Dating Can Be Deadly Mass market paperbound - 1999

Excerpt

Dating? Me? It had all the appeal of a root canal. Without Novocain.

But there I was, on an overcast Saturday morning in the middle of January, headed for the New You Center for Dating to learn how to get back into the swing of things.

Some Christmas gifts are just a pain in the butt.

I'm Jimi Plain, writer for hire for newsletters, pamphlets, brochures, assembly instructions, manuals, and--at the moment--a catalog for the home chef. Technically, I'm a freelance technical writer.

I have two kids--daughters both--and a schnauzer named Lucy. We share a house with my maternal grandmother, Rose Nell, and my cousin the cop, Danny Delvecchio, in a suburb northwest of Denver, Colorado.

I love them all and I know my grandmother and my daughters meant well when they pooled their resources to give me the whole Get Back on the Horse series that the New You Center for Dating offers. But when the tally gets taken, after fourteen years of marriage and another eight divorced--a full twenty-two years since my last date--I was beyond rusty. I was corroded. And not really interested in getting back on that particular horse again.

I'd been dragging my feet about the whole New You deal. So much so that my personal counselor, Steffi Hargitay, had called to say that if I was unable to come in today, my spot would be given to someone on the waiting list and I'd go to the end of that list, meaning it would be at least six months before I could hope to reach the top again.

As far as I was concerned, they could put me at the bottom of every list from now till kingdom come. But I didn't want to hurt my family's feelings, so I took a deep breath as I pulled into the parking lot and told myself to make the best of it. After all, going to the Center, attending their classes and beauty makeovers, didn't mean I'd actually ever have to date anyone.

The building that housed the New You Center was a single-story red-brick affair built across the street from the high school in a neighborhood that was a strange conglomeration. A development of nice single-family homes surrounded a few four-plexes, a not so nice two-level apartment building, a small office building, Walgreen's drugstore, and a fast-food Chinese place that had once been a Tastee-Freez.

When the New You Center was being built, rumor had it that it was a school for accelerated learning. I guess it didn't end up too far off that mark except that the learning that goes on there isn't academic. Instead the Center is a full-service organization guaranteeing to make getting into the dating scene a breeze even for the most inept.

Besides the Before video I was finally on my way to tape, what I was in for were classes with names like How and Where to Meet Your Magnificent Mate--and First Date Do's and Don'ts; The Lost Art of Flirting and How to Recapture It; If You've Never Danced Before, It's Time to Start; Tickle Your Partner's Funny Bone and Be a Socko Conversationalist; Sex, Singles, and How to Save Your Life While Still Having a Rollicking Good Time; and my favorite, Tiramisù and Tetrazzini, Too--What Every Dater Needs to Know About Fine Foods and Wines.

There were also exercise classes; a sauna and weight room that could be used to buff up; private counseling for advice on how to improve hairstyles, makeup, and clothes; mixers; evening and weekend excursions in groups; and After videos that went into a library of other After videos and made up the dating service that the Center also offered.

If you were serious about whipping yourself into marketable shape, there didn't seem to be a better place to do it. But I couldn't help thinking of the whole thing as dating boot camp.

I'd dragged myself to my orientation meeting with Steffi on Thursday. Steffi was one of the five people who ran the Center. As soon as she and I finished my Before video this morning, I was scheduled to have brunch with the other new recruits who had--again according to Steffi--already begun using the facilities and attending some of the counseling sessions to become New You's. Apparently I was the only slacker, but I still couldn't put a skip into my step as I crossed the parking lot and went up the walk to the double glass doors.

The doors were locked. No surprise. It was half an hour before opening. But Steffi had said she'd meet me there to let me in. I didn't see her waiting as I reached the doors, but there were two other people just inside, standing at the reception counter to the right of the cavernous entry.

The reception counter ran the full length of the side wall, acting as a barrier to protect the floor-to-ceiling shelves where the After videos were displayed. Maybe to inspire slackers like me with all the tempting possibilities for the New You.

I wasn't tempted.

One of the two people at the counter was restocking videotapes while apparently keeping up a conversation with the other, who was merely leaning against the gray marble top. It struck me just how attractive both people were.

The young woman replacing videos had a body like a Barbie doll's--tall, thin, all legs and breasts in a merciless white Lycra knit dress with a scoop neck and a hem that didn't reach more than two inches below the tightest tush I'd ever seen. She had red hair--the deep, rich burnished color red, not the carrot-hued kind--thick and silky, swinging around her shoulders in a cascade that looked as if every strand would fall back into place no matter what was done to it.

The man, who was also probably in his mid-twenties, stood at least six feet tall. There was no doubt that he was a bodybuilder. He had biceps no sleeves could contain, a neck so brawny it was the same width as his head, a sharply V'd torso, and thighs that swelled to the limits of the white jeans that matched his white polo shirt.

He had sandy hair cropped close to his head and the face of a male supermodel--all high cheekbones and chiseled planes. I don't routinely turn all heads when I walk into a room, but small children don't shriek in fright either. In comparison to the two people inside, though, I suddenly felt every bit of my age and imperfections.

Neither of them noticed me, so I knocked on the door. They both glanced my way, but it was the man who crossed to the entrance.

"We aren't open yet," he called through the door in a deep, polite voice.

"I have an early appointment with Steffi," I called back.

He raised his chin in a nod of understanding, unlocked the door on the right, and then bent to pull up a second latch that plunged into the floor for added security.

"Steffi was supposed to meet me," I added as I stepped from the frigid winter air into the heat of the building.

