A trip to the vet invariably included comedy and drama, and required persistence, stamina and a flexible sense of humor. To simplify, Fiona always scheduled her three dogs together at the end of office hours.
The system also gave her and the vet, her friend Mai Funaki, a chance to recover and unwind after the triple deed was done.
At a scant five-two, Mai appeared to be a delicate lotus blossom, a romantic anime character brought to life with ebony hair curved at her gilded cheeks and fringing flirtatiously above exotic onyx eyes. Her voice, a melodious song, calmed both animals and humans in the course of her work.
Her pretty, long-fingered hands soothed and healed. And were as strong as a bricklayer’s.
She’d been known to drink a two-hundred-pound man under the table, and could swear the air blue in five languages.
Fiona adored her.
In the exam room of her offices in her home just outside Eastsound, Mai helped Fiona heft seventy-five pounds of trembling Peck onto the table. The dog, who had once courageously negotiated smoldering rubble to locate victims after an earthquake in Oregon, who tirelessly searched for the lost, the fallen and the dead through bitter winds, flooding rain and scorching heat, feared the needle.
“You’d think I hammered spikes into his brain. Come on now, Peck.” Mai stroked, even as she checked joints and fur and skin. “Man up.”
Peck kept his head turned away, refusing to look at her. Instead he stared accusingly into Fiona’s eyes. She swore she could see tears forming.
“I think he was tortured by the Spanish Inquisition in another life.”
While Mai examined his ears, Peck visibly shuddered.
“At least he suffers in silence.” Mai turned Peck’s head toward her. He turned it away again. “I’ve got this Chihuahua I have to muzzle for any exam. He’d eat my face off if he could.”
She took the dog’s head firmly to examine his eyes, his teeth.
“Big healthy boy,” she crooned. “Big handsome boy.”
Peck stared at a spot over her shoulder and shivered.
“Okay,” Mai said to Fiona. “You know the drill.”
Fiona took Peck’s head in her hands. “It’s only going to take a second,” she told him as Mai moved behind and out of eye line. “We can’t have you getting sick, right?”
She talked, rubbed, smiled, as Mai pinched some skin and slid the needle in.
Peck moaned like a dying man.
“There. All done.” Mai walked back to Peck’s head, held up her hands to show them empty of all tools of torture. Then she laid a treat on the table.
He refused it.
“Could be poisoned,” Fiona pointed out. “Anything in this room is suspect.” She signaled the dog down, and he couldn’t jump off the table fast enough. Then he stood, facing the wall, ignoring both women.
“It’s because I cut off his balls. He’s never forgiven me.”
“No, I really think it all comes down from Newman. He fears, so they all fear. Anyway, two down, one to go.”
The women stared at each other. “We should’ve taken him first. The worst first. But I just couldn’t face it.”
“I bought a really nice bottle of Pinot.”
“Okay. Let’s do this thing.”
They released Peck into the yard where he could exchange horrors with Bogart and seek sympathy with Mai’s one-eyed bulldog, Patch, and her three-legged beagle-hound mix, Chauncy.
Together they approached Fiona’s car where Newman lay on the backseat, nose pressed tight in the corner, body limp as overcooked pasta.
“Heads or tails?” Fiona asked.
“You take the head. God help us.”
He squirmed, tried to roll into a ball, leaped over the seats, then back again. He slithered like a snake in an attempt to wedge himself under the seat.
Then, unable to escape, went limp again, forcing the two women to carry his dead dog weight into the examining room.
“Fuck me, Fee. Couldn’t you raise Poms?”
“He could be a face-eating Chihuahua.”
“Please tell me you got his weight at home because there’s no way we’re getting him on the scale.”
“Eighty-two.”
It took a solid and sweaty thirty minutes as Newman resisted every second.
“You know,” Fiona panted, using her own body to hold Newman’s down, “this dog would walk through fire for me. Through fire over broken glass while meteors rained out of the sky. But I can’t get him to just hold the hell still for a routine exam. And he knew. The minute I called them to get in the car, he knew. How many times do I put them in the car for work, for play, for whatever? How does he know? I had to get the others in first—they’re more easily fooled. Then drag him. It’s humiliating,” she said to Newman. “For both of us.”
