The Polka Dot Nude Read Free Page A

drink first?”
    “A boeuf bourguignon?” I asked, bewildered.
    “It’s fast and easy.” An egg was fast and easy. A steak was possible; boeuf bourguignon was for restaurants. “I just want to put a few things away and take a shower. I look forward to seeing you at six-thirty.”
    “I’ll be there. Thanks.”
    The black head vanished, and I put the eggs back in the fridge. Boeuf bourguignon! He hadn’t even unpackedyet and he was simmering a French dish. Was this man real, or was I dreaming him? “I bet he even does windows,” I muttered to myself, and grabbed an apple to sustain me till dinnertime.
    I decided to pop over and use Simcoe’s phone to call Bell. For some as-yet-undetermined reason, he was always reluctant to let me inside his house. I thought maybe his wife was a bit strange. She sat behind the curtains at the window all day, peeking out. At the door, Simcoe said he’d make the call for me, and let me know when Bell could come.
    “Thanks, Mr. Simcoe.”
    “You’re very welcome. I guess you were pretty surprised to see young O’Malley land in on you, eh, Miss Dane?” His merry blue eyes danced behind a pair of glasses. Simcoe was best described by what was missing. His glasses were rimless, his head was hairless, and his mouth partially toothless. He was a short, stocky man, who had worn the same blue shirt and trousers and suspenders since the first time I saw him.
    “I certainly was. You didn’t mention renting the other cottage.”
    "I wanted to surprise you,” he said, and laughed.
    Simcoe was definitely not the kind of person to plan delightful surprises for his tenants, but I just said, “You succeeded.”
    “Oh I can keep a secret.” He laughed again, and closed the door.
    I went back to my own cottage, puzzling over that cryptic conversation. For some reason, it reminded me of the fleeting moment when I’d looked up and seen Brad narrowing his eyes at me. I shook the thought away. Neurotic, that’s what I was. A silver cloud had chanced my way, and I wouldn’t spoil it by looking for a lead lining. Ah, “The Leaden Echo and the Golden Echo”! Hopkins had written that one. Lousy poem.
     

CHAPTER 2
     
    You could hardly wear jeans and moccasins to a dinner whose main course didn’t even speak English. Sorting through my clothes, I decided unwrinkled white slacks were better than a rumpled skirt. The navy silk shirt was okay; the boring old gold chains worn with everything went with it as well. What bliss to slide into high-heeled sandals, knowing you wouldn’t have to either buckle your knees or stoop, or else soar above your date’s head. I have this theory that short men and tall women share a similar complex—like Napoleon’s being an overachiever to compensate for being a little runt. There were lots of others too—Voltaire and the Marquis de Sade came to mind. And since women are supposed to be small, maybe we have to over-compensate if we’re tall. If I could only think of a few tall female achievers . . .
    The mirror in the bathroom was designed for Napoleon. I kicked off the sandals to consider renovations to my face. Some vestige of my mother’s Slavic origins were still visible in my high, wide cheekbones and full lips, but the strain was diluted by her Anglo-Saxon spouse. I credit my straight nose and green eyes to Dad. People who didn’t have to contend with it admired my ruler-straight hair. I wouldn’t mind a wave or two myself, but the roller hasn’t been invented that can accomplish that miracle. At the moment, a tawny mane hung in straight shocks down either side of my face. I brushed it back and twirled it into a figure eight on the back of my head.
    I carefully applied a blusher and lipstick, then picked up the eyebrow pencil. In an uncharacteristic fit of gullibility, I had listened to a salesclerk who assured me this stick of kohl would transform me into a beauty. Used by Cleopatra, she said. I wondered how tall Cleopatra had been. Cleo had