by Ellie Hart
“Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything, maybe coffee? Or tea?” I almost ask if she’d like a beer and think I might get one for myself. That unsettled vibe she’s giving off is beginning to make me jittery as well.
“I’m not sure I should have any more caffeine.” She gives a rueful laugh, running one hand over her face. I can see it trembling from across the room. “I must’ve drunk gallons of the stuff since I heard from the police department earlier.”
Ah. Now we’re getting down to business. I’ll need a coffee, whether she does or not.
“Hold that thought.” I stand up and head toward the kitchen. “I’m going to make coffee, but I’ll grab a bottle of water for you, if you’d prefer.”
“Yes, thanks.” She stares out a window that looks out onto the side of the house. Marta has filled the narrow flower bed bordering the redwood fence with bulbs of every kind, mixing colors and types, ensuring something will always be blooming. I leave Chrissy contemplating the blossoms with a bemused expression on her face.
“Did I just hear you talking to someone?”
I jump sky high at Marta’s voice. She’s leaning against the granite-topped island, holding a bottle of water in one hand, the other resting across her stomach. I’m instantly at her side and put a steadying arm around her shoulders. She looks so pale and washed out next to the dark countertop.
“Hey, you need to be in bed, chica.” I gently tug her toward the doorway, but she resists, craning her neck as she tries to look past me. “Want me to bring you some more toast?”
“You didn’t answer my question, Gij. Who’re you talking to?”
“Chrissy Burton.”
“Wait. You’re talking to my boss? Here? In our house?”
I nod, mouth twisted in a sheepish smile. Marta ducks beneath my arm and walks to the living room, a purposeful set to her slight shoulders. Sighing, I follow her. Apparently she’s forgotten she’s still dressed—or undressed—in the see-through nightie she put on after the latest visit to the bathroom.
“Chrissy! What’s up?”
I skid to a halt just behind my partner, noting with amusement Chrissy is looking everywhere except at Marta and Marta is staring daggers at her boss. I don’t blame her. I’d probably feel the same if Lou showed up unannounced, especially if I was feeling as poorly as Marta.
“How’re you feeling, Marta?”
Chrissy directs the inquiry to a spot just behind my head. With a sigh, I back into the hall and grab a coat hanging in the hall closet. I place it on Marta’s shoulders, and she draws it around herself as she moves toward an armchair that sits near the sofa. Chrissy finally allows herself to make eye contact with us, two pink spots on her cheeks a giveaway of her discomfort.
“I’ve been better.” Marta’s tone is as wry as her expression. “So, to what do we owe the honor?” She shoots me a glance as I sink down into the other chair. I pretend not to notice. Chrissy is on her own with this one.
Our guest silently looks down at her hands, clasped together on her lap, knuckles white and fingers tightly interwoven.
“I got a visit from the police early this morning, sometime before five.” She looks up, eyes bright with some emotion. I really am starting to need that coffee. “Apparently, the Alameda Sheriff’s Department thought it was making a next-of-kin notification.”
“‘Apparently’?” Marta leans forward with interest, the flaps of the coat falling open slightly. Even from where I’m sitting I can see the prominence of her collarbones, emphasizing the weight loss she’s had recently. “Why ‘apparently,’ Chrissy?”
“Because,” Chrissy says in a matter-of-fact voice belied by her twisted fingers, “they were there to tell me I’d been found dead in the bay.”
A woman has been discovered floating in the bay, something I already know because of my Google news feed. I also know the body was identified as Chrissy Burton, the gal now sitting across from me in my house. What I want to know is how the mix-up has occurred. Unless this is evidence of a stolen identity or someone who has—had—the same name as our guest, I can’t figure out how something like this happens.
“And I’m assuming you set them straight, right?” Trust Marta to get to the heart of the issue.
Chrissy nods vigorously. “Yes.” She gives a brief laugh that has no mirth in it. “Of course, it took me a few minutes to convince them. I had to show them my work ID, the key card with my picture attached. Even then I don’t think that some of them believed me.” Sudden tears appear in her eyes and begin running down her face. “And when they showed me a picture of the woman, I swear she looked just like me.”
