Free The Best of Sisters in Crime by Marilyn Wallace Page A

twenty-five years ago, and it’s still a pleasure to fantasize revenge,
after all these years.”
     
     
     
    Harry Towers walked out
of his office building and blinked in the
late-afternoon light. The sea of home-bound bodies divided around him as he
deliberated how, and with whom, to fill the hours ahead.
    The redheaded
receptionist had other plans. Lucy, his usual standby, had run off to Vegas
with a greeting-card salesman. Charlene was back with her husband, at least for
tonight. Might as well check out Duffy’s.
    He stood a
little straighter, smoothed his hair over his bald spot, and sucked in his
stomach. Duffy’s was a giant corral into which the whole herd of thirty-plus
panic-stricken single women stampeded at nightfall. Duffy’s Desperates, he
called them. Not prime stock, but all the same, the roundup saved time.
    He walked
briskly. Everything would be fine. He didn’t need that stupid redheaded
receptionist.
    “Harry? Harry
Towers?”
    The sidewalks
were still crowded, but Harry spotted the owner of the melodic voice so easily,
it was as if nobody but the two of them were on the streets.
    He had seen her
a few times before, recently, right around this time of day. She was the
blonde, voluptuous kind you had to notice. A glossy sort of woman, somebody you
see in magazines or on TV. Not all that young, not a baby, but not a bimbo. And
definitely not a Duffy’s Desperate.
    She repeated his
name and continued moving resolutely toward him. He tried not to gape.
    “You are Harry Towers, aren’t you?” A small, worried
frown marred her perfect face.
    He smiled and
nodded, straightening up to his full height. He was a tall man, but her
turquoise eyes were on a level with his.
    “I thought so!”
Her face relaxed into a wide smile. “Remember me?” Her voice was so creamy, he
wanted to lick it.
    “I. .
. well—” In his forty-five years, he had never
before laid eyes on this woman, except for the sidewalk glimpses this week.
Harry did not pay a whole lot of the remembering kind of attention to most
women, but this was not most women. This one you’d remember even if you had
Alzheimer’s.
    She was using
the old don’t-I-know-you-from-some-where? line, and it amused him. She’d even
gone to the trouble to find out his name. Flattering, to say the least.
    “Does the name
Leigh Endicott sound familiar?” she prompted.
    “Oh!” he said
emphatically, nodding, playing the game. “Leigh . . . Endicott. Sure . . . now
I—well, it must be—”
    “Years,” she
said with one of those woeful smiles women give when they talk about time. “Even
though it seems like yesterday.” She shook her head, as if to clear away the
time in between. “I’ve thought about you so often, wondered what became of you.”
She put her hand on his sleeve, tenderly.
    If only the
redhead hadn’t left the building before him— if only she could see him now!
    “I always hoped
I’d find you again someday,” she purred.
    She was
overdoing it. Should he tell her to skip the old-friend business? They didn’t
need a make-believe history. He decided to keep quiet, not rock the boat,
follow her lead. “Why don’t we find someplace comfortable?” he said. “To, uh,
reminisce?”
    She glanced at
her watch, then shrugged and smiled at him, nodding.
    “There’s a place
around the corner,” he said. “Duffy’s.” The Desperates would shrivel up and
turn to dust when they saw this one. Then they’d know, all those self-important
spritzer drinkers, that Harry Towers still had it. All of it.
    They started
walking, her arm linked through his. Suddenly she stopped short. “I just had a
wonderful idea. I have a dear little farmhouse in the country. Very peaceful and
private. Would you mind skipping the bar? I’m sure it’s too noisy and crowded
for a really good . . . talk. My car’s over there. I can drive you back
later—if you feel like leaving.”
    What a woman!
Right to the point! He hated the preliminaries, the