Free The Bette Davis Club by Jane Lotter

small?”
    “No.” I poke a Ferragamo-clad toe in the sand and make circles with my foot. “He’s medium height, nice hair. He’s good-looking, actually. If you ignore the rest of him.”
    “Uh-huh. Be careful.”
    “About what?”
    “ Je ne sais pas . It’s an all-purpose alert.”

    A short time later, Tully and I are back on the road. There’s an uneasy, unspoken truce between us as we head east on Highway 111.
    The San Jacinto Mountains are not high, and the MG crosses them easily. On the other side of the mountains, the Coachella Valley opens up before us. The landscape once again becomes the scrubby flatland of the desert, dotted with cactuses, sagebrush, and yucca plants.
    We soon reach the outskirts of Palm Springs. The first real building we pass is the city’s official tourist center, a 1960s space-age structure with a soaring triangular roof.
    “I suppose we should find a hotel,” I say. These are the first words I’ve spoken to Tully since we had our spat at the side of the road.
    Tully shakes his head. “Charlotte booked us into a place downtown. La Vida Loca.”
    We cruise farther on, and then we see it: La Vida Loca Resort and Spa. It’s a large mid-century modern building, two stories tall, with a flat roof. Sunlight bounces off its white angular walls and striped awnings. Tully turns us onto a circular drive lined with palm trees. We pull up to the valet parking.
    A young woman in a polo shirt and neatly pressed slacks rushes to open the car door for me. Another woman attends to our luggage. I thank them both. I step onto the carpet that leads into the resort. Tully comes round to my side and together we walk, rather like the honeymoon couple, into the main building.
    The lobby glitters with starburst chandeliers, terrazzo floors, and candy-colored 1950s-style furniture. Off the lobby, through a wall of glass, there are well-tended grounds, tennis courts, a swimming pool.
    It’s been three hours since we left Los Angeles. Now we’re in one of America’s most popular vacation spots, bathed by sun and luxury. But none of it has the slightest appeal to me.
    I want only one thing: to find Georgia and get this business over with. After I do that, I will walk away with a large sum of money, walk away from Southern California, and walk away from Tully Benedict. That’s all the incentive I need.

CHAPTER FIVE
    DREAMY MONKEYS
    I t is not true that misery loves company. What misery loves is a double martini. When Tully goes to the front desk to register, I straighten my clothes and smooth my hair. Then I walk across the lobby, headed for the hotel bar. My top priority—my number one goal—is to track down Georgia. But first I need a pick-me-up.
    Like the rest of the hotel, the lounge dates from the 1950s, but it has an added dude ranch twist. Spurs and lucky horseshoes hang from the walls. A bowlegged cowboy in a large framed cartoon drawing waves out at the world saying, “Howdy, Pardner!”
    The room is small and crowded. And when I say crowded, I mean it’s jam-packed with women, nothing but women. The air hums with the high-pitched buzzing of dozens of females all talking at once. It’s a sound that reminds me of meals in the dining hall at St. Verbian’s.
    The only vacant seats are at the bar itself. That would be all right except the bar stools aren’t stools at all. They’re saddles. Western-style saddles, made of highly polished tooled leather. To get served, you have to swing one leg over and mount up. And now, because I very much want a drink, I do just that.
    The bartender, a young man in jeans and a cowboy shirt, is down at the end of the bar, taking glasses out of the dishwasher. He turns and sees me and gives a little hi-howdy wave. But when he comes over to take my order, I realize he’s not a man at all. He—she—is a woman. A flat-chested, twentysomething woman with short hair.
    “What can I get you for?” she says in a friendly drawl.
    “An English saddle,” I