Marta walks over to the sofa, sitting down beside Chrissy and putting a thin arm around her.
“Whatever is going on, we’ll help you figure it out. Won’t we, Gij?” This last part is directed to me, her head tilted and one eyebrow raised in question. Marta in warrior woman mode. I nod, acquiescing to a higher power. When she has her mind set on a course of action, she will not be deterred. This is what makes her a force to be reckoned with as a social worker. Whatever case she has, she fights for the client with all of her heart.
Her very big heart. I recall her tenacious efforts last fall on behalf of my—our—nephew Leif. If it hadn’t been for Marta’s solid presence, I might have fallen victim to the circumstances as well.
“When Marta promises you we’ll help, she means it.” I stand up, hands on my hips. “Marta, would you like that tea now?” I smile down at her fondly. “You were sound asleep when I came up to the room earlier.”
“Oh, please,” Chrissy begins, half standing, her hands held out in front of her as if warding off an attack. And maybe she is. “Take care of Marta first. In fact,” she adds as she checks her cell phone, “I probably should get going. I said I’d go down to the medical examiner’s office so they could take a cheek swab to check my DNA. Guess I have to prove I’m really me.” Marta cuts off Chrissy’s short, mirthless laugh with a fierce hug.
“You’re not going anywhere without us. Gij, I’ll have that tea and toast now, and then I’ll grab a shower.” My partner is in full-blown caregiver mode, putting her own current frailty aside. Chrissy settles back down beside her, some of the anxiety disappearing from her face.
And I’ve gone into full-blown worrywart mode. I’m physically stronger than she is, but I don’t know if I can carry an incapacitated Marta by myself. I’d hate for her to faint.
“If you think you’re up to it,” I say doubtfully.
I head to the kitchen and get out the bread, popping two more slices into the stainless steel toaster. While I wait for it to brown, I plug in the electric kettle, a throwback to my college days. I’d become fascinated with all things British, and having my own kettle made me feel a connection to a country I’d only read about or seen on television. Besides, it heated up water lightning fast, and I’d used it for making ramen soup more than I did to make tea.
I get out a seldom-used tray from the tall, narrow cabinet beside the fridge and place on it a small plate with plain toast and a mug of unsweetened hot tea. Marta’s tastes have changed since she became pregnant, something the doctor assures us is completely normal. It’s another reason I’m secretly glad she’s the one carrying our child. I can’t imagine giving up sweets or, even worse, not wanting them.
“Here you go,” I say as I place the tray down on the low rectangular butler’s table nestled close to Marta’s end of the couch. Its fluted edges are elegant yet functional, ensuring nothing will be able to roll off. “Try to eat something, love.”
* * *
Marta says she feels better after her shower and the little bit of food she’s managed to eat. Her color is better, thank goodness, but I know she’s not up to driving. So I drive instead, with Chrissy in the front passenger’s seat and the mama-to-be lying in the back seat.
The two women chat sporadically, mostly about work-related issues, while I concentrate on keeping my silver Honda CRV steady, not too fast, trying
to time all the lights so I won’t need to make a sudden stop. Their conversation gives me time to myself, and I can’t help but recall the college writing class I’d taken and the professor who hated plot clichés with a passion.
“There are many reasons why falling back on a trope to move your story line is wrong, folks. The top of the list, though, is that it’s just plain lazy writing.” Mr. Harding had peered around the lecture hall from his perch on a tall stool, his back hunched and neck foreshortened inside the collar of his jacket.
I conjured up that memory because this entire situation has morphed into a trope of the highest degree: the unknown twin who commits some heinous crime and then allows an innocent look-alike to take the fall. How many Lifetime movies have revolved around that tired strategy? And how in the world did Marta and I get caught up in this?
I realize Marta has said something to me, and I drag my attention back to the present.
“Sorry, babe. I was miles away. What’s up?”
