Three Dog Island

Nisbet

Chapter 1

This was going to be the year of the dog. I had made a decision. I was going to have a dog in my life again. I didn’t know where I was going to get him or when or even what kind of dog he would be. All I knew was that I was going to have a dog by December 31st.

Maybe it would be like those scenes in the movies when the hero and heroine run—in slow motion, of course—into each other’s arms. Or maybe it would be like a Lassie movie where the poor mistreated or malnourished dog shows up on the lonely divorcee’s doorstep.

I didn’t need the specifics. I only needed to put it out to the Universe.

I suppose it was partially because I needed something to distract me, to help dissipate the sadness of the past few months. That was okay with me. Anything to help me return to living life in the present was a good thing.

No longer immersed in old diaries and letters from my great aunt’s attic or microfiche from the Anamcara Island police station and newspaper, I could now get on with my life, or actually begin my life on the island. What felt like a year, had actually been only two months. But when you’re working your way through a divorce, at the same time as solving a crime that took place in your backyard, and battling unfounded rumors about your most beloved great aunt, time becomes a wee bit distorted.

A cup of tea and a raspberry scone, I decided, was just the thing to wash away the sadness and pain of the past few months. A dog would be even more comfort. And calorie free.

A soft tap on my door interrupted my melancholy. Sasha. An artist’s tap. Never ordinary.

Just in time for a cup of tea and a homemade raspberry scone.

Becoming domesticated, are we? Sasha closed the door behind her, her gloriously red hair dampened and frizzed by the island mist.

I wouldn’t say that. Well, maybe— Baking scones was something I had learned from my paternal grandmother when my father had taken me to Scotland for the summer when I was fourteen. I didn’t bake often but when I did, it was because I really wanted to, or needed to. Actually, come to think of it, I had made a lot of scones over the last couple months.

Mmm, apricot. Sasha had found yesterday’s batch of comfort on the kitchen counter. I thought you said raspberry.

I nodded toward the oven. Today’s batch.

One of each. She snatched a freshly-baked scone from the oven.

She poured herself a cup of vanilla almond tea while I opted for the green tea blend. We took our mugs—homemade as well—and plates into the living room to sit by the fire.

Now what? she asked.

Sasha and I communicated easily. Despite her being in her twenties and my being forty, we had become fast friends after I inherited and moved into my Great Aunt Winnie’s cottage. She and Winnie, despite the sixty year age gap, had been close as well. Kindred spirits, they were, as Anne Shirley of Green Gables would say, both artists.

Now what? I repeated. You mean, now that the mystery buried beneath my rose garden is solved? Now that Seth’s and my short-lived relationship is over? Now what will I do with myself?

Exactly.

I haven’t a clue. I smiled at my choice of words.

Does your dad have any cases he needs you for?

He did mention he needs my help with some insurance fraud case he’s working on. But as far as I could tell, the last time I was in Seattle, he’d been spending most of his time playing—trumpet with his band and tennis with his friend MacGregor. He’s even been playing a little soccer lately. And, of course, enjoying a pint or two now and then. So, to answer your question, I’m planning to stoke up the pottery wheel and I’m hoping to stir up some more spiritual counseling clients. That should keep me busy.

And out of trouble? Delicious scone. You’re getting better. But alas, I must get back to work. Sasha popped the last crumb of the apricot scone into her mouth. Can I take the rest of this one to go? she asked, clearing her plate and mug.

I pulled out the wax paper to wrap the rest of her raspberry scone and handed her a whole one off the rack. She wrapped and stuffed them inside her purse. Thanks, Jenny, a snack for tomorrow.

What are you working on? I asked as I walked her to the door.

A painting.

I know, a painting, but of what?

She shrugged. Not sure yet. I’m waiting for it to tell me.

What was that?

What? Oh, I hear it too.

We both stood motionless, listening to the plaintive cry of a dog. Surely the Universe wasn’t responding quite this quickly.

Sasha cringed as the single cry multiplied. It sounds like a pack of dogs.

But it’s really odd. It’s coming from that direction. I pointed toward the water.

Either they’re on a boat, or the sound is carrying all the way from another island.

Or it’s an illusion and it’s really coming from a different direction.

I grabbed my coat, and Sasha and I headed toward the despondent sound. Just as we reached the water’s edge, the cries stopped, but not before convincing us that they were coming all the way from another island.

I don’t think I would have thought so much about the crying dogs if I hadn’t just been thinking about dogs. And if the sound hadn’t penetrated so deeply like a sharp knife aimed directly at my heart.

