Dead and Dateless (16 page)

I smiled. “Of course.”

“So how’s the search going?” she went on.

“Great. In fact, that’s why I’m calling. To touch base with you and reassure you that I’m on top of things and that there’s nothing to worry about. Not that you’re worried since you have nothing whatsoever to worry about. But just in case you might be inclined to worry, don’t. I’m searching as we speak.”

“I was talking about the search for you, dear. That was a nasty little episode at your office. No blood, unfortunately, but still nasty. Have you ever seen so much polyester in your life?”

If I were a vicious werewolf in desperate need to hump during the next full moon, I would have fallen head over Manolo heels for Viola.

“It
was
a lot of polyester, wasn’t it?”

“Positively ghastly. If you’re out cruising for men, I’m assuming everything is straightened out.”

“I’m still wanted for murder. Temporarily. The police will soon realize they’ve made a mistake and turn their attention to the real killer. In the meantime, it’s business as usual.”

“So you’re back at work in the office.”

“I’m back at work, but I’m doing things from a different location. Not that it matters where I work from. It’s really the legwork that counts the most in the matchmaking business, and I’m doing plenty of that. I’m functioning at full capacity and raking in the alpha males.”

“Have you found any matches?”

“Well, no. Not yet. But I have found several prospective matches, and you can be certain that I’ll have twenty-eight tall, dark, and dangerous alpha males ready to go in time for the full moon.”

“About the dark part…Emily’s a little quirky. She likes redheads. She’s got a thing for Ron Howard.”

“Who?”

“Ron Howard. He’s a director and producer now—
A Beautiful Mind
and all that—but he used to act. He played Richie Cunningham in
Happy Days.
It’s this old series that featured this really clean-cut kid and the perfect 1950s family. But he had a wild side. He played in a band on the show and that’s when Emily fell in love with him. Needless to say, she can’t shake the infatuation and it’s colored every relationship she’s had since. Which is why she doesn’t have a suitable partner now.”

In my opinion, Emily needed a therapist more than a matchmaker.

“I know it’s short notice, but I’ll be glad to write you a check for adding her on at the last minute and catering to her particular fetish.”

I smiled. “I can do Ron Howard.”

“Ron Howard with an attitude. While she likes the look, she still needs the guy to ooze testosterone to get her biologically worked up.”

“So what does this Ron guy actually look like?” I so needed to watch more television. “Other than the red hair?” I crossed my fingers. “Is he rugged like the Marlboro Man?”

“Harmless. Like Howdy Doody.”

“Howdy who?”

“You know. Howdy Doody and Clarabelle? The kids’ show.”

I’d never seen
Howdy Doody,
but the phrase
kid’s show
was enough to tell me this was way over my head.

“Howdy’s this puppet. He has pasty white skin and lots of freckles and he wears a plaid shirt. And a neckerchief.”

O-kay.

“And he parts his hair on the side.”

Just say no. You can’t produce an alpha Howdy Doody. No one in the Free World could come up with one. Ever. Much less in a week and a half.

“One alpha Howdy coming right up.”

Hey, we’re talking
late fees.

“Wonderful. Oh, and tell your father that he can spray as much weed killer as he likes on my bushes, but it won’t work. The girls and I have been peeing on them for at least a month. They’re so healthy, they’re immune to any and everything short of nuclear fallout.”

I had a quick mental of Viola and the NUNS “fertilizing” the length of hedges that separated her property from my folks.

“I’ll be sure to pass on the information.” Just as soon as Morse code became vogue again and put Sprint out of business. “I’ll contact you in a few days. And remember, there’s no need to worry. I can do this.”

“I can’t do this,” I told Evie a few minutes later when she picked up the phone. “Not by myself. I need your help.”

“Lil?” A yawn punctuated the question. “I mean, Mrs. Vandergartenpitt?”

“It’s
flunkin
pitt, and you can lose the alias. The police aren’t tapping your line.”

Another yawn. “How do you know?”

“I’ve got connections.”

“The bounty hunter.” Sheets rustled and mattress springs creaked. Her voice took on an air of excitement. “You’re with the bounty hunter, aren’t you? I knew it. I went over all of the possibilities in my head, and it could only be the bounty hunter. He’s the only one who could actually help you get out of this mess. I mean, he’s got connections and he knows how to track down killers. It only makes sense that you would go to him for help.”

“I am
so
not with the bounty hunter.”

“You are
so
lying.”

“Am not.”

“Are, too.”

“Can we get back to the subject? We both have work to do.”

“It’s four in the morning. I’m not due into the office for another five hours. Tell me about Ty.”

“Who?”

“Ty Bonner. The bounty hunter. You
are
with him.”

I tried for a laugh, which came out sounding as nervous as I felt. “Says you. Listen, I really need your help.”

“I already told the police that you would never chop anyone into little pieces.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but that’s not what I’m talking about. You know our new client? Viola Hamilton?”

“The one who was in your office when the cops came?”

“That’s the one. She wants me to make several matches, which is no problem except that one of them needs to be a redhead. A testosterone-oozing redhead.”

“Like a young Kenneth Branagh?”

“More like Howdy Doody.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“You know Howdy?”

“I don’t just watch
CSI.
Listen, Lil. It’s not possible. We’re talking
orange
hair. You’re not going to find a man with orange anything who oozes testosterone.”

“Just keep your eyes open. If you see anyone on the street who fits the bill, slip him a card. Also, check out some of the online sites. Cruise profiles and see if you can spot someone—anyone—who might work. I’ll be looking, too. Oh, and you know the new client—Rachel Sanchez?”

“She called yesterday.”

“I’ll work on her while I’m doing Viola.” While I knew Evie could make a great match, herself, she wasn’t privy to all Rachel’s quirks—namely that she morphed into the Taco Bell spokespooch when the moon was full—and so I felt compelled to handle the were myself. Step one? Googling the mating habits of were-Chihuahuas.

