Bare Bones

Hearing my tone, Boyd jammed his snout back under Ryan’s hand.

“Hooch and I were thinking about pizza.”

Boyd wagged his tail at the sound of his new nickname. Or at the mention of pizza.

“His name’s Boyd.”

“Why don’t you go upstairs and clean up some. Boyd and I’ll see what we can rustle up.”

Rustle up?

Born in Nova Scotia, Ryan has lived his entire adult life in the province of Quebec. Though he’s traveled extensively, his view of American culture is typically Canadian. Rednecks. Gangsters. Cowboys. Now and then he tries to impress me with his Gunsmoke lingo. I hoped he wasn’t about to do that now.

“I’ll be a few minutes,” I said.

“Take your time.”

Good. No “podna” or “ma’am” tacked on for effect.

It came as I was trudging up the stairs.

“—Miz Kitty.”

Another sudsy, steamy bathroom session to cleanse body and soul of the smell of death. Lavender shower gel, juniper shampoo, rosemary-mint conditioner. I was going through a lot of aromatic plants of late.

Soaping up, I thought about the man downstairs.

Andrew Ryan, lieutenant-detective, Section de Crimes contre la Personne, Surete du Quebec.

Ryan and I had worked together for nearly a decade, homicide detective and forensic anthropologist. As specialists within our respective agencies headquartered in Montreal, the Quebec coroner’s bureau and the Quebec provincial police, we’d investigated serial killers, outlaw biker gangs, doomsday cults, and common criminals. I’d do the vics. He’d do the legwork. Always strictly professional.

Over the years I’d heard stories about Ryan’s past. Bikes, booze, binges closed out on drunk-tank floors. The near-fatal attack by a biker with the shattered neck of a twelve-ounce Bud. The slow recovery. The defection to the good guys. Ryan’s rise within the provincial police.

I’d also heard tales about Ryan’s present. Station-house stud. Babe meister.

Irrelevant. I had a steadfast rule against workplace romances.

But Ryan isn’t good at following rules. He pressed, I resisted. Less than two years back, at last accepting the fact that Pete and I were better off as friends than spouses, I’d agreed to date him.

Date?

Jesus. I sounded like my mother.

I squeezed more lavender onto my scrunchy and lathered again.

What term did one use for singles over forty?

Go out? Court? Woo?

Moot point. Before anything got off the ground, Ryan disappeared undercover. Following his reemergence, we’d tried a few dinners, movies, and bowling encounters, but never got to the wooing part.

I pictured Ryan. Tall, lanky, eyes bluer than a Carolina sky.

Something flipped in my stomach.

Woo!

Maybe I wasn’t as tired as I thought.

Last spring, at the close of an emotionally difficult time in Guatemala, I’d finally decided to take the plunge. I’d agreed to vacation with Ryan.

What could go wrong at the beach?

I never found out. Ryan’s pager beeped while en route to the Guatemala City airport, and instead of Cozumel, we flew to Montreal. Ryan returned to surveillance in Drummondville. I went back to bones at the lab.

Woo-us interruptus.

I rinsed.

Now Detective Don Juan had his buns parked on the couch in my study.

Nice buns.

Flip.

Tight. With all the curves in the right places.

Major flip.

I twisted the handle, hopped out of the shower, and groped for a towel. The steam was so thick it obscured the mirror.

Good thing, I thought, picturing the handiwork of the mosquitoes and gnats.

I slipped into my ratty old terry-cloth robe, a gift from Harry upon completion of my Ph.D. at Northwestern.