* * *

It wasn’t the rain. It was the autumn grey. The heaviness seemed to weigh me down and put me more in touch with my solitude. Once the rain came, I felt relief. It cleansed the air and soothed the soul

I considered going down to Seattle. I didn’t move to the island to isolate myself. Well, from one person perhaps. Memories of a marriage gone awry. As much as I did not want to think about Joe, I was not going to allow those feelings to keep me from a city I loved and my father and son, both of whom happened to live in that city.

But first things first. A boat ride around the islands, seeking the source of the mysterious cries of dogs was in order.

After three days and nights of plaintive cries, I convinced Sasha and our friend Frankie to go island hopping with me. Frankie borrowed a motor boat from one of her landscaping clients. Sasha and I met her at the Southwest dock just after dawn. Frankie was as adept with a boat as she was with a shovel and hoe. She was dressed in her usual attire of blue jeans, plaid blouse, down vest, cowgirl boots, and black cowgirl hat. Her long black hair flowed out from beneath the hat, covering her shoulders. Sasha was underdressed as usual in jeans and a flimsy madras blouse with a light sweater. Her thick curly red mane provided some warmth, but being the eternal mother, I handed her the extra wind breaker I had brought along.

The first island was fewer than twenty minutes away, but I knew immediately nothing was there.

Winnie’s intuition. Like aunt, like niece, Sasha explained to Frankie who nodded and turned the boat to head north to the next island.

Can we go back there for breakfast? Frankie asked.

Sasha and I looked beyond the dock at the quaint village. Definitely.

Good, because this next one looks pretty much deserted.

Could be privately owned, Sasha said. People like the idea of owning a remote island away from nosy neighbors.

And the long arm of the law? Frankie said.

It didn’t take us long to circle the tiny island before heading northeast to the next one which was actually closer to the coast of Anamcara where our properties were. It was even smaller than the one we had just left. If there were any homes or buildings, they were on the far side beyond the trees. All we could see from our side was a fenced compound, resembling something out of a prison camp.

Chills ran up and down my spine, and when I glanced over at Sasha and Frankie, I knew I wasn’t the only one.

Let’s get out of here. Sasha’s words squeaked out.

Frankie started to turn the boat around but I whispered a cautious, Wait!

There in the bushes on our side of the fence were two large brown eyes, attached to a very large black and reddish brown head that was attached to a very furry black and white and syrupy brown body.

The three of us stared at the dog. I wasn’t sure what breed it was. It had the body of an Australian shepherd, but the head of something bigger. Saint Bernard? Bernese Mountain dog? Whatever he was, he was gorgeous with his black and caramel colored head and a white streak going all the way to the end of his snout. He had the sweetest face and the kindest eyes I had ever seen. Sorry, Jude. Sorry Eleanor Rigby, I said a quick apology to the dogs I’d had as a child.

I think we need to get out of here, Sasha said.

We can’t just leave him.

Yes, we can, Frankie said.

He might be hostile. He looks hungry enough to eat us alive, Sasha said.

He’s wagging his tail. He likes us, I said.

Too risky, Frankie said.

I’ll check it out, I said, motioning for Frankie to pull the boat alongside what was left of a dock.

Completely unaware of how I managed to get from the boat to the dock to the land, I found myself scrambling up the hillside toward the dog. It was a good thing I’d worn old jeans and super sturdy tennies.

Be careful, Jenny, I heard from behind me as I approached the dog, hand open.

He hobbled over to me, his tail still wagging. He licked my hand as though I were his long lost person. It took about five seconds for me to assess that this dog was wounded and starving.

Come on, boy, you want to come with us? I patted my leg, encouraging him to follow me to the boat. He trudged down the hillside but just as I motioned him toward the boat, he bolted and climbed back up the hill.

Come on, Jenny! Let’s get out of here!

I can’t leave him!

He obviously doesn’t want to come with us.

Yes, he does. He just doesn’t know it yet. Or he’s scared. The sound of the motorboat. Can you turn it off?

Frankie shook her head. Not a chance.

Ok, well give me another minute.

I looked up the hill for the dog but he was out of sight. Still, I was determined.

Jenny, it’s too dangerous, come on! Sasha yelled.

One minute. But just as I was gathering momentum, I stopped in my tracks. There above me was not only my dog, but two of his buddies. One was a terrier, and the other some sort of mutt with droopy ears, a short and stubby body, and a general cockeyed look about him. They were in the same condition as the big guy.

When a whimpering sound met our ears, I saw the change in Sasha and Frankie’s expressions. All of these dogs were coming with us.

How are we going to get them into the boat? Sasha asked, suddenly beside me on the hillside.