“Oh, and Esther called again,” Evie said. “She wants to know if you’ve found her anyone and I said no. You haven’t, have you?”

“No.” Esther, made vampire and old maid, was proving to be a much more difficult match than I’d originally expected. The problem? I didn’t really know any male made vampires, except for Ty, and he totally was not her type. At first, I’d thought so, but after I’d gotten to know him (via Google—ya gotta love the Internet—a really hot and heavy kiss, and, oh yeah, drinking his blood), I’d ruled him out as a possibility.

“She sounds so…sad. What should I do?”

“You don’t have any more uncles do you?” We had, on at least one occasion, paired up a client with one of Evie’s relatives for a practice date until we could find the real thing. While it hadn’t been a huge success (he’d been old and prone to falling asleep and she’d been a vivacious vampire who’d liked to dance), it hadn’t been a total failure either (vivacious vamp had bought the practice date spiel and given us another chance). “Maybe one who isn’t collecting social security?”

She seemed to think. “There’s my uncle Darwin. He’s on disability rather than social security because he lost a testicle during World War I.”

In other words, the man was older than dirt.

On the other hand, Esther
had
been around during that war (she was over one hundred and she hadn’t had a date in as many years) which meant they might actually have something in common.

“Set them up,” I told Evie.

I called The Ninas next, but neither picked up, so I had to leave a message. I also called my brothers, and Francis and Melissa (my first vamp client and his live-in human girlfriend), and Ayala aka the pickiest born vamp in existence. The night was still young (if you were a vamp) and so the only one who actually answered was Melissa. I explained my predicament and gave her my new cell number in case she needed to contact me (not that she would since she and Francis were extremely happy despite their obvious differences). But the phone call pumped my ego enough that I actually started to think I could find a redhead who oozed testosterone. I’d matched up Francis, the geekiest vamp in the universe. Nothing could be harder than that. Right?

I left a message for Ayala, along with a “Born vamp coming right up!” and then I sat staring at the phone.

I really should call my folks. Then again, I was a businesswoman (not a chicken). I had priorities.

Punching in the number, I spent the next minute navigating through my voice mailbox until I reached my messages.

“Hi, Lil. It’s Ayala. You still haven’t called me back and I’m wondering about this weekend. I think we should try something different. Maybe a blond again. But taller this time. With very little facial hair because I really don’t like a lot of facial hair. And loyal. This last guy had the number for Marc’s Speedy Supper programmed into his cell phone. I absolutely won’t abide by an eternity mate who’s constantly sinking his fangs into someone else. I want a bottle man.” A beep signaled the end of the message.

While I wasn’t much for blonds, the bottle part I could relate to.

“Message two,” an automated female voice said. Followed by a familiar “Lil?”

It was Nina One. Blond, beautiful, and totally superficial. “I need to talk to you right away.” Anxiety filled her voice. “It’s an emergency. I can’t decide between the Dolce and Gabbana snakeskin clutch or the new pink Louis Vuitton. The first will totally go with these divine shoes I just bought, but the pink Louis is absolutely the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. Call me.”
Beep.

“Message three…Lilliana, this is your mother. We’re hunting tomorrow night rather than Sunday. Your father and I have a pressing commitment on our usual night which is why we have to reschedule for Saturday. Make sure you’re on time. Oh, and your father needs you to stop off at Golftown on West Thirty-second and pick up a box of Ben Hogans. Make sure you get the Tour Deep balls and not the Hawk Twelve. Your father absolutely detests the Hawks. He says they shorten his putt. I’m inclined to think that it’s his swing that shortens his putt, but you know your father.”
Beep.

“End of messages.”

I hit the off button and stared at the phone.

Golftown? Sure, it was a pretty cool store if you were into golf, but I wasn’t. Even more, I was on the run from the cops. Polyester-wearing cops. A place like Golftown would surely be crawling with police. With all those loud, obnoxious pants, it was like church.

My mother, of course, hadn’t given one thought to the fact that she was sending me into the lion’s den. No, she only cared about golf balls. And being on time to the precious hunt.

I was a fugitive, for Damien’s sake! On the run. Fighting to get my afterlife back. I didn’t have time to go to Golftown, let alone the hunt. Sure, we’d been doing it for over three hundred years and in all that time, the only person who’d ever missed had been Max. But he’d gotten held over at Moe’s doing inventory and so he’d been quickly forgiven by my parents. Otherwise, all children had been present (albeit grudgingly) and accounted for. End of story.

I wasn’t counting highlighters and Liquid Paper, but I was doing something equally important—laying low. I wasn’t going to risk getting caught by traipsing all the way out to Connecticut.

No way. No how. Nuh-uh.

That’s what I told myself as I crawled into Ty’s bed and closed my eyes just before daybreak.

Done deal. No hunt. Not this vampire.

“I
forgot Dad’s balls,” I blurted when my mother opened the back door at a quarter past nine on Saturday night.

While I did have
some
backbone (I’d purposely bypassed Golftown on my way over), it went all soft and Jell-O-ey when faced with the prospect of breaking three hundred years of Marchette tradition.

“I meant to stop off and pick them up,” I rushed on, “but I couldn’t get away and—”

“It’s about time,” my mother declared.

Jacqueline Marchette wore a chocolate-colored silk wrap dress, a diamond Tiffany choker and matching bracelet, and a disapproving frown. Her long, dark brown hair had been slicked back into a chic ponytail that accented her high cheekbones and sculpted nose. Thick eyelashes fringed her rich brown eyes. Chanel’s Chocolate Mousse slicked her full lips. She smelled of French perfume, cherries jubilee, and
lots
of money (what born vampire didn’t?).