Free Electric Blue by Nancy Bush Page A

exercise date with Ken. Now I steadfastly zipped up the stretchy-tight jacket and slipped into my Rite-Aid flip-flops. Would a little eyeliner be too much, or maybe a prerequisite? How about some chandelier earrings?
    Binkster came over and sniffed my ankle suspiciously. “Don’t even go there,” I muttered.
    By the time I was ready, I still had an hour to kill before one o’clock. In the interest of surviving another day I stopped at the grocery store and picked up wheat bread and Havarti cheese. The young male clerk gave me a bright smile. “Cute workout gear.”
    “I’m going to a funeral.”
    The smile didn’t waver. “Wow. Cool.”
    This depressed me. I hate it when I mean to be screamingly funny and above-it-all and someone takes me at face value.
    I drove into Portland down I-5 and took the Hawthorne Bridge to the east side of the river. Hawthorne’s this cool street with fun little coffee shops, restaurants and music stores. It’s become chic in a mostly affordable way. Not too gentrified as yet, which suited me just fine.
    I had a small bit of difficulty parking. The side streets are narrow with cars choking the roadway on either side. A great many of the houses were built at the turn of the century with Victorian or Craftsman style influence. Try to turn around in one of those skinny drives and you could pop a tire. A garage is a rare event.
    A guy in a black Mercedes scowled at me as he cruised by. He’d wanted the spot but I’d muscled in first and he’d been unable to play chicken with his newer car against my older one. He mouthed something at me as I climbed out of my car. Something fairly rude, I was sure.
    I cupped my ear with my hand, pretending to struggle to catch his meaning, then dashed through the door to Complete Me.
    The place was a far cry from the historic older homes and quaint shops. It was glass and chrome and the anteroom soared several stories. Young women with hair gelled and curled and makeup expertly smoothed on about a quarter-inch thick greeted me with blinding smiles. One asked me if I had an appointment. I said no, I was waiting for someone. More smiling. Could they get me herbal tea? A scented, warmed neck pillow?
    I wavered on the tea, though I often struggle with something that smells like weeds and is a strangely yellow-green color I just know isn’t from this world. Before I could even reply I was handed a small cup without a handle. The cup was dark gray so I couldn’t quite tell the hue of the concoction. I sipped it carefully. It wasn’t terrible. I waved off the neck pillow.
    “Love your outfit,” one of the girls told me with a smile. “Blue’s your color.”
    Bullshit. I’m better in pink. But I’ll be damned if I tell anyone that. “Thanks.”
    I’d brought my cell phone with me and had a sudden urge to call Cynthia. I should have asked her to join me. She’s better at navigating this stuff. She likes massages and rubs and I’ve heard her actually purr at the thought of turning her body over to experts.
    But this was a job. I needed all my concentration, because by God I wasn’t going to go through this twice.
    The reception girls saw me with my phone and lines of consternation etched between their shaped brows. One pointed to a sign that very nicely said that, as a courtesy to their other customers, cell calls were to be made outside. I reluctantly put my phone back in my pocket.
    I was debating on whether to ask for another cup of herbal tea. I could see where this stuff might be addictive. It made me worry about just what kind of herbs might be used in the brewing. I was actually heading toward the counter when I saw a redheaded woman approach the glass doors. Her frosted pink lips entered the spa a half-second before the rest of her. Ducking my head away from her, I put my cup on the counter, pulled a sad face and said to Girl Number Two, “I got a text message from my friend. She’s not going to be able to meet me after all. Maybe I could get