by Ellie Hart
The Vineyard’s signature breakfast bruschetta is an amazing combination of gouda and Swiss cheeses along with thickly sliced bacon. It’s layered on freshly baked Italian bread brushed with olive oil, then broiled until the cheese is golden brown and the bacon is sizzling. By the time it arrives at our table, I’m beginning to regret the invitation to share it. In typical Marta fashion, she cuts it in two, pushing the smaller piece toward me. I just manage to control a scowl.
“I’m eating for two,” she says by way of an explanation as she takes a bite of the bread, her eyes bright with mischief. “Unless you want this back, of course.” She brandishes her piece of the bruschetta at me. I’m not fooled by her act of contrition. It’s just her way of saying there’s no way on God’s green earth I’m getting it out of her hand. The rest of the food arrives and soon we are deep into eggs and conversation, discussing Marta’s idea for the room we’ve dubbed “the nursery.” She wants to use gender-specific colors, which amuses me. I’m all for slapping up a few decals on the walls and calling it done.
“You have no sense of design,” she says with a sniff. “And we’ll have to wait, anyway. I want to get the ultrasound done first so we can see what we’re having. For the color scheme.”
“For the color scheme,” I agree, my tone just this side of sarcastic. She gives me a sharp glance and goes back to cleaning her plate, something I haven’t seen her do in what feels like years.
Just as the waiter twirls back with the check, Marta’s phone begins to vibrate. She checks the screen, and I can see her eyes narrow slightly as she scans the message. She’s either not happy with what it says, or she needs the reading glasses she’s probably left at home.
“What’s up?” I reach for the check and glance at it before adding my bank card to the small tray. Two chocolate truffles are lying there as well, maybe to soften the blow of the cost. I take one and toss the other in Marta’s direction. She ignores it, continuing to stare at her phone with a frown on her face.
“Chrissy says someone already called her about Bev. Apparently she’s fine, just bruises and bumps from walking into a moving car.” Marta looks up at me, and I can tell she’s not buying Chrissy’s explanation. I’m not either. Who in their right mind walks into a car, especially when it’s moving?
“Does she say why Bev was here in the first place?”
Marta glances back down at the phone and shakes her head.
“No, so I’m assuming she was here to eat, same as us.” She pauses a moment. “It’s kind of odd, though. Both Chrissy and Bev out on the same day, I mean.”
“Not really,” I say as I hand the tray to the hovering waiter. “Bev’s boss is dealing with something pretty weird right now, so she’s probably taking advantage of Chrissy being gone. You know, a mental health day.”
“Not if you know Beverly Strait the way I do.” Marta’s voice is firm. “That woman lives for running the office, and she’d have full run of the place with Chrissy out of the way.” She shakes her head slowly. “No, I think there’s something else going on besides that body in the bay. Or maybe because of it.”
“I thought I recognized the man she was with,” I say abruptly.
“Really? As in someone you know or maybe someone from work?” Marta smiles up at the waiter, who’s returned with the slip for me to sign. “Thanks.”
“Yeah,” he says, but he clearly has something else to add.
“Is there anything else?” I know I sound a trifle snappish, but I don’t like wait staff that hovers.
“Yeah,” he says again. “I know that guy out there, the one with the woman who got run over.”
I start to correct him, but Marta jumps in.
“Is he a friend of yours?”
He shrugs. “Sorta. That’s my brother.”
Marta and I just stare at him, neither one of us knowing what to say to this new revelation. Can the day get any stranger?
“He was just dropping off some money he owes me.” The waiter, who I now see is called “Jinx” according to the name badge clipped to his polo’s collar, smiles broadly, showing a set of impressive straight, white teeth. “And I was gonna find out how I can get in on the gig as well.”
“The gig?” I repeat, glancing briefly at Marta. “Is he in a band?”
He laughs, a surprisingly deep, husky sound. A few diners swivel around to stare at us, and I pat the table in front of an empty chair.
