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influence for even a week, their husbands would regress to the natural male status of unshaven, uncivilized, antisocial troglodytes, and they, the wives, would come home to find the beds unmade, the ashtrays littered with cigars, the floors with socks and underwear, and the kitchen sink overflowing with beer cans and old, crusted pizza boxes.
    In point of fact, however, “the boys” in question were two accomplished men in their early forties, both well able to take care of themselves, and both with highly developed senses of personal hygiene. Gideon Oliver was a professor of physical anthropology at the University of Washington’s Port Angeles campus and a highly regarded forensic anthropologist known to the world’s press (to his mild dismay and the continuing amusement of his colleagues) as the Skeleton Detective. John Lau, whose relationship with Gideon went back even further than Julie’s did, was an FBI special agent with specialties in firearms, ballistics, and international racketeering. John was a powerful, muscular six-two, Gideon a somewhat more slender six-one.
    “I think maybe we could manage,” Gideon said mildly. “Don’t you, John?”
    “Well, as long as it’s not for more than a week,” John agreed. “I’d need a change of socks by then.”
    The women paid no attention to them. “As it happens,” Marti announced, “I have a plan.”
    “Why am I not surprised?” John murmured. He went back to work on the cheeseburger he had so predictably ordered. “Okay, may as well hear it,” he said resignedly.
    “It’s simple,” she said. “Give Phil a call and see what he’s got going in the next few weeks. Take a trip. You both have a standing invitation, don’t you?”
    “I could do that,” John said amiably. “I’ve got vacation time coming.”
    “It wouldn’t work for me,” Gideon said. “It’s right in the middle of the quarter. I have classes.”
    “Ask Lyle Spatz to take them for you,” Julie suggested. “He owes you, doesn’t he?”
    Gideon nodded slowly. “Well, that might work, especially if it’s over Thanksgiving so we’re already skipping a few classes anyway. I’d have to figure some things out.”
    “Could be fun,” John said, “depending on what Phil’s got going.” He glanced out at the bleak day. “But if it’s not somewhere south of here, forget about it.”
    “At least you wouldn’t be moping around by yourselves, and you wouldn’t have to scrounge up your own meals,” Marti said.
    “And it probably would be interesting,” Julie said. “Don’t you think?” And Gideon could tell that she was warming to the idea of her own week in Cabo San Lucas.
    All right, then he would help make it happen. “With Phil, it’s always interesting,” he said. “Okay, let me see what he’s got on the calendar.”
    He borrowed Julie’s cell phone, took it to a quiet corner near the entrance, and hit the button to speed-dial Phil Boyajian’s number in Anacortes.
    Another old friend, Phil’s relationship with Gideon dated back two decades, to Gideon’s days at the University of Wisconsin, where they’d both been graduate students in the anthropology department. Since earning his Ph. D., Gideon had pursued a reasonably straightforward path up the academic ladder. Phil’s progression had not only been anything but straightforward, it had been distinctly peculiar. As he himself had described it, he’d had a career in reverse. He’d started at the top, with a tenure-track position at a major state university lined up even before he’d completed his doctorate in cultural anthropology. He’d lasted just one year. (“Can’t stand the politicking!”) From there he’d gone on to a community college in Seattle, managing to stick it out two years this time before quitting. (“How can anyone stand all those damn committees?”) Then came a stint in a high school, also not to his liking. (“I’m not a jail guard.”) This was followed – inevitably – by