by Ellie Hart
“After an evening with Jinx? He probably knows more about Jinx and Rex than he bargained for.” Marta laughs and nods at my empty bowl. “Want some more?”
“No, thanks. I think I’ll pack some up for work tomorrow.”
“Lucky you.” She stands and reaches for my bowl. “Any time someone brings something with seafood in it, everyone acts like the plagues of Egypt have descended.”
“Sissies.” My attention is already on my phone as I thumb through the list of numbers in my contacts list. Tapping on the phone icon, I settle back and wait for the call to connect.
“Don Butler. How can I help you?”
“Don, it’s Giselle Cutler.”
“Ah, just the woman I need to see. You got a minute?”
“To see or to talk?” His syntax has me confused. Does he want to come over here or just talk on the phone?
“Either. I’m leavin’ this joint in about ten minutes.”
“Hang on,” I say, and then cover the mouthpiece with one hand. “Marta, would you mind if he swings by here? He says he needs to talk to us.” I use an inclusive pronoun, hoping that this makes it easier for her to agree.
“No prob,” she says promptly. “And tell him we’ve got plenty of leftovers if he hasn’t had dinner yet.”
I groan inwardly. The price I’m going to pay for this interruption of our evening is watching Don Butler eat tomorrow’s lunch.
“Don, Marta says—”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard her. Tell her I’m starving. See you in a few.”
And just like that, he disconnects. I hold my phone in the air, staring at it. “And here I thought people only hung up without saying goodbye in the movies.”
Chapter Eleven
“That has got to be the best gumbo I’ve had in years,” Don declares, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his stomach. “You lucked out in the kitchen department, Doc.”
“It’s jambalaya.” I’m trying not to be irritated with his assumption that Marta is the kitchen magician. She is, of course, but I don’t need my nose rubbed in it. “So, what did Jinx have to say?”
“Yes, do tell.” Marta is leaning on her elbows, face alight with interest. “If he was half as entertaining as he was at the Vineyard, I can only imagine your evening.”
“‘Entertaining’ is definitely the word for it.” Don shakes his head, a half smile on his face. “Once I was able to drag him off the dance floor, he actually had some good information.”
“You danced with him?” I can’t resist teasing Don, knowing Jinx wouldn’t need a partner to be the life of the party.
He shoots me a look that looks eerily like Marta’s reaction whenever I’ve irked her. “No, I didn’t dance with him. What I did was get a shitload of info that will curl your hair.”
I raise my eyebrows, give him a nod. “So, spill it already. I’m assuming he told you stuff about the transplant hospital.”
“And more.” He looks across at Marta. “I don’t suppose I could have any of that coffee.”
“Of course,” she says instantly, standing. I lean over and put a hand on her arm.
“You sit. I’ll get super reporter here a cup.”
“Hey, you wanna hear what he said or not?”
Don tries to sound offended, but I can see through it. He’s posturing, trying on the alpha dog role and not quite getting it. I just give him the old shake-and-roll combo: shake my head and roll my eyes.
“We’d love to hear what you learned,” Marta says with a smile for him and a frown for me. Oil on troubled waters, as usual. She is the appeaser, the mediator. “And if you’ve got room for dessert, I’m sure Gij won’t mind getting you a slice of that strawberry cheese Danish we’ve got tucked away.”
This time it’s my turn to scowl. I’m watching my bedtime snack go the same way as my lunch. Chrissy Burton’s peace of mind had better be worth the sacrifice.
“That really hits the spot,” says Don. He leans back, wiping his mouth on the back of one hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marta wince as she pushes the napkin holder across the table.
“Do you think you’ve got enough strength to talk, or do you need more coffee?” I let sarcasm leach into my words, my eyes on the now-empty Danish container.
“Give me a chance, Doc.” He pushes back from the table, his gaze on Marta. “Can I use the can?”
“The can?” Marta is clearly confused.
“The bathroom,” I say. “And you’re not Ernest Hemingway, Butler.” I look at Marta. “If he asks for a pipe and a cat, toss him out.”