“I was just saying,” she begins, her words underpinned with some of her normal feistiness, “that you’re driving this thing like my grandma. Chrissy wants to get this over with sometime in this decade, love.”
I take a quick peek into the rearview mirror, pleased to see a sassy expression on her face. She’s definitely feeling much better. I reach over and crank up the radio, ready to put the pedal to the metal. My favorite local station is playing “The Boys Are Back in Town.” Perfect for Marta’s return to the land of the living. With a grin, I send the CRV surging forward and leave the traffic snarled behind us.
The Alameda County Coroner’s Office sits on a fairly quiet street in Oakland proper, its foundations sloping with the geography. I hit the parking jackpot, taking the only available space that just happens to be smack-dab in front of the walkway that leads to the coroner’s office. Marta may be coming alive, but I’m still careful of how far she’ll need to walk. I know better than to speak my concerns aloud, though. Marta hates being treated like a “cut glass figurine.”
I tend to think of her as a Fabergé egg, holding a priceless treasure within herself that not even I can see. Yet. Marta’s scheduled for an ultrasound in a few weeks, that miraculous scientific looking glass that will allow us to finally see the little person who’ll be joining our family.
“I hope this swabbing test won’t take too long.” Chrissy pauses at the top of the ramp to wait for us, her eyebrows pinched together with growing stress. “And I hope it won’t hurt.” She gives a false laugh. “I never was that good with pain. Probably why I’ve never had kids of my own.”
I just stare at her, trying to convey how clueless what she said is without saying a word. Marta wouldn’t like that, I know. I’d like to give this woman some pain right now, though, right between her eyes.
Marta just smiles at Chrissy, one hand resting protectively on her belly and the other tucked beneath my arm. “It’s not going to be a walk in the park, that’s for sure. It’s a good thing I’ve got Gij, otherwise I’d probably be scared shitless myself.”
Well said, Marta. Well said. I almost follow that thought with a head toss but stop myself in time. There’s enough tension here already without me adding to it. I realize Marta is poking me in the ribs while Chrissy gazes at me, one eyebrow lifted. I decide to play the poor hearing card.
“Sorry, guys. I totally missed what you said. Must be all the background noise.” I gesture at the myriad eucalyptus trees framing the street, their branches filled with brash, noisy crows. A murder of crows. I shiver and feel Marta’s hand tighten on my arm.
“I just asked you if you’d ever done any type of testing at your clinic.” Chrissy pulls open the glass-fronted door and steps back so Marta and I can pass in front of her. “I was thinking it can’t be much different, right? I mean, DNA is DNA.”
“True,” I agree as I guide Marta into the lobby of the coroner’s office. “And it should be something fairly noninvasive. Hair, for instance, or a cheek swab. Nothing too painful.”
I can’t help emphasizing that last word. Beside me I feel Marta sigh slightly. How she puts up with me I’ll never know. With a bright smile, I turn to face Chrissy.
“There’s the front desk. We’ll wait for you over there.” I point at a small grouping of chairs that look extremely uncomfortable, their molded plastic seats curved in that one-size-fits-all design. I think about the upholstered chairs and love seats in my clinic’s waiting room and can’t help feeling a bit smug. There’s something to be said for a private enterprise versus taxpayer-funded offices.
They whisk Chrissy away through a light-colored wooden door and down a hallway that smells of antiseptic. I notice it faintly from where we’re sitting, but Marta’s olfactory senses are on overdrive. She wrinkles her nose and covers it with one hand.
“God, I thought these places were more modern now. What’s with the morgue aroma?”
I shrug, my eye caught by a pile of magazines sitting neatly on a low scarred table. The editions are years out of date, of course, but the bold lettering on the top journal has me intrigued. “Are We Any Closer to Cloning Organs?” indeed.
Outside the window, I can see a cloud of black as the crows rise from the trees and fly off. A murder moving away from us, taking its shrill sounds to another part of the street. Try as I might, I have a feeling another murder has sucked us into its macabre vortex, courtesy of one Chrissy Burton.
