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  “Nothing else. I have no interest in him. He isn’t my type.”

  She rolled her eyes, “What does that mean?”

  “It means he is so good looking he could pass for gay. He has blond hair and these really intense green eyes. He is about 2 inches taller than me, which makes him way taller than you. He has this near God-like body, looks good in a suit, and looks great in board shorts. He is nice, polite, neat, and good to his mom. He has a steady job, makes a very good living, loves kids, and he remembered Suzi’s birthday. He sent her flowers and surprised her when he showed up the following weekend. The man took his sister out for a night on the town. They did dinner and a play and then went out and had ice cream from the same place they went as kids.”

  “He’s gay.”

  “Nope.”

  “He’s just still in the closet. Cara, I’m telling you he’s gay!”

  “Nope. He’s just a really good guy, and you know how that goes. Girls are looking for that whole bad guy thing, so when they run across a really good guy, they don’t know what to do with him. Even after that stage runs its course they save the nice guy to be their best friend. They tell anyone that will listen that he is everything they want in a guy, but they don’t think of him that way. Then they go about trying to change every guy they meet into the guy that they already have as a best friend.”

  I stopped my little sermon for a moment of reflection. Do I do that? Why don’t I have a guy? I decided that self-reflection would be better done another day, and continued, “Maybe that’s just me. Anyway, that’s what AJ is, he’s a perfect guy.”

  “And you aren’t interested in him, why?”

  “He’s not nearly screwed up enough for me. I only go for the guys that not only have an issue or two, but they have a long-term subscription. Know what I mean? I wouldn’t know what to do with a great looking functional guy.

  “I know what I’d do with him.” She smiled and let her eyebrows dance.

  “You can’t do anything with him. You can’t even meet him. He’ll take one look at you, and that’ll be it. You’re Barbie. He’s Ken. This can never happen.”

  “If we would be so perfect together, and I am your sister, and you supposedly love me, and you aren’t keeping this guy for yourself, just why can’t I have him?”

  “Because if you go out with him once, you’re gonna want to go out with him again. You’ll probably fall madly in love with him and at some point, before the second or third kid, Mom is gonna find out that he was my roommate, and I simply can’t let that happen.”

  “So you’re willing to bypass my eternal happiness, and the birth of your beloved nieces and nephews, just so Mom won’t give you a hard time.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  Eye roll “You only said that cause you figured I’d get all pissed off and jet on out of here, and he’s in town and will be home in a little while and you don’t want me here when he gets here.”

  “Teagan, this is why you’re gonna get your dumb blond membership card revoked. You’re too smart for your own good.”

  “Do I have time to run to my apartment and change?”

  “Sure.”

  “Liar.”

  I threw my hands up, “See, too smart for your own good.”

  “That’s ok, I’ll just raid your closet.”

  I jumped up ready to defend what was mine, “The hell you will. Anything you put on will be ruined to me forever. You’ll make bumps that I can’t fill.”

  “Then I guess I’ll not only have Ken, but I’ll have a new outfit.”

  I sighed, knowing I’d already lost the battle, “You really are a bitch.”

  She smiled, “Learned from the best!”

  With that she winked, swiveled around, did a butt shimmy and headed for my closet.

  SIX

  Sometimes you just can’t ignore the compare and contrast parts of life. I fully recognize, and acknowledge, that it is unhealthy and just plain stupid to compare yourself to anyone, most especially your own sister, but what can ya do? Sometimes you just have to go there.

  I’m tall, skinny, and have no curves. I have an athlete’s appearance without any athletic talent or interest. My hair is usually pulled back, my face is usually close to bare, and my clothes are politely described as utilitarian.

  To look at me on the street, you would never know that I have a fetish. No, not that kind of fetish. A fetish for beautiful nightgowns. Think 1940s movies. Think Skinner satin. Fitted gowns that shimmy when you walk. Feel better than chocolate against your skin. Come with dressing gowns that fall to the floor in a pool of light.

  Ok, maybe that was a little too 1940s movie, but you know what I mean.

  Gowns like that are hard to find these days, especially if you’re tall. You can order them custom made from Europe, and when the exchange rate was in our favor, they were only insanely expensive, now, the cost is prohibitive.

  When I win the lottery, cost will no longer be a consideration. My closet will consist of several good pairs of jeans. My new favorites are from Victoria’s Secret. Who knew that the underwear institution of the universe would actually make great jeans, in a 36-inch inseam no less? Granted, if I want to wear any kind of heel, I need a better selection of longer inseams, but really, they are reasonably priced and they fit exactly like you would expect them to. They look great on everybody.

