Part 22 (1/2)

”Remember how you said you wrote dating profiles for Joy?”

”Yes, I remember,” I replied, not exactly thrilled at this conversational turn of events.

”Well, I've just joined one of those Internet dating services, and I was hoping I could hire you to write a profile for me.”

So much for our future grandkids.

”I'm really good at writing up criminal cases,” he was saying, ”but when it comes to personal stuff, I stink.”

”I'd be happy to help,” I said, most annoyed at myself for having indulged in that absurd daydream.

We agreed on a small fee, and he filled me in on his personal info.

Like me, he was a native Angeleno, born in Manhattan Beach, right next to my home town of Hermosa. When he told me he was into movies, books, and crossword puzzles, I couldn't help but feel excited.

”Me, too!” I cried. ”I love movies and books and crossword puzzles. I do the New York Times puzzle every day!”

”That's nice,” he replied with a mild smile. ”I'm also into ultimate Frisbee and beach volleyball.”

Cancel that romance. No way was anyone ever going to get me and my thighs on a beach, playing volleyball. Or ultimate Frisbee, whatever the heck that was.

Now it was time for the Big Question.

”What about looks?”

I don't care what anybody says, in the end, that's all men are really interested in.

”I'm open to all kinds,” he said.

”Really?”

”Absolutely!” A pause, and then he added, ”Although frankly, if I'm going to be honest, I think I'd prefer a pet.i.te blonde.”

”Of course you would,” I said with a stiff smile.

What did I tell you? Just another shallow jerk in the dating pool.

And you wonder why I never remarried.

”How soon can you write this up?” he asked.

”It won't take me long at all.”

He gave me his e-mail address, and I a.s.sured him he'd have his dating profile by the next day.

After thanking me for my time and giving Prozac a farewell love scratch, he headed out the door.

I should have been thrilled that I hadn't been arrested.

Instead, I just wanted to throw a Slurpee at the nearest pet.i.te blonde.

Chapter 19.

When last we saw Greg, those of you who were paying attention and not running to the fridge for a snack will no doubt remember that he'd been heading off to an art gallery with a ”freshly painted” oil he'd just hauled out of a dusty closet.

I was pretty much convinced he was a fraud and that somehow Joy had found out about it and was blackmailing him. But I couldn't confront him, not without admitting I'd trespa.s.sed on his private property to spy on him.

I needed a way to get him to admit he was faking those paintings of his.

And with a great deal of thought (not to mention a few Double Stuf Oreos), I figured out how to do it.

After a pit stop at my local home supply store, I headed out to Greg's place in Santa Monica.

I was happy to see his Lamborghini in the driveway. Which meant he was home and my plan could proceed unimpeded.

Well, not exactly unimpeded. There were two furry obstacles standing in my way.

Namely, Rocky and Bullwinkle.

What if those rascal rodents were lurking in the front yard, just waiting for their chance to chomp into my elastic waist jeans?

But if you think a woman of my mental fort.i.tude was about to be intimidated by two pint-sized, pea-brained squirrels-you're absolutely right.

Which is why I'd picked up a can of something called Squirrel-B-Gone at the home supply store.

Clutching it now in my sweaty palm, I scooted up Greg's front path. If Rocky and Bullwinkle came anywhere near me, I intended to let them have it straight in their beady little eyes. But thank heavens all was quiet in Greg's front yard. No sign of my bushy-tailed a.s.sailants anywhere.

I made it to the front door without incident and rang the bell, stas.h.i.+ng my Squirrel-B-Gone in my purse.

Greg came to the door in his jeans and work s.h.i.+rt, his hands once again immaculately clean.

He frowned at the sight of me.

”You again?” he snapped. ”I've said all I have to say about Joy Amoroso.”

”But that's not why I'm here,” I said, plastering on my brightest smile. ”I seem to have lost one of my earrings yesterday, and I'm pretty sure I dropped it in your living room. Mind if I come in for a sec and look around?”

He rolled his eyes, not even trying to hide his annoyance.

”If you must,” he sighed, reluctantly letting me in.

Following him into the living room, I made a beeline for the sofa where I'd been sitting yesterday. Immediately I started running my hands between the cus.h.i.+ons, eyeing the box of Valentine's candy still on his coffee table.

(Isn't it amazing how some people take days to finish a box of chocolates?) When I figured enough time had elapsed, I cried, ”Here it is!”

I then held up an earring I'd been clutching in my hand all along.