Double Vision

by Ellie Hart

  “Do you feed him anything other than dog food? Anything that might have a high fat content?” I gently pet the squirming puppy, watching him nip at his owner’s fingers.

  The young man blushes. “Well, I don’t, but my friend might. She moved in a couple weeks ago, kind of a temporary thing. She likes to cook,” he says with a sudden grin. “Even a full breakfast.”

  “Including things like bacon? Or maybe sausage?” I can picture the Yorkie, begging for bites.

  He nods. “Yeah. And I think she’s slipping him stuff when I’m not looking. I mean, who can resist? He’s so cute, you know?”

  “I’m pretty sure your dog’s got a form of pancreatitis,” I say as I hand him back to his owner. “It’s not serious right now, but it could get that way if you’re not careful. No more fat at all for this guy, okay? In fact, only feed him dog food formulated for his size. I don’t care how cute he is.” I reach out and ruffle the puppy’s soft fur. “If you’ll hang on a sec, I’ll go back and get you a bag of the food I want you to use, okay?”

  With a promise that he’ll wait, I leave the examination area and head down the hallway to a small room near the back door. We keep clinic supplies here, along with free samples from companies that want us to promote their brands. I find the food I’m looking for and head back to where I left the young man and his Yorkie.

  The two ferret owners are gone, and my intern is handling the last examination of the day. At first I can’t see the Yorkie owner, then I spot him across the road, leaning against a older pickup. I can see the puppy peeking out of the driver’s side window, licking at something on the outside of the truck. He’s going to have to watch this pup. I have a feeling it’s an omnivorous animal that wouldn’t turn down anything that vaguely resembles edible. I see many more instances of stomach issues in its future if he’s not careful.

  Crossing the road, I hold out the colorful bag of food. “Here you go. By the way, I didn’t get your name. I’m Giselle Cutler.”

  “Rex,” he says, turning around and placing the food in the open bed of the pickup. “I know who you are,” he says almost casually. “My brother told me he talked to you at the restaurant.”

  Although I was going to bring up the fact that he already knew who I was before coming here today, it sets my nerves on edge. Still, I’m not going to ignore the opening.

  “Yes,” I agree. “Jinx, I think he said his name is.”

  Rex snorts. “Whatever. It’s really Jeremy, but he thinks Jinx sounds better, that it fits him.”

  I laugh. “Well, I happen to agree. He certainly looks like a Jinx.” I stop, considering a moment. “Maybe not a jinx, exactly, but…” I’m not making much sense, and I certainly don’t want to offend his brother. Thankfully, Rex seems to be following my disjointed thoughts.

  “He was definitely a jinx for poor Bev, I can tell you that much.” He shakes his head. “Thank goodness she’s all right.”

  “Ah. The woman who got injured in the parking lot.” I hesitate, not wanting him to know just how linked to her I am. It’s six degrees of separation minus four. “Is she a good friend?”

  Rex’s face lights up. The puppy yelps for attention, and he reaches in the window with one hand. “She’s amazing, that’s what. When I had my transplant thing, she stayed with me until I got back on my feet.”

  I’m missing a huge chunk of information here. I thought Jinx had said Rex had sold his bone marrow, not that he’d had a transplant.

  “You’re a transplant patient?”

  “No, not a patient.” The Yorkie is jumping up and down, trying to get his attention. Rex gives in and lifts him out, cradling him close to his chest. “I sold my bone marrow to this clinic, and Bev stayed over a few days until I felt better. It was a great way to make some cash, but it really takes it out of you for a while, you know?” He plants a kiss on top of the dog’s head. “I gotta get going, Doc. Thanks for the food. And I’ll tell Bev to stop giving him scraps.”

  “Wait,” I say, putting out one hand to touch his arm. “Can I ask you how you know Bev?”

  Rex looks at me for a moment as if considering his answer. “I ran into her at the dog park over on Fleming. She said she had a pet that died, and she liked to come and watch the dogs run around and stuff. We got to talking about Tramp here and got to be friends before you know it. It’s a good thing, too, since she’s the one who told me about the clinic.”

