LITMIR.BIZ

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was pushing and talking and telling everybody what he knew.” Billy laughed. “It wasn’t much, if you know what I mean.”

      “I do.” I could just picture Garrett thrusting his opinions on anyone within hearing range.

      “He was with his wife, I think. I thought she was drunk. She looked kinda glassy-eyed.”

      “That’s just how she looks. I just met her yesterday. Garrett might be worried Orchid isn’t capable of handling the money, but he wasn’t thrilled that Jazz brought me to meet her.”

      “Families…They don’t wear gloves in battle. Look out you don’t get your head knocked off.”

      Julie handed me a cup of black coffee. Usually I fill it up myself but sometimes Julie anticipates my wishes. I gave her a grateful smile. It makes me feel special when someone does something unasked for. Sometimes I worry that I expect too little. Maybe I need to raise the bar when it comes to acts of niceness.

      Billy left and I sipped my coffee. I debated on running back to my cottage or heading downtown. Dwayne’s cabana is just on the other side of Lakewood Bay. I could be there in twenty minutes to a half hour.

      I started out in that direction, then switched back to my original plan to run straight home. I needed the exercise and time to think. By the time I walked through my front door my cell phone was vibrating. I’d left it on the kitchen counter and it damn near walked off the edge. I just managed to snatch it up before it thrummed itself into a death dive.

      “Where ya been?” Dwayne demanded. “Miriam’s going to be at the spa at one.”

      “I know. I’m running through the shower now.”

      “The husband tried to meet her for lunch but she told him she was getting a massage. I need you to follow her today.”

      “I’m on it, Dwayne.” Sheesh. “I just ran six miles,” I added for good measure.

      “You walked a lot of it.” I made a strangled sound and would have argued with him just for the sake of it—even though he was right—but Dwayne swept on, “You got a two-hundred-dollar allowance to get yourself buffed and puffed as well.”

      I was impressed and worried. I wasn’t sure what kind of treatment that would buy me, but I knew it wouldn’t be anything I wanted. “How am I going to know Miriam?”

      “You can’t miss her. She’s a redhead, and the collagen lips will enter the door before she does.”

      “Okay…”

      “Try to enjoy yourself.” He hung up.

      I gazed in consternation out my back kitchen window. I heard Binks, who’d been sleeping in her bed in the corner, stagger toward me. Her doggy toenails clicked on the hardwood floor, heralding her arrival. She touched the back of my leg with a paw. Normally I pet her, but I was only half-conscious that she was even there. I was thinking about massages and mud packs and hot stones and steam. Sorry. I know a lot of people think this is the end-all/be-all in pampering but I find it slightly worrisome. So help me, I imagine foot fungi in communal dipping pools. I could get a skin rash from some so-called lotion that’s good for my body. And maybe I’ve seen too many horror movies, but there’s something about a mud pack slathered over my cheeks and nose that makes me fear I could lose a breathing passage.

      I wasn’t even sure what to wear. Knowing I was over-thinking the whole thing, I showered and washed my hair. Then I put on fresh sweats—the horrible baby blue ones my brother and his fiancée had given me after my fall and trip to the hospital. I’d thanked them and stuffed them in a drawer. Not that they weren’t pretty. But sometimes “pretty” makes me look like I’m playing dress up. When I’d donned them the first time, I’d had an instant vision of Barbie getting ready for an exercise date with Ken. Now I steadfastly zipped up the stretchy-tight jacket and slipped into my Rite-Aid flip-flops. Would a little eyeliner be too much, or maybe a prerequisite? How about some chandelier earrings?

      Binkster came over and sniffed my ankle suspiciously. “Don’t even go there,” I muttered.

      By the time I was ready, I still had an hour to kill before one o’clock. In the interest of surviving another day I stopped at the grocery store and picked up wheat bread and Havarti cheese. The young male clerk gave me a bright smile. “Cute workout gear.”

      “I’m going to a funeral.”

      The smile didn’t waver. “Wow. Cool.”

      This depressed me. I hate it when I mean to be screamingly funny and above-it-all and someone takes me at face value.

      I drove into Portland down I-5 and took the Hawthorne Bridge to the east side of the river. Hawthorne’s this cool street with fun little coffee shops, restaurants and music stores. It’s become chic in a mostly affordable way. Not too gentrified as yet, which suited me just fine.

      I had a small bit of difficulty parking. The side streets are narrow with cars choking the roadway on either side. A great many of the houses were built at the turn of the century with Victorian or Craftsman style influence. Try to turn around in one of those skinny drives and you could pop a tire. A garage is a rare event.

      A guy in a black Mercedes scowled at me as he cruised by. He’d wanted the spot but I’d muscled in first and he’d been unable to play chicken with his newer car against my older one. He mouthed something at me as I climbed out of my car. Something fairly rude, I was sure.

      I cupped my ear with my hand, pretending to struggle to catch his meaning, then dashed through the door to Complete Me.

      The place was a far cry from the historic older homes and quaint shops. It was glass and chrome and the anteroom soared several stories. Young women with hair gelled and curled and makeup expertly smoothed on about a quarter-inch thick greeted me with blinding smiles. One asked me if I had an appointment. I said no, I was waiting for someone. More smiling. Could they get me herbal tea? A scented, warmed neck pillow?

      I wavered on the tea, though I often struggle with something that smells like weeds and is a strangely yellow-green color I just know isn’t from this world. Before I could even reply I was handed a small cup without a handle. The cup was dark gray so I couldn’t quite tell the hue of the concoction. I sipped it carefully. It wasn’t terrible. I waved off the neck pillow.

      “Love your outfit,” one of the girls told me with a smile. “Blue’s your color.”

      Bullshit. I’m better in pink. But I’ll be damned if I tell anyone that. “Thanks.”

      I’d brought my cell phone with me and had a sudden urge to call Cynthia. I should have asked her to join me. She’s better at navigating this stuff. She likes massages and rubs and I’ve heard her actually purr at the thought of turning her body over to experts.

      But this was a job. I needed all my concentration, because by God I wasn’t going to go through this twice.

      The reception girls saw me with my phone and lines of consternation etched between their shaped brows. One pointed to a sign that very nicely said that, as a courtesy to their other customers, cell calls were to be made outside. I reluctantly put my phone back in my pocket.

      I was debating on whether to ask for another cup of herbal tea. I could see where this stuff might be addictive. It made me worry about just what kind of herbs might be used in the brewing. I was actually heading toward the counter when I saw a redheaded woman approach the glass doors. Her frosted pink lips entered the spa a half-second before the rest of her. Ducking my head away from her, I put my cup on the counter, pulled a sad face and said to Girl Number Two, “I got a text message from my friend. She’s not going to be able to meet me after all. Maybe I could get a massage…or something…and this trip can be salvaged?”

      Girl Number Two made clucking sounds, checking her appointment book. “I just hate it when my girlfriend plans get ruined.”

      “Amen.”

      “Miriam Westerly,” my quarry introduced herself to Girl

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