A Fatal Twist

by Tracy Weber

  Rene’s voice startled me back into the conversation. “Earth to Kate. Are you with us?”

  “Sorry. I spaced out for a second.”

  “I asked you what time it is.”

  I glanced at my watch. “Twelve-forty.”

  Rene jabbed Sam in the ribs with her index finger. “See? Told you so. Our tour doesn’t start for another twenty minutes. You have plenty of time. ”

  “Time for what?” I asked.

  “To call work. I forgot to tell Sam that his secretary called this morning.” She waved her hand through the air. “Pregnancy brain. I can’t remember squat.”

  Sam looked dubious. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait until Monday.”

  Rene shrugged. “Your funeral. You know how cranky Peggy gets when you ignore her phone calls … ” She turned her back to him and winked at me. “So, Kate, while we’re waiting, I have a question about those pelvic floor exercises you gave me. How firmly am I supposed to contract my vagi—”

  “Cripes, Rene!” Sam covered his ears with his hands. “All right already. You win. I’m going.” He tromped halfway to the door, then stopped and gave her a stern look. “You’d better not be up to something.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll be right here when you get back.” Rene’s plastic smile remained firmly in place until Sam disappeared around the corner. The moment his rear was no longer in view, her head whipped back toward me.

  “I can’t believe he fell for it. We don’t have much time. Go grab me a piece of cake.” She held her hands three feet apart. “A big one.”

  “No way, Rene.” I narrowed my eyes and frowned. “Did Sam’s secretary even call?”

  “Of course she did.” Rene’s voice softened. “Though it might have been last week … ”

  “Forget it. I am not your sugar mule. You already had one piece of cake. If you want to gorge yourself into gestational diabetes, you’ll have to get off your butt and grab another one yourself.”

  “Puh-lease. The pieces they cut were tiny. The twins barely got a taste. I’ve already been on my feet too much today.” She pointed at her ankles, which bulged over her Skechers like skin-colored water balloons. “Look at the size of these things. If I don’t keep them elevated, I’ll fill up with so much water, the twins will drown.”

  “If you’re that desperate for sugar, eat the peanut butter cups I gave you.”

  “I’m saving those for an emergency. Come on, Kate. You know my cells are glued together by white flour and sugar. If I don’t get enough junk food, I’ll die of good nutrition.” Her face assumed Bella’s wide-eyed, I’m-about-to-die-of-starvation expression. The only things missing were a long line of drool and a demand bark.

  Ugh.

  It worked every time.

  Part of me agreed with her, anyway. I wasn’t sure if it was because of Sam’s militant diet or in spite of it, but Rene had gained extraordinarily little weight during her pregnancy. She claimed that her belly was the size of a small towing barge, but the rest of her body was still a highly toned size four. An extra slice of cake might live forever on my hips, but it wouldn’t last a millisecond on hers.

  “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I left my drooling friend behind and wove through the crowd toward the remaining two-and-a-half layers of white-frosted chocolate dessert. A ceramic stork stood on the cake’s top. Pink and blue edible ribbons decorated its sides. I carefully balanced three pieces of cake—two for Rene and one for me—in my right hand, grabbed two glasses of sparkling cider with my left, and worked my way back to my friend.

  Rene pulled her feet off the chair and furtively glanced toward the hall. “It’s about time you got back. I was ready to pass out from low blood sug—” She froze. “Oh no. Watch out, Kate! Incoming!”

  Sam yelled from across the room. “I knew it!” He lowered his head and charged, like a bull charging a cake-wielding matador.

  Several things happened in horrifyingly inevitable slow motion. Rene defied all laws of gravity and leaped to her feet. She dove for the cake, on my right. Sam swatted it away from her, on my left. I tried to dodge both of them, catching my foot on a chair leg in the process. Three pieces of cake, twelve ounces of glorified apple juice, and the metal back of a folding chair collided as one with my chest. At the end of the train wreck, pink, white, and baby-blue frosting coated my breasts like a faded flag from last year’s Fourth of July.