  Now his expression is curious, and I realize I can’t go any farther with this conversation. Besides, I need to share this info with Marta and Chrissy, get their take on it. Bev Strait could simply be a Good Samaritan, wanting to help out a young man who is obviously struggling financially. My imagination, after all, sometimes takes on a life of its own.

  “Well, I’m glad that you stopped by today. Tramp, did you say? That’s a great name. Reminds me of that Disney film.” I give Tramp’s ears one more caress and step back from the truck as the motor fires up.

  “Disney film?” Rex concentrates as he clips his seat belt into place. “I don’t know about that. I just named him that because that’s what we are. We’re tramps.” And with a throaty roar of the engine, he pulls away from the curb.

  Marta is stretched out on the couch when I get home, her laptop balanced on her growing hump of stomach as she types rapidly. Without lifting her gaze from the screen, she says, “I picked up dinner from Bola Thai, love. Your food is in the microwave.”

  The strongly aromatic scent of spicy shrimp soup and the tang of red curry greets my senses, and my stomach growls an acknowledgment. When I am working, either at the office on a regular shift or with the free clinic, I tend to survive on coffee and more coffee. Trust Marta to have sustenance waiting for me.

  “I was absolutely craving that soup earlier,” she says as I come back into the living room, balancing my dinner and a can of sparkling water. “I figured we might as well have it for dinner.” She looks up long enough to blow a kiss across the room before returning to her task.

  So much for a loving partner who lives only for my comfort, I think with an inward smile. I start to say something sassy but then stop. Is this a harbinger of days to come? Will my needs become second place when the baby arrives? It’s enough to dispel my hunger pangs. I take a half-hearted sip of the soup and let the spoon fall back into the bowl with an unnecessary clang.

  “Is it too hot?” Marta sounds concerned, and she tries to sit up, leaning heavily on one elbow to help her maneuver. “I probably should have asked you first, Gij. Sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine. The spoon just slipped.” I grasp the offending utensil again and try for a contrite smile. “I didn’t mean to interrupt whatever it is you’re doing over there.”

  “Oh, that.” Marta sets the laptop aside, waving it off with one hand. “I was just trying to get the hang of that word search game everyone seems to be playing.”

  At least it’s not more baby name searches. I’m okay with something easy to spell and pronounce, like Ann. Or Ava. My partner, though, tends to like names that have meanings. Like Abigail—“a joy to behold”—or Belinda, which means, so the website tells me, “very beautiful.”

  “So how’d you do?” I take a test sip of the soup and find it to be just right, very baby bearish. I’m Goldilocks, eating my way through a meal that most likely would have never appeared on the menu for the Bear family.

  “I’m in seventh place,” she says disgustedly. “You’d think I could beat an eighth grader at this, right?”

  “You’re playing against an eighth grader?” I scoop another mouthful of the broth and get a large piece of succulent shrimp. “How do you know?”

  Marta shrugs. “I don’t, I guess. Actually, it’s probably one of those creepy men who still live in their parents’ basement at forty.”

  I nod, a grimace on my face. “And collects action figures. You’ve got to be careful who you connect with online, love.”

  “I know, I know. And I tell my clients that all the time. Guess I need t
o listen to my own advice.” She swings her legs over the side of the couch and sits up. “How was the clinic today?”

  Instantly, an image of Rex and Tramp pops into my mind.

  “You’ll never guess who showed up,” I say, standing up and heading to the kitchen.

  “Santa Claus,” she calls after me. “Or the Tooth Fairy.”

  “No, goofy.” I walk back in to the living room and plop down on the end of the couch, curling up on my side in order to face her. “It was Rex.”

  “Rex? Rex who?”

  “That waiter named Jinx, the one who dances all over the place? It’s his brother. You know, the one who was with Bev Strait at the Vineyard.” I don’t add anything about the accident, but I can see Marta’s mind going there. She frowns slightly as she puts the laptop on the floor and faces me.

  “What are the odds?” She shakes her head, the frown still there.