  Truth be told, Victoria’s Secret jeans are slightly more than a minor miracle. Could explain the whole angel wings thing.

  Anyway, post lottery winning, my closet will be filled with several pairs of great jeans, several basic, but very well cut white blouses, some workout clothes, and beautiful nightgowns. Peignoirs. Negligees. Night dresses. Dressing gowns. Bed jackets. Lace and satin and silk and lovely sachets; not in a stereotypical flowery smell, but something crisp and citrusy, which may not be as traditionally romantic, but is sexy as hell, at least for me.

  As it is, every evening when my day is done, I take a bath or shower with wonderfully scented soaps and gels. I shave and buff and primp. I put on a spectacular nightgown and lounge before retiring for the evening scootching into bed between crisp sheets wearing only a smile and perfume. It’s more than a ritual for me. It is a state of being.

  One of the biggest advantages of my new roommate is that he will be gone most of the time, so I can continue my tradition. Suzi was always gone in the evening, now AJ will just be gone. It couldn’t have worked out better.

  Back to the compare and contrast thing.

  I warned you how my brain works.

  My sister is shorter than I am, although she wouldn’t be considered really short. She has curves. Perfect curves. She was a girly girl from the git. Her hair is always perfect. Her makeup is artfully applied. Her clothes are strategically chosen and tailored to enhance her already impeccable form. Her nails are appropriately manicured, her pedicure is fresh and she always has a smile, showing perfectly white teeth.

  If it weren’t for the fact that she’s actually a very nice person, I would love to hate her. I’d still like to smack her. But, truthfully, I love her dearly.

  Here’s where it gets weird. She loves sports. She hates all things domestic. Her apartment, while never dirty, is certainly never neat, and, the woman, who could fill out any Frederick’s of Hollywood ensemble and make the models cry, wears ugly baggy t-shirts and sweatpants around the house, and even to bed.

  She comes in for the night, strips, things land where they may, she pulls on whatever is handy and comfortable, and calls it a day.

  We are so totally different, not only from what you would expect, but from each other, it can be off-putting. The joke between us is that Mom must have had a little sumpin’ sumpin’ happening on the side, with two very different men, in order to create the likes of Teagan and me, but my mom adores my dad, so it isn’t likely.

  Neither of us has worked up the courage to ask the question. Not even in the form of a joke. Unless we can come up with a valid reason for DNA tes
ting, my guess is we will all go to our graves with a wee bit of doubt.

  We’ve decided to accept that a wee bit of doubt is good for the soul.

  Thinking about all that brought me back to the murder, well, at least the reward part. Well, that train of thought and the need to keep my mind off whatever was happening in my closet. Teagan would combine things I never would have thought to put together, look great in them, and I’d never see them again.

  That’s what got me thinking.

  To look at me, you would expect to spend the evening in front of the TV with a couple of beers, watching a football game. Your brain would flip if you saw the truth of it, with satin and lace and smelly good stuff; I’ve never even tasted beer, the smell of it is enough for me. Yuck.

  My sister invokes thoughts of rose chintz luncheon plates and a silk covered chaise with crystal vases full of fresh flowers and something delightful in the fridge. You’re more likely to get the football game, a beer, and if you’re company, she might pour the chips into a bowl for your first visit, but not if you’ve been there before.

  What if the whole murder thing is the same?

  I went to the computer with new enthusiasm.

  My mom always says that every experience in your life brings you to where you need to be for the next experience. There are no accidents. There are no missteps. I’ve always hated that theory. But maybe Mom’s right. She usually is. Don’t quote me on that. I’ll deny it.

  The name of the murdered woman is Lily Ivy-Rosenbloom. You can’t make this stuff up, and if you did, let’s hope you were more creative.

  When I typed her name into the search engine, I got lots of information on flowers and florists and all things horticulture, but nothing on the murder.

  When I typed in her name plus the word murder, I got the basics. She was shot. Single wound to the front of the head. No gunpowder tattooing, which meant the gun was some distance away from her. She had residue on her hand, but not in the right pattern.

  Wonder what the heck that means.

  She’d left a suicide note, but it looked forged. It had been typed. Signed only with her first initial. Weird. They found a piece of paper with her initial written over and over. It was at the bottom of the garbage in another room.

