The One That Got Away Read Free

bookstore—it said so right on the door. And, in all probability, the customers and staff were LGBT. So what was my problem? Maybe I was too old.
    I pushed the door and entered, dropping my shoulders, relaxing my jaw, trying to look and act as if I’d been in the store hundreds of times.
    â€œCheck your bag, please.”
    At least that felt familiar.
    I handed over my sturdy canvas tote, worn and smudged by city soot. The clerk handled it a little gingerly. Maybe I should look for a new tote bag in the store I thought.
    Standing by New Releases, I could see a section labeled Lesbian Erotica. There was a woman standing in front of the rack, reading. I took up a position at the Humor section directly across the aisle and studied her while pretending to look at a book on the history of lesbian hairstyles. She was wearing a black leather jacket and button-fly jeans. Her bright red hair was shaved close to her head. There was a small silver hoop through her left eyebrow, and two large rings on her right hand. She was reading Fisting with Finesse.
    She looked up and over at me. “Did you squeak?”
    â€œI didn’t say anything.”
    â€œNot speak, squeak.” Her voice seemed very loud. “I heard a squeak.”
    â€œMust have been the floor.” I twisted the soles of my Easy Spirit pumps back and forth on the wooden boards. “Excuse me,” I said, moving over to Mystery.
    There I found another woman in a leather jacket, looking down at a small open notebook in her left hand. She was a bit shorter and much thinner than me, and her dark hair was boyishly cut. A man in the Travel section seemed to be watching her. He took a few steps toward her, squinted, then turned away.
    I pulled a book off the rack and began reading the description on the back cover.
    â€œThat one’s good, but her most recent one’s even better,” the woman said.
    â€œI like to read mystery series in order,” I told her. “Do you know what the first book in this series is?”
    â€œI don’t remember, but I can check it for you. I just have to go into a different file. This is the list of books I want to read. I have another list of books I’ve read. AndI also have a list of mystery series in chronological order. My name’s Ellen.”
    â€œB.D..”
    While Ellen was opening the file, I looked at her some more. I liked what I saw. She was obviously well organized, and we both liked to read mysteries. I wondered if it was too soon to suggest having a cup of coffee. I’d noticed several tables and a pastry case in front near the display window.
    â€œI have to hand it to Sue Grafton,” Ellen said. “You can figure out the order of her series by the titles alone.” She meant the author whose titles create a crime-themed primer: A is for Alibi, B is for Burglar, C is for Corpse, and so on.
    â€œThe covers of the Brother Cadfael series usually give a number,” I said.
    â€œI’ve never read any of those,” Ellen said. “Who’s the author?”
    â€œEllis Peters. The detective is a medieval monk.”
    â€œI’m not religious.”
    â€œNeither am I, but sometimes I think I was a nun in a former life,” I said.
    Just then a woman came up behind Ellen and put her arms around Ellen’s waist—and an end to my idea of coffee.
    â€œHoney, you can’t buy any more books until you get rid of some of the ones you already have. It’s in our contract.”
    â€œJust one, please?”
    The new arrival turned to me. “I can’t say no to my honey.” She held out her hand. “I’m Annalise.”
    â€œB.D. I don’t suppose you could recommend a couple of books for—a friend of mine who’s new to all this?”
    â€œFor a baby dyke?” Annalise asked.
    I felt the unmistakable heat of a blush.
    â€œYou’re embarrassing B.D.,” Ellen said.
    â€œWhy? You know I’m a