Page 64 of Spiced!

The imaging said one thing. The bloodwork might say another. The truth was usually in the conversation between them.

I made a note to call Peter. He was always good at brainstorming challenging diagnoses.

Lunchtime at the clinic was always a frustrating negotiation. Diane’s position was that I should leave the building, walk somewhere, eat food that required the use of utensils, and return like a person who understood the concept of breaks. My position was that I had a complicated case and a full afternoon and a desk that was right there in front of me.

We had been having this negotiation for two years. Neither of us had fully won.

Today, Diane arrived in my doorway at twelve-fifteen with a container from a place two blocks over and set it on my desk like a judge delivering a verdict.

“Marcus called the order in,” she said.

“You mean you and Marcus,” I corrected with a half smirk.

“Marcus and I are allies,” she said, smirkless. “We have been since the capybara incident. Shared trauma bonds people, ya know?” She sat in the chair across from my desk, which she only did when she had something to say or some unsolicited advice to offer. “So.”

“So?”

“The humming.”

“Diane.”

“The humming and the being unusually cheerful and the looking different.” She crossed her arms. “You can tell me there’s nothing to tell, and I will respect that completely. I will also continue to notice things and draw my own conclusions, which will be correct, because I am always right about these things, and you know it.”

I opened the container. “You’re not always correct.”

“Name one time.” She blinked innocently. “Just one.”

I thought about it. “The Henderson cat. You said it was behavioral. It was dietary.”

“The Henderson cat was borderline,” she said. “And I came around to dietary within a week. Besides, that’s a veterinary question, and we’re talking about human behavior here. That doesn’t count.” She watched me eat. “Was it the puppy owner?”

I said nothing. She nodded slowly, the nod of a woman confirming a conclusion she had already reached. “The puppy owner then.”

“The tapir case is interesting,” I said.

“We’re not talking about the tapir case. We’re talking about the new puppy. And just to clarify before you correct me again, the puppy is a puppy. The owner is interesting,” she said. “I remember. He wore a slinky tank top that showed more shoulder and nipple than any garment should.”

“Diane.”

“His boobs were trying to escape from that thing like some madman locked in Alcatraz.”

“Diane.”

“I’m a professional. I can notice a tank top and still be a professional. Besides, they’re very nice boobs. I like nice man boobs.” She stood, dusted herself off, and turned toward the door, looking back over her shoulder as she spoke. “I’m happy for you, Doc. You’ve been feeding that ferret and talking to that plant for too many years. It’s time you cared for another human being for a change.”

“Gerald is a succulent,” I said. “Not a plant.”

“Those are the same thing.”

“They are not.”

“They are.” She picked up the empty container I hadn’t finished, stared into it, then set it back on my desk. “Eat the rest, then call your mother. She texted Marcus last week asking if you were eating. Fail to do so and I will call her. Consider this an illustration of ‘strength through superior firepower.’”

“My mother texted Marcus?” I asked, ignoring her terrible military reference.

“Your mother has Marcus’s number.”

“How does my mother have Marcus’s number?”