“Thank all the gods, we’re done.”
Mai didn’t bother to offer the treat as Newman would very likely spit it in her face. “Cut him loose, and let’s open that wine.”
Mai’s pretty bungalow sat with its back to the sea. Once it had been part of a farm, then the house had morphed into a B&B. When Mai and her husband moved to Orcas, he’d wanted to farm.
Mai moved her Tacoma practice to the island, pleased to work at home, content with the slower lifestyle while her husband raised chickens, goats, berries and field greens.
It took less than four years for the bloom to wear off on the gentleman farmer, whose next brainstorm had been buying a bar and grill in Jamaica.
“Tim’s moving to Maine,” Mai said as they carried the wine out to the yard. “He’s going to be a lobsterman.”
“Not kidding?”
“Not. I have to say, he lasted longer than I expected with the bar.” Even as they sat, dogs hurried over to vie for attention. Tails wagged, tongues licked. “Sure, now we’re pals.”
Mai passed out the biscuits she’d brought with her.
“They love you—and the treats aren’t poison except in the exam room.”
“Yeah, all’s forgiven. I’m sorry I couldn’t run the base for the search on the little boy. I had that emergency surgery, and I just couldn’t postpone it.”
“It’s no problem. That’s why we have alternates. They’re a nice family. The kid’s a champ.”
“Yeah?” Mai sighed. “You know, it’s probably—certainly—best that Tim and I put off having kids. Can you imagine? But my clock’s ticking double time. I know I’m going to end up adopting another dog or cat or other mammal to compensate.”
“You could adopt an actual human child. You’d be a great mom.”
“I would. But . . . I still have a tiny crack of a sliver of hope that I could start a family with a man, give the kid the full complement of parents. Which means I have to actually date, and have sex. And when I think of men, dating and sex, I remember how horny I am. I’m considering naming my vibrator Stanley.”
“Stanley?”
“Stanley is kind, and thinks only of my pleasure. I’m still winning our dry spell contest, I assume. Fourteen months.”
“Nine, but I don’t think that one time really counts. It was lousy sex.”
“Lousy sex is still sex. It may be a crap contest to win, but there are rules. And while there will always be Stanley, I’m seriously considering other options.”
“Girls? Club trolling? Personal ads?”
“All weighed and rejected. Don’t laugh.”
“Okay. What?”
“I’ve been checking out the Internet dating sites. I even have a profile and application ready to go. I just haven’t hit send. Yet.”
“I’m not laughing, but I’m not convinced. You’re gorgeous, smart, funny, interesting, a woman with a wide range of interests. If you’re serious about getting back into the dating arena, you need to put yourself out there more.”
Nodding, Mai took a long sip of wine, then leaned forward. “Fee, you may not have noticed, but we live on a small island off the coast of Washington state.”
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“The population of this small island is also relatively small. The single-male element of that population, considerably smaller. Why else are two gorgeous, smart and sexy women sitting here on a pretty evening drinking wine with dogs?”
“Because we like to?”
“We do. Yes, we do. But we also like the company of men. At least I think we do as it’s been some time. And I believe I’m correct in saying we both enjoy good, healthy, safe sex.”
“This is correct, which is why I really think that one time shouldn’t count in the contest.”
“Old business.” Mai flicked it away. “I’ve made a considerable if unscientific study of that single-male element of our island population. For my own purposes, I have to eliminate males under the age of twenty-one and over the age of sixty-five. Both boundaries are a stretch as I’m thirty-four, but beggars, choosers. The pool’s shallow, Fee. It’s pretty freaking shallow.”
“I can’t argue with that. But if you add in tourists and seasonals, it’s a little deeper.”
“I do have some small hope for summer, but meanwhile? I took a hard look at James.”
“James? Our James.”
“Yes, our James. Mutual interests, age appropriate. Low spark, admittedly, but you work with what you’ve got. The trouble is he’s got his eye on Lori, and there’s no poaching within the unit. There is one intriguing possibility on island. Single, age appropriate, dog owner, very attractive. Creative type. A little taciturn for my taste, but there’s that beggars, choosers again.”
