Matchpoint (13 page)

I CLOSED my robe and bolted upright. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “Is she all right?”

Holden sat down next to me and put his hand on my thigh. “She’s fine. That was a man from her Single No More class, saying you’re late.”

“But I’ve been banned,” I said. “I’m not supposed to be there, and besides, the class was over two hours ago.”

“I don’t know. It sounded serious, like it was a major faux pas, you not going.”

His eyes were dreamy, much dreamier than George Clooney’s eyes, I was sure.

“It was probably a mistake,” I said. I was about to grab him by the front of his shirt and pull him to me for
another kiss and to get on with the show when his phone rang again.

“Really, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’ll get rid of them and then I’ll be all yours.”

I was losing patience, but I was slightly mollified by the idea of being all his. He picked up the phone, and this time it sounded more serious. He took the conversation into another room, leaving me naked under his robe, watching the fire in his fireplace.

My feelings were hurt. I didn’t expect to be the most important person in his life, but I expected him not to run away from my nakedness to take what sounded like a business call. I was important, too. I had matches to make, one match I had to make by the next day, and I hadn’t a clue who I was going to match her with. Perhaps the Single No More class ran long, I thought. Maybe Grandma really did need me to help. Maybe I would find a match for Belinda at the class. Maybe Grandma was serving cupcakes.

I wrote Holden a note, saying I was tired, and tiptoed out of the house, dressed only in his robe. It was like the walk of shame without the fun part beforehand.

Halfway across Grandma’s lawn, I remembered that there were no men in the Single No More class. So who was the man who called Holden? I opened the door, and Spencer was there, waiting for me. I should have known.

“I better be completely wrong,” I said to him, closing the door.

Spencer was wearing cutoff sweats and a wifebeater shirt. The shirt was pulled tight over his chest and abs. I tried not to look at his arms.

“That’s not what you were wearing the last time I saw you,” he said.

I clutched the robe against me. “It’s none of your business what I wear or don’t wear. Tell me I’m wrong.
Tell me you didn’t make the call that sabotaged my evening.”

Spencer stared me down for a moment, and then his eyes slipped to my right.

“You did! You did!” I yelled, hitting his shoulder. “You called. You were my coitus interruptus. You bastard.”

I hit him two more times before he caught my arm midair and held it there. “Coitus interruptus,” he repeated. “Aren’t you going a little fast with a man you don’t even know?”

I felt my face turn red and hated myself for it. “Maybe not coitus,” I corrected. “But definitely kiss interruptus.”

“Are you naked under that robe?” he asked, his voice rising. “Are you naked under that masculine robe? That
man’s
robe?”

I stepped back. “Where’s Grandma? I’m assuming the line about the class was a complete fabrication.”

“Cops are good liars,” he said. “She went up to bed. It’s just you and me, Pinkie.”

“Let me make this clear. There isn’t a you and me.” I pulled at my arm. “Give it back,” I said. “I’m going to get something to eat.”

I was starving. I’d eaten a date dinner, which meant that I hadn’t eaten much. I didn’t want Holden to know what a pig I really was. Spencer let go of me and followed me into the kitchen, and I made us both turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce. He took out a bag of Doritos from what had to be his never-ending supply of chips, and I popped open two cans of root beer.

“He didn’t feed you?” Spencer asked with a mouthful of sandwich. “I would have fed you.”

“He fed me duck and something vegetable. It was very good.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, handing me the bag of chips.

“How long am I going to suffer with you? Do I have
to deal with you until your Facebook friends come to their senses?”

“Hey, I rinsed out the shower after I used it,” he pointed out. He got up and made himself another sandwich. I was still working on the first half of mine. “My Facebook friends are picketing the police station,” he said. “It’s better to lie low for a while.”

“I might join them,” I said. “Or better yet, I might tell them where you are hiding in order to finish with this once and for all.”

Spencer noticeably blanched. He was completely drained of color. I handed him his can of root beer.

“Geez, Spencer, I was just kidding. Drink. You look terrified.”

“I’m not terrified. I’m just careful.”

“You have to get back to work. There’s been a heinous murder, and there’s a face wandering around out there. If you don’t get back to work, there’s no hope that the murder will be solved.”

