by Tracy Weber
As I checked in at the perinatal unit, the normally friendly blonde nurse at the desk shuffled through charts, oddly refusing to meet my gaze. She handed me the day’s client list without speaking. I was so distracted by her uncharacteristic aloofness that at first I didn’t notice an important name was missing.
“Only two clients again today? I don’t see Kendra. Did she have the baby?”
The nurse made a note on a chart without looking up. “No, but she’s not on this floor anymore. She was one of the first patients transferred to the new wing.”
“She didn’t schedule a yoga session?”
The nurse set the chart to the side and started entering data into a spreadsheet. “No.”
Not having a scheduled visit would make questioning Kendra and Liam more difficult, but not impossible. “What’s her new room number? I’d like to stop by and say hi. Maybe take her some flowers.”
The nurse stopped typing and frowned. She lifted her eyes and steeled her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Kate, but I can’t tell you which room she’s in. Something about your last session upset her. Kendra specifically asked that you not be allowed to visit her anymore.”
I cycled through multiple emotions. First I felt wounded. Then frustrated. Then suspicious. No yoga teacher worth her mat wanted to find herself on a client’s do-not-visit list. That’s why I felt wounded. Kendra’s no-contact request quashed my plans to quiz Liam, unless I was willing to risk my hospital teaching privileges, which I wasn’t. That was the frustrated.
Suspicion, however, trumped all. If what Sam told me was true, Kendra and Liam had lied, both to the police and to me. Liam hadn’t gone straight back to Kendra’s room after seeing Dr. Dick at the open house. He’d followed Dr. Dick and Rachel out of the party, then waited around long enough for the two men to have an altercation. The fight—and Liam’s lie about it—made him seem awfully guilty. Was Kendra afraid I might jump to the wrong conclusion about Liam—or the right one?
A familiar female voice interrupted my thoughts.
“You’re Kate Davidson, right?”
“Tamara? Hi! I didn’t know you worked here.”
“I don’t, at least not officially. I work for Sound Nursing. I mostly pick up shifts at ABBA, but I catch some here occasionally.”
Of course. Summer had mentioned Tamara’s temp agency. Still, it had never occurred to me that I might see her at Lake Washington. Was running into her today a blessing or a curse? I’d planned to question her, but not until I’d come up with a reasonable cover story. My mind spun through options, trying to create a story that was both spontaneous and convincing.
Nothing.
Maybe that was a sign. Thus far, my ruses hadn’t worked nearly as well as the truth. Why not stick with that?
“I’ve actually been hoping to talk to you. About your ex-lover’s murder.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t beat around the bush, do you?”
I shrugged.
“I like that. No bullshit. Justine told me you were looking into Richard’s death. I figured you’d show up on my doorstep eventually—me being the bitter ex-lover and all. Especially since I was on shift here last Saturday.”
“You were here at the hospital the day of the murder?” That was new—and interesting—information.
“Me and about two thousand other people. I don’t think I have anything relevant to tell you, but I’m willing to give it a shot.”
I glanced at my watch. My first private session was scheduled to start in fifteen minutes. Hopefully my client wouldn’t mind if I was a little late. “Do you have a minute now?”
“I have forty-five of them. I’m on lunch break. If you’re willing to talk in the cafeteria while I eat, I’m all yours.”
We rode the elevator down to the cafeteria in relative silence. Tamara headed for the food line while I grabbed a quiet table in the large, mostly empty eating area. The bland, rubbery-looking meatloaf she brought to the table smelled about as appetizing as one of Sam’s smoothies.
“Before we start,” she said, “I need to apologize.”
“Apologize? For what?”
“For my behavior last week at ABBA.”
“When you confronted Dr. Jones and his mistress?”
She frowned. “That too, I suppose. But I meant for my behavior with Summer. I normally work more effectively with doulas than I did that night. Summer pushes my buttons in all the wrong ways. We have a history.”
“The baby that died.”
Tamara’s eyes widened. “She told you about that?”
