to be both exotic and Caribbean in nature. Or at least what they thought of as Caribbean. Sometimes Dec felt he’d been caught up in a Disneyesque version of Key West.
But tonight even the marimba band wasn’t playing downtown. The restaurant doors were closed, a shock in itself, since the doors of all the businesses were always wide open. Every shop was closed tighter than a drum. No music spilled from bars; no one strolled the streets; no cars were parked along the narrow side streets except near dwellings.
The word of the quarantine had scared everyone. The panic he had feared had transmuted into people hiding within their closed-up houses. He was driving through a dead zone.
Shaking his head, he turned left on La Puerta, past more closed shops, heading toward his subdivision north of town and its winding, palm-lined streets. As he passed the veterinary clinic, he realized he was only a couple of blocks from Markie Cross’s home. As if the bike had a mind of its own, he found himself on the street in front of her house.
She was home. Lights were on, and as he pulled up along the curb, he saw the head of her dog silhouetted in a brightly lighted window.
Her wolf. That probably explained a lot about the critter, Declan thought as he sat on his bike, engine still rumbling, debating whether to drive on or get out and go to her door. Kato’s silent watchfulness was a whole lot more unnerving than a dog’s barking.
But the wolf had been fairly friendly to him last night, so that was certainly no reason to drive away.
Finally, not even sure why he was there, but unable to forget Markie’s smile and feeling a need for something to brighten his day, he switched off the ignition, climbed off his bike and walked to her front door. As he approached, he saw Kato’s tail wag in a distinctly friendly fashion.
Well, at least one of the residents here welcomed him. With that amused thought, he rang the doorbell.
Markie opened it a minute later, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Dr. Quinn! What a nice surprise.” A smile spread across her face. “What’s up?”
“Not a damn thing,” he admitted.
Her smiled deepened. “Well, come on in. I’m just making dinner, and I made way too much. Stuffed mahimahi. You’re welcome to join me.”
Fish sounded good. He forced himself to remember that this was a professional visit, coupled with ordinary island hospitality. Because for some reason he wanted to read more into it.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind himself. Immediately Kato approached him, sniffing at him as if he were full of interesting information. Declan waited a few moments, then squatted down, letting the wolf continue his exploration.
“You’re good with animals,” Markie said, sounding as if that surprised her.
“Well, I figure Kato is in the driver’s seat. He’ll let me know when it’s okay to touch him.”
“Yes, he will. Most people don’t understand that. Listen, I’m going to put the mahimahi in the oven. Kitchen is straight back when you’re ready.”
“Thanks.” He smiled up at her, then returned his attention to Kato. Fascinating animal, coal-black with golden eyes. His tail was down right now, as if he were a bit uncertain, but his ears were pricked with full alertness and even a bit of caution as he sniffed the man.
Declan found himself wondering what the dog was learning. Smells of the morgue. Smells of Cart’s body or disease? He hoped not. The taco he’d had delivered for lunch, a decision he’d been regretting ever since? The scent of Marilyn Shippey. That would be fresh. The odors from his drive through town?
But Kato’s world remained beyond his reach, and Declan could only imagine what it must be like to have your most important sensory input through your nose. Did it create visions? Or just feelings? Was it pleasurable? Or merely informative?
Sphinxlike, Kato completed his examination and sat back on his narrow haunches, looking straight at Declan with those golden eyes.
“Hi, Kato.”
The tail twitched a little on the oak flooring and the ears relaxed backward a bit, not submissive, but a hint of welcome. Declan held out his hand, palm up. Kato considered it a moment, then nosed it aside.
Okay, they weren’t that far along.
Then Kato rose and trotted toward the kitchen, honoring the man by being willing to turn his back to him.
Declan straightened, accepting the honor and ignoring the way his knees—battered by too much basketball and soccer—creaked at the change in position.
The kitchen was bright, a mix of stainless steel countertops and appliances, with glass-fronted oak cabinets. The backsplash was steel, too, but the soffits over the cabinets were painted a delightful Chinese-red, bringing a huge burst of color into the nearly monochrome room.
Markie stood at an island, tossing a salad. She greeted him with another one of those smiles and said, “It won’t be long. Have a seat.”
He perched on the stool across the island from her and realized he was salivating for that salad. Physician or not, he didn’t eat nearly as well as he should, for lack of time.
“Somebody’s into cooking,” he said, indicating the kitchen, which did a fair job of impersonating a high-quality restaurant kitchen.
“Yeah.” She gave a little glance, her eyes dancing as she looked at him. With practiced ease, she sliced the fillets open and spooned in a homemade bread-crumb stuffing packed with minced sautéed zucchini, mushrooms and onions. “It’s my hobby. And my therapy. It cuts me loose after a long day at work.”
“I’m surprised you’re not too tired to bother.”
“What else would I do? Watch television?”
“You could walk on the beach.”
She laughed and put the fish in the oven, then began dicing a tomato. Her hands were nearly a blur, moving what was obviously a razor-sharp chef’s knife with a confidence that made him wince.
“That comes later. Although the longer I’m on the island, the less peaceful that becomes. It’s more like going to a huge party.”
He grinned. “Amen. The mountain can be a pretty good bolt hole, though. In the daytime, anyway.”
“I’ve been meaning to climb the volcano cone. I hear the view up there is breathtaking.”
“So is the smell of sulfur.”
She laughed again. “I still find myself wondering sometimes why I’m living at the foot of a volcano.”
“Dormant volcano,” he corrected. “It hasn’t erupted in three hundred years.”
She was a fascinating woman. He felt as if he had her full attention, even while she monitored a pot of boiling pasta and stirred a creamy white wine sauce.
“Just yesterday, in geological terms,” she retorted. Satisfied with the sauce, she turned it down to simmer, retrieved tableware and dishes, and set two places at the bar with cloth place mats and wineglasses. From the