  Rene took a step back and cringed. “Uh oh.”

  Sam stepped forward and reached for a napkin. “I’m so sorry, Kate.”

  I stood my ground and glared at them both.

  I silently begged myself not to react. As a yoga teacher, I was supposed to be above petty outbursts of anger. Besides, I’d been working on controlling my Mount St. Helens like temper for months with surprising success.

  Until now.

  Frustrated irritation zapped down my spine and exploded my eardrums. My face burned so hot I was surprised my eyelashes didn’t ignite. I scraped smashed chocolate cake from between my breasts and slammed the now-empty dishes onto Rene’s chair.

  “That’s it. I’ve had enough for one day. I didn’t sign up to be the human punching bag in your stupid food fights. Call me after you two work out your marital problems. I’m out of here.”

  I marched three steps away, then turned back, snatched Rene’s purse off the floor, and rummaged through it until I found the peanut butter cups. I waved them through the air like a dark chocolate victory flag. “And I’m taking these with me!”

  Rene’s voice quavered behind me. “Kate?”

  I whipped around and growled in response. “What now?”

  “The tour starts in ten minutes.”

  I glowered at my two friends, wishing Bella were with me so she could bite them both. I wanted to be a better person, but this was ridiculous. I was a yoga teacher, not a saint. The impassioned pleas of Patanjali, Gandhi, and Buddha combined wouldn’t have stopped me from marching out of that room. Michael might even have taken my side.

  But the thought of missing out on an important part of Rene’s birth experience glued my feet to the ground. Either that or my shoes were trapped by three layers of frosting.

  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and replied through clenched teeth. “I’ll be back.”

  I didn’t inhale again until I reached the hallway, afraid that if my mouth opened wide enough to oxygenate my lungs, my tongue would spew out words I’d forever regret. Once Rene and Sam were out of verbal striking range, I consciously relaxed my jaw and tried to unclench my teeth. I would have plenty of time to tongue lash my friends later. Right now, I needed to wash away my frustration. Literally.

  I glanced around, trying to get my bearings in the still-unfamiliar space. The hallway’s pink and blue arrows—annoyingly similar to the frosting ribbons decorating my chest—seemed to mock me, pointing to every location except the one I needed: the public restroom.

  I considered sneaking into one of the delivery suite bathrooms, but somehow that seemed sacrilegious. The women who christened those facilities should be trying to push out a baby. I wasted one of my precious ten minutes scanning the hallway, then I opted to head for the familiar: the perinatal unit. I crossed the sky bridge to the older building and beelined it to the employee break room. I wasn’t scheduled to teach today, so, strictly speaking, I wasn’t supposed to be in the employees-only area. Hopefully drowning in frosting would earn me emergency dispensation.

  Now that I’d seen the new birthing center, the older building seemed institutionally stark. Bright white paint, echoing hallways. Astringent, hospital smell. Thankfully, Rene’s girls would meet the world in much more welcoming surroundings.

  I reached for the break room door the same time it opened. Rachel and I collided; her purse crashed to the ground. Smudges of blue frosting transferred from my chest to hers.

 
; “Oh no! I’m so sorry, Rachel.” I reached down to pick up her shoulder bag, but she snatched it away. Her face matched the hallway’s ultra-white, ultra-glossy walls.

  She glanced over her shoulder as if afraid someone was chasing her. “Don’t worry about it.”

  I reached out to squeeze her arm. “I saw what happened with your husband. If you need to talk, I—”

  “Not now, Kate,” she snapped. “I can’t do this now.” She raced down the hall toward the exit sign.

  I stared after her, torn between incompatible priorities.

  Should I follow her?

  Rachel was my student, and she was upset. I wanted to help her.

  I needed to get back to Sam and Rene.

  Rene’s pleading voice ticked down the time in my head.

  Only five minutes left.

  I’d call Rachel later this afternoon. Rene and Sam were my priorities now.

