by Tracy Weber
“So you’d never met him?” Martinez asked.
“I didn’t say that. We … we might have been introduced once, but … ” My voice trailed off. Why was I stammering so much? They hadn’t even asked me about Rachel yet and I already sounded like I was lying.
Henderson tapped his pen on the notebook and peered at me through suspicious eyes. I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t have trusted me either.
Martinez gave him a let-me-handle-this look.
“Take your time, Kate. You’re among friends. Tell us what happened.”
And so I did.
I told them everything. The fact that the murder victim was Rachel’s husband, that he was cheating on her, and that I suspected she knew about the affair. No matter how hard I tried to avoid volunteering information, Martinez and Henderson wiggled it out of me. They asked all the right questions, in exactly the right order. I shouldn’t have been surprised. They were, after all, trained police detectives. In spite of my frustrations with them after George’s death, they weren’t exactly incompetent. They even managed to get me to admit that I’d seen Rachel run away from the break room shortly before I stumbled upon Dr. Dick’s body.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I assured them. “I didn’t actually see her with the body, and I have no idea how long it was in the bathroom. He could have been there for up to a half hour.”
Henderson peered at me over his notes. “That’s pretty specific. What makes you think a half hour?”
“It couldn’t have been much longer than that. I saw him around twelve-thirty at the reception. My point is, I never saw Rachel with the body. When I went into the break room, the door to the women’s restroom was closed. For all I know, Rachel ducked into the break room to grab a piece of cake.”
“And ran out of the room crying?” Martinez’s voice was kind, but her implication was clear.
“I know it looks bad, but I also know Rachel. She would never hurt anyone. Someone else is the killer.” I doubted it would help, but I reminded them anyway. “You didn’t believe me about George’s murder, and I was right then.”
Henderson closed his notebook and thunked the pen solidly on top of it. “I’ll say this for you, Ms. Davidson. You’re loyal.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Somehow I doubt your friend Rachel’s story is going to be nearly as convincing. If we ever hear it, that is.”
I sat up straight, surprised. “Wait a minute. You haven’t spoken with Rachel yet?”
“Nope.” Henderson scowled. “We haven’t been able to find her. She disappeared right about the time you found the body.”
My stomach dropped to my toes. “Does she know that her husband is dead?”
The two detectives shared a knowing look, but otherwise ignored my question.
Martinez handed me a business card. “Thanks for your cooperation, Kate. We’ll likely have more questions for you later. In the meantime, if you think of anything else, please give me a call.”
She stood and walked me to the door, signaling the end of our discussion.
I hesitated in the doorway and said the words again, as if a mantra-like repetition would make them more convincing. “I mean it. Rachel is not your killer.”
Martinez’s eyes remained serious. “We’ll look at all the evidence, Kate. I promise.”
“Of course we will.” Henderson’s gruff reply sounded insulted. “That’s our job. We follow the evidence trail.” He mumbled under his breath as the door closed between us. “And ninety percent of the time, that trail leads right to the spouse.”
Seven
The uniformed officer escorted me from the interview room to one of the hospital’s waiting areas, where Sam and Rene were—appropriately enough—waiting for me. One glimpse of Rene’s concerned expression and I burst into tears.
“I’m sorry, you guys. I didn’t mean to stand you up.”
Rene wrapped me in the deepest hug her three-person body could accommodate. “Of course you didn’t, sweetie. We knew that.”
“I found another body.”
“They told us,” she replied. “It sucks, big time.” Accurate, if a bit of an understatement.
“Are you okay?” Sam asked.
“Not now, but I will be. Can we get out of here? I want to go home.”
Rene and Sam peppered me with questions all the way to the parking garage. After receiving a half-dozen monosyllabic replies, they took the hint and remained uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the drive home. I felt bad for shutting them out, but I couldn’t focus well enough to make conversation. My brain had been shocked into traumatized, numb mush.
