by Ellie Hart
“Who just happened to be living at the same address as the live woman,” I say, thinking aloud. “Why didn’t this occur to us sooner? It’s obvious, now that we’re talking about it.”
“What’s obvious?” Marta sounds a bit snappish, a sure sign she’s beginning to tire. I ignore her, concentrating on my current train of thought.
“No, seriously. Think about it. What’re the odds she’d share your name and your address? About zero to a zillion. I think she was carrying something of yours, Chrissy. Something with a picture. That alone would make them sure they’d gotten the right identification.”
“Especially if she looked something like me.” Chrissy sits up straighter, dried tears still on her face. “Do you think I should call the officer who came to my house?”
“Without a doubt. And the sooner the better. I think she needs to be ID’d, and then we can decide what to do.”
“Gij, if you don’t mind me saying so, I think we’ve missed another link in the chain.”
Marta’s demeanor is calm, her voice still serene, but I can see the beginnings of dark smudges under her eyes. She’s overdone it.
“Is this something that can wait?” I lean over and take her hands in mine. “You’re looking kinda tired, love.”
“It can probably wait, but I want to tell you before I forget. Pregnancy brain,” she says with a laugh, touching the side of her head. “I feel like I’m losing my mind some days. Gij, remember what Jinx told us about his brother and the bone marrow donation? I know it’s a tenuous link, but with Chrissy being a transplant recipient and Bev hanging out with someone who’s obviously selling his bone marrow, I can’t help thinking there has to be a connection somewhere.”
I shake my head in confusion, trying to follow her convoluted reasoning. “I think we should talk about this tomorrow,” I say, inching out from under her feet and standing up. “And Chrissy needs to call to find out about the identification. Sorry to cut this short,” I say to Chrissy. “Marta needs to get in bed and rest, and I want to make a few notes about the things we’ve learned and heard. And seen,” I add, thinking about Bev and the accident at the Vineyard.
“I’ll go lie down,” Marta says, “but I want your promise you’ll come and tell me right away if you think of anything important. Scout’s honor?”
I laugh and extend a pinkie. “Even better, love. Let’s pinkie swear.”
Judging by the expression on her face, Chrissy must think we’re half crazy. I beg to differ. Life with Marta is either all or nothing. And I happen to love living this crazy life with her.
Chapter Six
With Chrissy gone and Marta tucked up in bed, I pour myself a glass of Cabernet and stretch out on the sofa, extending my legs and resting my back against its gracefully curled arm. I can even see Marta’s touch there. She’d insisted on extra padding, pooh-poohing the threat of a “lumpy presentation” by the snooty upholsterer. The look of chagrin on the man’s face when the sofa was delivered was payment enough for my sassy partner. She’d been right. As usual.
I dug out a spiral notebook from under a stack of baby magazines Marta has collected at every doctor’s visit. It’s partially filled with ideas for baby names, color choices for the room we’ve designated as the nursery, and lines from poems and songs she wants to stencil on the walls. Careful not to disturb Marta’s writing, I turn to the back of the notebook and begin my own list.
First, there is the dead woman herself. How did she end up in the bay? Suicide? I make a note, adding a series of question marks after the words. Of course, it could also be an accident. Or murder. I add both.
And then there’s her name. Of course, this woman might truly have the name Chrissy Burton. Marta’s boss does not have a monopoly on it. I’m sure other Giselle Cutlers are out there as well. It’s hard to believe there is another Marta Perry, though. She’s one of a kind.
The address is the stumper. I can’t explain how or why the officers would even have the exact address at which the live Chrissy resides. I’m not an expert on law enforcement, but they had to have gotten the address from a source they felt certain about. Otherwise, I can only imagine the mix-ups that might occur, the incorrect death notices given. More question marks, underlined.
And then there’s the entire sideshow with Bev and Jinx’s brother. I’m not sure what else to call it. I’m still processing the series of coincidences that have happened up to this point. I sit for a few minutes, pen hanging loosely from my fingers as I go back over the past thirty-six hours. It almost makes Marta’s suggestion of the universe’s intervention seem sensible.
