MAKE ME A MATCH (Running Wild) (12 page)

He took the memo into his office, surprising Henry, who was sitting at Eric’s desk, size fourteen extra-wide trainers propped on a stack of invoices, reading letters whose envelopes were clearly addressed to Eric and marked personal.

“Out.” Eric glared at him and jerked a thumb at the door.

Henry moved fast for his size.

Might as well get it over with. Eric made sure the office door was shut and dialed the number.

“Synchronicity, Tessa speaking.”

She did have a voice that vibrated in his loins.

“Eric here. How you doing?” Maybe he should tell her about Jimmy dying. Maybe she was over whatever bug had bitten her the other night.

But she wasn’t. Without any greeting, and in a chilly, snappy tone, she said, “I have a lovely woman named Sylvia who’s willing to meet you.”

She made it sound like a small miracle that anyone would agree to that, and he decided against telling her his brother-in-law had been murdered. He didn’t need a pity party.

She gave him a rapid rundown on a beautiful, animated, interesting, warm, physically fit, ambitious female who, if she was anything at all like her bio, should need bodyguards to fend off the hundreds of men hitting on her.

“Sylvia enjoys the finer things in life,” Tessa went on, obviously reading from a tip sheet. “She loves fine dining, the theater, symphony and classical music. Her hobbies are petit point, sketching, and working for the Vancouver Symphony as a fundraiser.”

What the hell was petit point
? “So what’s the catch?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If she’s a perfect ten, how come she needs a matchmaker?”

“Has it occurred to you that perhaps she’s simply discriminating?”

He grinned. He had her now. “So that’s what it is. Well, no wonder you lined her up with me, Tessa. Perfect match. Gosh, you’re good at this.” She mumbled something foul.

This was getting to be fun. “Gee, Tessa, I thought I heard you say
fuck off
' just then, but I must have heard wrong.”

She sounded about ready to explode. “Sylvia’s number is 926-5926. I’ve already given her yours. Strain yourself and try to be polite if she calls.” Without another word, she hung up in his ear.

He immediately pressed callback. It was fun tormenting her. It sure beat waiting for the police to come and haul him off to prison.

She had the answering machine on. After the beep, he purred in a suggestive tone, “Sorry, but I didn’t quite catch that number, Tess. And I’m really hot to make the call. Sylvia sounds like my kind of gal.”

Three seconds later, the phone rang.

“The number you requested—” a man’s deep, cultured voice repeated it slowly. “Ms. McBride is not available at this time.” When he was done, he broke the connection without waiting for a response.

Eric shook his head with reluctant admiration. Tessa was sly and way too clever for her own good. Who the hell was the voice-over? Did she have guys just hanging around waiting to make obscene phone calls whenever she asked?

There was a tap at the office door, and Henry stuck his head in. For once, his eyes were not only visible, but popping from their sockets.

“Holy doodle, boss, there’s a Vancouver city detective here to see you.” His voice vibrated with excitement. “Name’s Michaels, what’s up? You murder somebody?” He gave out with his high-pitched
hee hee hee
at what he considered a good joke.

And the last of the fun went leeching straight out of Eric’s day.

Napoleon to his valet: Dress me slowly, I’m in a hurry.

‘Thanks, Kenneth.” Tessa grinned at the sweet older man sitting across from her. “I owe you one for making that call for me.”

“I enjoyed it, even if you won’t tell me what it’s about.” Kenneth Zebroffs green eyes twinkled. His white wavy hair was perfectly trimmed, lean, lined face tanned, casual khakis and checkered blue shirt immaculate. At sixty-two, Kenneth was handsome, funny and intelligent. He’d been a pharmacist before his retirement three years ago. Retirement had been forced; it came as a package deal along with the car accident that had left him with one leg that buckled unless he kept a tight grip on his steel cane.

To top off his string of bad luck, his third wife had died suddenly a year ago. He’d had rotten luck with wives. He’d been made a widower three times. His first two wives had also died, the second six years ago, the first seven years before that. He was special to Tessa, because he was the very first client she’d signed up all on her own after she came to work for Clara.

And she’d done her best to find him a companion, but his age and disability were causing problems.

Clara had explained it. “All the attractive women on the over sixty list are on estrogen, with sex drives that have kicked in big-time all over again, and exercise programs that would exhaust women half their age,” she’d said after five women refused to even consider Kenneth. “They’re looking for younger men. And women under sixty won’t consider a man over sixty, they’re having midlife crises, age is a huge issue, and even if it weren’t, a guy with a cane is out of the question.”

In desperation, Tessa had started matching Kenneth with women from the challenged list—chronic complainers, congenitally unhappy, grossly fat, or physically disabled themselves. Quite a few of them, in Tessa’s private opinion, were just plain old wacko.

“Thank you for my rose.” Tessa put it in a glass and set it on her desk. “I’m really sorry about Olga, Kenneth.”