The three neurons still firing tortured me with a relentless litany of questions. If Rachel hadn’t killed her husband, obviously someone else had. The “how” was obvious. But who did it, and why? Would Rachel ever forgive me for talking to the police? What would happen to Nicole if Rachel was arrested? And the question that yelled at me the loudest: how could I put the brakes on this freight train before Rachel and Nicole both got dragged underneath it?
I’d start by making two phone calls. One to Dale Evans, my friend and defense attorney from Orcas Island, and another to John O’Connell, my father’s old partner at the Seattle Police Department.
Then I had to figure out what to tell Michael.
Selfishly, I hoped Michael wouldn’t be home when I arrived. I’d tell him about finding Dr. Dick’s body eventually; I’d rather teach Hot Yoga in Hades than deceive him. But I wanted to get advice from Dale and John first.
Sam’s Camaro had barely come to a stop in his driveway when I flung open the door. “I’ll talk to you guys later, I promise. I have to go now.”
Fifteen minutes later, I parked in my own driveway—right next to Michael’s Explorer. I considered driving to Green Lake to call Dale and John on my cell, but I was too tired to keep running.
Bella greeted me at the gate, which should have been my first clue that something was wrong.
I reached down and scratched her neck. “Why are you out in the yard all by yourself?”
She followed me into the kitchen, where we were greeted by a cacophony of loud crashes, high-pitched screams, and vicious, flesh-ripping growls. I couldn’t be positive, but I was pretty sure the screams came from Mutt. The growls were one hundred percent Michael.
“What’s got Michael so worked up?”
Bella didn’t speak English, but I wouldn’t have heard her reply anyway. Michael’s swearing obliterated all sound within a five-hundred-foot radius. She tucked her tail between her legs, cowered behind my knees, and whined.
I didn’t blame her.
I could count on one hand the number of times my normally sweet-natured boyfriend had yelled, and each of those times he’d been angry with me. Usually because I’d gotten involved in a murder investigation.
Fabulous.
I kneeled next to Bella and rubbed her ears. “It’s all right, sweetie. If Michael doesn’t calm down soon, I’ll get him a muzzle.” I opened the kitchen door again and Bella scampered outside to safety. I considered grabbing a frying pan to use as a weapon but decided it might be overkill. Instead, I steeled my shoulders, yelled “Honey, I’m home!” in my happiest voice, and walked into the living room.
To Defcon Puppy.
Michael stood bent over, using a terry towel to wipe something brown, soft, and decidedly smelly from the bottom of his bare foot. A considerable collection of his belongings—which normally lived in disorganized harmony on top of the end table—were scattered all over the floor. My three couch pillows lay in ruins among them. One had a large wet spot that looked suspiciously like something that had come out of the wrong end of a puppy. The second and third may have been soiled, too, but we’d never know unless we found and assembled their assorted pieces. White fluffy stuffing floated around the room in air-conditioned bliss. Several wispy pieces
found respite in Michael’s curly, dark hair.
Mutt and Jeff, for their parts, pawed at the edge of their ex-pen, screaming as if Michael had trapped them inside to gas them. From the look on his face, they might well have been right.
“What happened?” I asked.
Michael threw the soiled towel on the floor and picked up another, which he used to scrub at the carpet. “You were late, that’s what happened. You promised to be home no later than two so I could give Tiffany the rest of the afternoon off.”
I glanced at my watch. Almost six-thirty.
I would have told him that stumbling over a dead body makes you lose track of time, but I didn’t think now was the time to talk about murder. He was too close to committing it himself.
“I’m so sorry, Michael. The afternoon took a different turn than I’d hoped.”
He ignored my apology and continued grumbling. “I waited until three, then I went to Pete’s Pets without you here.” He gestured around the room. “I came back ten minutes ago to this.”
“Why didn’t you take the dogs with you?”
He shook his head so violently I was surprised his neck didn’t snap. “Absolutely not. Not until they’ve had their shots. Do you want them to get sick?”