When my cell phone begins to sing, I start from my reverie.
“Giselle Cutler,” I say, fully expecting to hear Lou’s voice on the other end.
“It’s Don, San Leandro Times.”
Crap. I’ve completely forgotten his promise to call me back.
“Sorry I couldn’t talk earlier, Don. I’ve been a little preoccupied.” Here’s a resource that might help me, right at my fingertips. Taking in a deep breath, I say, “Are you available to meet?”
“Sure.” His prompt response gives me pause, but only for a second. He’s probably viewing me as a resource as well. “Just give me the when and where, and I’ll be there.”
I hesitate inviting him to the house, but he’s already been here. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“How far away are you from my house?”
“Just down the block.” I shouldn’t be surprised.
“Well, come on over. I’ll get the coffee going.”
Don Butler is as slight and wiry as I remember, built like a terrier with a nose for news. His eyes meet mine with a ferocity that belies his size, and I can imagine him playing David to society’s Goliath without any problem. He’ll tackle any topic, any time, no worries.
“Nice digs.” He pauses in the doorway to the kitchen and looks around, taking in the stainless steel and granite splendor. I am inordinately proud of it, considering it’s not even my comfort zone.
“Cream and sugar?” I carry two full mugs to the table in an alcove overlooking the front yard.
“Just black,” he says, reaching for one of the mugs and taking a tentative sip. “Ah, that’s good stuff.” He grins up at me, his face transformed into that of a mischievous boy who’s managed to find the hidden cookies. “You can’t imagine the shit that passes for coffee at the newspaper.”
“Trust me, I can,” I say as I drop into a chair opposite him. “Marta’s office has the most God-awful brew. She refuses to drink it, says it’ll eat the lining out of any self-respecting stomach.” She’s got her own Keurig sitting in her cubicle, making her the most popular girl on the playground right around two o’clock every afternoon.
We sip in silence for a moment, and I strain to hear any sound from upstairs. Marta needs her rest today, especially if she’s going back to work on Monday. Finally, Don puts his mug down and stretches his legs, his knees popping with a sharp crack.
“If that doesn’t tell you how old I am,…” He grimaces, reaching down to rub at the offending joints. “When I think of how many miles I must have walked just to get a story.”
“Kinda makes the pet care business seem tame.” Of course, I face other issues like nips from frightened dogs or a face full of claws when a cat doesn’t want to cooperate. “I’m guessing you’re not here to discuss the perils of the working world, though.”
“True.” He stares directly at me, and I can only imagine being on the interviewee’s hot seat. “So, tell me what you know about the kerfuffle with Chrissy Burton.”
“As you probably already know, Chrissy Burton, an office supervisor at Alameda County Social Services, is alive and well. Unfortunately, she shares a name with the dead woman.”
“As well as an address? Come on, Dr. Cutler. Doesn’t that seem a tad far-fetched to you?”
“Absolutely,” I say, leaning forward, my voice earnest. “And that’s why you’re the perfect person to help me figure out
exactly what’s going on.”
His expression is almost comic: eyes opened as wide as they’ll go, mouth agape, neck jutting forward like a bantam rooster defending his territory. I have to push the visual aside so I don’t laugh.
“Are you serious or just pullin’ my chain?” He leans back and folds his arms across his chest, a mute display of protection. So much for the legendary newsman who lives to ferret out a juicy story.
“Oh, she’s serious.”
We both turn to see Marta leaning against the doorway with a grin on her face. She’s remembered to pull a robe over her sleepwear this time. Still, her ability to materialize silently makes me think she’s developed a new talent along with the pregnancy. It’ll come in handy when we have a teenager in the house, but for now it’s rather disconcerting.
“Are you sure you should be out of bed?” I have to consciously keep the querulous tone tamped down, not wanting to sound like a spoiled child whose plans have been disrupted. I’m just worried about her health, making me appear snappish.
