Love Game (16 page)

“I have a bad feeling about this,” I muttered.

Luanda made quick work with her finger, pairing up the entire group of about fifty in a matter of minutes, like a giant game of eeny-meeny-miney-mo. The crowd stood and greeted their so-called soul mates. The room was filled with chatter.

Lucy tugged at my arm. “Now’s our chance,” she told me. “Get your plan A ready.” Yikes, I had forgotten I was supposed to come up with a plan A. I was running on empty in the ideas department.

We climbed up on the stage, and I tapped Luanda on the shoulder. She turned and looked at us, puzzled.

“Hi, Luanda,” I said. “Do you remember us? I’m Gladie. This is Lucy. You were kidnapped with us.”

“And you have your hooks in Uncle Harry. He wants you to leave him alone, pronto,” Lucy added.

“Yes, that, too,” I agreed.

“Harry Lupino and Ruth Fletcher are my finest match,” Luanda said. “They are the great love not seen since the love between my ancestors, a beautiful Indian princess and a glorious shaman man.”

“I think they say ‘beautiful Native American princess’ now,” I pointed out. The noise in the room was growing louder.

Lucy poked Luanda in the chest. “Harry wants you to back off. You got me, woman?”

“Ruth isn’t happy with the match, either,” I added. “And she has a bat. And a gun.”

“The spirits guide me. I am Luanda!”

Luanda’s shouts seemed to be echoed by other shouts in the room. The people in the crowd were moving like a wave, pushing against one another.

“Listen, snake,” Lucy growled at Luanda. “You are not making love matches. You are
blocking
love matches.”

I gasped. I had been hit with a lightning bolt of insight that knocked me off-balance. “Oh, Lucy,” I breathed.

The crowd erupted in more shouts. “She pointed at me,” one of the men yelled at another.

“No, she pointed at
me
!”

The two pointed at each other, punctuating each “pointed at me.”

“Luanda,” I said with sudden realization. “There are more men than women here. You mis-coupled.”

She bit her lower lip. “The spirits are calling me. I’ll see you later.” She lifted up her skirts, stepped off the stage, and hit the ground running.

Lucy was quick on her heels. I was rooted to the spot. For some reason, I felt I should try to calm the situation. Maybe I felt some responsibility as another so-called matchmaker.

“Now, now,” I said, trying to get the men’s attention. But my voice didn’t carry, at least not above their shouts.

“If you point at me again, you’ll be sorry!” shouted one of the men, pointing all the while.

“Oh, yeah?” the other shouted back, and pointed at the other man’s eyeball. “What are you going to do about it?”

And then the words were done, because the one man grabbed the other’s finger, stuck it in his mouth, and clamped down like it was a steak at an all-you-can-eat buffet. The other man was indeed sorry. He screamed and tried to pull his finger away, but the first man had a good set of choppers. He held on like a pit bull.

The screams were earsplitting and made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. The tussle in the middle of the room expanded out like ripples from the finger-biter to the middle-aged love-seekers in the
four corners of the room. Something inside me—maybe Luanda’s spirits—told me to get the hell out of there, but the only way out was through the crowd.

“I really wish there were snacks,” I said to myself. I bit my lip to stop it from trembling. As Fred would say, I was in a hairy pickle.

Below me, it was complete mayhem. Punches were being thrown, and a few of the smarter people were making a run for the door. The man with the finger in his mouth was still holding on, and the other man had stopped screaming. His body had drained of color, and he’d collapsed to his knees.

I was alternately plotting safe routes to the exit and trying to figure out a way to save the man before he was one finger short of a hand, when I heard sirens. Paramedics and four police sirens, according to my experienced ears.

I was unusually happy to see Spencer. He arrived first through the door and spotted me instantly, as if he had Gladie radar.

I read his lips: “Are you kidding me?” he said. He barked orders, and his men fanned out and quickly got the crowd under control. All except for the man with the finger in his mouth.

“Let go!” Spencer ordered.

Finally, the victim fell back, free from his attacker. But unfortunately he fell back with one less finger. Bitten clean off. Blood poured out of his hand, and the other man stood triumphant, the finger still in his mouth.

“Okay,” I said, and all went black.

* * *

I CAME
to in the back of Spencer’s car, with an oxygen mask on my face and my head in his lap.

“Pinkie, you are a hot mess,” he said, stroking my head.

I took the mask off my face. “I don’t even rate an ambulance?” I asked him.

“The finger’s in there,” he explained. To his credit, he knew I would want to be far away from the disembodied finger.

“You look nice,” he said. “Dressed up. What’s the occasion?”

“Lucy’s closet.”

He nodded. “Why is it that everywhere there’s trouble, Gladys Burger is there?”

“Don’t call me Gladys.”

“I’m a cop, and I don’t see as much trouble as you do. Can’t you be more like me?”

“No,” I said. “I’m carbon-based.”

“You breathing all right? Do I need to call over the medics?”

I sat up. “I’m fine.”

“Good. Let’s go. My men are handling this party.”

I scooted over to the passenger seat and peered out the window, but Lucy was nowhere to be seen.

“They tell me that apple season is the most tranquil time of the year in Cannes,” Spencer remarked. “Not a lot of chewing off digits, usually.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

Spencer promised me food and something serious to drink, far away from Luanda and dismembered fingers. That turned out to be at the Swingathon.

He parked in the loading zone in front of the building. I could hear music through the closed doors. “Is this a date?” I asked him.

