A Face to Die For (Forensic Instincts 6)

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I know you’re swamped. If you can’t, you can’t.”

“Of course I can.” Gia was wildly racking her brain, trying to figure out when she was going to get the time to scope out venues and hire top-of-the-line vendors on such short notice. But this was her family. She’d find a way. She only prayed she didn’t have a Sunday afternoon event that day. But if she did, she’d work her uncle’s party around it.

An idea flashed through her mind, and she locked it in as a winner. Uncle Frank was an avid boat lover. He spent two weekends each summer visiting Mystic, Connecticut, to see all the magnificent historic ships. And he spent the rest of the summer weekends sitting on a beach on the ocean side of New Rochelle, viewing sleek yachts leaving from the marina.

Perfect. Uncle Frank would feel like a king if he celebrated his sixty-fifth on a lavish private yacht filled with family and friends. Gia could organize that with a few targeted phone calls. She had business relationships with more than one private yacht company, and they had vessels ready for just this type of event. Time to call in a favor.

Gia smiled with satisfaction. She’d make the necessary phone calls right after her morning client meeting ended.

Which reminded her…

“Mom, I have to go now. I’ve got a pile of notes to review before my first bride comes in. But I’ve got an hour or two in between appointments, and I’ve also got an idea. I’ll get right on it. Tell Aunt Silvia that we’ll give Uncle Frank the celebration of a lifetime.”

Her mother’s sigh of relief was audible. “Thank you so much, sweetheart. I don’t know how I would have told Aunt Silvia no.”

“Me, either. Let’s be frank. She would have ripped you a new one. So, let’s keep that from happening. Love you.”

Gia hung up, quickly entering the date into her iPhone calendar, even as she scanned the day for conflicts. She had the Pollman wedding at seven o’clock that evening at t

he Westchester Country Club. She couldn’t have planned that one better. New Rochelle to Rye. One afternoon event, one evening event. Now she could work the times of the two parties so they rolled smoothly from one to the other, rather than clashing and causing wild pandemonium. Gia wouldn’t let her parents down. But she also couldn’t let her clients down.

Of course, she could send Liz to the Pollman affair in her place. Liz Watts, another planner at Shimmering, had her own clients, but she also assisted Gia at many events where one planner, no matter how proficient, wasn’t enough. She was quite good in her own right and would soon be a confident, in-demand wedding planner who rivalled the rest of the staff. Still, assisting at an affair wasn’t the same thing as running the show. And if there was some major complication, which there almost always was, well, that would be on Gia’s shoulders.

Besides, even if things went smoothly, the fact was that the Poll-mans had been referred to Gia, they were attached to Gia, and they expected Gia to run their wedding. And frankly, Gia couldn’t blame them. It was way too late in the game to send in a pinch hitter.

So she’d book the yacht from twelve to five. That would leave her ample time to give hugs all around and ease from one event to the other. Her mother would explain that Gia had to run to another job. She’d listen to the grumbling about how Gia worked too hard and should think about settling down with a husband and kids. And her mother would know just what to say to smooth things over.

A husband and kids would be nice. Someday. When she had a chance to breathe.

CHAPTER 7

Twin Cities Animal Clinic

Minneapolis, Minnesota

“Dr. Dani?”

Jessie Long, the practice’s newest and most enthusiastic vet tech, popped her head into the examining room where Dr. Danielle Murano was fiddling with the buttons on her white lab coat while reading over the file for her next appointment.

“Hmmm?” Dani murmured.

“Beaker’s owner, Mrs. Simpson, is on the phone. She’s stuck at work, but she’s freaking out about the amount of blood Beaker had on his feathers when she brought him in. She’s been on the Internet all day, reading about how small a bird’s blood volume is and how serious it can be when they lose too much of it—even a parrot of Beaker’s size. I calmed her down, but she wants to talk to you. I know you’re backed up, so I can tell her again how well he’s doing, unless you want to take the call?”

Dani looked up, her attention now fully locked on what Jessie was saying. She understood how anxious Maura Simpson was. Beaker was her feathered baby, and she adored him. Dani would take a million owners like that over the ones who didn’t care. Restoring good health to her patients was number one in her book. Bringing joy and relief to their owners played a close second.

Fortunately, Beaker’s injury—a blood feather—had been an easy fix, despite how bad it had looked and the fact that there could have been complications. Dani had used a hemostat to pull out the broken, bleeding feather, applied a little pressure to the area, and Beaker had responded beautifully.

“Is Beaker still behaving normally—eating, drinking, and not picking at his feathers?” she asked Jessie. “I checked on him earlier, but I was in surgery for hours and I’ve been swamped with patients since then, so I haven’t had a chance to get back to the recovery room again.”

Jessie’s head bobbed up and down, visible pleasure on her face. “He’s not picking at his feathers, so I don’t think an Elizabethan collar will be necessary. As for eating and drinking, he’s doing both. He’s also crazy about the new food you switched him to. I guess he doesn’t realize he’s getting healthy by eating great-tasting meals. I wish it worked that way for me.” A rueful glance at her hips.

“Tell me about it,” Dani commiserated.

Jessie’s brows rose. “You’re kidding, right? You’re probably a size two.”

“Dr. Dani, your four-thirty appointment is here,” the receptionist’s voice echoed from the intercom into the examining room.

“Give me five minutes, Rosa,” Dani responded. She placed down the file and headed for the door. “If I’m thin, it’s because I never have time to eat,” she told Jessie. “If I did, the pounds would fly on, trust me.” She paused in the doorway. “I’ll take the call. Beaker will be ready to go home when Mrs. Simpson arrives. I’ll give her follow-up instructions then.” A hint of a grin. “He doesn’t like being contained. My index finger can attest to that.”