“Oh,” Fiona said, and took a drink.
“Simon Doyle. Sylvia carries his work. Wood artist, furniture.”
“Mmm,” Fiona said this time, and took another drink.
Mai’s eyes narrowed. “You’re looking at him? Damn it, he might be all that’s standing between me and HeartLine-dot-com.”
“I’m not looking. Not exactly. He’s a client. I’m working with his dog.”
“Cute dog.”
“Very. Hot guy.”
“Very. Look, if you’re going to call dibs, call it, because I have plans to make. I have a serious need to get laid.”
“I’m not calling dibs on a man. Jesus, Mai. He’s really not the kind of guy you tend toward.”
“Shit,” Mai said, and took a slug of wine. “He’s alive, single, within the age boundaries and, as far as I know, not a serial killer.”
“He kissed me.”
“Two scoops of shit. Okay, give me a minute to hate you.” Mai drummed her fingers on the table. “All right, hate time’s done. Sexy kiss or friendly kiss?”
“It wasn’t friendly. He’s not especially friendly. I don’t think he likes people that much. He stopped by so I could work with Jaws. I was running the mock search with the Bellingham unit. So I invited him to stay, mix, have some brownies. I doubt he said five words to anybody. Except for Syl. He likes Syl.”
“Maybe he’s shy. Shy can be sweet.”
“I don’t think so, and sweet’s not a word I’d use in the same sentence with Simon. He’s an exceptional kisser, and that’s a plus.”
“Bitch, don’t make me hurt you.”
Fiona grinned. “And I don’t need a relationship, but I do require some basic conversation when I sleep with a guy.”
“You had conversation with the one-time guy nine months ago. Look where that got you.”
“That’s true.” Fiona was forced to sigh in remembrance. “But I’m not calling dibs. If the opportunity presents, help yourself.”
“No, it’s too late. He’s out of the running. HeartLine-dot-com, here I come.”
“We need to go on vacation.”
Mai choked out a laugh. “Yeah, sure.”
“No, I mean it. You, me, Syl. A girl trip, a girl thing. A spa,” she decided, inspired. “A long girl spa weekend.”
“Don’t toy with me, Fiona. I’m a woman on the edge.”
“Which is why we need a break.”
“Question?” Mai held up a finger. “When’s the last time you took a vacation—even a long weekend type vacation?”
“A couple years maybe. Okay, probably three. Which just cements the point.”
“And with your work, mine, Syl’s, the responsibility for the animals, just how do we manage it?”
“We’ll figure it out. We know how to plan things, how to organize.” Now that the idea popped out, Fiona wanted it like Christmas. “Massages and facials and mud baths, room service and sparkly adult beverages. No work, responsibility or schedules.”
“It may be better than sex.”
“It’s possible. What we’ll do is check our schedules and find the best time to clear three days. We can clear three days, Mai. We all have friends who’ll take care of our animals for that length of time. How often have we done it for them?”
“Countless times. Where?”
“I don’t know. Close so we don’t spend too much time on travel. I’ll start researching, and I’ll get Syl on board. What do you say?”
Mai raised her glass. “I am so in.”
Determined to seal the deal, Fiona swung by Sylvia’s before heading home.
Pansies spilled out of tubs in front of the tranquil bayside house. Fiona knew the greenhouse would be crowded with flowers and vegetables and herbs her stepmother babied like children, and would soon tranfer to her extensive gardens.
As much at home there as in her own cabin, Fiona opened the bright red door and called out, “Syl?”
“Back here!” Sylvia called out as Oreo raced to say hello. “In the great room.”
“I was just at Mai’s.” Fiona wound her way through the house where Sylvia had lived with Fiona’s father throughout their marriage. Like her shop, it was a bright, fascinating, eclectic mix of styles and art and color.
She found Sylvia on her yoga mat mimicking the twisting pose of the instructor on the TV. “Just winding down from the day,” Sylvia told her. “Nearly done. Did you bring the boys?”
