G is for Gumshoe by Sue Grafton

named Arliss who was systematically unfaithful, most recently with her girlfriend, Charlene.
    â€œHe has really tore himself with me this time,” she said, as she plunked down a bowl of steaming oatmeal in front of me.
    By the time I finished eating, I knew everything there was to know about Arliss and she knew a lot about Jonah Robb.
    â€œIf it was me, I’d hang on to him,” she said, “but now not at the expense of meeting this doctor fella your friend Vera wants to fix you up with. I’d jump right on that. He sounds real cute to me, though personally I’ve made it a practice not to date a man knows more about my insides than I do. I went out with this doctor once? Actually he’s a medical student, if the truth be known. First time we kissed, he told me the name of some condition arises when you get a pubic hair caught down in your throat. Tacky?Lord God. What kind of person did he think I was?” She leaned on the counter idly swiping it with a damp rag so she’d look like she was busy if the boss stopped in.
    â€œI never heard of a doctor dating a private eye, have you?” I said.
    â€œHoney, I don’t even know any private eyes, except you. Maybe he’s tired of nurses and lab technicians and lady lawyers and like that. He’s been dating Vera, hasn’t he? And what is she, some kind of
in
surance adjuster . . .”
    â€œClaims manager,” I said. “Her boss got fired.”
    â€œBut that’s my point. I bet they never sat around having long heart-to-heart chats about medical malpractice, for God’s sake. He’s bored with that. He’s looking for someone new and fresh. And think of it this way, he probably doesn’t have any communicable diseases.”
    â€œWell, now there’s a recommendation,” I said.
    â€œYou better believe it. In this day and age? I’d insist on a blood test before the first lip lock.”
    The front door opened and a couple of customers came in. “Take my word for it,” she said, as she moved away. “This guy could be it. You could be Mrs. Doctor Somebody-or-other by the end of the year.”
    I paid my check, bought a newspaper from the vending machine out front, and went back to my room. All was quiet next door. I propped myself up in bed and read the
Brawley News
, including a long article about “palm gardens,” which I learned was the proper term for the groves of date palms strung out on both sides of the Salton Sea. The trees, exotic transplants brought in from North Africa a century ago, transpire as much as five hundred quarts of water a day and have to be pollinated by hand. The varietiesof dates—the Zahidi, the Barhi, the Kasib, the Deglet Noor, and the Medjool—all sounded like parts of the brain most affected by stroke.
    As soon as it seemed civilized, I called the convalescent hospital and talked to Mrs. Haynes about Agnes Grey. Apparently, she’d been as docile as a lamb for the remainder of the night. Arrangements for her transport to Santa Teresa by air ambulance had been finalized and she was taking it in stride. She claimed she couldn’t even remember what had so upset her the day before.
    After I hung up, I put a call through to Irene and passed the information on to her. Agnes’s outburst still felt unsettling to me, but I didn’t see what purpose my apprehension might serve.
    â€œOh, Mother’s just like that,” Irene said when I voiced my concern. “If she’s not raising hell, she feels she’s somehow remiss.”
    â€œWell, I thought you should know how fearful she was. She sure raised the hair on the back of my neck.”
    â€œShe’ll be fine now. Don’t be concerned. You’ve done a wonderful job.”
    â€œThanks,” I said. As there didn’t seem to be any reason to remain in the area, I told her I’d be taking off shortly and would give her a call as soon as I got