The small ones, we can carry. The big one will have to jump. I motioned to the dogs to come toward us. They seemed to understand my gesture. I scooped up the terrier, and Sasha grabbed the mutt, both of us forgetting to check for any signs of hostility.

We handed the dogs off to Frankie, then climbed into the boat ourselves. The shepherd stood on the dock, watching. All my gesturing was in vane. So much for the running to each other in slow motion fantasy.

Frankie grabbed a rope and handed it to me. I climbed back out of the boat, but when the dog saw the rope in my hand, his ears stood straight up, along with the fur on the back of his neck. I quickly tossed it back onto the boat and sat down on the edge of the dock that looked as if termites had been feasting on it for at least a century.

The shepherd slowly and unsurely ambled over to me. I petted him for a good two minutes before standing up again. He was mine and he knew it. Okay, boy. We’re together now. You’re safe. You just have to follow me. Ok? His big brown eyes looked up at me—same puppy dog look I’d seen on my children’s faces numerous times. I squatted down in front of him, staring straight into his eyes as I placed my hands gently on either side of his head. Please jump. I promise you’ll be ok. Why we hadn’t thought to bring dog biscuits with us, I didn’t know.

I looked at him for a second longer, stood up, jumped into the boat, and turned around, expecting him to have followed. He hadn’t. My heart sank down to my knees. Time was running out. We had to get out of there before someone discovered us. If there was someone to discover us.

Neither of you thought to pack dog biscuits by any chance, did you?

Frankie and Sasha shook their heads. Wait a minute! Sasha scooped up her purse and pulled out a half eaten three-day old scone wrapped in wax paper.

I laughed when I recognized it. So that’s what you do with my homemade scones!

Hey, I ate the whole one. Just forgot I had this leftover piece.

The two small dogs’ noses started twitching. They would each get their own scone when we got them safely back to Anamcara Island. But right now, this hard piece of raspberry scone had my dog’s name on it, whatever name that was.

Come on, boy, I said, holding it in the air. All fear left his body as his hunger pangs went into overdrive. One leap and he was standing beside me. Go! I yelled and Frankie revved the engine and headed for home. I waited until we were away from the dock before I perched the stale scone on the flat of my hand for my dog to eat. One bite and it was demolished.

We rode home in silence, none of us, I was sure, thinking of the breakfast we’d planned on the island south of this one. It wasn’t until we were docked at Anamcara, leading our dogs toward the parking lot that we spoke.

What next? Sasha said.

You mean, what have we done? Frankie said.

Yeah, what have we done? Sasha said.

Not sure, I said. But I knew we’d done the right thing. I also had a feeling that there was more to this than the rescue of three dogs. A lot more.

* * *

We were sitting in front of the fire I had built in my living room fireplace. The mutt was still curled up on Sasha’s lap, sound asleep. The terrier lay beside Frankie on the couch, sound asleep. My dog was lying beside the fire, sound asleep.

Look at them, Sasha said. They’re exhausted.

Or finally feel safe enough not to have to be vigilant. I took another sip of my green tea.

What now? Sasha asked.

We do what the vet told us. Frankie inspected a nasty cut on the terrier’s paw. We put hot compresses on their sores three times a day and feed them small portions of food every few hours until their bodies are used to eating normal amounts again. I must admit I’m relieved the vet thinks these gashes are from the rocks rather than inflicted by an angry animal abuser.

Me too. Sasha raised an eyebrow at Frankie. But that’s not what I meant.

Frankie looked at her for a moment. Oh. What do you think we should do?

They looked at each other and then at me. I wasn’t sure I liked being considered the crone in the group, especially if it was based purely on my age.

Hey, you’re the spiritual counselor, Sasha said.

Okay, so maybe there was another reason. I think we’ve been adopted, I answered, drawing on the wisdom that came with that occupation.

Sounds good to me, Sasha said, leaning down and kissing the mutt on the top of the head.

I suppose Lenny will be okay coming on jobs with me.

Lenny? Sasha and I said at the same time.

You named him Lenny?

You named him already?

Frankie shrugged. How about you, Jenny? Haven’t you always wanted a dog in your life?

As a matter of fact. I looked over at the large bundle in the corner. I just didn’t imagine one quite this big. Fortunately I had a station wagon.

My dog—I wasn’t as fast as Frankie was at coming up with a name—slept in front of the fire that night. He seemed quite content there,. I knew that because every couple of hours I came downstairs to check on him and to let him outside if need be. He was curled up in the same ball on the same blanket I had named his bed. When I patted his head and stoked the fire, he did lift his head and even raised his eyebrows—not that dogs have eyebrows, but the general proximity to where they would be if they did have them. He seemed to appreciate that. At least that’s how I interpreted the brightening of his eyes and the wagging tail as I headed back upstairs to bed.