Chapter Three
The ride back home is almost normal, a thin shield of casual conversation and observations covering the uneasiness each of us must feel. I know I do. I can’t recall a more odd situation than the one in which I’m now involved.
Chrissy refuses Marta’s invitation to come in for a coffee. I’m relieved. I’ve done my duty by this woman, and to be honest, I’m irritated Chrissy’s problem has become Marta’s. I’m almost gleeful as we stand outside watching the Nova pull away from the curb, its backfire an exclamation point to an unsettling few hours.
“Let’s get you inside and resting, love.” I guide her up the walkway into the house, giving Mr. Flores a cheeky wave with my free hand. He must be going bananas, watching the activity at my house without an inkling of what’s happening. It almost raises my spirits.
“Surprisingly enough, I’m not feeling too bad right now.” Marta sinks down onto the sofa, the cushions giving a small sigh of welcome as she settles back against the pillows. “In fact, considering I’m still off tomorrow and can sleep in, we could have a few friends in this evening. If you’d like to, of course,” she adds hastily. “I know you probably have to go in to the clinic in the morning.”
I kneel in front of the couch and put my arms gently around her, tempted to lay my head on her belly. I don’t want to hurt her, though. If she’s feeling as well as she says, I don’t want to jinx it. Instead, I confine myself to a few brief kisses before standing up again.
“Sure, if you want to. We haven’t seen Isobel and J.D. for a while. Or Maggie and Ann.” The last time I can recall the six of us getting together was in the fall, just before I went to Arizona to deal with my sister’s disappearance. Maybe it’s time to dust off the ol’ boogie shoes and let my hair down. “I can give them a holler, or maybe you can text them while I see what we’ve got in the fridge.”
Marta smiles up at me. She does look much better in spite of the day’s bad start and the morning’s jaunt into Oakland. I can’t resist kneeling back down and planting a tender kiss on her tummy. Marta places a hand on my head and gently runs her fingers through my hair, and my nearly dormant hormones stand to attention at her touch.
I’m just going in for a real kiss when the doorbell rings. Groaning, I drop my head for a moment before rising to my feet. “Hold that thought, love. I’ll see who it is and get rid of them pronto.”
I can see the top of Mr. Flores’s head when I look through the peephole on the door. He is a small man, shrunken with age, and his sparse hair falls across his scalp like a baby’s. Sighing, I open the door an
d look down at him with barely disguised irritation, ready to send to him packing.
“Good afternoon, Dr. C,” he begins as he steps inside without an invitation. “Can I have a moment of your time, please?” His diminution of my name comes out as prissy rather than intimate.
“By all means,” I say through clenched teeth, extending an exaggerated flourish of welcome. “Marta’s in the living room, if you want to go in there.”
I follow him, giving Marta a look over his shoulders that says “not my fault” as he settles down in one of the armchairs, sitting on the edge with his back straight and his feet placed primly together. She barely stifles a grin before turning her attention to him.
“Mr. Flores, it’s so good to see you. How’ve you been doing?”
He looks at me briefly as if to show me he’s part of Marta’s social circle before focusing on her face with an expression of concern.
“I’m doing well, thanks. And hopefully you’re doing all right.” He nods at the soft swell of her belly. “Are the babies letting you rest?”
I can’t help it. I snort loudly as I slide onto the end of the sofa and lift Marta’s feet onto my lap.
“She’s not having twins,” I say. “We don’t have twins in our families.” I glance over at her almost guiltily. She’s the one doing all the work, after all. “At least Marta doesn’t, and that’s what counts.”
“Hmm.” It’s not much of a response, but he’s said a mouthful. He gives a slight shake of his head as if refocusing his thoughts before looking straight at me. “I came over to let you know you had a visitor after you left today.”
“Really.” The word comes out flat and cynical, elongated with sarcasm. But I’m not shocked. In fact, I suppose I’ve been expecting something like this ever since my first conversation with Marta’s boss. Life has become a Tilt-A-Whirl, everything slightly askew. “Did you recognize him? Her?”