“Yes. Were you at that birth, too?” I knew she wasn’t, of course, but I wanted to compare her story with Summer’s. The less she thought I knew, the better.
“No, I was still on staff at Reproductive Associates back then, but that baby’s death impacted me all the same. Richard was never the same afterward. The night that baby died, our relationship died, too. I just didn’t know it yet.”
Part of me wanted to tell her I was sorry, but I couldn’t. Dr. Dick should never have been in a relationship with Tamara to begin with. That privilege rested solely with his wife. I stayed silent and waited for her to continue.
“The baby’s parents blamed Richard, but Summer was at least partially at fault. And she learned nothing from the experience. She’s good at her job, but doulas aren’t medically trained—not to the extent that a doctor or midwife is. Not to the extent that nurses like me are, for that matter. That doesn’t stop Summer from spouting off her opinions, though. Her clients trust her, sometimes more than they trust their doctors. She claims that she fights for the rights of the mother, but she’s kidding herself. She’s pushing her own agenda.”
Tamara stabbed a desiccated Brussels sprout with her fork. “She calls herself a natural childbirth advocate, like that makes her better than the rest of us. We’re all childbirth advocates. Some of us simply have a different definition of the word ‘natural.’ Tell me, Kate, what’s so ‘natural’ about needless suffering?”
I didn’t reply. This was one of the few controversies about which I didn’t have a strong opinion. I refocused the conversation instead. “I understand what you’re saying, but I still don’t see how you can blame Summer for the baby’s death. I know she doesn’t approve of most medical interventions, but how did refusing Pitocin lead to the stillbirth?”
Tamara paused for a moment and stared over my shoulder, as if formulating her thoughts on the blank wall behind me. “Remember, I wasn’t there that night, and I only heard the story from Richard’s perspective. But I believed him. The labor was way too slow, and Summer fought Richard every time he suggested trying something to speed it up. I mean, seriously. Forty hours? That poor woman went through agony, and there was no reason for it.”
“I spoke to the parents. They told me there was no evidence of malpractice.”
“There wasn’t. There couldn’t have been, not with Richard.” Tamara laid down her fork and pushed her plate away. “Richard had plenty of faults. He certainly wasn’t husband of the year.” She grunted. “He wasn’t lover of the year, for that matter. But he was a brilliantly talented physician. He knew something was going wrong that night. He couldn’t pinpoint what, but he knew it. He wanted to speed up the labor, maybe transfer the mother to a hospital. Summer wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Isn’t that the patient’s decision?”
“Summer got inside that woman’s head so deep, she wouldn’t listen to anyone but her. She’d convinced her that drugs and other interventions might hurt the baby. And she was adamant that unless the baby was in distress, there was no need for a hospital transfer. Summer gave lip service to the fact that it was the mother’s decision, but she made sure everyone in that room—especially the laboring mom—knew her opinion.”
Tamara picked up a cafeteria-beige coffee mug and cradled it in both hands. “Look, I’m not sa
ying Richard was right. No one knows for sure what happened to that baby. But Richard still blamed himself. He was convinced that if the baby had come sooner, it would have survived. I think the guilt drove him to Mariella.”
“You seem pretty gracious for a woman who was trying to sue the pants off of him.”
Tamara stopped talking. Her lips thinned; her jaw clenched. She stared at the liquid inside her cup for so long, I thought she was going to douse me with it. Instead, she lifted her eyes to meet mine.
“I was angry. Richard was more than my boyfriend, you know. He was my boss.”
I involuntarily winced at the word “boyfriend.”
“You can’t stop judging me, can you? You think I’m some marriage wrecking whore, but you’re wrong. Richard’s and my relationship was more complicated than that. We were friends for years—long before he married Rachel. They never had a perfect marriage, but it fell apart when her daughter moved in. Our affair started shortly after that. By then, everyone but Rachel could tell the marriage was over.”
“Why didn’t he leave her?”