Olga should be glad to be matched with someone still breathing, Tessa figured. She was as rich as she was plain old miserable, and true to form she’d called and complained about Kenneth. “He gave me the willies,” she’d said. “And to top it off he tried to kiss me, I’m looking for a companion, not some geriatric sex maniac.”

“Did you happen to mention on your sheet that you’re only interested in platonic relationships, Olga?”

“What other kind are there among older people?”

Tessa had pulled out Olga’s file and, with a red marker, scribbled FRIGID across it in big block letters.

Poor, dear Kenneth. Tessa longed to find him a warm, passionate, funny lady of a suitable age; there had to be one out there somewhere. After he’d shared a coffee with her and left, she wondered why she didn’t just date him herself. There was the age difference, though. Well, after she bought the business, got this place computerized, and hired Anna as an astrological consultant, she’d run a check on every single applicant and by hook or by crook she’d find someone for Kenneth.

There was gonna be a whole lot of shakin’ goin on around here.

“Nothin’ to get shook up about, boss,” Henry said. “So you hit Nicols and broke his nose. Week later he turns up dead. What part’s your fault?” He shook his head, crossed his arms on his chest and leaned back on the chair in Eric’s office. The chair was one Eric had made from steel rebar, so even with Henry’s considerable weight, it held up fine. “Guy was a loser, no support for Karen's kids, broke her nose.”

Eric appreciated Henry’s loyalty even though his logic wasn’t perfect.

“I wish Detective Michaels thought the way you do.”

The detective had gone back and forth and up and down the pub fight. “I asked Sophie how often a punch in the nose caused death. She said it was rare, but it had been known to happen. Cerebral hemorrhage, she called it.”

“Detective said the coroner’s doing the autopsy this afternoon.”

Eric nodded.

“Until then they’re on a fact finding mission, that’s what he said, right? Should’a let me sit in when he talked to you, boss. I would’a told him what kinda straight-up guy you are.”

Why remind Henry that the reason he knew so much was that he’d been listening at the door?

“Well, the good news is they haven’t arrested me yet.” Eric tried to keep his tone light, but the fact was, he felt horrible. No matter how much he’d detested Jimmy Nichols, he’d never wished him dead.

“The cops can’t arrest you without probable cause.” Gladys was now standing at the office door, arms crossed on her skinny chest, listening to every word. “Just watch Law and Order, you’ll see.” Her voice was scornful. “Those cops barking up any tree. They got nothing, they just trying to pin the rap on you. Clearing case loads, that’s what this is all about.” Gladys watched way too much television.

“You need a good criminal lawyer, we know this guy, cousin of Ma’s sister-in-law,” Henry said. “He got that politician off when they said he’d murdered his wife.”

But Gladys shook her head and rattled something in Cantonese to her son, who disagreed and hollered something back, and the war was on.

When the phone rang, the noise level in Eric’s office was deafening, and with both his office staff arguing over his criminal career, there was no one left to answer it but him. He waved them out, but they ignored him.

“Morning, Junk Busters.” He had to raise his voice to hear himself over the din.

“Eric Stewart, please.” The female voice was brisk, cool and businesslike.

“Speaking.”

“Sylvia Delecroix here, Synchronicity suggested I call you. I think we have a bad connection, shall I call back?”

Eric made sweeping motions and ferocious faces at his staff and pointed at the door.

Henry and Gladys moved at the speed of turtles, and of course they didn’t close the door behind them. Once they were outside, total silence fell. Eric knew they were lurking in the hallway, listening.

“I think the line’s cleared by itself.” He took the receiver with him as he slammed the door and then locked it for good measure. What the hell was he supposed to say next?

“Thanks for calling, Sylvia.”

Brilliant. He sounded like a pathetic, needy wimp. He wanted to murder his sisters for this. Nope, nope, he didn’t. He was going to wipe every reference to murder out of his vocabulary.

“Synchronicity gave me your number. You sound like an interesting man,” Sylvia said.

Interesting? Oh, lady, you don’t know the half of it.

Maybe she should. Maybe he should tell her right up front he was involved in a murder investigation. It was tough to work it casually into the conversation, though, particularly because Sylvia seemed to be no-nonsense, no small talk.

“When would you like to meet?” She got right to the point.

“How does this evening sound?” Might as well get this over with fast. They could have a coffee at Starbucks. He’d spill the beans about the cops and probably be home in time to watch the last of the rugby game on the tube. Italy was playing Scotland, it would be a good match, take his mind off things.

“Oh, not tonight, I have meetings every evening this week, except for Thursday. We could attend the symphony that evening. They’re guest hosting the Russian National Orchestra. I have season tickets. You could reimburse me for them if you so chose.”

If he so chose?