“They’re in the car. I can’t stay.”
“Oh, why don’t you? I’m thinking of making couscous.”
“Tempting.” Not in the least, Fiona thought. “But I’ve got a project. Mai’s horny and her biological clock’s ticking. She’s thinking of trying one of those online dating services.”
“Really?” Sylvia untwisted, then twisted in the other direction. “Which one?”
“I think she said HeartLine-dot-com.”
“They’re supposed to be pretty good.”
“I don’t . . . Have you used that kind of thing?”
“Not yet. Maybe never. But I’ve looked around.” Sylvia lowered to the floor, folded.
“Oh. Huh. Well, anyway, what do you say the three of us take a long weekend and go to a spa?”
“Gosh, let me think.” Sylvia unfolded. “It’ll take me five minutes to pack.”
“Really?”
“I can do it in four if pressed. Where are we going?”
“I don’t know yet. It’s part of the project. I need to check the schedule, refine it with yours and Mai’s and find us a destination.”
“I’ve got that. One of my artists has a connection at a spa. Supposed to be fabulous. It’s near Snoqualmie Falls.”
“Seriously?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Sylvia lay back in corpse. “Tranquillity Spa and Resort. I’ll take care of it—but you might want to check out the website to make sure it’s what you have in mind.”
“Do they have massages, room service and a pool?”
“I can pretty much guarantee that.”
“It’s perfect.” She did a quick dance in place. “God, this is going to be great.”
“Can’t miss. But what brought this on?”
“I told you. Mai’s hormones.”
“And?”
Fiona walked to the window to look at the water. “I really haven’t been sleeping all that well since Davey told me about the murders. It’s just . . . there. On my mind. Keeping busy tamps it down, then when I’m not, it’s just there. A break would be good, I think. And a break with two of my favorite women, the best. Plus I’m feeling conflicted about Simon since he kissed me.”
“What?” Sylvia’s eyes popped open as she sat up. “You tried to sneak that by me. When did he kiss you?”
“The other day, after you and the others left. It was just an impulse of the moment, and the circumstances. And yes, before you ask, it was very, very good.”
“I suspected it would be. What happened next?”
“He went home.”
“Why?”
“Probably because I told him to.”
“Oh, Fee, I worry about you. I do.” Shaking her head, Sylvia rose, reached for her bottle of water.
“I wasn’t ready for the kiss, much less any follow-through.”
Sylvia sighed. “See? No wonder I worry about you. Not being ready is part of the thrill. Or should be. The unexpected and the passionate.”
“I don’t think unexpected works for me. At least not right now. Who knows, maybe it will after a spa break.”
“Clear your schedule and we’re gone. I can work mine around yours and Mai’s.”
“You’re the best.” Fiona gave her a quick hug. “I’m going to see what classes I can juggle. I’ll e-mail you and Mai.”
“Wait. I’m going to get you some of this tea. It’s all natural, and it should help relax you, help you sleep. I want you to take a long bath, drink some tea, put on some quiet music. And give those meditation exercises I showed you a chance,” she added as she got the tin out of a cupboard in the adjoining kitchen.
“Okay. Promise. I’m already relaxed just thinking about the spa.” She moved in for another hug. “I love you.”
“I love you back.”
She should have thought of it before, Fiona realized. An indulgent break with good friends was the perfect prescription for restlessness and stress. Then again she rarely felt the need for a break as she considered her life on the island the best of all possible worlds.
She had independence, reasonable financial security, a home and work she loved, the companionship of her dogs. What else was there?
She remembered the hot, unexpected kiss in her kitchen and Simon’s rough, proprietary hands on her.
There was that, she admitted. At least now and again there was that. She was, after all, a healthy woman with normal needs and appetites.
And she could admit she’d considered the possibility of a round or two with Simon—before he’d shut that down in no uncertain terms. Before he’d opened it up again. Blew the lid off it again, she corrected.
Which only served to prove any sort of relationship with him promised to be complicated and frustrating and uncertain.
“Probably best to leave it alone,” she said to the dogs. “Really, why ask for trouble? We’re good, right? We’re good just as we are. You and me, boys,” she added and had tails thumping.