“Can you sit for a minute?”
“Sure,” he says as he slips gracefully into the seat. “I’m actually off shift. I just need to turn in your receipt.” He nods toward the curled slip of paper still in front of me.
“So, tell us about this gig.” I’m asking instinctively, not because I’m a people person, but because this entire past twenty-four hours have been something out of Lewis Carroll’s imagination. I figure one more odd conversation won’t hurt.
“Well, I’m not sure of the details, which is why I wanted to talk to him about it, but it’s something to do with transplants.”
“With transplants, did you say?” I’m now convinced I have indeed fallen down a rabbit hole. “What sort of transplants?”
“That part I’m not too sure about. I think, and don’t quote me, it has something to do with bones.” He gives a small shake of his head, his forehead furrowed. “I didn’t know you could transplant bones, you know?”
“Bone marrow.” My mind is racing around, trying to gather up the loose ends of my thoughts and tie them into some semblance of logic. “Did your brother donate bone marrow?”
Jinx shakes his head emphatically. “Nah, not him. He doesn’t donate anything. Like I said, he owes me money, so I figured this is from the transplant gig.” I’m still staring at him, my eyes wide and my mouth slightly open. “He got paid for his donation thingy. That’s what I mean.” Jinx sounds like he’s trying to explain something to a child. A not so very bright child. I snap my mouth shut.
Marta, who has been listening silently to this exchange, pats Jinx on the arm. “Thank you for taking time to explain things to us. Would you mind if I got your number? Just in case we have more questions.”
Jinx nods. “Sure. It’s…” and he rattles off his number so quickly I barely have time to fish out my cell phone. Marta, thank goodness, has managed to capture it and repeats it back to him.
“I’ll text you right now so you’ll have my number as well.” Her fingers fly across the screen, and Jinx’s phone pings from his apron pocket. “There. And my name is Marta.”
“I’m Giselle.”
“I know.” Jinx grins down at me as he stands. “It’s on your tab.”
With a twirl and a smile, he reaches for the signed credit card slip and is gone.
I look across at Marta. “I’m not sure I like the idea of someone knowing my name like that.”
This time it’s her turn to shake her head at me.
Chapter Five
The parking lot has cleared out of rescue vehicles by the time we exit the Vineyard, but a few crime scene techs are still measuring and taking pictures. Officer Green Eyes is now sitting in the front seat of her cruiser, speaking into a hand-held radio and smoking. Judging by the way she’s holding the cigarette out the window, it’s probably frowned on by the department.
I look down at Marta and put my arm around her ever-expanding waist, very glad she doesn’t smoke. I once dated a girl in college who did a great impression of a chimney, and her kisses tasted like an ashtray. Marta, I’m glad to say, does not taste that way at all.
“What?” She’s looking up at me, one eyebrow quirked.
“What what?” I smile at her, giving her a little squeeze. She’s caught me staring at her and we both know it, but I like pretending I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Ready to get out of here?”
“Yes,” she says, but the word’s inflection means exactly the opposite.
“Okay, you. What’re you thinking?”
I open the Honda’s passenger door for her, mak
ing sure she’s settled before I shut it and walk around to the driver’s side. I slip the keys into the ignition but don’t start the engine, facing Marta instead.
“Doesn’t it seem odd that we decide to go out for breakfast and run into all this?” She gestures to the parking lot, a serious expression on her face. “Of all the places to choose, we come here.”
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…” I say, doing my best Bogey imitation and brandishing a pretend cigar. She shushes me with a wave of her hand.
“I’m serious, Gij. Don’t you think it’s the universe trying to push us into something?”
My automatic reaction is to joke, but Marta is very solemn in her pronouncement, staring over at me with an expectant air. Dear Lord. Has the woman started studying Gaianism behind my back?
“I don’t know about the universe.”
“Okay, maybe not the universe.” She gives a half-smile of acknowledgment. “But something is definitely putting this together, Gij. I think we need to pay attention.”