Spencer’s color returned, and his smirk returned. “Pinkie, you complimented me,” he said. “I might pass out from shock.”

I squirmed in my seat. “I didn’t compliment you. I merely pointed out that you are the least incompetent of your police force. That’s not saying a lot.”

“You complimented me. You said I could solve the No-Face Case.”

“Shut up.”

“You can’t take it back now,” he said, interlocking his fingers behind his head. “Okay, so I’m a great cop. Tell me how sexy I am. Tell me you want me.”

“You are not sexy, and I don’t want you,” I lied.

“You’re almost naked. When you bend down, I can see the whole triple play. It’s only a hiccup to a grand-slam home run. Just say the word, and I’ll come up to bat.”

“You gross me out.”

Spencer leaned forward, studied my face for a moment, read something there, and then popped a Dorito into his mouth. “You can’t blame a guy for trying,” he said.

“Focus on your work, dammit. The town is going to pieces, and there’s a face out there. Why isn’t anybody impressed by the face?”

“I’m impressed by the face,” Spencer said. “I’m in touch with the station now. I’m calling the shots, so don’t worry about that. As for the town, it’s always going to pieces. It’s the freakiest town out there. I don’t think a cult and some aliens are going to do much to change that.”

I didn’t agree with him. I thought there was an all-out war going on, and if he didn’t intervene soon, all hell would break loose, along with possible plagues, fire, and maybe a hurricane or two. But I was relieved he was on top of the murder case. He was the only chance of seeing justice for Dr. Dulur and for making sure that a psychotic killer would be found.

I caught Spencer trying to look down the gap of my robe. I ate a Dorito and tried to ignore him, but it wasn’t easy. After we finished, we went up to bed. Spencer climbed the stairs behind me, bumping into me several times on purpose.

“You are five,” I said. “Stop trying to cop a feel.”

We brushed our teeth together over the bathroom sink, and then I kicked him out of my bathroom while I changed. When I finished, he was already in my bed with the lights off. I slipped under the covers, being careful to stay clear of him. I was still slightly aroused from my evening with Holden.

“You are so bad for my sex life,” I told Spencer.

“Pinkie, I could be so good for your sex life if you would just let me.”

“I can’t even be my own best friend,” I said. “I can’t
even be self-sufficient, if you know what I mean, because you’re here.”

“I can fulfill all your needs,” he said.

I turned over and tucked the blankets under my chin. “How far are you going with the beard thing?” I asked. “You ever going to shave again?”

“I was thinking of turning it into a goatee tomorrow,” he said.

I fluffed my pillow. “If you do, you will have eaten your last chip in my bed.”

“Fine. No goatee.”

It occurred to me that I should talk to Spencer about Belinda. I needed to convince him that she couldn’t possibly be the killer, and if I couldn’t convince him, I could at least squeeze him for the information he had so that I could help her. But Spencer hated when I got involved with police business, and if he suspected Belinda of killing the dentist and chopping off his face, I was reasonably sure he wouldn’t let me hang around her and match her up.

I was determined that nothing was going to get in between me and matching Belinda. She was the first client to request me personally instead of my competent grandmother. She was the leaf I needed to turn over to go from broke matchmaker-in-training to fabulous professional with a Gold Card.

THE NEXT morning, I called Bridget and let her know I was coming over to cheer her up after her hair disaster, and I was bringing coffee and scones.

I took my car and drove the few blocks to Tea Time. Ruth’s coffee was calling to me, and I was betting things had died down since the last time I was there. Ruth wouldn’t stand for wackos in her store for too long. She only marginally tolerated me and my coffee habit.

It turned out I was right about the wackos being gone. Main Street was all but deserted. I had no trouble finding a parking place right in front of Tea Time. There were no more cultists blocking the door. In fact, you could hear a pin drop right there in the historic district.

On closer examination, I realized why. Most of the stores were closed, some of them even boarded up. No movement on the street. Everything looked abandoned. It was like the apocalypse, like a Stephen King novel or a teen book about a dystopian future. For a moment, I worried that the end-of-worlders were right. Maybe the end of the world already happened, and I was just late to the party.