There was something comforting about knowing he was there, knowing he was curled up in front of my fireplace, guarding the manor, looking out for me. Well, it wasn’t quite like that yet, but it would be. He was a good dog and he was my dog. According to the vet, he was around two years old, predominantly Australian shepherd mixed with Bernese Mountain dog and possibly something else thrown in. What he’d been through in his short life, I did not even want to think about. Nor did I think about the people who had abandoned him. What I did think about was his angelic spirit and how quickly the Universe had responded to my request.

And, despite my efforts not to, my mind did keep wondering what else the Universe had in mind besides the rescue of three dogs from a miserable island.

Chapter 2

Everywhere I went, I was accompanied by a big—albeit skinny—black and white and caramel colored, very furry dog with, what I interpreted as, a look of appreciation and expectation on his sweet face. There was definitely an advantage to living on an Island in the Pacific Northwest where it was never so warm that you couldn’t leave a dog in your car. He liked coming with me, even to the market and the pub. That of course meant a lot of waiting. But he seemed to prefer waiting in the car to waiting in the cottage, at least as determined by his whine. I did remain vigilant though. If anyone so much as eyed my dog for more than a three-second glance, I panicked. Did they know him? Did they want him back?

Anxious to get back to work at my pottery wheel, I made a trip to the north end of the island where Army and Navy ran an art studio and carried art supplies, including clay.

Sorry, Jenny. We’re all out, Army, short for Armistad, said in his distinctively deep voice. Army was a big burly man with a round face. For some reason whenever I saw him, I thought of Friar Tuck. I did remember once seeing him in a poncho that resembled a medieval robe. But normally he was wearing sweat pants and T-shirts. Today, with the chill in the air, he had on a long-sleeved turtleneck. Still, his feet were bare inside his Birkenstocks.

We used a lot ourselves this past week, he said, motioning toward the kiln. And then Dante bought quite a bit.

Dante?

Yeah, he’s an old Italian potter who lives on the island. And then Jasper Rosenthal called us and asked us to bring him what we had left that we weren’t using. He finished a new stone sculpture and needs some clay to conceptualize a new project.

Oh, my gosh, I haven’t seen Jasper in a long time.

You know Jasper?

Yes, from when I used to visit my Aunt Winnie. But I haven’t seen him in a couple years.

Of course. They were old friends. Unfortunately, he becomes more and more of a recluse every year. His work is well-known but he rarely makes an appearance. He usually stocks a large supply of clay to experiment with for his models. I deliver it to him when I pick it up in the city. But he ran out and didn’t want to make a trip down to Seattle himself. And, of course, the stone and marble for his final pieces is shipped directly to him.

What kind of work has he been doing?

He does unusual sculptures. He always has. Mostly human figures, but always with a story.

It sounded like the work of his that I’d seen. No two pieces were alike. I’m surprised I haven’t seen Jasper since I moved to Anamcara.

Like I said, he’s become more of a recluse. You’ll only see him on occasion when he’s delivering art work to the artist co-op, Army said. More and more he’s having us drop it off for him.

Or when he comes out to buy extra clay from us, Navy, short for Nadia, said. But that’s rare.

I smiled when I saw her. She was wearing sweats and a turtleneck too. They must have made a trip to the Eddie Bauer outlet recently. Her feet were bare as well, in her well-worn Birkenstocks. They were a cute couple. Navy was half Army’s size, as trim as he was round and her hair was as straight as his was curly.

We’ll be picking up a new shipment next Wednesday if you want to come back then, Jenny, she said, flicking her single blond braid over her shoulder.

Thanks, Navy. I’ll do that.

I wouldn’t be starting back at the pottery wheel after all—at least not immediately. I could work in the garden. Or do some sewing. Or try a new tofu casserole recipe. It was time I got back to my healthy eating. Too many scones and too few vegetables since I’d relocated to Anamcara.

And here I had my own vegetable garden, thanks to Frankie and a dear friend of my Aunt Winnie’s who could grow tomatoes in sand on the harsh northwest coast of Scotland. We had planted potatoes, carrots, turnips, onions, leeks, and even some peas. Good Scottish fare.

A little work in the garden soothed the soul. My new furry friend seemed to like it too. He was also an aficionado of my cooking experiments, especially the ones I considered failures. But sewing? I wasn’t quite ready to tackle that. The computer was more enticing than Winnie’s old Singer Featherweight, despite its charm.

