G is for Gumshoe (Kinsey Millhone 7)

"Day three," he said.

I hadn't realized he was counting.

"This is day seven for me," she said.

"How are you doing?"

"Not too bad. I've got all this manic energy. I feel amped. I must have counted on the nicotine to mellow me out. What about you?"

"I'm okay," he said mildly. "I like to do things to test myself."

"I'll bet you do," she said and laughed down in her throat. "We'll be back in a sec." She breezed on toward the back.

"Was that nasty, what you said to him? It sounded nasty," I asked, scurrying to keep up.

She glanced over her shoulder. "Listen, babycakes, when I get around to nasty you won't have any doubts."

She anchored the hanger over the edge of her cubicle and stuck an unlit Virginia Slim in her mouth, dragging on it cold. She closed her eyes, as if praying. "Oh God, for a light… for smoke… for the first heady hit of a cigarette…" She opened her eyes and shook her head. "I hate doing things that are good for me. Why did I decide to do this?"

"You were coughing up blood."

"Oh yeah. I forgot that part. Ah well. Take a look." She eased the plastic bag off the hanger. Under it was a black silk jumpsuit with spaghetti straps and a tiny belt. The matching jacket had a Mandarin collar and long sleeves. "What do you think?"

"It looks perfect."

"Good. Make sure it fits. Otherwise give me a call and I'll scare up something else. You can bring it with you at six and get dressed in my room. I'm staying at the Edgewater so I won't have to drive myself home afterward. I hate having to monitor my alcohol intake."

"Don't you have a date? I thought you'd be coming with Neil."

"I'm meeting him there. That way he's free to do anything he wants. I'll bring the jewelry tonight and maybe help you do something with your hair. I can tell I'm going to have to dress you."

"Vera, I'm not helpless."

"Of course you're not helpless. You're completely ignorant when it comes to clothes. I'll bet you've never even had your colors done."

I gave a little noncommittal shrug, trying to look like I had my colors done sometimes twice a week.

"Don't bother. You're a Summer. I can save you the fifty bucks. You shouldn't wear black, but to hell with it. You'll look great." She paused to study my face. "Very becoming, those bruises… especially the one turning green." She began to ease the plastic bag back over the outfit, unlit cigarette bobbing from the corner of her mouth. "How's it feel to spend twenty-four hours a day with a hunk?"

"You mean Dietz?"

Vera sighed and rolled her eyes. "No, I'm talking about Don Knotts. Never mind. You probably like him because he's competent, right?"

"Well, yeah. Isn't that the point?" I said. "You know what puzzles me? How come I'm surrounded by bossy people? Rosie, Dietz, Henry… now you."

"You're cute, you know that? You think you're such a hard-ass."

"I am a hard-ass," I said defensively.

"Nell's going to love you. Have you called him yet?"

"I haven't had a chance. We just got back."

"He's only coming tonight to meet you. Just remember. Don't eat."

I squinted at her. "How come? This is a retirement dinner, isn't it?"

"Suppose you want to go to bed with him."

"I don't," I said.

"But suppose you did."

"What's that got to do with eating dinner?"

She was losing patience with me, but stopped to spell it out. "Never go to bed with a guy after a big meal. Your stomach will pooch out."

"Why would I go to bed with a guy I can't have a big meal with first?"

"You can eat later, when you're married."

I had to laugh. "I'm not getting married later, but thanks for the tip."

"You're welcome. See you tonight."

I found Dietz sitting out by Darcy's desk, leafing through a pamphlet on uninsured losses. I took the outfit downstairs with us, tucking it carefully in his trunk when we reached the parking lot. "There's no way I'm wearing any body armor under this," I said.

Dietz made no comment and I took that for assent.

On our way to the firing range, we stopped by the gun shop and spent an hour bickering about guns. He knew far more than I did and I had to yield to his expertise. I left a deposit on an H K P7 in 9-millimeter, filling out all the necessary paperwork. I ended up paying twenty-five bucks for fifty rounds of the Winchester Silvertips Dietz had insisted on. In exchange for my compliance, he had the good taste not to mention that all of this was his idea. I'd expected to find it galling to take his advice, but in reality, it felt fine. What did I have to prove? He'd been at it a lot longer than I had and he seemed to know what he was talking about.