  Wonder if that means the murderer was practicing, or maybe ol’ Lily was just a little bit quirky, or maybe it was something as simple as Catholic school, you never know why people do the things they do, giving them bizarre motivations can put you right off the path.

  When I’m on the phone, I write the same thing over and over again. My third grade teacher, Sr. Dominic Mary, said it was the best way to have beautiful penmanship. She had the most beautiful handwriting I’d ever seen. She was really cool too. When she played basketball with the boys, she would pull her habit up and shove it in her belt, and we could see her underskirt and her big rosary beads would clink and clank and she almost always made the basket.

  I wanted to be just like her when I grew up, except for the habit, and the no makeup thing, and I wanted to be able to kiss a boy, and I didn’t want to follow orders or pray that much or be stuck teaching kids, but other than that, we were just the same.

  I kept reading the article about the Rosenbloom murder, but in the back of my mind, a wee little voice was asking why a murderer would be so careless. If you’re going to practice a signature, why leave evidence where it will easily be found? Is that stupidity or brilliance? Was it a smoking gun, or a defense? Who would be stupid enough to leave blatant evidence for the police to find? Certainly a man smart enough to be a bazillionaire, and her husband is ugly rich, earned not given, wouldn’t do something like that by accident, wonder if he did it by design.

  The article said her assistant found her at 2:30 in the morning. Her husband was nowhere to be found, he wandered in late that following afternoon with no alibi. He claimed that he was at their weekend place, but had nothing to prove it. No gas receipts, no witnesses, no cell phone calls. Not even a ping from a cell phone tower. He claims he left his cell at home. Who leaves their cell at home? Well, I do, but I’m not a bazillionaire important person.

  Her husband is the one that put up the reward to find the murderer. Truth be told, it seemed kind of cheap to me, what percentage of a gazillion is $100,000 anyway? Seems like if we offer millions for the capture of terrorists, you would think a bazillionaire husband would offer more than $100,000 to find the person that killed his beloved wife. Maybe that’s just me.

  On top of that, if I understood the article, the reward was placed by their charitable foundation. That would mean, should the husband be guilty, he not only killed his wife, but he used the murder as a tax write-off. I would think that would take monumental testicular fortitude. But then, what do I know?

  The article described him as not only the husband, but the prime person of interest. I’m not a cop, but it seems to me that they always use that term when they want everyone to know that they know that the person did the crime, but they don’t have enough to charge him. Yet. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be the first husband to proclaim his innocence and put up a reward, and in fact, be the killer.

  I sat back thinking, and could only come up with one solution. What I need is more information. Luckily, sitting in front of me is access to it. The Internet.

  Dealing with the Internet is very much like dealing with a teenager. You have to ask the right questions.

  You have to filter the response properly.

  You have to be willing to put in the time and energy.

  You have to know that sometimes, you aren’t going to get the appropriate response, it might be profane, untrue, or completely off base.

  But if knowing that, you decide to work with it anyway, you will be more richly rewarded than you had imagined.

  I was reminding myself that I still had more questions than answers when Teagan walked back into the room and ruined my whole day.

  Begrudgingly I said, “You look great.” With more enthusiasm I finished my thought, “I hate you so much.”

  She beamed, “Thanks.”

  “I never would have thought to put those things together.”

  She twirled, “I didn’t have much of a choice really. When I put the top on, it was a little less than decent, so I used the cami under it to kind of hold things in place.”

  “One of the reasons I love that shirt is because it is so roomy I don’t have to hold my stomach in if I go to Hooter’s for a ham sandwich. Roomy isn’t the word I would use to describe how it looks on you.”

  She looked alarmed, “Do I look pregnant? The downside of big boobs is that if something isn’t fitted, I usually look four months along.”

  “No, you don’t look pregnant, you look stunning.” I rolled my eyes, something I do rarely, in our world, eye rolling is a Teagan thing, but my darling sister was dancing on my last nerve.

  She sounded a little testy, “That’s certainly high praise. You sound absolutely thrilled to bestow it upon me. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing, I’ve just finally resigned myself to the fact that people are always going to look at you and think to themselves -- see, that’s what happens when God and Mother Nature work hand in hand. Those same people are going to look at me and think…” I let my voice wander around the room while I was looking for the appropriate words. Nothing came to mind. Frustrated I huffed, “Well, that’s just the point isn’t it? They aren’t going to think much of anything about me.”

  She pulled a face, “How’s that pity pot feel? Careful, your backside’s going to go numb.”

  “Pity pot? You sound like Mom.”