She has a point. I’m just not sure what it is.
Out of my periphery, I can see one of the techs beginning to wind up the yellow crime scene tape, calling out to someone else and laughing as she does. Another day, another scene. Not the restaurant’s best foot forward. Not Beverly Strait’s, either.
“It’s certainly one big coincidence, love. Other than that, I don’t know.” I give her thigh a pat and turn the key in the ignition. “Would it make you feel better to give Chrissy a call and tell her about Jinx and his brother?”
Her smile is a brilliant and sharp as the sun. “I already planned on it.”
Of course she did. She wouldn’t be Marta if she hadn’t. If anyone dislikes leaving the proverbial stone unturned, it would be my partner.
“Well, no time like the present.” I back out of the parking spot and purposely head to an exit on the other side of the lot, skirting what’s left of the scene. “Besides, I want to hear what she’s got to say.”
By the time we are out on the road, Marta has her boss on the phone.
“Hey, it’s Marta.” I can barely hear the muffled response. I point to my ear and Marta shakes her head but asks anyway. “Can I put you on speaker, Chrissy? Giselle is here as well.” When I can finally hear Chrissy’s voice and we’ve exchanged greetings, Marta jumps right in. “Do you know someone named Jinx?”
“Jinx? I don’t think so. Why?”
“Or does Bev?” I say.
“I’m not sure. What’s this all about, Marta?”
Marta gives a brief report as I listen, ready to jump in if needed. She covers it all, though, and I’m left eavesdropping on the back and forth between her and her boss. She pauses at the end of her recitation.
The silence on the other end of the line is deafening. I give her space to process. After all, this is a woman who was declared dead only yesterday. Coming back into the land of the living can be a treacherous endeavor.
“Can I invite myself over again?” The abrupt question clearly startles Marta but I nod, forgetting Chrissy can’t see my response.
“Absolutely,” Marta says, recovering quickly. “When would be good for you?”
“I’d like to stop by as soon as possible. If that’s okay,” she adds hastily. “Giselle, would that be all right with you? I know you’ve taken today off to be with Marta.”
“No worries,” I assure her. “I have a feeling we’ll both be back at work on Monday, so today might be the last time we have off together for a while.”
“Except when the baby gets here.” Marta jabs me in the side, and I wince. She’s got strength behind that poke. She’s already taking on the role of mama bear, protecting her cub from even imagined slights. The thought makes me wince mentally. I need to get on board.
“Yes, ma’am. Except when the baby gets here.” I make my voice quasi-contrite and Chrissy laughs, her disembodied merriment bouncing around the inside of the CRV. Marta gives me a sassy look, tossing her head.
We make it to the house and have enough time to pick up a few scattered items and plump the living room pillows before Chrissy Burton arrives in her vintage Nova. As in her previous visit, it announces her presence via a series of backfires, a modern-day herald trumpeting her arrival. I imagine Mr. Flores flicking his curtains aside to better see the action in front of my house.
“Don’t knock it,” I say as I head to the front door. “No car payment is a good thing.”
“I suppose,” Marta calls from the kitchen. She’s decided to put the French press to use instead of making individual cups of coffee with the Keurig. “Should I open a bag of cookies or something?”
“It’s up to you, love. You know me. I could eat sugar any time.” I see Chrissy’s outline through the wavy glass inset on the side of the front door and pull it open before she has a chance to ring the bell. “Welcome back,” I say, trying for a hearty tone. “Marta’s just putting the coffee on.”
We settle ourselves in the living room much as we did yesterday: Marta reclining on the couch with her feet on my lap, and Chrissy ensconced in the armchair nearest the window. I take a sip of my coffee and set it down, ready to learn whatever I can about Bev Strait and her involvement with Jinx’s brother.
“First of all, what’s the latest on Bev?” Marta typically starts conversations by asking about someone else’s health. “Any word on how long she’ll be in the hospital?”