  I scooted into the break room, wetted a handful of paper towels, and scrubbed futilely at my chest. After two minutes of intense effort, I’d successfully turned the front of my shirt into a wet, sticky, pastel-smear painting. The staff cake on the counter mocked me like a buttercream terrorist. Same pink and blue ribbons as the cake at the party. Same smart-assed stork, this time molded from frosting. I didn’t see a knife on the counter to stab it to death, so I satisfied my bloodlust by breaking off the stork’s head and eating it.

  I tossed the paper towels in the garbage. “This is useless.”

  I’d need a new outfit, a huge glass of wine, and at least three hours of browbeating Rene to overcome my foul mood.

  I had three minutes.

  I settled for emptying my aching bladder instead. I trudged toward the women’s bathroom, barely noticing the dark smudge on the floor. I certainly didn’t stop to consider what the inch-long burgundy smear might imply.

  I flung open the door and froze, unable to process the scene in front of me. An inane thought flew through my mind:

  What’s a man doing in the women’s restroom?

  He lay on the floor, glasses askew, body crumpled in a twisted jumble of arms, legs, and bodily fluids. It didn’t even occur to me—at least not at first—that I might be able to help him. All I could think about was my friend.

  Oh Rachel, no …

  Had she been running from this?

  My father’s admonishing voice jolted me into action:

  Don’t just stand there, Kate. He might still be alive!

  I ran to Dr. Dick’s body, rolled him onto his back, and screamed. The bloody handle of the missing cake knife protruded from beneath his rib cage.

  There’s a plus side to finding a body in a hospital. When you yell for help, it arrives quickly. Within seconds, a crowd of white-coated and blue-scrubbed professionals had lifted Dr. Dick onto a gurney and whisked him away, presumably to try to save him. I was no doctor; I was certainly no psychic. But after staring into those lifeless blue eyes, I had a hard time believing there was still hope.

  Hospital security arrived a few moments later and asked me to wait for the police in a nearby conference room. I called Rene’s cell phone to tell her what had happened, but the call went directly to voicemail. She and Sam must have gone on the tour without me. Guilt-induced tears threatened my eyes. What if Rene thought I’d actually deserted her? Hair-trigger temper notwithstanding, I would always have Rene’s back. She knew that, right?

  The tears stopped threatening and spilled down my cheeks. This couldn’t be happening to me again, not if the universe was the slightest bit fair. The third—obviously murdered—body I’d found in less than two years? Fourth, if you counted the one I’d seen the police drag out of Green Lake. I had no idea what sins I’d committed in my past lives, but they must have been despicable. This was some seriously, ugly, god-awful bad karma.

  Dad’s voice echoed inside my head. Stop being so melodramatic, Katie Girl. You think you had a bad day? Dr. Dick’s day was worse.

  I mentally rolled my eyes, but the tears stopped flowing. Three years after his death, Dad’s no-nonsense, no-self-pity-allowed chastising still kicked me out of a stupor. He was right. This wasn’t like the other times I’d stumbled across death. All things considered, I was lucky. The victim wasn’t a friend this time. He was barely an acquaintance. The police would have no reason to suspect me. They wouldn’t arrest one of my family members, either. For once, I could give the police my statement and walk away, guilt-free.

  My stomach constricted. Unless they suspect Rachel.

  My statement would point the police straight to her. Not only had I seen her run from the crime scene, I’d heard her threaten the victim.

  Deep in my core, I knew Rachel hadn’t killed her husband. As a nurse, she’d devoted her entire professional life to healing. Nurses might not take the Hippocratic Oath, but they worked forty-plus hours a week easing the suffering of others. How could they not buy into the precept of “doing no harm”?

  More than that, the Rachel I knew wasn’t violent. Frustrated with her teenage daughter? Yes. Angry about being cheated on? Definitely. Filled with enough rage to plunge a knife handle-deep into her husband’s torso?

  Not a chance.

  Unfortunately, the police would never buy that logic.