“Come on, Pinkie, I’ll feed you,” he said, ignoring the question. He opened my car door and helped me out. His hand was warm, dry, and just rough enough to be comforting in a manly way. As usual, his touch made my feet tingle, and the tingle went all the way up.

My light-headedness had disappeared with the promise of food. “Perhaps I should reflect on the fact that I’m hungry after what I just witnessed,” I noted.

“Pinkie, I would advise in your case that you should probably reflect as little as possible on your life.”

A live band was playing Benny Goodman music. Couples were swinging each other around the dance floor, which was lit by a disco ball. Spencer ushered me to the buffet table and started a plate for me without asking what I wanted to eat. Then he steered me toward the bar and ordered me a rum and root beer.

“Sit,” he ordered, pointing at a nearby table.

I dug into the food. The egg rolls were delicious. I ate three and took a swig of my drink. “One thing is good,” I said. “At least I don’t have to prove Luanda is a fraud. I think she proved that point herself tonight.”

“Always sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong,” Spencer said.

“It is my business. It’s matchmaker business.”

“Touché. Here, have another.” He passed me another rum and root beer, and I took a sip. I was feeling
good, even after it dawned on me that I had forgotten to take my afternoon dose of antibiotics and could be working on gangrene as I sat there in Lucy’s fancy dress.

There were a lot of familiar faces at the Swingathon. I had met them all because, sooner or later, every Cannes citizen walked through Grandma’s house. That is, until her business was squelched by Luanda the interloper.

The room was pretty. Dark, with strobe lights and period decorations. I moved in my seat to the music and took another drink.

“Be careful, girl,” Ruth said, approaching me. She was dressed in a gray tentlike long dress, and pearl strands hung from her neck in a sweep down to her waist. “Drinking like that—you don’t want to end up like your mother.”

“Shows what you know, Ruth,” I said. “My mother was a binge drinker, and she drank alone. The only thing she did socially was—well, you know.”

“Shows what
you
know,” Ruth countered. “Once, I witnessed your mother down a bottle of peach schnapps while enjoying the company of half of the Cannes Shriners’ chapter. And I’d tell you what she did on Halloween in ’96, but I don’t want to upset you.”

I already knew what my mother had done on Halloween in ’96. It was famous in town and was the catalyst to us moving out of Cannes in a Volkswagen bus my mom had bought on trade.

I spotted Lucy entering the room and waved her over. “Where were you?” I asked.

“The witch lost me, but I saw her come in this direction.”

“Want a drink?” I asked, and handed her my cup, but it was empty. “How did that happen?”

Spencer went to get me another drink, and we were visited by Remington Cumberbatch. “You’re dressed,” Lucy noted, disappointed. He was wearing fitted slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a tight vest. He looked like a very large English stockbroker.

“May I have this dance?” he asked me.

I jumped up, and the room spun around me. Remington caught me easily. “You all right?” he asked.

“Perfect.”

I couldn’t really dance with my nylon boot, but Remington held me up and swayed me to the center of the dance floor.

“You look lovely, Gladie,” he said.

“A man bit off someone’s finger tonight,” I said.

“I heard. But they sewed it back on.”

“Oh. That’s a relief.”

“It’s been a tough few days for you,” he noted.

I shrugged and hiccupped. “I’m used to it. Not a lot of downtime for matchmakers, you know.”

“It’s a tough job.”

“But at least I think tonight proved that Luanda is a fraud. So that’s one job done. Check!” I made a check mark in the air with my finger.

“Congratulations on proving she’s a fraud,” Remington said.

“And congratulations on your face,” I said. Remington Cumberbatch was really hot, like lava hot. His hand never slipped from high on my back, and he never made an inappropriate comment, but his pupils
were dilated, and I knew he would be on top of me if I gave him the slightest encouragement.

“I have a very comfortable bed,” I said.

Remington raised an eyebrow. “Is that—” he started, but he was interrupted by Spencer, who was holding another rum and root beer for me.

“Vamoose, probie,” Spencer growled. Remington tipped his head in my direction, removed his hands from my body, and walked away without looking back once. Spencer took his place, pulling me close with one hand.

“He’s not that good-looking,” Spencer said without preamble.

“He’s not?”

“No, he’s not your type at all.”

I snorted. “You mean the polite, charming, intelligent, and hotter-than-hell type? What do you care, anyway? You’re taking a break from women, remember?”

“Why
don’t
you care? Are you and Holden kaput?”

I didn’t know what Holden and I were. He was away, and I didn’t know when he would be back. If he would be back. And I didn’t know what role I would play in his life if he did come back.

“No, Holden and I are doing just fine,” I said. “Thanks for asking.”

“Juggling a lot of romantic interests can get dicey, Pinkie. Learn from my mistakes.”

He had a point. I now had three potential flirtations in my life, and that was at least two too many.

“At least Luanda is taken care of,” I said. “What a shambles tonight. She won’t be long for this town, at least not as a psychic matchmaker.”

But once again I was wrong, wrong, wrong. Luanda raced into the ballroom and raised her arms to get everyone’s attention.

“I am Luanda,” she shouted. “And I know where the kidnapper Michael Rellik is hiding!”

THE MUSIC
screeched to a halt, and the guests stopped dancing. Spencer walked over to Luanda, and Remington joined them. Lucy made a beeline in
their direction, and I headed her off before she could Tase Luanda.