Her headlights slashed through the dark as she turned onto her drive—and reminded her she’d forgotten to leave the porch light on again. In a few weeks, the sun would stay longer and the air would warm. Long evening walks and playtime in the yard, porch sitting.
The approach had the dogs shifting and tails swishing in excitement. The trauma of the exam room was forgotten in the simple pleasure of coming home.
She parked, got out to open the back. “Make your rounds, boys.” She hurried inside to hit the lights before making her own. She checked water bowls and the feeder, got a smile from her new planters.
While the dogs circled outside, stretched their legs, emptied their bladders, she opened the freezer and grabbed the first frozen dinner that came to hand.
While it buzzed up she started checking her phone messages. She’d set up her laptop, she decided, go over the schedule while she ate, find the best hole, check out the website Sylvia had recommended.
“Get the party started,” she murmured.
She took notes on her pad, saving or deleting messages as necessary.
“Ms. Bristow, this is Kati Starr. I’m a reporter with U.S. Report. I’m writing a story on the recent abduction murders of two women in California that seem to parallel those committed by George Allen Perry. As you were the only known victim to escape Perry, I’d like to speak with you. You can reach me at work, on my cell or via e-mail. My contacts are—”
Fiona hit delete. “No way in hell.”
No reporters, no interviews, no TV cameras or mikes pushed at her. Not again.
Even as she took a breath the next message came on.
“Ms. Bristow, this is Kati Starr with U.S. Report following up on my earlier call. I’m approaching deadline, and it’s very important that I speak with you as soon as—”
Fiona hit delete again.
“Screw you and your deadline,” she murmured.
She let the dogs in, comforted by their presence. Dinner, such as it was, didn’t hold much appeal, but she ordered herself to sit down, to eat, to do exactly what she’d planned to do with her evening before the reporter flooded her mind with memories and worries.
She booted up her laptop, poked at chicken potpie. To boost her mood, she checked the resort’s website first—and in moments was cruising on anticipatory bliss.
Hot stone massages, paraffin wraps, champagne and caviar facials. She wanted them all. She wanted them now.
She took the virtual tour, purring over the indoor pool, the posttreatment meditation rooms, the shops, the gardens, the lovely appointments in the guest rooms. That included, she thought, a two-story, three-bedroom “villa.”
She closed one eye, glanced at the cost. Winced.
But split three ways . . . it would still sting like hellfire.
But it had its own hot tub, and, oh God, fireplaces in the bathrooms.
In. The. Bathrooms.
And the views of the waterfall, the hills, the gardens . . .
Impossible, she reminded herself. Maybe when she won the lottery.
“It’s a nice dream,” she told the dogs. “So, now we know where. Let’s figure out when.”
She brought up her class schedule, calculated, tried some juggling, re calculated, shifted.
Once she’d settled on the two best possibilities, she e-mailed Sylvia and Mai.
“We’ll make it work,” she decided, and shifted over to check her incoming e-mail.
She found one from the reporter.
Ms. Bristow:
I haven’t been able to reach you by phone. I found this contact on the website for your canine training service. As I explained, I’m writing a story on the California abduction-murders which echo the Perry homicides. As you were a key witness for the prosecution in the Perry trial that resulted in his conviction, your comments would be very valuable.
I can’t write a salient or accurate story on the Perry angle without including your experiences, and the details of the murder of Gregory Norwood, which resulted in Perry’s capture. I would prefer to speak with you directly before the story goes to press.
Fiona deleted the e-mail, including the list of contacts.
Then simply laid her head down on the table.
She was entitled to say no. Entitled to turn her back on that horrible time. She was entitled to refuse to be fodder for yet another story on death and loss.
Reliving all that wouldn’t, couldn’t bring Greg back. It wouldn’t help those two women or their grieving families.
She’d started her life over, and she was damn well entitled to her privacy.
She pushed herself up, shut down the laptop.
“I’m going to take that long bath, drink that stupid tea. And you know what? We’re going to book that damn villa. Life’s too damn short.”
