The Wilder Sisters by Jo-Ann Mapson

imperceptibly, as the earth was rumored to do in nearby Taos, the town where Philip had died. Rose had to concentrate to hear it, but the sound was real, all right, a drone in her ear that made her feel impatient and restless. She leaned forward in her chair and began to juggle numbers into the Advanced Veterinary Systems program she had badgered Austin into ordering. It printed out checks, set up appointments, tracked inventory, and offered a way to store client records that would take up virtually no floor space. Unfortunately, Paloma had an aversion to computers and Austin, understandably, needed concrete proof of all things, so basically she did her job twice in order to make everyone happy. Someday , she vowed, we will get this office running properly . Until then Rose picked up a pen and started in on the payables. She liked the envelopes stuffed, stamped, and licked, ready for the post office one day early.
    Rose had become a bookkeeper the way some people became manager of a store: She’d been standing there when the other lady quit. Compared to grooming dogs and working the reception desk, her earlier position, how hard could bookkeeping be? Pay the bills, figure the taxes, assist in the trenches when blood ran. It was similar to being a wife. You didn’t necessarily have to love every little thing you did, you only had to keep things running in the face of disaster.
    The intercom buzzed and Rose picked up. “Yes?” “How’s it going up there with the paper and stuff?”
    “My head’s above the waterline. How’s it going down there with the furry stuff?”

    “A little more interesting than I like it.”
    Paloma was the queen of understatement. “Uh-oh. You need an extra set of hands in the clinic?”
    “I need a wheelbarrow is more like it.”
    “Don’t tell me somebody brought in another dead Rottweiler.”
    There was a pause on Paloma’s end. “A drunken veterinarian dragged himself in as best as he could. He kind of parked his truck, too, if you can call leaving it in the middle of the lawn parking. A little while ago he was barking.”
    Rose was sure she had misheard. “You mean barfing as in vomiting or barking as in dog?”
    Paloma sighed. “Either way, it sounded a lot like a certain ex- wife’s name to me. Will you hold him down while I put him out of his misery?”
    Rose closed the file she had been working on. “I’m on my way.” She hung up and checked her watch. There were still things to be grateful for: She wasn’t going to be called into the hospital to identify Austin’s body. This time he had waited until the afternoon to get smashed. The only clients likely to come by at this hour were picking their dogs up from grooming. If there was an emergency, Dr. Zeissel could cover. She wondered if Austin had made it to any of his appointments, and then prayed he hadn’t driven drunk any- where except from the bar to the clinic, a few short miles of back road with very little traffic.

    A man could break your heart in a number of different ways, and Austin had them all down pat. He lay slumped against the wall of the room adjoining the small animal surgery. These were the quarters Paloma referred to as the “main brain” of the hospital. On the counter, the Vet Test 8008 printed out blood panels on presurgical patients. Austin was dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, and they were fragrant with alcohol and sweat. His cheek was scraped as if he had been dragged across asphalt, and he was minus yet an- other pair of glasses.
    “ Hola, guapa ,” he crooned to Rose as she stood in the doorway. His hands lay slack in his lap. “Wanna come over here and make a sad man happy?”
    Paloma shook her head, her long black braid swaying. “What we’d both like is to make a stupid man get smart, but that is beyond our powers. What’s it going to take, Austin? You going to have to wrap

    yourself around a tree before you stop this crap? Rack up another DUI?”
    Austin cocked his head at