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Oh, shit! she thought.
Dismay hit her hard.
She looked closer at him. He needed a shave. He also needed a shower if the BO was all from him, although it blended with the odor of beer and a telltale musky scent in the room. She carefully got out of bed, picked up her overnight bag, and went into the tiny bathroom. Her heart pounding and breath coming quick, she opened the bag and pulled out the packet of condoms. She carried six with her, just in case. The opportunity to use them had occurred only on the last two Portland weekends. She checked the packet. There were six—all unopened.
Oh, fuck, oh, shit, God damn it, you idiot! She stood in the bathroom and cursed herself for almost five minutes.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Naked, hair askance, blurry-eyed, her expression running a gamut that included anger at herself, anger at the world, worry about unprotected sex with a stranger, and disgust.
She dressed in a pair of sweats and jogging shoes from her bag and quietly went back into the room. The man’s clothes lay piled on the floor by the other side of the bed. She gathered her scattered dance clothes and jacket and stuffed them into the bag just as the man—she had no idea of his name or anything else about him—rolled over and rose on an elbow to look at her. She stood staring back, not having anything to say at that moment. He rubbed his eyes, took another look at her up and down, and then—
“God damn! How drunk was I last night?”
She glared at him, her mind warring with two impulses: to either break every bone in his body or cry. Coming to no conclusion, she zipped her bag closed, picked up her purse, and left the room without a word. She drove back to Pacific City without music, hardly noticing the road. She pulled into her garage and only then in the rearview mirror noticed tear streaks.
Three months passed before she went back to Portland. When she did resume the dance weekends, her overnight bag was minus the condoms, and she never again danced with or acknowledged Greg when they happened to attend the same dance sessions.
She decided to get out the coming weekend and away from the Toompas case for a couple of days, a plan that started more as determination than anticipation. Her last few trips had lacked the enthusiasm she’d felt before that weekend. However, things had changed. Time and the triumph of solving the Great Abalone Caper had smoothed over her feelings. On Friday, she drove to Portland and checked into a motel, a different one from that night.
She brought all three of her dance outfits. Only two had ever been worn in public. Both had contrasting tops and bottoms, and any lines were horizontal, characteristics meant to minimize the illusion of her height. The same rationale held for
the one-inch heels on her dance shoes. The third outfit was her favorite, and she had never had the nerve to wear it in public. She knew it represented a fantasy of what she wished and dared to wear. The one-piece dress was solid black. The upper part tied around her neck, leaving her back bare. Below the waist, it flared diagonally down to the right, leaving her left leg exposed to mid-thigh. The matching black shoes had two-inch heels.
She laid out the three outfits on the motel room’s bed and looked at them. She’d never really liked the first two. Her eyes kept drifting to the black one, back and forth, always ending on the third outfit. There was no question. The black one. She put on the dress, then the higher-heeled shoes, and let her hair out fully. She looked into the room’s mirror. Somehow . . . it was her.
At eight o’clock, she walked into the ballroom where she and Greg had met. He arrived alone. On the third dance, she went up to him, and they danced a rumba. They danced several times again during the evening, and when, after the last dance, he asked her to his place, she casually declined, went back to her motel room, and reveled in self-congratulations. It was almost like an exorcism.
She repeated it on Saturday night, though at a different ballroom. She felt freer and more relaxed than she ever had dancing. On that second night, she later couldn’t remember a single instance of wondering about people looking at her. She hadn’t cared.
She enjoyed the drive back home Sunday morning. Brisk coastal air, occasional fog, some drizzle, slow traffic, music on the radio, and Greta singing or humming along.
At home, and despite the drive, she felt energized and went for a long beach run, followed by an intense session at the complex’s weight room. She felt empowered.
She thought maybe she should call Villars, her college track and field coach, to talk seriously about her future. She also needed to get out to the Cloverdale High School playing fields with her gear and practice.
CHAPTER 11
On Monday morning, Greta resumed checking receipts. The last twenty-one businesses lay across the entire range of coastline she planned to check. Twelve were in Lincoln County, and she would have to personally visit them to examine paper receipts. She figured she’d better check in with Connors and called him.
“Hello . . . Lincoln County sheriff’s detective Connors here.”
“Mitch, it’s Greta Havorsford.”
Connors paused before responding. “Greta, what’s up? Oh, besides the abalone bust. Good work, that.”
“How did you know about that?”
“Maybe the news didn’t mention you, but Sheffel from Fish and Game spread the word it was your case, and he just helped out. Also, that Wallace, as usual, is making sure he gets the credit.”
“Yeah. You know. A bear in the woods.” Meaning Wallace had behaved as expected, like a bear shitting in the woods.
Connors laughed. “So, what can I do you for?”
“I’m still picking at the Toompas case, and I’d like to check out a few things in Lincoln County.”
The cautionary tone crept back in Connors’s voice. “What things?”
She summarized her investigating sources for the one receipt and how she’d whittled it down to twenty-one businesses.
