A Dose of Murder by Lori Avocato Page B

. . . my . . . God. You look beautiful!”
    I had to grab onto the doorjamb of Goldie’s office Monday morning when I got a look at him. Shock did that to me. I’m not a vain person: Other than that year as a sixteen-year-old cheerleader, when I thought I was the cat’s meow, I really didn’t give my looks a second thought.
    I wasn’t ugly—that I admitted. And my figure was a slim size four.
That
I attributed to my obsession with aerobics and jogging, which came around age twenty-two, when I dated a health-nut doctor my first year on the surgical ward at Saint Greg’s. He turned out to be a royal jerk. I turned out to become obsessed with exercise and to this day can’t stop. Nor would I want to.
    Up until the last few years—okay, since turning twenty-eight a few years back—I had dated regularly and played the field more than my beloved and all-time favorite Steelers running back, Jerome Bettis. But lately, dates were far and few between. My mother tried to add her two cents with reasons like “More girls were born in 1970 than boys” or “Hope Valley had a plethora of girls because of the good food.” Never could figure out that one. Still, it must have made her feel good, since neither of us could figure out why my “dating well” had dried up.
    Again, Vance didn’t count—’cause I wouldn’t let him.
    So I shouldn’t feel jealous, I thought, looking at Goldie. But damn it all, he
was
gorgeous, and he made me feel like a frumpy over-the-hill housewife whose husband cheated on her and whose kids ran roughshod over her. “You look fab. You look . . . damn it all, gorgeous with a capital G. And not for Goldie either.”
    â€œMorning, suga.” He smiled.
    I couldn’t help but stare. Whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. The words, “Hey, Goldie,” somehow came out with my jaw dropped down to my chest.
    His hair today was blonde, frosted heavily. I ran my fingers through mine and decided I needed to make an appointment with Farrar, a fabulous hairdresser Miles had turned me on to at the Do Drop In salon. But truthfully, I told myself, Farrar, wizard that he was, could never make mine look as good as Goldie’s.
    Ack.
    Today Goldie’s tiger shirt had been replaced by a zebraprint one with matching leggings. Fine legs. I constricted my calves several times in hopes that my “Maciejko” legs would shape up like his. Golden bracelets clanged on both wrists. I couldn’t help but stare.
    â€œDoesn’t that noise make it difficult to do surveillance?” As soon as the words came out, and Goldie’s forehead wrinkled, I felt stupid. “I mean—”
    He laughed. “I know what you mean, suga.” He jingled the jewelry a few times. “Actually, I’m less conspicuous with all this on.”
    I could only stare longer.
    He looked me in the eye, which broke my concentration, and we both howled. “It does seem odd, but true.” He motioned for me to come in. “Few pay much attention to me after the initial staring. Then I just blend in.”
    Maybe on Fire Island. I walked in, sat on the zebra sofa. Goldie offered me coffee, which I accepted. As he bustled about, pouring, milking, sugaring and stirring, I could only continue my observation. Had to be good for my future cases. I mean, I could watch him all day in wonderment, so of course I could follow a case, no problem.
    Goldie turned and handed me a mug of steaming liquid. The pungent scent tickled my nose.
    â€œSmells wonderful.”
    â€œN’Awlins’s best. Chicory café au lait. Secret is the hot milk.” He’d gotten himself a cup in a matching mug with purple, yellow and green Mardi Gras masks on it.
    I could only wonder if Goldie missed his home state. Instead of dredging up possible painful memories, I told him all about my “date” with Vance and that he’d