Page 76 of Accidental Murder
Megan assessed today’s outfit. Had the chunky-heeled shoes or the battered carryall given her away? Updating her wardrobe might be in order.
The nurse continued. “You should know Dr. Macintyre and Sara Simmons’s husband were exchanging words earlier today.”
A second much larger nurse nabbed the first nurse’s elbow. “Hush! I told you it’s none of your business.” Without apology, she ushered her petite colleague out of the café.
Megan’s cell phone rang. She answered. “Hanrahan.”
“Hey, partner,” Rodrigo said. “You won’t believe it. We got ourselves another body. At the Cow Palace.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Back on theroad with Sara’s file notes tucked safely in her backpack, Kayla searched for a convenience store. She’d exhausted the minutes on the phone she’d purchased at the previous mart. She needed a replacement. When she located a 7-11, she parked. Confident no one was tailing her, she hurried inside. Once she returned to her car, she activated the phone and opened the browser to search for Bledsoe Research Institute anywhere within one hundred miles. Coming up short, she landed on the name of the one science-savvy person who might be able to help her.
Less than an hour later, she entered Palo Alto Research Foundation hoping her freshman roommate would be in. Greta Gustafson was a maverick. Instead of accepting a position at Stanford Hospital, which would have netted her twice the salary, Greta had chosen to work at Palo Alto Research Facility. PARF was dedicated to ridding the world of illnesses like Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s. Few if any of the researchers surpassed Greta’s grasp of organic chemistry.
Once inside the building, Kayla introduced herself as Ashley to an intern, who in turn guided her to an observation roomwhere a field trip of teenagers and one adult leader were viewing Greta through a window.
“What’s she doing now, Mrs. Wheeler?” a gawky girl asked.
The leader said, “It looks like she’s measuring reactions according to dosage.”
“Duh,” a bespectacled boy muttered.
The intern who had brought Kayla into the anteroom entered the lab and said something to Greta. She turned and acknowledged Kayla with a nod before returning to her project. Her jaw set in concentration, Greta dropped beads of a solution, one at a time, into beakers suspended over Bunsen burners. The furrow between her eyebrows grew even deeper as she shuffled from beaker to beaker. After making notes in a log, she removed her goggles, freed her long blond mane from its elastic band, and exited the lab. She yanked off a pair of latex gloves, stuffed them into her lab coat pocket, and said in a German accent softened by years of living in America, “I’ll take questions now.”
Greta answered the students for thirty minutes. When the last of the teens exited the observation room, she closed the door and turned to Kayla. “Ashley, I am sorry to meet you under such tragic circumstances. Your sister was a great lady. I would have come to the memorial. I called.”
Eve had taken messages of regret from friends and clients. The list was a blur in Kayla’s memory.
“I was getting married that day,” Greta went on. “I did not want to put it off because my partner has been known to get cold feet. I worried she might back out. I hope you understand.”
“Of course, I do.” Kayla toyed with a strand of hair, surprised by how Ashley’s habits were becoming her own.
“What brings you to me?”
“Questions that require answers.”
Greta said, “I need a smoke. Follow me.” She led the way to a brick patio at the rear of the facility. A barren sycamore coatedwith frost stood in the center. “Lettuce-leaf. No nicotine,” she explained as she pulled a pack of funky-looking cigarettes from her coat pocket and lit up. “Healthier but equally addictive. I have tried to quit, but I have no discipline.” She dropped the lighter into her pocket and settled onto a stone bench. “Sit. Talk to me.”
Kayla couldn’t sit. She was too wound up. She folded her arms across her chest and rubbed the upper portions of her arms. “My first question?—”
“No,” Greta said. “Talk to me about why you are pretending to be your sister.”
Kayla gaped. How could Greta know?
“A year of living with a roommate, you notice things,” Greta said, in explanation. “You, Kayla, have that nervous thing you do with your fingers. Rubbing them up and down on your arms. Before every final. Whenever a paper was due. And the hair move?” Greta mimicked Kayla toying with her short hair. “It is something your sister did? Yes.” She nodded. “It is too practiced. If you are in trouble, I will help you, but you must tell me the truth.”
Kayla sagged and recounted the events of the last few days, ending with her foray into Sara Simmons’s office at Wilkerson.
Greta’s eyes filled with compassion. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Kayla refused to allow herself any more self-pity. She would be useless if she plummeted again. “Have you heard of something called Ionizing Radiation?”
“Yes. It involves beta rays, gamma rays, and such.” Greta stubbed her half-smoked health cigarette in a sand-filled pot. “It can be found in a wide range of work-related places, including care facilities, research institutions, and nuclear reactors.”
“So it’s standard.”
“To a point. Side effects can be negative. On the low end, erythema, dermatitis, nausea, and diarrhea. On the high end, skin cancer, bone marrow suppression, genetic defects, mutations, and death.”