“I’m fine,” she says, coming around the table to drop a kiss on my head before sitting down. “Is there any more of that?” She looks pointedly at my coffee mug.
“I take it congratulations are in order.” Don raises his coffee in a salute. “I never had the privilege myself, so I admire those who do.”
“You’d have been in the Guinness Book of World Records if you had,” I can’t resist saying as I make a cup of decaf. His laughter eases the remaining tension from the room. Marta just shakes her head at my bad joke as I hand her a brimming mug and plant my own kiss on her tousled hair.
“Is this a private counsel of war, or can anyone join?” Marta watches me over the rim of her coffee mug.
“Anyone can join, but first you need to be sworn to secrecy.” I draw my forefinger across my throat. “What’s said at the table stays at this table. Unless, of course, we need to tell the police.”
“Speaking of, has your boss heard anything else from them concerning the woman’s true identity?” Don says. He watches Marta, his face expressionless. He’s baiting the trap, I think, and then wonder where that thought came from. He’s either here to help, or he’s out on his butt.
“Well, we went with her to do a DNA test yesterday.” Marta offers after a brief glance in my direction. “She doesn’t think it will do any good, though.”
I instantly know where she’s going with that last comment. “Marta, I don’t think it’s ours to tell.” And I’m not sure it’s a good idea to tell a journalist about Chrissy’s private history.
“At this point, she needs all the help she can get, and her story is part of it, don’t you think?”
I hesitate before lifting one shoulder in a small shrug. “I guess. You know her better than I do.”
“That I do.” Marta looks directly at Don, squaring her shoulders as though facing a challenge. “Chrissy told us a couple of things about herself that might have something to do with the ID mix-up. First of all, she was adopted as a baby and has no idea about her birth mother, how many siblings she might have, nothing.”
Don reaches for his pocket and then hesitates. “Is it okay if I record this conversation?”
“No,” Marta and I say in concert, our voices raised.
“All right, all right.” Don raises his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t jump down my throat and stomp on my liver.”
“Well, that’s a new one,” I say. “From the South, are we?”
Don grins, emphasizing the lines at the corners of his eyes. “I’m what you might call a first-generation Yankee. My entire family is from either Louisiana or Mississippi, and I grew up in a typical Southern home, only it was here in California.”
“Back to Chrissy.” Once Marta’s focused, she isn’t a fan of tangents. “She also had health issues when she about seven or eight, which led to a bone marrow transplant. So, according to the good doctor here,” she says with a wink in my direction, “her DNA won’t be what she was born with.”
“It’s because the—” Marta waves away the rest of my commentary.
“We get it, we get it, love. And I’m sure Don knows about things like that as well. Right?” This last question is aimed at our guest, who nods. “See?”
“Whatever,” I mutter as I take a sip from my cooling coffee. “See if I help you with your science homework anymore.” Marta sticks out her tongue.
Judging by the raised eyebrows on Don’s face, he must think we’re crazy. We are. It helps keep us balanced.
“I think we need to begin at the beginning,” Don says. He leans forward, hands clasped in front of him on the table. “From where I stand, I see two pathways we need to go down—your boss’s birth family and how in the hell the police thought the dead gal lived with your boss.”
Brilliant. I’d already figured that one out on my own. I have to remind myself he has much better resources than I do, though. It wouldn’t do to isolate him at this point.
“Can you do some digging and find out who her parents were? Or at least her mom?” Marta’s face is anxious. I know she might be at loggerheads with Chrissy at work, but she doesn’t want to see anyone get hurt.
“Piece of cake.” Don sounds confident, leaving me wondering just how private our private lives are. Still, it’s a necessary evil at this point, if only to help Chrissy Burton figure out if she has any connection to the dead woman.
“If you do that, Giselle and I can make a few phone calls today and see if we can figure out how the whole address thing happened.” Marta, I can see, has gone into planner mode.