I can hear him chuckling as he heads to the guest bathroom. What a clown.
At Marta’s suggestion, we’ve moved into the living room. I start to protest, not wanting him to get comfortable. He’s sitting in the same chair Mr. Flores favors whenever he visits.
I sit next to Marta, my arms crossed and my expression set. “So, what did Jinx the minx have to say?”
Don bursts out laughing, throwing his head back and giving us an unimpeded view of back teeth. “I like it,” he finally says when he catches his breath. “Jinx the minx.”
“Mr. Butler—”
“Don, please.”
“Don, then.” Marta gives him one of her lovely smiles, and it amuses me to see a faint blush on his cheeks. “Now, we’re both dying to hear what you learned.”
“After the dancing,” I say. I get another jab in the ribs.
“Jinx and his brother are what you might call good-time Charlies, always on the lookout for the next adventure. The trouble is money. As you already know, Jinx works as a waiter. Rex works whenever the mood strikes him, which, according to Jinx, isn’t very often. So, when Bev Strait came along with the perfect moneymaking scheme, well, there you go.” He throws up his hands and lets them drop.
It’s my turn to glare. “There you go what?”
Don shrugs, moving his shirt over bony shoulders. “That’s it. It’s just a way to get quick cash. It was Rex’s turn this month, and next month it’ll be Jinx’s.”
“Oh, hold on.” I’m leaning rapidly toward irritation. If I gave up my leftovers and dessert for this crap, he’d better be quick on his feet. “I already knew this. What I want to know is what more Jinx said about Bev. What kind of business is she running from Rex’s place? She’s moved in there, in case you let that little tidbit slip your mind. And I’m still waiting for the curled hair you promised.”
Another shrug. “She’s a good woman, what can I say?”
“And you call yourself an investigative reporter.” I don’t even try to keep the disgust out of my voice. “We’re done here, Mr. I-Think-I’m-Ernest-Hemingway.” Standing, I point dramatically toward the front door. “Don’t let it hit ya where the good Lord split ya.”
Later, as we get ready for bed, I catch Marta smiling to herself as she watches me strip off my clothes and toss them in the corner.
“What?” I ask suspiciously, looking down at my naked body. “Is there something funny about the way I look?”
To my amazement, she lets herself sink down on the bed, sniggering helplessly as she holds her stomach. I wait out her fit of laughter with self-imposed stoicism.
“Oh, my God, Gij! I wish you could have seen your face when you sent him packing.” She gives a gasp, trying to breathe through the laughter. “I haven’t heard anyone say that little phrase since summer camp.”
I have to grin, reaching for the oversized T-shirt I wear to bed. “Yeah, well, he was acting like an idiot, so I treated him like one.” I jerk my head through the neckline, shoving my arms in the sleeves. “I think I’m pretty much done with him.”
Marta rolls over on her back, crossing her arms behind her dark head. “I think he was having too good a time with Jinx and just didn’t get to the investigation part of the evening.”
I stop in mid-step as I walk toward the bathroom, my mouth hanging open. “No way. Do you think…” It’s beyond me to articulate what I mean, but she gets me. Marta has been fluent in Gise
lle for quite a few years now.
“I have no clue, but did you see his face when you made that comment about dancing?” She giggles, a delightful sound I haven’t heard much of lately. “He’s either a late bloomer or a bad actor.”
I snort. “I vote for bad actor. He can’t even act like a reporter. And you know what? We probably know more about the whole situation than he does.”
Marta is silent for a moment. Rolling on her side, which takes a little more effort than it did a few months ago, she asks, “Just what is the situation? Obviously, there’s been a death, two personal attacks on you, an accident in the restaurant’s parking lot, and something to do with organ donations. To me, that’s four different issues.”
I head for the bathroom as I debate her words. Gathering my hair back with an elastic band, I wash my face and brush my teeth, thinking about Marta’s question. I’ve been seeing everything as connected, not separate. Is it possible I’m seeing ghosts when it’s only my imagination?