“I like to think he would have, if the baby hadn’t died. He needed time to find the courage.”
I couldn’t hide my skepticism.
“There’s that sanctimonious smirk again. Richard’s and my relationship wasn’t a casual fling. I loved him.”
“Then why the lawsuit? To punish him?”
“Yes, but not for throwing away our relationship. For destroying my career.”
That surprised me. “What do you mean?”
“When Richard dumped me for Mariella, I quit Reproductive Associates without notice. I expected him to be mad, but I had no idea he’d blackball me.”
“Blackball you?”
“He put the word out that I was a bad hire.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I suspect it was Mariella’s idea. What better way to make sure Richard and I never got back together?” She set the mug on her tray and stacked her plate and utensils beside it. “Let me assure you, it’s not easy to land a decent job when you don’t have references. None of the local clinics will hire me as an IVF nurse. I’ve been forced to go back to my original specialty—labor and delivery. Only this time, I’m stuck at a temp agency, grabbing whatever shifts I can get, hoping I scramble together enough hours to pay rent. That lawsuit was my best chance to get my life back on track again.” She sighed. “And now it’s over.”
“Couldn’t you still go after the clinic?”
“I could, but I won’t. I always liked Dr. Steinman. He didn’t have my back, but I don’t blame him. He was trapped in the middle of an unwinnable battle. There’s no reason he should be punished for something that Richard did.”
“Perhaps not.” Though seeing him punished wouldn’t have bothered me. Not after seeing what he’d done to that dog. I kept the thought to myself. Instead, I asked, “Where were you at the time Dr. Jones was killed?”
She smirked. “I figured you’d get around to accusing me at some point. I was riding the bus to the hospital. By the time I arrived, Richard was already dead.”
“Can you prove that?”
Her face remained expressionless. “Probably not.”
I stared into her eyes, trying to decipher whether or not she was telling the truth. After several moments of uncomfortable silence, she spoke again.
“I can see that you don’t fully believe me. Ask yourself this: Richard’s and my relationship ended a year ago. I was suing him, and I was going to win. I was better off with him alive. Why would I kill him?”
The question sounded familiar. “Mariella said the same thing. But in her case, she said Dr. Jones was planning to marry her.”
Tamara’s cheeks turned bright red, but she didn’t reply. She curled her fingers into fists, then slowly released them.
“At first I believed her,” I continued. “Believed that she had no reason to kill Dr. Jones. The more I think about it though, the less sure I am. Something’s off with Mariella. She seems cold.”
“Damned right she’s cold,” Tamara snapped. “Mariella’s a heartless gold digger, and everyone knew it. Especially Richard. That’s what made me so angry.”
“Why did he choose her over you?”
“I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times. Part of me thinks he was trying to punish himself. Like taking up with a user was some sort of masochistic penance. The other part thinks he was simply being a man. You have to admit, that little slut has plenty of sex appeal.”
I kept my expression carefully neutral. “Could she have killed him?”
Tamara laughed, but with contempt more than humor. “Mariella does whatever it takes to get what Mariella wants. But why would she kill him? You saw them at ABBA. They seemed pretty darned chummy to me. I don’t see a motive.”
She pushed back from the table and picked up her tray. “Personally, I think the police are right. If anybody had a reason to kill Richard, it was his wife.”
With those final words, she moved to the bussing area, placed her tray on the conveyor belt, and headed back to the elevator.
I stood, but I didn’t follow her. Our meeting hadn’t gone as I’d expected, but it had been illuminating all the same. Tamara would never make my most-laudable-humans list, and Mariella seemed downright despicable. But why would either of them have killed Richard? Unless they were lying, they didn’t have a motive, as Tamara had pointed out. I reluctantly moved them both to my “low” category of suspects and headed back to the perinatal unit.
My cell phone rang halfway to the elevator. I didn’t recognize the number, so I let the call go to voicemail.
The message was from Tiffany.
“Hey, Kate. My cell phone’s out of juice, so I’m using Chad’s.”