“I’m pretty sure we don’t have the authority to do that, love.” I’m playing the role of wet blanket today, but Marta waves me off with a toss of her dark head.
“Oh, come on! It’ll be fun playing detective.” She looks at Don. “Can’t the public ask them how they got their information?”
“Nope.” His answer is cut and dried, and Marta almost droops in disappointment. “That’s going to be part of the police report, and if it’s not available because of an ongoing investigation, only journalists can request it. And that might not even work if they don’t want to share at the moment,” he says with a shrug.
The three of us sit in silence for a moment, each recalibrating our thoughts. Finally I stir and say, “Can’t Chrissy ask? I mean, it’s her house they came to. Shouldn’t she at least be able to find out how they got her address?”
This is beginning to feel like a hamster wheel: around and around we go, the same questions appearing after each new revolution. We are back at question one. The only thing we’ve accomplished is to make coffee for a nosy journalist.
“Look, I’ve got a few contacts in the SLPD. Let me reach out and see what they have to say, okay?” Don takes the final sip of coffee, tilting his head back to get the last drop. “Man, we need this shit at the office. I could kill for a decent cup of coffee when I’m working.”
“It’s because you still use a communal pot,” says Marta smugly, glancing over at our Keurig. “Get yourself a single server like I did. It’s amazing what it can do.”
Don snorts, standing up and carrying his empty mug over to the deep stainless steel sink. “Yeah, and as soon as my back’s turned, some other reporter will confiscate it and claim it’s his.” He shakes his head in disgust. “I’ll just keep stopping at Circle K every morning. At least their coffee’s fresh.”
He leaves with the promise to call as soon as he knows something. I’m skeptical. A newspaper writer probably wouldn’t take time for a debriefing in the middle of the hunt. Marta, on the other hand, has more faith in the human animal than I do.
“Next time he drops by, we need to feed the man. He looks positively starved.”
It’s my turn to snort.
“He lives on cigarettes and coffee, love. Didn’t you see him light it up as soon as he got back in that rattletrap of a van?”
I actually do his vehicle a disservice by calling it names. It’s a classic, or soon
will be, and he’s obviously put some time and care into maintaining it. I remembered how my sister and I would play “slug bug,” punching each other in the shoulder whenever we saw a Volkswagen Beetle. When we spotted a Volkswagen van, though, we yelled “Twinkie!” and got to hit each other twice—and twice as hard. My mom hated it.
I tuck that memory away for later. I’ll need to teach our child how to play. In the meantime, I need to focus on Marta. And murder. You know, just a typical day, dabbling in mayhem and hoping to make sense out of tragedy. That’s beginning to feel like the modus operandi in our house.
With a fleeting thought for my sister, I follow my partner back inside, closing the door between us and the outside world.
Chapter Seven
The cacophony of barking and hissing is almost music to my ears. I’m back in the saddle, taking my turn at the monthly free veterinarian clinic Lou and I started a few years back. Our clients are mostly pets of the homeless population, although a few belong to families whose budget doesn’t run to pet care.
I’m examining the ears of an indignant Siamese cat when I happen to glance up and spot the young man from the accident at the Vineyard. He is standing in line, cuddling a Yorkshire puppy in his arms, his eyes half closed as he nuzzles its soft fur. He’s standing just behind a young girl and her mom, each of them holding a ferret. My heart picks up the pace a bit. I fully intend to use this opportunity to question him about Bev.
After diagnosing ear mites in the Siamese and giving the owner a handful of medicine samples, I send the ferrets over to my intern. The young man is standing right in front of me, his arms full of wriggling puppy. I listen as he explains the reason for coming here today, then I begin to examine the Yorkie.
“He’s been like this since last week, and I’m starting to get worried. I mean, he always eats his food, so that’s not the issue, but his stomach is always, I don’t know, distended afterward.” He’s staring down anxiously at his pet, watching me as I gently prod the animal’s sides and belly. I’ve already got an idea of the problem.