  I was too agitated to sit, so I began pacing. Could I withhold what I knew from the police? Rachel’s mumbled threat meant nothing. If every idle threat led to murder, the human race would have died out with the dodo bird. Besides, if I saw some woman’s hands idling near Michael’s privates, I’d mutter a few choice words myself.

  Rachel’s flight from the scene didn’t convince me of her guilt, either. I knew from experience that being discovered near a body didn’t make you the killer.

  It did, however, make you a pretty darned good murder suspect.

  My heart thudded heavily against my rib cage. I felt like a goldfish trapped in a blender. I hadn’t started giving my statement yet, and I already felt like a traitor. I might be able to justify not volunteering information, but I could never lie to the cops. It would go against everything Dad had ever taught me.

  I glanced around the empty room, searching for an escape route—hopefully one that would lead to the truth. Nothing but a sealed fourth-story window and a solid wood door with a hospital security guard standing on the other side.

  Panicking wasn’t working, so my stressed-out mind switched to denial. Maybe I was freaking out over nothing. Dr. Dick hadn’t been breathing, but I didn’t see all that much blood, either. A half-dozen medical professionals had scurried him out of the room for reason. Maybe he wasn’t beyond hope after all. Maybe he’d wake up, apologize to Rachel for being a cad, and identify his true attacker. Maybe we could put this whole nightmare to rest.

  And maybe Rene would sign up for a thirty-day smoothie fast.

  I stopped pacing and thumped down in a chair, still desperately clinging to denial. Maybe my testimony wouldn’t matter. The blood-coated knife might be covered in the true murderer’s fingerprints. And what about that burgundy stain? The small amount of blood inside the bathroom had been soaked into Dr. Dick’s shirt and pooled under his body. Maybe the smear on the break room floor came from the murderer. Maybe it contained her—or better yet, his—DNA.

  I continued my self-delusional pep talk for a good forty minutes before I heard a knock on the door. A female uniformed officer greeted me.

  “Ms. Davidson? The detectives are ready to speak with you now.”

  I followed her down the hallway to a small office, took one look at the man seated behind the desk, and groaned.

  “Well, well, well. So we meet again.” Detective Henderson gave his partner, Detective Martinez, a knowing look and then stood and marched toward me. When he stopped, his substantial belly was three inches from mine. “You certainly have a habit of getting yourself mixed up in trouble, don’t you?” He crossed
his arms and smirked. “At least this time you didn’t throw up all over my crime scene.”

  I might not have vomited yet, but if he came much closer, all bets were off. Henderson’s gristly beard brought back PTSD-like feelings of fear, revulsion, and dread. Especially dread. If I was being questioned by Henderson and Martinez—the homicide detectives who’d investigated my friend George’s murder—Dr. Dick was dead. So were my hopes of a happy ending for Rachel.

  I took several steps back.

  Henderson pointed at the frosting still decorating my chest. “Looks like your shirt wasn’t so lucky.”

  “That’s not vomit, it’s … Oh, never mind.”

  Detective Martinez intervened. “Cut her some slack, Henderson. You know this isn’t her fault.” Pretty, petite, with dark brown eyes and medium-length hair, Martinez was the natural good cop to Detective Henderson’s bad one. She’d been an ally of sorts when I investigated my friend George’s death. At least until I’d screwed up and accused her of not doing her job.

  Hopefully she’d forgotten that part.

  She nodded my direction. “Sorry to see you under these circumstances again, Kate.”

  I suspected I wouldn’t like the answer, but I asked the question anyway, hoping—praying—that the day’s story would have a surprise ending.

  “The man I found … Dr. Jones … is … is he dead?”

  “I’m sorry, Kate,” she replied. “Yes.”

  Henderson returned to the desk and pulled out a notebook. “You called the victim by name. Dr. Jones. That mean you knew him?”

  Here we go, Kate. Watch what you say …

  “No … Yes … I mean … ” I shook my head, trying to clear the fog enveloping my brain. “I mean no, not really. I knew who he was and I’d seen him around a couple of times, but I didn’t know him.”