.” I reach over and give Marta’s belly a pat.
Only the slightest lift of one eyebrow gives away any reaction. “Just need your full name and a good number to reach you, if necessary.”
To my amazement, this comment is directed to Marta, not me. After a quick information share and a promise to call the police department if she can think of anything that might be helpful, Marta tugs me back toward the restaurant. We make the brief walk in silence, and I can clearly hear the commotion that still surrounds the victim. I shiver suddenly, and Marta tightens her hand on my arm.
“You okay, Gij?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I lean over and deposit a quick kiss on her forehead. “I don’t know about you, babe, but I’m starving.” I keep my voice light, attempting to dispel the gloomy cloud that has settled over the morning “I could eat a horse.”
“Oh, gag.” Marta feigns disgust, pulling her hand away as she opens the door. “You can have the horse. I want a veggie omelet.” She grins at the hostess, who is listening avidly to our exchange. “I’d like to sit in the non-horse section, please.”
I shake my head as we follow the giggling hostess to a table in front of th
e window, clearly prime real estate, a place to see and be seen. Fabulous. A front-row seat to the drama going on in the parking lot.
Marta, attentive as always to my feelings, asks for a table farther back. I smile at her gratefully. The hostess flicks her ponytail, clearly put out. Some people, her eloquent back seems to say, just don’t appreciate the finer things in life.
We settle in our chairs, and I’m amused when I see the man sitting across from us take more than a passing glance at Marta. She’s lovely in a fine china sort of way, her skin almost translucent in the slanting sunshine. Unable to resist the devil on my shoulder, I lean over and gently place one hand on her cheek. There. Territory established. From the corner of my eye, I see him give a minute shake of his head and dive back into his newspaper.
“Should I text Chrissy, or do you think it’s better to call her?”
I have to mentally shake my own head and focus my attention on Marta’s words.
“That’s totally up to you, love.” I reach out and straighten the silverware lying in front of me, imagining they’re surgical instruments in my clinic. On second thought, no. I’ve seen shinier utensils in my own kitchen.
“Maybe I’ll just send a text right now, if you don’t mind.” She’s already reaching in her soft leather bag for her cell phone, belying the courtesy of her words. That’s Marta for you, though. She decides on a plan of action and makes you think it was your idea all along. Clever.
A wiry young man with a wispy ponytail and an even wispier goatee arrives, bearing menus and iced water. With a promise he’ll return shortly for our orders, he almost pirouettes as he turns to the next table. I want to giggle. He’s either a frustrated ballet dancer or an overgrown child, unable to walk when twirling will do.
“Okay, that’s done.” Marta puts the phone on the table next to her and smiles across at me. “Any idea what you’re going to get? And don’t give me that line about a horse again.”
“The usual,” I say, tossing the menu aside, narrowly missing my water glass. “And I think I want an order of their breakfast bruschetta as well. Want to split one with me?”