“It’s not as bad as it looked.” Chrissy takes a tentative sip of coffee before reaching for the plate of soft-baked cookies Marta has placed nearby. “Outside of minor scrapes and bruises, the worst injury she has is a concussion, where her head hit the pavement. They say she’ll be just fine.”
“That’s good news,” I say. Both women look at me as if I’ve sprouted horns. “Well, it’s better than being, you know, dead. Right?”
“Straight to the point as always,” Marta says, but she takes the sting out of her words with her smile. “And yes, it’s definitely better than being dead. Speaking of which, is there anything else on that woman they found in the bay?” she asks Chrissy.
Our guest shakes her head. “Nothing yet. We’re waiting for the results of that DNA test.” She glances down at her feet for a moment, her bottom lip caught in her teeth. She’s clearly debating with herself. Or she has more information than she’s intimated, and she’s trying to backpedal.
“What is it?” Marta’s voice is soft and gentle, coaxing but not pushy.
“It’s the test.” Chrissy looks up and I’m curious to see that her eyes have filled with tears. “It’s not going to help, to be perfectly honest.”
Marta and I exchange a brief glance. Why wouldn’t a DNA test help? It could show the dead woman is either related or she’s not, plain and simple. And even if that’s the case, Chrissy’s family wouldn’t be the first to have skeletons in their closet. How many adults have gone through their late parents’ things only to find out that they were adopted? It’s certainly within the realm of probability if not possibility.
“Would you like to tell us about it?” Marta asks. “If not, that’s okay. But we’re here for you whenever you need to talk.”
Chrissy wipes at her streaming eyes with the backs of her hands. Taking in a deep breath that seems more like a shudder, she says, “It’s because of two things. First of all, I had a bone marrow transplant when I was eight. Childhood leukemia.”
“Chrissy! I had absolutely no idea.” Marta leans forward, and I’m irrationally scared she’ll smash the baby. “And how are you doing now, healthwise?”
Chrissy shrugs. “I’m fine. I was one of the lucky ones. We caught it early, and we had access to great medical care. To tell you the truth, I can hardly remember anything about the transplant itself.”
The three of us sit in silence for a few minutes. Chrissy’s revelation is another reminder of how little we know about the people we work with on a daily basis. It makes me wonder what I don’t know about Lou.
“You said there’s something else.” Marta’s voice invites confidences.
“Well, it’s not as earthshaking as leukemia.” Chrissy gives a short laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob. “I’m adopted.”
“That won’t affect a DNA test,” I say, ignoring the look Marta shoots in my direction. “If anything, it can help us see just how successful the transplant was.” When both women just stare at me without comment, I add, “A person’s DNA makeup is completely changed by a bone marrow transplant. The recipient takes on the markers of the donor, overriding the original DNA.”
Chrissy nods in agreement. “True, and I’d already thought of that, to be honest. I really don’t have any way to show the identity of my birth parents and who might be a relative or not. I mean, I have no idea how many children my birth mother had.”
“Wouldn’t the agency have a record of who gave you up for adoption? Most reputable agencies keep fairly complete records. You’d need a court order to get at them, of course, but they should be there.” Marta looks from Chrissy to me. I nod.
“There’s still the weird thing about her name,” I remind them. “What’re the odds that both of you, especially if you turn out to be related, would have the exact same name?” I look at Chrissy, more to register her response than anything else.
“How did the officers identify her? Did they tell you? Or show you her ID?”
Judging by the expression on Chrissy’s face, Marta has just hit on an aspect that she’s not thought about.
“I have no idea,” she says. “Do you think we should ask about that?”
I notice the use of an inclusive pronoun. Has this become a “we” situation without me being aware of it?
Marta reacts emphatically. “Absolutely. If I were you, I’d wonder about the type of identification they had on her. Was it a driver’s license? An insurance ID card?” She looks at me for confirmation. I lift my chin at her, wordlessly telling her to continue. “They obviously had something that made them think they had a deceased woman named Chrissy Burton.”