Marta has moved to her side again. An odd expression is on her face, and she’s holding her hand firmly on her belly. My heart races instantly, afraid for both Marta and the baby.
“Are you okay?” I kneel next to the bedside, my brows drawn together in concern. “Are you having pain?”
Her answer is to grab one of my hands and guide it to the same spot she’s been touching. When I feel a gentle movement, my eyes grow wide and fill with tears.
“Is that…” I nod at my hand, unable to articulate my thoughts. Marta nods, her own eyes shining.
“I think so.” She rolls on her back and pushes herself back onto the bed pillows. “I’ve been feeling it for a couple of days now.”
She smiles at me, a tender expression on her face. She is the Madonna and Gaia in one. And she’s going to be a perfect mom for our baby. Who knew a belly bump could make me so weak at the knees?
I’m still smiling the next morning as I navigate San Leandro’s rush hour traffic. Marta, bless her heart, felt well enough to make a panini sandwich for me to take in place of the lunch lost to Don Butler.
“It’s turkey, medium cheddar, and sliced apple,” she said as she handed the small container to me. I wrinkled my nose. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. You need to eat more fruit, Gij.”
“Isn’t coffee a fruit?” I kissed her goodbye, ducking as she jokingly raised one hand. “Fine, I’ll eat it. And thanks, babe. You make sure to eat today, too.”
She rolled her eyes. “As if I need any encouragement. I woke up starving today, believe it or not. Do you think the worst is over?” She tilted her dark head to the side, her eyes inquisitive in the morning light.
“I could probably answer that better if you were of the canine or feline persuasion.” I smiled as I got in another kiss, feeling her lips smiling back.
I carry that smile with me into the clinic. Lately, Lou and I have been toying with changing its name from the rather prosaic San Leandro Veterinarian Clinic to something a bit more catchy. Now that we’ve got a bullet hole in the back wall, maybe we should try something like the OK Pet Corral, except half the participants died at the original site. That might not send the desired message.
“Hey, Dr. Cutler,” says a voice from down the hallway. “Can you come here a sec?”
It’s Emily, our newest intern from the local college. She’s serious at what she does, and she’s usually waiting to be let in by whoever arrives first with keys.
That was me today, yet she’s already inside. My heart picks up the pace as I walk briskly down the hall. I find her in the last exam room on the right, kneeling over a small bundle of fur on the table, its sides rising and falling in shallow gasps.
“I was afraid to move him,” she says, trying hard not to cry. “He was lying on the sidewalk in front of the clinic when I got here, and since the door was already unlocked, I just scooped him up and brought him in side.” She looks up at me. “That’s okay, right?”
“Absolutely,” I say, setting my lips in a grim line. “Why don’t you get the X-ray room prepped so we can see what’s going on inside this little guy.”
She dashes from the room, and I take her place, hovering over Tramp’s small body and wondering how he ended up at my clinic. And why the front door was already open.
But first things first. I gently maneuver the Yorkie pup into my arms and walk as carefully as I can, not wanting to jar him any more than necessary. He doesn’t make a sound, which can be both good and bad: good in that he’s not in more pain and bad because he’s not feeling pain as he should be.
Emily has switched the X-ray machine on and prepared a soft nest of towels on the table directly under the camera. I lay Tramp down on his side, and he feels unnervingly compliant. He should be wriggling, protesting at being left on a table. I exchange a glance with the intern, and I can see my own feelings mirrored on her face. We are both very worried.
I send Emily out of the room and follow her, taking with me the long, corded switch to activate the machine. I take a series of shots, carefully repositioning Tramp between each one, until I’m satisfied I’ve covered every inch of the small body. Whatever is wrong internally will show up on the finished X-rays.
“Well, looks like he’s got severely bruised ribs and probably some damage to his liver, but he looks pretty good otherwise.” I look from the lighted viewing box mounted on the wall to the table where Tramp is still lying, Emily standing nearby in case he starts moving. “Nothing looks wrong with his head, so I’m thinking this little guy is concussed.”
