With Vics You Get Eggroll (A Mad for Mod Mystery Book 3) by Diane Vallere Page A

company.” I splashed water at her and she laughed.
    “I think Mary Elizabeth gets more action at the retirement home than you do. That’s not right.”
    “I bet Mary Elizabeth would beg to differ,” I said, winking at Grace’s friend who was approaching from behind her.
    “I don’t think Mary Elizabeth has to beg for anything,” Grace said.
    “Gracie!” Mary Elizabeth said. “For shame.”
    I left them to their good natured laughter and their cool-down to the sounds of “Little Surfer Girl” and jumped in.
    It felt good to submerge under the water. Familiar. I pulled my goggles down and waited until the purple swim-capped man flip turned at the end of the lane before I pushed off. I wasn’t sure which of us was faster, but putting a length of the pool between us seemed like the polite thing to do. Though my muscles were sluggish and not yet warmed up, I easily finished lap one and turned into lap two. Two strokes into the second lap I realized the other swimmer had stopped in the middle of the lane and was treading water in front of me. I lifted my head.
    “What are you doing?” he demanded.
    “Swimming laps. Like you.”
    “You don’t just get into a lane with another swimmer without telling them,” he said angrily.
    “But I—”
    “That’s rude. You wait and then you ask,” he said, pushing water toward me. Either his anger or his workout turned his face red.
    “I’m sorry. I dangled my feet into the water and let you turn. I thought you would have seen me.”
    “That’s not how it’s done.” He glared at me.
    I was so shocked by his unexpected hostility that I offered a second apology while he pushed off of the bottom and swam away from me, and then got angry with myself for apologizing.
    I looked up at Bobby the lifeguard to see if he’d caught the interaction. He shrugged, like it was no big deal. I treaded water until the other guy was at the end of the lane and I started swimming again.
    I wasn’t used to being yelled at one and a half laps into my workout, and the incident left me annoyed and tense. I’d been swimming at Crestwood since I moved to Dallas. The low impact workout was perfect for my then-freshly injured knee joint, and the natural solitude had fit my antisocial mood. What had started as a way to cope with unresolved emotions had become a part of my day that I cherished. It included several regulars who had their own reasons for swimming each morning. Purple cap was a newbie, probably a regular from the nearby Gaston Swim Club. They might have rules at their location, but at ours, we operated on a protocol of politeness.
    I powered through the first several laps of my workout, again losing track of my lap count. Adrenaline from the encounter had kept me moving and, in an attempt to calm down my mind, I let it wander.
    Even though I’d left my world behind in Pennsylvania, and started over when I was not quite forty-five, it turned out I liked surrounding myself with the familiar. I’d created a new life in the Lakewood suburb of Dallas, Texas, one that was entrenched in routine. Swim in the morning. Scout dumpsters or estate sales midday. Spend time at my studio in the afternoon. Volunteer at the local movie house that shows classic pictures in the evening. Go home, go to sleep.
    Lather, rinse, repeat.
    At the time, I’d moved to Dallas from Pennsylvania with little more than the belongings that could fit in my car. My purchase of the apartment building on Gaston Avenue had been transacted over the Internet, and the rental of my Mad for Mod studio space had happened shortly after I’d gotten settled. I’d had big plans for establishing a new life, and I wasn’t going to let the realities of hard work, heartbreak, and zero clients derail me.
    The sound of the bubbles surfacing through the water replaced my own churning thoughts about what was really missing in my life.
    I was searching for something to hold on to, something to ground me. When I’d moved to Dallas,