“Of course not. But honey, we agreed that the puppies are too young to have full run of the house. You’re supposed to crate them if you have to leave. What if something had happened with Bella?”
Michael’s expression could have curdled cheese. “I’m not stupid, Kate. I did crate them. They got out somehow. I could have sworn that I latched it, but I was in a hurry. I must have forgotten. When I came home, Bella was hiding upstairs in the bedroom, and these two little monsters were destroying what was left of that pillow.”
Mutt scratched at the bars, screaming for attention. Michael, who was a better boyfriend than dog trainer, reached over the ex-pen, picked her up, and cuddled her. Mutt rewarded him with blissfully silent kisses.
Michael must have gotten a deep whiff of puppy-breath aromatherapy, because his shoulders relaxed. The wrinkles in his brow softened. His lips even lifted into a close approximation of a smile.
I knew my words were futile, but I said them anyway. “You know you’re teaching her to scream by picking her up like that, right?”
He ignored me and cooed into her soft golden fur. “You don’t mean to be evil. You’re just a baby.” When he spoke to me again, his voice sounded apologetic. “Most of the stuff they destroyed was yours.”
“Don’t worry about it, hon. It’s only a couple of pillows. Nothing that can’t be replaced.”
Michael tilted his head as if first noticing my appearance. “You look like you had a bad day, too. Everything okay?”
I didn’t lie, but nodding yes wasn’t entirely truthful, either.
He pointed at my sternum. “What happened to your shirt?”
“I got trapped between Rene and her sugar fix.”
He grinned. “I guess your pillows weren’t the only casualties today.”
I internally winced at Michael’s more-appropriate-than-he-knew word choice. I knew I should tell him what had happened at the hospital, and I would. But not now. I chose diversion instead.
“Why don’t you get cleaned up?” I said. “I’ll order a Tree Huggers pizza from PhinneyWood Pizza and entertain the little monsters while you pick it up. When you get back, we can drown our troubles in alcohol and carbohydrates.”
Michael set Mutt on the ground and picked up Jeff, who was still trapped in the ex-pen. “Be sure to order enough liquid to drown these two little slugs, too.” His words were stern, but his eyes held nothing but affection. “Momma Bird had better steer clear of me for a while. I might punish her for abandoning these guys by giving them back.”
I smiled. “There’s always Betty … ”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Michael showered off the puppy dung and headed for PhinneyWood Pizza, which gave me approximately forty-five minutes to make phone calls.
I started with John, but the call went directly to voicemail. I told him that I had witnessed another murder and asked him to call Martinez. I finished by saying that I’d visit him in person the next morning.
My next call was to Dale, defense attorney extraordinaire, who also happened to be the founder of Dale’s Goat Rescue on Orcas Island. Dharma—Dale’s new girlfriend and my no-longer-estranged mother—answered.
“Kate. How nice to hear your voice. When are you coming for a visit?”
The honest answer was not soon enough. I was surprised at how much I missed Dharma, considering that I’d only known her for two months. Dad would always be the parent who’d raised me, but Dharma and I were rapidly becoming family.
“Michael and I will come up for a long weekend soon, I promise. Is Dale around? I actually called to get some legal advice from him.”
Dharma’s voice grew serious. “That doesn’t sound good. Are you in trouble?”
“I’m fine. The advice is for a friend.”
“I’m sorry, Kate. Your friend should probably ask someone else. Dale’s in Mexico for a week, picking up donkeys. You can try his cell, but I don’t think you’ll reach him. His phone gets terrible reception there.”
“Donkeys? From Mexico?” That was a new one, even for Dale.
“It’s my fault, I’m afraid. I got a call from one of my old El Paso buddies last week. She rescued 150 donkeys from a Mexican slaughterhouse. Half of the females are pregnant. Those butchering monsters were going to slaughter them anyway. Can you believe that?”
Unfortunately, I could.
