Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

The ad drew a bit of e-mail. I countered with polite refusals. I mean they were certainly nice women, and I appreciated them taking the trouble to contact me, but there were problem kids in reform schools who came out once in a while, and/or weight problems, or Tillie-eating dogs in tow, even prowling former lovers on parole. One was stalked by a rich rapist.

“Never mind,” Tom said. “Luck is with the lucky.”

Elizabeth didn’t bother to e-mail or send a photograph, she showed up, saying it isn’t difficult to locate a one-legged lobster-yacht owner/skipper in Downeast Maine.

And there she was. Striding into a full Thirsty Dolphin at Happy Hour on Friday. Coming straight at me, kissing me lightly on a grizzly cheek.

The audience applauded.

Elizabeth dropped her duffel bag so she could shake Priscilla’s hand across the bar. She introduced herself to the good old boys, the Sisters and their squeezes, Dr. Shanigan, Sheriff and Dolly, Tom Tipper, Larry the Lawyer, Father Mikey, and Deputy Dog (Sycophant being on duty that evening) as Elizabeth Scofield, single, thirty-four years old, lover of jazz and small dogs (Tillie sat on the barstool next to me, she got picked up and cutie-pied), an adept at coastal sailing, presently boatless due to a settlement with a recently divorced husband. For work, our applicant told us, she did freelance journalism.

“Due for a long vacation.” She gave me a long look. “Right here in Bunkport.” She stared at me critically but not disapprovingly.

“Would the relationship work?”

She looked at the faces of my buddies.

“Is he okay?” she asked, pointing at my head.

“A pervert,” the Sisters said. “He only likes women.”

“But kind of neat as men go,” a beautiful squeeze called Evelyn said.

“A drunk, but not as bad as me,” Tom Tipper said. “Nobody is as bad as me.” He got up, spilling beer, trying to stare us all down. “But nobody, okay?”

“Good health,” Dr. Shanigan said. “Life signs of a man ten years younger. Blood tests, last month, were fine.” He glanced at Dolly. “No sexual encounters since then, I would think.”

“A believer,” Father Mikey said, “with a new terminology. If he met God, God might like him.”

“God might like everybody,” Priscilla said. “So do I, with a large number of exceptions.” She gave Elizabeth her wide smile. “I like your advertiser, though. Pays his tab. Can be helpful. Good boater if he doesn’t go full blast in the fog. Walks home after four beers.”

“After I caught him that time,” Deputy Sycophant said. “Boy oh boy, good thing I lost the paperwork.”

Okay, so I had five beers that evening. Sycophant is a fuss body.

“Good slow lay,” Dolly said.

I don’t know what Sheriff would have said. His cell phone, a minute ago, had called him out on a case of domestic violence in the trailer park that Deputy Dog was having trouble with. We could see Sheriff outside, putting on body armor and checking his shotgun.

Elizabeth put Tillie down carefully, took a few steps back, pirouetted, and asked if I found her attractive.

Sure I did. What man doesn’t like long legs, a full bosom (hidden by a tightly buttoned-up blouse), long thick auburn hair, sparkling green eyes, slender well-cared-for hands, a sultry voice, like Marlene Dietrich. That voice could have warned me. Marlene was a chick one couldn’t push around, not even in her movies. Ever see The Blue Angel? Jeezum!

Priscilla had been watching Elizabeth’s performance carefully. “Nothing is ever one thousand percent right. Tell us what’s wrong with you, will you, dear?”

She patted her left breast. “This boob is fake.”

She told us about her cancer, all through one breast when it was finally detected, and spreading into lymph ducts up to the armpit. The surgeon did his job and prescribed chemo that made her bald and sick to her stomach for quite some months but she had been in remission for quite a while now. The surgeon said, “This type always comes back.” Next time around it was likely to kill her. The oncologist said she might live into old age, dementia, and a final rest in a nursing home.

She turned to me. “I can have another breast manufactured from surplus flesh of my belly if the lopsiding bothers you. Won’t take too long but I’ll have to fly back home and stay awhile.” She patted the other breast. “This one is perfect.” She smiled. I admired her well-cared-for teeth. Even so, the smile was twisted. Nervous maybe.

My smile must have been nervous, too. One breast, one leg, a fine kettle of fish. A matching kettle of fish?

Priscilla winked. “What do you say, James?”

Right. James. She got that from the ad. I was a new man. Hi, I am James.

I could have hemmed and hawed, suggested that Elizabeth should stay in Priscilla’s motel for a bit, that we do some introductory getting together, share a few meals in Bunkport’s falling-apart lobster- and crab-pier’s restaurant shack, but I liked those sparkling eyes and I’m used to lopsided anyway. Even my latest leg, mostly made in China, is a tad shorter than the other.