"I saw her car in the parking lot when I got here but I haven't seen her," the man informed me.

"She's in her office," the young woman offered.

"Okay. Shall I just go there or do you need to announce me?" I asked.

But rather than answer, the man held out his hand for me to shake and said, "I'm Gary Oldershaw and that's Diane Samboro. We're counselors too."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Jimi Plain. Steffi is making my Before video."

Diane Samboro gave me a warm, amused smile. "Jimi Plain. I've heard that name. You're the one who hasn't been too anxious to come to the Center."

Great. My reputation had preceded me.

"The enrollment was a Christmas gift," I said as if that explained it.

"Well, don't be nervous. You'll see, you'll have a good time."

I just smiled.

"You will," Gary Oldershaw seconded as if he saw through me. "It's just kind of hard to get yourself out there sometimes. But that's why we're here--to make it easier."

They were both being so nice and nurturing and encouraging, I couldn't very well tell them that I didn't want to be out there again.

"Are you recently divorced? Never married? Just broke up with your significant other?" Diane probed in a friendly way.

"Divorced but not recently. Eight years ago. Going on nine."

"And since then?" Gary asked expectantly.

"Since then I haven't dated."

"All those years divorced and you haven't dated?" Gary again.

I had the impression that something a little racier than dinner and a movie was what he was considering that I'd done without for all that time.

With amazement in his tone and expression, he said, "How come?"

I just laughed. "No time. No guts either."

"I'll bet you had kids to raise or a career to concentrate on," Diane guessed kindly.

"Both."

"But now your kids are busy with lives of their own and the career is on track and it's time for you."

That sounded like the title of one of their classes.

"No, now my daughters and my grandmother decided I should get myself out there again as you guys put it."

"So here you are, but you don't really want to be."

Diane was a perceptive person.

"Oh, what the heck. It couldn't do any harm," I said, not wanting to sound like a total spoilsport.

That seemed to bring the conversation to an end, so I repeated my earlier question. "Shall I just go ahead to Steffi's office?"

"Sure," Gary said, looking at me now as if I were some alien life-form. "Steffi's office is right around the corner, second door on the left."

I knew that from my orientation meeting but I didn't tell him. I just said thanks and it was good to meet them.

"We'll be seeing more of each other in the classes and sessions and things," Diane assured me as I tried another phony smile. "It won't be as bad as you think."

I just nodded and went in search of Steffi.

The place was so quiet that even my soft-soled shoes echoed down the hall. I was glad it wasn't a long walk to Steffi's office.

Hers was the first one after the door marked STEVE STIVIK--OWNER AND MANAGER.

There were large windows beside each office door and when I passed the owner's I could see he wasn't in yet. No lights were on. No one was inside.

But beside it the yellow glow of electric light said Steffi was in hers even before I reached the door. Through her window I could see a plain, serviceable oak desk with a chrome and leather visitor's chair facing it. Behind the desk a high-backed leather chair was turned to the wall, but an elbow on the armrest was visible, letting me know she was there.

I took a quick scan for the phone, wondering if she might be talking to someone and had swiveled her chair around for an added bit of privacy. But the receiver was in the cradle, so I felt free to knock.

The Center really was quiet. There was no way I wouldn't have heard her say "Come in." If she had. But she hadn't.

I thought I'd knocked with enough force but maybe not. I tried again, putting some muscle into it.

Still nothing.

Maybe she'd fallen asleep waiting for me.

I tried one more knock--a real bang-bang-bang on the door this time. But again there was no response and the elbow in view didn't budge. It reminded me of trying to get through to my youngest daughter, Shannon, when she has earphones on.

I considered going back out to Diane and Gary in the lobby and telling them I thought Steffi was asleep or plugged into earphones or something. But if she was asleep on the job, I didn't want to get her into trouble. Besides, it seemed dumb to go through all that just so someone else could wake her up.

I did another series of power knocks on the door, but when it still didn't rouse her, I tried the handle.

Locked.

Okay. Now what?

"Steffi?" I called through the glass.

That didn't have any effect either, not the first time or the second or third. But by then the commotion I was making had brought Diane down the hall.

"You were right, I can tell Steffi's in there," I said by way of explanation for my antics. "But she doesn't seem to hear me and the door's locked so I can't poke my head in."

"The door's locked? That's funny," Diane said as she came up next to me and peered through the window too. Then, as if I hadn't done it right, she, too, tried knocking, knocking harder, calling Steffi's name, turning the door handle.

But her methods weren't any more successful than mine had been.

"Hmm."

I gave her my earphone theory, adding, "When my daughter's using those things I have to be standing practically on top of her, pulling them off, for her to know I'm there."

"Let me get the keys," Diane suggested.

Back she went to the reception area, returning with a full ring of keys. She tried a few before she got the right one. When she did, she pushed open the door and went in, calling Steffi's name again.

I followed behind, but there was still no acknowledgment of us or our uninvited entrance.

Diane headed around the desk to the rear of the chair. "Hey!" she said more loudly, nudging the leather back slightly, playfully.

There was still no reaction from the other side of the chair and by then I was feeling the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Not a good sign.

I mimicked Diane's path around the desk from the other direction, catching a glimpse of Steffi's profile just as Diane turned the swivel chair toward the desk. Too quickly for me to warn her.

That was when Steffi's arm fell limply off the chair's armrest to dangle along the side.

And then Diane Samboro saw what I had seen a split second before--the bloody mess that was the side of Steffi Hargitay's head.

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