The Best of Sisters in Crime Read Online Free PDF Page B

with statements such as, “You know, I had a great insight into myself
last week.” That was nice; I was happy for him. But I would rather have gotten
to know his surface persona before probing into his psyche. Like the two
previous men, Bob didn’t fit any of the recognizable profiles of the
professional burglar, nor had he had any great insight into how All the Best
People worked.
    Ted Horowitz was
a recovering alcoholic, which was admirable. Unfortunately he was also the
confessional type. He began every anecdote with the admission that it had
happened “back when I was drinking.” He even felt compelled to describe how he
used to throw up on his ex-wife. His only complaint about Best People—this with
a stern look at my wineglass—was that they kept referring him to women who
drank.
    Jim Rogers was
an adman who wore safari clothes and was into guns. I refrained from telling
him that I own two .38 Specials and am a highly qualified marksman, for fear it
would incite him to passion. For a little while I considered him seriously for
the role of burglar, but when I probed the subject by mentioning a friend
having recently been ripped off, Jim became enraged and said the burglar ought
to be hunted down and shot.
    “I’m going about
this all wrong,” I said to Hank.
    It was ten in
the morning, and we were drinking coffee at the big round table in All Souls’
kitchen. The night before I’d spent hours on the phone with an effervescent
insurance underwriter who was going on a whale-watching trip with Weekenders,
the group that god-awful Jerry Hale had mentioned. He’d concluded our
conversation by saying he’d be sure to note in his pocket organizer to call me
the day after he returned. Then I’d been unable to sleep and had sat up hours
longer, drinking too much and listening for burglars and brooding about
loneliness.
    I wasn’t
involved with anyone at the time—nor did I particularly want to be. I’d just
emerged from a long-term relationship and was reordering my life and getting
used to doing things alone again. I was fortunate in that my job and my little
house—which I’m constantly remodeling—filled most of the empty hours. But I
could still understand what Morton and Bob and Ted and Jim and even that
dreadful Jerry were suffering from.
    It was the
little things that got to me. Like the times I went to the supermarket and
everything I felt like having for dinner was packaged for two or more, and I
couldn’t think of anyone I wanted to have over to share it with. Or the times I’d
be driving around a curve in the road and come upon a spectacular view, but
have no one in the passenger seat to point it out to. And then there were the
cold sheets on the other side of the wide bed on a foggy San Francisco night.
    But I got
through it, because I reminded myself that it wasn’t going to be that way
forever. And when I couldn’t convince myself of that, I thought about how it
was better to be totally alone than alone with someone. That’s how I got through the cold, foggy nights. But I was discovering there was
a whole segment of the population that availed itself of dating services and
telephone conversation clubs and video exchanges. Since I’d started using Best
People, I’d been inundated by mail solicitations and found that the array of
services available to singles was astonishing.
    Now I told Hank,
“I simply can’t stand another evening making polite chitchat in a bar. If I
listen to another ex-wife story, I’ll scream. I don’t want to know what these
guys’ parents did to them at age ten that made the whole rest of their lives a
mess. And besides, having that security guard on my house is costing Dick
Morris a bundle that he can ill afford.”
    Helpfully Hank
said, “So change your approach.”
    “Thanks for your
great suggestion.” I got up and went out to the desk that belongs to Ted
Smalley, our secretary, and dug out a phone directory. All the Best People wasn’t
listed. My file