Free McNally's Dare by Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo

bedroom?”
    “That’s what I thought,” she replied, elbowing me aside to put the odious casserole in the oven. “Help yourself to a drink and then start preparing the salad.”
    Since I brought a toothbrush, shaving kit and change of shorts and socks into Georgy’s home, she thoughtfully purchased a tea trolley in antiquated Formica—there truly is such a thing—on which to set up a portable bar. Remembering my two vodka martinis, I poured myself a light vodka and tonic and mixed the same for my hostess, earning me a mischievous wink of her green eye.
    “Cheers,” she said, taking a sip. “Hmmmm, good. I’ve been cruising in the patrol car all day, terrifying speeders.”
    “Did you catch any?”
    “Not enough to justify the gas I used.” She took a salad bowl from one of the cupboards and placed it on the kitchen drain board. “How was your day?”
    “Lunch at Mar-a-Lago with Malcolm MacNiff and cocktails at the GulfStream with Dennis Darling of Bare Facts magazine.”
    “You poor, poor dear. Do you want me to make the salad while you take a snooze until I ring the dinner bell?”
    “My job might seem like a piece of cake,” I said, not for the first time, “but murder was on the agenda at both meetings. It’s emotionally exhausting.”
    Opening the refrigerator door I knew better than to go to the vegetable bin in search of a good, old fashioned solid head of iceberg. Experience taught me to reach for a Ziploc bag of precut, prewashed mixed greens, the contents of which I emptied into the salad bowl. “You wouldn’t happen to have a nice, ripe tomato I could cut up and put in the salad?”
    “I don’t think so,” Georgy said, opening a package of frozen crescent rolls and arranging them on a baking dish.
    “Cucumber?”
    “I’m a policewoman, Archy, not your Ursi,” she complained.
    “A tomato and a cucumber do not an Ursi make,” I informed her, putting the bowl in the refrigerator. “French, Russian or Italian?” I asked, eyeing the three squeezable plastic bottles lined up on the inside of the fridge door.
    She put the crescent rolls in the oven, next to our casserole that was beginning to bubble, making tiny popping sounds that could put a horse off its feed.
    “This is the last time I’m making you dinner,” she sassed.
    “Your lips to God’s ear” I said, and she burst into tears.
    I took her in my arms and patted her back. “There, there, Georgy girl. I was only kidding.”
    “You were not. I’m a lousy cook and we both know it.”
    “But you have other worthy attributes,” I told her.
    “Name two,” she demanded.
    “I would rather show you than tell you.”
    “All you ever think of is your stomach and your...”
    “Don’t say it. I evoked God’s ear and He’s listening.”
    “You’re a snob, Archy McNally. And an egotist.” She paused for breath as my hand kneaded her lower back where T-shirt did not meet shorts. “And you’re stuck on yourself.”
    “My favorite wit said, ‘to love yourself is the beginning of a life-long romance.’”
    Ignoring Mr. Wilde’s observation, she continued her attack with, “Getting photographed in a jacket that looks like a botanical garden in full bloom and confusing me with your dog. I could scream.”
    Now we were nearing the heart of the matter. “You saw the interview.”
    “I did,” she said, “and so did everyone in the Juno barracks. I am now known as Hobo, thanks to you.”
    Not wishing to add insult to injury, I suppressed a chuckle and suggested we sit in the parlor and enjoy our drinks while we bashed each other, like proper married folks. “You’re overreacting,” I diagnosed.
    “Am I? Name one of Augusta Apple’s films,” she challenged.
    “Who in the name of jumping Jehovah is Augusta Apple?”
    “Lila Lee, your favorite movie star, that’s who. You’re a phony, McNally.”
    Did I mention that besides being the Fast Food Queen of Florida, Georgy girl is also the undisputed champ of movie