Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

feet five and a hundred twenty-five pounds, I was a bit on the short, rounded side for the medieval look, but I’d bought the outfit after seeing Chris in one like it. Being six feet tall and three-quarters leg, she pulled it off spectacularly. Oh, well. I’d gotten the entire costume, mohair sweater and all, at a January sale for eighty dollars. How could I go wrong?
    Jeff didn’t seem to think I had. He was quite mannerly about it, sweeping his eyes face to foot most discreetly, but nonetheless sweeping them. He turned from my person to my pad. “Ah, a reader. Hardly anyone is anymore.”
    “All my friends read.”
    He shook his head. “I can’t find anyone who does. I moved out from New York two years ago and I’m still suffering culture shock.”
    “Can’t find anyone to read the Sunday
Times
with?”
    “You understand!”
    “I ought to—I’ve been out with enough New Yorkers.”
    “Oh. You seem like one of us. I mean—intelligent.”
    “I was born and raised in Marin County, California, hot-tub capital of the world.”
    “You must have gone East to school.”
    “Nope. Cal and then Boalt for law school. All I had to do was cross the bridge.”
    “But your apartment—” He made a sweeping gesture. “It’s so spare—so Bauhaus.”
    In a way, I suppose he was right. It was all black and white, with here and there a little red, much like my wardrobe. I abominate brown, yellow, orange, and all warm colors. I had two deep white sofas, facing each other, with a chrome and glass coffee table in between, a chrome lamp, and a dark piano on a Flokati rug. Rather wintry and sparse indeed.
    But I also had a seven-foot palm, two rife, lush asparagus ferns the size of medicine balls, and my hundred-gallon saltwater aquarium, teeming with marine life in every color on the planet. Was Jeff blind?
    “How about the wildlife?” I asked.
    “Nobody’s perfect.”
    Sometimes I think there’s something distinctly anhedonic in the ex-New Yorker. Still, Jeff had another side—he could tell a great story.
    “So far,” he said, “I’ve found the food in San Francisco fairly overrated. Do you know Khan Toke?”
    “You didn’t like the Hayes Street Grill?”
    “It was okay.” He looked crestfallen. “I just wanted to try something new. Don’t you like Thai food?”
    “Sure. Let’s go there.” I admit I was intimidated. Since he’d said he didn’t like San Francisco restaurants I was afraid to suggest any place else—it mightn’t pass muster with his Eastern tastes. But I definitely had my doubts about Khan Toke, doubts that had a great deal more to do with the atmosphere than the very excellent food.
    A waiter took our shoes and led us barefoot to our table, where we were invited to sit on the floor next to each other, not even across the table, but quite close, with shoes informally off and legs curled under us, as if we were longtime friends lounging together. It was a dark, elegant, sensual restaurant.
    “Very romantic,” said Jeff.
    My hands started to sweat, but I said nothing. I was at odds with myself; it
was
romantic and on the one hand, I liked that quite well; on the other, I felt guilty and loyal to Rob and a bit bullied—after all, Jeff had made a particular point of not wanting romance. I ordered a glass of wine, knowing I would have to switch to beer when the fiery food came, but for the moment very much needing something smooth and grapy and likely to encourage the two disputatious Rebeccas to come to terms.
    Jeff told his stories which, along with the wine, beer, fish balls, curries, and spicy, minty dainties, worked wonders to put me at ease. This time I learned that a certain sex bomb female singer liked to prowl lesbian bars in disguise, that three male heartthrobs were said to be suffering from AIDS, that two seemingly thriving studios were on the verge of bankruptcy, and that a cable TV station was doing a musical version of
Pride and Prejudice
set in the year 2100.
    Once he was done entertaining me royally, Jeff apologized for hogging the floor and asked me once again about myself, whereupon I unleashed all my worries about Rob and the Trapper, and all my unhappiness with Rob in what Mickey had called his werewolf-reporter role. Jeff clucked sympathetically until the bill came and then, suddenly horrified at what I’d done, I clammed up, too embarrassed to speak. “I’ve been awful company,” I said finally. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”
    “What?” Jeff spoke