As if on command, Tramp stirs and lifts his head with a slight whimper. Emily is instantly on hand, cradling the nest of towels and puppy in both of her arms. We both laugh when his soft pink tongue darts out and licks her nose.
“Hey, there, little guy.” I bend over the puppy, gently stroking his fur. “I’m sure glad to see you awake.” Looking up at Emily, I say, “Can you stay in here with him for a few minutes?”
“No prob, Doc,” she says promptly and then blushes. “Sorry. I meant to say ‘Dr. Cutler.’”
I grin at her as I straighten up. “‘Doc’ is fine, Emily. Makes me sound hip.”
The expression on her face is priceless. “What’s that?”
I grab at the lapels of my lab coat, feigning pain. “Ouch. And that tells me just how old I really am. Let’s just say you can call me Doctor, Doc, or Goddess of Wisdom and Grace.” I leave her puzzling over my words as I head to the front of the clinic.
Maxi is already at her desk, raven-black head bent over an iPad. She starts when I approach, and I can see dark circles under her eyes.
“You okay?” I’m solicitous of my staff, aware that happy and healthy employees mean a well-run office. “There’re a lot of germs going around right now.”
She shakes her head and smiles wryly. “I’m fine. It’s self-inflicted, to be honest. I stayed up bingeing on Netflix until two. Gotta love Stranger Things.”
Yikes. I can’t imagine staying up that late, Netflix or not. “I see a nap in your future. Just not at the desk, all right?”
“Not even if I do it with my eyes open?” She’s smiling, and I’m relieved to see her sense of humor is alert. “Oh, I found this on the desk when I got here.” She lifts up the iPad and retrieves a small envelope from underneath. “It has your name on it, so I figure it’s yours.”
“Awesome deduction, Sherlock. Why don’t you get a pot of coffee going? I sure could use some and you probably can as well.”
The writing on the outside of the envelope is rounded, feminine. It’s been done with some force, though, because I can see deep impressions in the paper when I tilt it sideways. Sliding a finger underneath the gummed flap, I draw out a single piece of folded paper and begin to read.
When I am finished, I am baffled. No, I am beyond baffled. Whoever wrote this note is either under the impression I am working with the police or I have some insider info on what’s going on with Chrissy Burton. And she, if indeed the writer is a she, is not
happy.
Withdraw yourself from the situation surrounding C. Burton or you’ll be the next one lying in the street.
Lying in the street? As in Tramp? Or perhaps Bev Strait? This day is beginning to take on a surreal touch, and whether I like it or not, it’s time to call the cops. Again.
Chapter Twelve
The boys in blue have arrived, San Leandro’s version of the cavalry. I’m both relieved and embarrassed to see a familiar face.
“This is getting to be a habit, Doc.” Officer King, his expression both stern and amused, is standing just inside the front door to the clinic, a taller officer crowding in behind him.
I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, and indicate a group of chairs in the reception area. “Would you like to sit here, or would it be better if we go to my office?”
“Here’s fine.” King glances behind him and jerks his chin at the other officer. “I’ll talk with Dr. Cutler while you look at the front door. It was already unlocked when you arrived, correct?”
I nod. Behind the counter, I can see the wide eyes of Maxi as she listens to the conversation. I can only imagine what’s going on in her mind. This clinic is beginning to resemble the Wild West. I groan inwardly, hoping I won’t be looking for another receptionist before the day is done.
Officer King and I choose two chairs facing away from the door, him with his recorder balanced on his knee and me with a stomach in need of an antacid.
“When I arrived this morning, the front door was already unlocked. I honestly thought that Lou—that’s Dr. Grafton—had already arrived, and I came in without thinking anything about it.”
“Do you recall seeing anyone hanging around outside, maybe watching you when you walked up?” The officer’s eyes are the same shade of blue gray as his uniform, and I idly wonder if he chose this career to match his eyes.