She doesn’t answer. She won’t talk about Spain. Believe me, I’ve tried every trick. She says it’s a topic she won’t discuss. I ask her how I’m supposed to write a biography of Mallory if I can’t explain his final weeks, and she says I should go to Spain and ask around. I say I’ve already tried, and everybody’s dead. She shrugs and says maybe that should teach me to mind my own business. To which I reply that that minding your own beeswax goes against basic human nature, and besides, I’ve made a pretty decent living so far off of other people’s beeswax, and I can’t go back now.

There is a certain smell to a veterinarian’s office, animal and medicinal both at once, and the Lihue Veterinary Hospital has it on thick. A man sits with a beagle in the waiting room. The beagle looks worried; the man looks annoyed. “I don’t see why we can’t go right in,” he tells the receptionist. “She’s very sick.”

The beagle wags its tail and pleads silently.

“I understand, sir,” says the receptionist. “Mrs. Lindquist, hello. Dr. Alba’s waiting for you. You can go right in with Sandy.”

The man stands up. “Now wait just a minute—”

Lindquist extracts the cat carefully from my arms and marches past the reception desk. One of the doors opens; a man appears in green scrubs, holding a clipboard. “Mrs. Lindquist! What seems to be the trouble with our miracle kitty?”

“What in blazes is going on around here?” the man says. “I was here first! Look at her. She vomited twice this morning!”

“The doctor will be ready for her soon, Mr. Caruthers. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”

“This is ridiculous! Some damn cat gets in before my Mollie? We’ve been waiting half an hour already!”

I crouch in front of the beagle, who wags at me and leans forward to plant a wet one on my left cheek. “Poor Mollie. Who’s a sweet, patient girl?”

Mollie licks the right cheek.

I look up at the man. He’s forty or forty-five, the kind of fellow who’s starting to look middle-aged and doesn’t quite realize it yet. He’s combed his thinning hair carefully over the bald spot on the crown, and his face is pink. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt in pastel plaid (if that’s the correct description for such a horror) and a pair of rumpled linen trousers. I give him my best smile. “I’m so awfully sorry to keep her waiting. I’m sure this won’t take long. It’s a pretty healthy cat for nineteen years. Probably just needs another pill or something.”

“Nineteen?” The man looks back to the door in amazement.