  “It’s gotta be that universal thing again,” I tease. But her attention is on something else. “What, love?”

  “It’s just too weird, Gij. How is it all these people we seem to run across are already connected? Chrissy, Bev, Jinx, and now Rex.” She ticks the names off on her fingers, drawing her eyebrows together. “I can’t even see a common denominator here.”

  “Bone marrow. No, hang on,” I say as she begins to protest. “Didn’t Jinx say his brother sold his for profit? And didn’t Chrissy say she had a transplant when she was a kid?”

  “That might just be coincidence, Gij. It’s not unique to have a transplant anymore.”

  “But it is when we come across four people in as many days, all of whom seem to be attached not just to transplants but specifically to bone marrow. Now, that’s plain ol’ weird, however you look at it.”

  “How does Bev fit into all of this?” Marta’s expression is skeptical, a role I usually play.

  “That’s even stranger. Rex told me he met her at the dog park, they got to talking, and she ended up asking him if he’d like to make some easy money.”

  Marta rolls her eyes. “Let me guess. She told him where he could go to sell his bone marrow. Gij, do you know just how idiotic that sounds? Bev is one of the most straitlaced people I know. There’s no way she’d encourage someone to do anything like that.”

  “Is it illegal to sell your bone marrow?” I’m interested now, and I jerk my chin at the laptop. “Look it up, okay? I’m curious.”

  After just a few minutes, we discover that as of January 2014, a federal court allowed the sale of bone marrow in nine states, including California. And it’s a lucrative, if highly governed, industry.

  “You can get that much? Good grief,” Marta says, running both hands through her dark hair. “We’re in the wrong business, Gij.”

  I slump back on the couch, trying to reconcile the idea that Bev might be involved in something semi-shady. A gray market. “Do you think there might be, I don’t know, moral issues with Bev? I mean, she’s a state employee, right? Doesn’t that fall along the lines of moral turpitude or something?”

  “I don’t know.” Marta’s voice is troubled, her gaze on her hands. “Isn’t that a topic for Chrissy? She’s the boss, after all.”

  I shrug. “Probably. Speaking of Chrissy, I wonder if Don’s found out anything about that body.”

  Marta smacks her forehead with the palm of one hand. “Oh, I’m such an idiot! I completely forgot to tell you.” She gets off the couch and heads to the small table in the entryway, coming back with something in her hand. “He came by earlier and dropped this off for you.” She smiles as she hands me a long, white envelope. “Sorry, love. Blame it on the preggo brain.”

  Without comment, which seems to be the safest move, I slip the tip of one finger under the loose end of the envelope’s gummed flap. I manage to get the contents out with only the slightest of paper cuts, sticking the offended digit in my mouth as I flatten the sheet of paper out and begin to read.

  When I am finished, the cut and Marta’s forgetfulness are ancient history. Don Butler has certainly lived up to his reputation with this little gem. I silently pass the letter to Marta.

  “How in the world did he find that out?”

  Marta’s mouth is hanging open in a most unlovely fashion, but I know my own is a mirror image. Don’s research has uncovered something that could lead to an international crisis. It would definitely be catastrophic for Bev Strait if this got into the wrong hands.

  “It’s what investigative reporters do, love. They investigate stuff. They find out things some people don’t want uncovered.” I shake my head, looking back down at the letter. “Something like this would be a bombshell. I’m pretty sure it’s frowned upon to sell organs to other countries.”

  “I can’t believe Bev would be involved in something like that, Gij. I just can’t.” Marta’s dark eyes are troubled, and she puts one hand on her belly, unconsciously hugging it in a protective gesture. I don’t blame her. This is a world I’m not crazy about myself. It gives the entire situation an R-rated movie flavor, black market, murder, and all. I want to raise my child in a G-rated world, thank you very much.

  “Keep in mind he says he’s still checking out a few more leads.” I wave the letter and let it fall onto my lap. “And he’s got a meeting with a contact in the medical field tonight. Hopefully, we’ll have more information after that.”