I gave Tea Time’s door handle a test push, and it swung freely. Phew. Luckily, the shop was open. Coffee was only seconds away, and I needed my caffeine fix. Lately, I had seen a dead person, gotten peed on, suffered coitus interruptus, and slept with Spencer. I might even need two coffees.

Inside, the shop was as quiet as outside, but it wasn’t empty. It was packed wall-to-wall with people, but they were all lying on the floor on their backs.

My heart stopped for a moment before I realized they were alive. In fact, they breathed almost in unison, their chests rising and descending together like a choir.

Ruth stood behind the bar. Her hair looked like it had been teased for a good forty-five minutes. It swirled around her head like a hornet’s nest. Her eyes were so bloodshot, I could see the redness from across the store.

I tiptoed over the bodies, trying not to step on anyone.

I will go through a lot for a latte.

“What on earth is going on here?” I asked Ruth when I finally made it through.

“The nutjobbers of the planet have landed in my shop,” she said. “My shop!”

“I need three lattes to go and a box of assorted scones,” I said. Ruth didn’t swear at me for ordering coffee. So I knew she was out of sorts. “Why are they lying on the floor?” I asked.

“Why are they lying on the floor?” she repeated, loudly. “Because the aliens can commune better with their souls if they’re horizontal, of course.”

“Ruth, when did you sleep last?” I asked. “You look a little tired.”

She looked like she’d flipped her lid and some of her screws had come loose. She looked like she had been writing letters to Jodie Foster. She leaned over the bar and stared me in the eye.

“I’m not closing Tea Time,” she said. “I’m not giving them the satisfaction. The other business owners cut and ran, closing down until the wackos leave, but I’m not closing for anybody.”

Ruth pointed at my chest. “I haven’t closed this shop during normal business hours since 1954. If I didn’t close when Kennedy was shot, I’m not closing for religious freaks.” She handed me the lattes and the box of scones.

“Do they drink tea?” I asked.

“Gallons of it. Aliens like tea drinkers. Go figure.”

BRIDGET LIVED in a townhouse just west of the historic district. She made a good living as an accountant for the locals, much better than I did as a matchmaker, obviously, but not nearly as good a living as Lucy made.

The townhouse was stuccoed in brown and had a tiny front yard. It was one of those tall townhouses that made use of a small area of land by building up. Her
place was about one thousand square feet but laid out on three floors. I rang her doorbell, and she buzzed me in. I walked up to the second floor, where she sat at her kitchen table. I almost didn’t recognize her.

Her once-long hair was now cropped in a pixie cut, I guess the aftermath of the whole fire scene from the night before.

“Do you hate it? Do I look butch?” she asked me. I could tell she was on the verge of tears. Hair is complicated. A little fire goes a long way.

“You look so cute!” I said with maybe too much enthusiasm, because Bridget wasn’t mollified. “I mean it,” I added. “You look like a French actress from the twenties. Very chic. Very cute.”

“Like Claudette Colbert?” she asked, perking up a bit.

“I was just going to say Claudette Colbert,” I lied. “You could be twins.”

Bridget took a big breath. “Thanks. Lucy called Bird for me when I got home last night, and she fit me in for an emergency cut. It took five minutes with her hose to get my hair to stop smoking. She almost called the fire department,” she said seriously.

“Holy crap,” I said.

“This is what she had to do to repair the damage,” she said, waving her hand at her head. “I told her I loved it, but I didn’t know if I was lying. I think I was in shock, and I didn’t want to hurt Bird’s feelings. She’s kind of having a nervous breakdown.”

“She is?” I asked, surprised. Bird had always been a rock, heading her salon with nerves of steel. Managing the hair of most of Cannes’s women was not for the faint of heart.

“She’s taking the invasion of the cult people really hard,” Bridget explained. “It’s upset her balance, she said. She’s blaming them for your Ecuadoran Erect.
You’re her first failure. She fears she’s lost her mojo. Oh, I almost forgot.” Bridget pulled a box of Chinese diet tea from her purse. “She told me to give this to you to apologize for the hair.”

I had left my box of tea at Bliss Dental. I didn’t think it was worth it with the blood on it.

“Good,” I said, taking the tea. “Let’s finish the lattes and scones before I start the diet.”