Tiffany was still with Adonis? I smiled. Last night’s smoothie date had evidently turned into a sleepover.
Voicemail Tiffany continued. “Nicole stopped by my apartment this morning. Chad and I were, well, you know. Totally embarrassing. Anyway, she says you keep calling her, but she’s afraid to answer. She left the note about that dog on your car. I promised her we wouldn’t tell anyone that she stole Mutt and Jeff. Let’s not get her into trouble, okay?”
Damn.
The mystery note was about the dog, after all.
I couldn’t talk to Liam and Kendra. I’d pretty much eliminated Tamara and Mariella. And my one remaining lead (or at least potential lead) had turned out to be a big, fat zero.
What was I supposed to do now?
Twenty-Five
The phone’s metallic ring jarred me awake at midnight.
Michael mumbled something unintelligible, rolled his back to the sound, and covered his head with his pillow. Bella lay sprawled out beside him, snoring. I reached across them both and pulled the phone to my side, so sleepily churlish that I forgot to say hello.
“This had better be good.”
A low moan seeped through the phone line.
I sat up straight, all crankiness forgotten. “Rene, is that you?”
Sam’s voice replied. “Sorry, Kate, it’s Sam. Rene’s gone into labor.” He whispered, “She started having contractions a couple of hours ago, but she wouldn’t let me call. She wants to wait until morning to go to the hospital, but I don’t think we should. The contractions are already three minutes apart.”
“Get her to the hospital. Now. I’ll meet you in triage.”
Rene yelled in the background, “I told you the twins would come as soon as we talked about the birth plan!” She stopped talking and moaned again, louder this time.
“Don’t take too long, Kate.” Sam’s voice disappeared, replaced by a dial tone.
I almost cried. I’d had four hours of sleep in the past twenty-four hours. Why couldn’t babies arrive at a more civilized hour, like noon?
I jumped into sweats and a T-shirt, threw a couple of protein bars and my doula binder into a gym bag, and prepared Bella’s food so Michael could simply add water and incubate. My car pulled out of the driveway fifteen minutes after I hung up the phone. A new record for me.
I drove strictly on autopilot, not thinking at all. Certainly not remembering that I could park in the visitors’ parking lot close to the emergency entrance. I parked in the staff parking area on the tenth floor of the garage and sprinted from there to the new birthing center. Rene had recently graduated from triage to a delivery room, where she was arguing with the admitting nurse.
“What do you mean I can’t order room service? I’m starving! All I had was a freakin’ smoothie for dinner!” She hugged her three-person belly, leaned over, and groaned. A minute later, she stood upright and pointed at me. “Kate, tell Nurse Ratched here that you promised me full meals in my birth plan.”
I winced at Rene’s wildly inaccurate recollection. “I didn’t promise you meals. I told you we’d ask about food.”
The nurse’s lips pressed into a stern line. “As I already told your friend, twin births are at high risk for C-section. She won’t be allowed to eat until the babies are delivered.”
This was going to be a very long night.
As I helped Rene crawl into the bed, Sam offered her a paper cup. “Here, honey. They said you could have ice chips.” Rene curled into a fetal position and wept.
The door opened and Justine strode through it. The admitting nurse gestured to her and said, “Rene, this is Nurse Maxwell. She’ll be your labor nurse tonight.” She sidled next to Justine and whispered, “Good luck. You’ll need it.”
Justine smiled and kneeled next to Rene’s curled-up body. “Hey, Rene. Call me Justine. I’m a friend of Kate’s. I promise, I’m going to take good care of you.” She squeezed Rene’s arm. “Your labor’s progressing quickly. Good for you, Mama. We’ll have those twins out of there in no time.”
She moved to the foot of the bed and barked out confident-sounding instructions. “Kate, I’m going to check on Rene’s progress. Coach her through some of those breathing exercises you taught me in yoga class.” She glanced at Sam, whose face had blanched to the color of bleached egg shells. “Dad, you look like you could use some breathing, too.”