  Marta leans back against the rolled arm of the couch, eyes closed and hands clasped behind her head. She has dark bruising under each eye, telling me she’s still not resting as much as she should.

  “Tell you what, babe, let’s get you under the covers and have an early evening. We can read or do whatever your little heart desires. How’s that sound?”

  She smiles, eyes still shut.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” I stand up, careful to put the letter back in the envelope. If this becomes a legal issue, I want proof I am on the honorable side of things. “Want a lift?”

  This time her eyes fly open, already in the middle of a roll. Clearly my suggestion isn’t welcome. I give her a sassy grin and head for the stairs.

  Chapter Eight

  Monday morning arrives too soon. Marta gets ready for work without any adverse reaction, but I’m dragging my feet as I head down the stairs into the kitchen. I blindly jab at the Keurig and place an earthenware mug under the spout. Hopefully, a shot of caffeine will help my “get up and go” get up and get out of here.

  “Will you button this for me?”

  I turn, steaming mug in hand, and see Marta in what can only be described as maternity clothes. She’s wearing a loose blouse that hangs over a pair of cropped pants, both in a vibrant shade of lemon yellow. She looks absolutely lovely. Head turning, heart stopping.

  “Nice rags,” I say, striving for casual as my heart threatens to fly from my chest, an addlepated bird in spring. I love this woman so much, and watching her gradually morph into an unmistakably pregnant woman is breathtaking. “Turn around.”

  I can’t help it. I drop a kiss on the side of her neck.

  “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” she says teasingly, looking over her shoulder with twinkling eyes. “Besides, I want to be a little early this morning, especially since it seems all hell’s broken out since I’ve been gone.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?” I give her back a final pat and turn back to the coffee maker. “Want a green tea to go?”

  The house is almost too quiet after she leaves, promising to get something to eat on her way into the office. I sit at the kitchen table with another cup of coffee at my elbow and a plate of toast in front of me. I’ve recently discovered the phenomenon that is avocado toast, and I’ve spread a generous amount of spicy guacamole on each slice of bread. Marta laughs at me when I do this, joking that I’m not a purist when it comes to food. I don’t care. Guacamole can jazz up anything, including breakfast, and since it’s made of avocado, I figure it’s kosher.

  I’ve just finished rinsing my plate and mug when my cell phone begins its
journey across the table, vibrating as I get an incoming call. I almost dive for it, afraid it’s Marta and something’s wrong.

  “Giselle Cutler,” I say into the mouthpiece, trying to control my breathing so I don’t sound out of breath or out of shape.

  “It’s Don.” I can hear something rustling on his end of the line. “Got a minute or three?”

  “Sure.” I sink down into a chair and try to rein in my rapid heartbeat. “What’s up?”

  “Well, it’ll make more sense if we do this face-to-face,” he says. “Want to meet somewhere?”

  “Sure.” I think quickly, trying to decide on a place that will be close to the clinic. I don’t want to be late, either. “How about San Leandro Café? In fifteen?”

  “Sounds good.” With a click, he’s gone.

  The San Leandro Café is part of a burgeoning mom-and-pop scene in our town, owned and manned by a local extended family. I’m a huge fan of their biscuits and gravy platter—the greasier the better, in my opinion—while Marta leans toward the vegetarian omelet, complete with a side of fruit and melba toast. And I enjoy supporting a locally owned business. I remind myself about this, even though I’ve already eaten breakfast. I can’t let the local economy down, can I? By the time Don has joined me, I’m already nursing a mug of coffee and waiting on my virtuous half order of biscuits and gravy.

  “Morning.” Don Butler settles into the booth across from me as the vinyl cushion gives out a rude welcome. I choose to ignore it, although I catch a muted giggle from the two children sitting nearby with their dour-faced parents. Nothing like fart noises to entertain the younger crowd.

  “Good morning.” I nod at the legal notepad in his hand, a blue pen jammed into the spiral at the top. “What’ve you got for me?”

  “Well, I got more information last night. My contact,” he says as he begins to flip through the pages, “tells me she knows the details behind an organ-selling scheme. One that’s bigger than the local scene, she says.”