I sent off a couple emails, one to each of my children. Holly, who was in Connecticut at college, would probably not answer for a week or two. She would use the excuse that I’d been out to visit her recently. At least she was better at picking up a phone and calling her mother than her brother was. But Matthew was the writer in the family. And he was only two ferry rides away at a university in Seattle. He would email back as soon as he received mine. He was good that way. Either that or it was an attempt to avoid answering his mother’s questions about his love life which were difficult to deflect over the phone.

When I finished my emailing, I did some web surfing. This and that, dogs, big furry Australian shepherd-Bernese Mountain dogs, finally settling on the local islands. The one where Frankie wanted to eat lunch was Waterloo Island, slightly larger than Anamcara. The next one over was privately owned by a gentleman named Edward Sharkey. Tara Island. Nice Irish name. It too was in the San Juans, just this side of the Canadian border. And finally, the dogs’ island. Also in the San Juans, privately owned as well, by an LLC of some kind. Aurora Island.

Oddly, I kept getting the feeling that I needed to go back there. There was no logic to it. No haunting cries were coming from the island anymore, but something was out there. A wounded dog that was too sick to even cry out for help. I felt nauseous at the thought. But would my dog have left him behind? He wouldn’t leave the other two so why would he leave a fourth one? Oh, yeah, I’d lured him with food.

Feeling just a little bit stir crazy—or maybe it was my way of avoiding going back to the scary Island with the scarier compound—I went down to Seattle to see my father, Charlie McNair. He had been pestering me to help him with a case anyway. Knowing Charlie, it was just an excuse to get me to visit, despite my having been there a few weeks ago en route to visiting Holly.

Malcolm MacGregor, Charlie’s neighbor and my old college professor was there when I arrived. Despite their age difference, they were good friends. Not only did they teach together at the University, but they were born and raised in Scotland.

Both dressed in jeans and rugby jerseys—something else they obviously had in common—they were talking about a friend of theirs over a cup of tea.

Another old boy soccer player? I asked, picking up on their conversation.

"Need you put so much emphasis on the old?" MacGregor asked, brushing away his thick brown hair that was always just a little bit messy like a good professor’s hair should be.

Ah, the gap between the young and old only widens with age, Charlie said, bursting into verse, ’What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie—‘

MacGregor jumped in to finish the quotation, ’What can a young lassie do wi’ an auld man?’

Robbie Burns, Charlie said proudly. Och, I’ve a better one. Sir William Gilbert, I believe, ‘For I’m not so old and not so plain—‘

He pointed to MacGregor who obliged him with, ’And I’m quite prepared to marry again.’

Are you two finished showing off then?

Not impressed are ye, lassie? Charlie said. So, didn’t you meet Eddie when you were here last, Jenny? At the pub?

Oh, right. He recruited you for the old boys’ soccer. I saw him at a game as well. Watched him in action on the wing.

Aye, Edward Sharkey, a fine Irishman. Of course, his having spent a great deal of time in Scotland is to his credit.

Owner of Tara Island?

Now how would you know about Tara Island? MacGregor asked.

I shrugged.

Charlie misinterpreted my shrug. Don’t you ever try to tell me again that your intuitive powers aren’t working, Jenny, Charlie said when I told him the exact location of Sharkey’s Island.

Tempted as I was to let my intuition take the credit, I confessed. Sorry, Charlie. I hate to disappoint you, but it isn’t intuition. I just spent an afternoon researching the various islands off of Anamcara.

Charlie gave me an endearing wink. Ok, so your timing is good too.

Only I didn’t put it together. Maybe I didn’t know his last name was Sharkey. His island, Tara Island, is also in the San Juans.

I think we’ll be making a trip there very soon. He’s scheduled a soccer match up that direction and he wants us to come see his island home.

Which means you’ll be stopping to visit with me?

Any problem with that? MacGregor asked, those deep brown eyes gazing into mine.

Hmmm. No, no problem, I responded, blushing in response. And they say the song, When Irish Eyes Are Smiling is silly. I have news for them. Irish eyes do smile and so do Scottish eyes, at least MacGregor’s eyes certainly were smiling at that moment.

What’s going on here? Charlie set down his cup of tea and looked from me to MacGregor and back again.

Nothing, Charlie, absolutely nothing, MacGregor said, exhibiting his proclivity for stating the exact opposite of what he meant. The truth was, I’d have liked to know what was going on myself. Just not in front of my father.

Charlie zeroed in on me. Are you hiding something from your old dad, Jenny?

I sighed. Okay, maybe I am.

Charlie sat back with a smug grin on his face. I’m ready.

His eyes were twinkling in anticipation. He was hoping for some lengthy discourse on the romantic innuendos that recently seemed to be passing between MacGregor and me. But it wasn’t what he was going to get. Mainly because MacGregor was sitting right there and I did not