He was getting a real bad feeling here. What did she think, that he was some cheapskate who didn’t know the first thing about dating etiquette? Talk about an agenda. Unless he missed a guess, this lady was a class A ball breaker. Which accounted for her joining a matchmaking service; any guy he knew would bolt fast right about now. Which was good news, because he’d have a conscience like clear glass when he dumped her on her bossy ass right after the concert.

“I guess Thursday’s okay with me.”

“Good. I’ll just make a note of that here.” He could hear her scribbling him down in her Day-Timer, as if he was somebody she’d forget unless she wrote him down. She added, “It’s probably best if we meet at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre; the program begins at seven. We could dine afterward, there’s quite a nice little French restaurant around the corner from the theater, The French Laundry. Have you heard of it?”

At least she had good taste in restaurants. It was one of his favorite spots, but he didn’t say so, because he didn’t want her to know much about him just yet. He was still figuring out how to play it. “Sounds fine to me.”

“I’ll be in the lobby at six-forty-five, wearing a black cocktail suit with a large diamond pin in the shape of a star on the left lapel. I’ll leave your ticket at the kiosk, ask for it in my name.”

“See you there.” He hung up, blew out a breath, and saluted. “Ja, Mein Fuhrer.”

Making out with Sylvia would be like joining the Marine Corps.

Not that foxhole. Farther down. I told you, don’t go there. Aren’t you listening, soldier?

Not that it would come to making out. Ms. Sylvia Delecroix was gonna be a one-off. The murder angle was good, but another idea had started forming in Eric’s head. If he was going to have to go along with this dating crap, he might as well have fun. It would supply a few laughs to his cellmates.

He walked stealthily across and jerked open the door, but Henry was already several feet away, doing his best to make his ass look innocent. Damn, the guy was good.

A black cocktail suit, huh? Eric sat back down at his desk and gave serious thought as to what to wear on his date. After a few minutes, he called Bruno.

“I need to borrow some clothes.” There was a lot of untapped potential in cowboy boots.

Later that afternoon, Eric tried on a shiny turquoise shirt with silver snaps instead of buttons, a string tie Bruno called a bolo, a white Stetson he’d gotten at the Calgary Stampede several years before he married Anna, and a black coat whose cut and style were pure Johnny Cash. The coat was a bit tight in the shoulders and chest, but Eric figured that it wouldn’t hurt to look as if he was busting out of the thing. It added to the image he was aiming for.

As Bruno hauled stuff out, he filled Eric in on the visit he’d had from Michaels.

“He asked questions about the fight we had that night at Riley’s, whether you’d ever made threats against the prick. I told him apart from hearing you say Nicols oughta be drawn and quartered and then castrated, you’d never said a word against him.”

“Thanks, I owe you one.”

“No problem. Seriously, how the hell you figure Nichols ended up dead?”

“Beats me.” Eric was trying the Stetson at different angles and thinking that he was fed up to the teeth with hearing about Nicols, dead or alive. Henry and Gladys were driving him nuts with it. “At least they haven’t arrested me yet.”

“I asked Fletcher if he thinks that’s likely. He said no way until the autopsy reports come in. You heard anything yet?”

“Not a word, and in the meantime, I don’t want to talk about Nicols. I’m gonna enjoy myself planning this date.”

“Sort of like a last meal, huh?”

Eric gave him a look, and Bruno took the hint and dropped it. “I’ll bet this lady has a thing for cowboys, most women do.”

Which was obviously the reason Anna didn’t let Bruno wear most of this stuff.

“It’s not the clothes they’re after, Bruno, it’s the body underneath.”

“You should know, you’re the one beating them off with rebar.” Bruno waited a moment. “So, did the cops talk to Sophie? Rocky was asking.”

“Why doesn’t he call and ask her himself, he’s got her number.” Frustration made him snarl. He’d had it with the whole cop thing, and sometimes Rocky could be dumb as a rock.

“Sophie made him those cookies for his birthday, and does he take the hint? It would serve him right if she gave up on him and married some cardiologist who’d bore us all cross-eyed talking about cholesterol and heart disease and diet.” Hell, what business was it of his? This matchmaker thing must spread like a virus.

“Yeah, well, maybe diet’s got Mercury and Pluto beat all to hell.”

Eric shot him a glance. Bruno looked a little down at the edges. “Anna giving you grief?”

Bruno shrugged. “Maybe she’s right; maybe I don’t read enough. She never said that before we were married, though.”

“Look.” Eric was about to say his sister was a weirdo, but he stopped because it was Bruno’s wife they were discussing. “Women keep changing; they can’t help it, it’s their nature. Just ignore this astrology thing as best you can, she’ll be on some other kick before you know it.”

“Yeah,” Bruno said in a doleful tone. “That’s what really scares me.” He reached into the closet again. “Wear this belt, it goes good with the tie. The buckle’s a collector’s item, pure silver. I got it that time I was in Reno.”

The buckle was shaped like a tombstone. On it was engraved, Rest In Peace.