“Dale and I talked, and we decided to expand the rescue. We’re going to call it Dale’s Goats and Dharma’s Asses.” I heard the grin in her voice. “What do you think?”
I smiled. “It’s perfect.”
“Dale and a crew of volunteers left the day before yesterday. They’re bringing back the fifty or so donkeys that are healthy enough to travel, including twenty of the pregnant females.” Her voice grew wistful. I imagined her winding her gray-streaked braid around her index finger. “Kate, I think I’m falling in love with that man.”
“I’m happy for you.” And I was. Dharma and my father hadn’t been able to make their marriage work, but she and Dale seemed perfect for each other. “Why didn’t you go to Mexico with him?”
“The last time I went to Mexico I spent six weeks in jail, remember? Dale didn’t want to risk a repeat performance. He’ll be back in five or six days.”
I chewed on my thumbnail. “Darn. I really wanted to talk to him today.”
“Can I help?”
I filled her in on my day, including what I’d told the police about Rachel. “I feel guilty. Like I betrayed her.”
“You didn’t have a choice, Kate.”
I flopped heavily on what was left of my couch. “Do you think I should call her?”
Dharma paused for a moment. “You’ll likely be a witness for the prosecution. We both know what Dale would say.”
I imagined Dale’s white-bearded lips. They formed a stern, no-arguing-allowed, absolute no.
I sighed. “I’m on her side, Dharma.”
“I know that, Kate. But that still doesn’t mean you should call her. Anything your friend tells you could end up in court.”
We both sat silently for several long moments. When I spoke, my voice was soft. “Dharma, I have to help her.”
Her reply was matter-of-fact, as if I’d just told her that I needed to buy toilet paper. “Of course you do, Kate. It’s your dharma—your duty. You help people find justice.”
As soon as Dharma’s words bounced off my eardrums, I knew they were true. Maybe that’s why they made me so angry. Frustrated self-pity spilled from my throat. “Getting involved in four murders in the last eighteen months is my duty? It feels a hell of a lot more lik
e punishment.”
“Punishment? For what?”
I stood and began pacing. “I don’t know. What do you think? Maybe for all those times I lashed out in anger.” Like I was doing right now.
“Kate, I thought you let go of that guilt nonsense months ago.”
I stopped pacing and planted my feet wide. “I’m not guilt-ridden, Dharma. I’m pissed. People keep dying around me, and I’m sick of it. If the universe wanted to teach me a lesson, fine. I got it already.” My voice cracked. “The flogging can stop any time now.”
“None of this is about punishment, Kate. That’s not how dharma works.”
“Finding dead bodies certainly isn’t my duty. Neither is figuring out who made them that way. I’m not a cop. I didn’t choose this.”
My mother’s reply held no sympathy. “Who told you that you get to choose? I didn’t choose to be an animal activist, either. Who in their right mind chooses to spend most of her adult life living in villages where outhouses are an unaffordable luxury? Animal activism chose me. Seeking justice chose you.”
She paused for several long, uncomfortable seconds, letting her words sink in. After what felt like a century, she continued speaking. “Did I ever tell you how I got my name?”
“Dharma? No. Dad always called you Daisy. I figured you wanted to go by something that sounded less trivial.”
“That was part of it, but only a small part. My name is a symbol. True dharma—life work—isn’t something that you pick out of a college catalogue. It’s a calling. A compulsion. I changed my name to Dharma to remind myself that my life’s most difficult choices—including leaving you as an infant—weren’t choices at all.”
Two months ago, her words would have struck me as the lame justifications of a deadbeat mother. Now that I knew her side of the story, I understood.
She continued. “Kate, you and I are still getting to know each other, but from what I’ve seen so far, you are the perfect amalgamation of your father and me. I’ve spent my life trying to end the suffering of innocents. Your father worked to make sure that the guilty were punished. You do both. Frankly, if I were you, I’d stop fighting it.”
