Must Love Murder

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Quote

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Must Love Murder: A Sketchy Matchmaker Mystery. Copyright © 2016 by Etta Faire.

  All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Published in the United States of America

  Seeds & Grist Books 2016 by Etta Faire

  This is a work of fiction, and a product of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Never love anyone who treats you like you’re ordinary.

  — Oscar Wilde

  CHAPTER ONE

  I WASN’T SURE which of my fingers had actually been the first ungloved human finger to touch this thing. I kicked myself a little for not noticing that. I had wanted to savor every last detail. Still, it felt just as good as I thought it would, kind of like lemonade. Life had thrown me another lemon, but this time, I’d managed to make something yummy out of it.

  I dug a corner of the card under one of my fingernails then another, watching the edge bend and split as I thought back on that day last year. The day Mark told me he’d never really loved me.

  “Okay, just… please be on the lookout for that card. I can’t find it anywhere,” he whined as he stomped out to his Camry with the last of his belongings, a random box filled with plastic beer mugs, a Padres foam finger bobbing out from the top. And just like that, he was gone.

  Twenty years of marriage with three beautiful kids, and the very last thing he said to us as a family was to look out for his precious Tony Gwynn rookie card because “it was special.”

  “Honey, I found it,” I said to no one as I pressed the “Accept Offer” button.

  Tony Gwynn looked back at me from his tiny circle. He knew it was a good deal. The buyer was giving me 20 bucks. And it wasn’t like it was in gem-mint condition or anything; it looked like somebody had cleaned their fingernails with it.

  I glanced up at the clock on my laptop. 6:45. Shoot. It had taken me way too long to pry that stupid plastic casing open, and now I was going to be late for work, on my first day. I hated my ex-husband even more now. And I still had no idea what I was going to wear.

  Grabbing a roll of duct tape from off my desk, I ran down the hall to bang on Lilly’s door. She didn’t answer, so I kept knocking, louder and louder, ending in a drum solo that vaguely resembled You Gotta Fight for Your Right to Party.

  She finally opened up, but like most 17-year-olds, she wasn’t happy about being interrupted while she was doing nothing. Her usual big green eyes were little angry slits.

  I kissed her good morning then barged my way in, rummaging through her closet, kicking through a large pile of clothes on the floor in front of her armoire.

  “Moooooom! Ugh! You’re making a mess.”

  I looked around at the dirty dishes stacked on her desk, her unmade bed, the candy wrappers on her floor. “I do not think you know what that word means,” I said, then shook it off. “I’m looking for the cardigan you borrowed from me. You know, my good one, the black one. I need it. I’m starting my new job with Aunt Mabel today, and she basically told me I couldn’t show up looking like myself.”

  Lilly laugh-yawned.

  “I haven’t needed to look professional in a while.” I reminded her, tugging on my stained sweatshirt.

  Technically, I hadn’t had a job in almost a year, but it wasn’t my fault. You know the saying “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade?” Well, they don’t tell you what to do when life just starts pelting you right and left with those suckers, practically backing a dump truck full of them up to your doorstep, while laughing maniacally. There’s only so much lemonade a person can take. First, my mother passed away, then my husband and I separated while he started dating my ex-friend and now-ex boss Jessica Fitz, and, of course, I got fired… all around the same time. So, I took some time off to write the novel I always wanted to write, which really meant I laid around in sweatpants for a year eating Rocky Road.

  But since the money I inherited from my mother was running out and the house hadn’t sold yet, I needed a job fast.

  “Wait. What black cardigan are you talking about?” Lilly said, tilting her head to the side, like everything was finally processing in her half-asleep brain. “The one with the huge elbow hole?”

  I held up the black duct tape and raised my eyebrows at her.

  She stared at me blankly. “You’re kidding, right? But whatever. I’m sure it’ll be fine for whatever Aunt Mabel’s ‘business’ is this time.” She put air quotes around the word business. “Face cream again?”

  “That was last year,” I said, referring to the $500-a-jar beauty cream Aunt Mabel tried to sell us on, saying it was pennies on the dollar because it wasn’t the cream we were buying, it was the “business opportunity” to sell the cream to our sucker friends and family too.

  “She says it’s a legitimate business this time,” I said. “A matchmaking one. She runs it out of her garage.”

  “Sounds legitimate.” Lilly responded.

  “I’ll quit as soon as something better comes along. Right now, I just need to get through today so I can pay a bill tomorrow.”

  Her mouth curled up in a smile. “So… you’re going to be a matchmaker? You?

  “What? What’s so funny about that?”

  Her face went back to serious. “Nothing,” she said, looking me up and down.

  “Just stop it, please. Stop being insulting with your eyes. Stop being questions when I need you to be answers. And help me find something to wear already.”

  I was running out of time. I still had to finish making Violet’s lunch and remind her to get dressed because for some odd reason if I didn’t remind my 7-year-old to get dressed, the girl would go to school in her pajamas or worse, and I hadn’t heard from Celia, my middle schooler, all morning, which meant she was likely still sleeping, and it was almost time to go.

  “Mom! Celia put too much milk in my cereal on purpose, so I’m not eating it!” Violet yelled from the living room.

  “Thank God,” I said to myself. “Celia’s awake.”

  I grabbed Lilly by her bony shoulders; her long dark hair flew back from the jolt. It was time to beg. “Please, Lilly. Help your mom. Find me something, anything, that Aunt Mabel will find appropriate, and that means no sweatpants, stains, or holes unless the hole can be fixed with black duct tape. We have like five minutes.”

  I rushed back out to the living room, grabbed the bowl, dumped out the milk, threw a glob of peanut butter onto some bread, smooshed it around a little then stuffed it into a lunchbox, making sure everyone’s backpacks were ready and shoes were on and then I took a breath and looked at the clock. I only had 15 seconds left — exactly 15 seconds for hair, makeup, clothes… and Owwwww! I looked down. Laverne was scratching her paws into my sweatpants.

  “Good morning, Laverne,” I said, stroking her beautiful calico fur, but only three times because that’s all she lets anyone touch her. Meanest cat in the world, but I love her.

  “Somebody feed Laverne, please,” I called out from the kitchen as I wiped peanut butter off the counter with the edge of my fist, then licked it when I thought no one was looking.

  No wonder I looked tired all the time. I was pretty sure I needed more than a 15-second transformation and a glob of peanut-butter for breakfast, but, like most moms, I took what I could get.

  Lilly came in from the garage holding the ugliest brown-and-white, polka-dotted dress I’d ever seen in my life. It was made from some sort of silky material with weird ruching along the sides. “That is hideous,” I said, mouth open about as far as it could drop without breaking my jaw.

  “It was in a GoodWill bag marked Aunt Mabel’s Fat Clothes,” Lilly said.

  I stared at the dress a moment, not sure if I should be more offended by my daughter thinking I would want to wear leftover fat clothes, or that I would fit into them. But the dress was Aunt Mabel’s, so the woman couldn’t turn her nose up at it.

  “It’s perfect.” I snatched it from Lilly and ran to throw it on. It was one of those stretchy numbers without a zipper and as I wiggled my way into it, I soon realized I might have to dislocate a shoulder in order to fit into someone else’s fat clothes. Hopping around the bathroom with my arms stuck in a polka dotted dress, I yanked and pulled until somehow I got it on. I felt like the Incredible Hulk. The dress was about five inches too short, and I couldn’t really inhale properly without splitting a seam, but it would do — hopefully. I’d forgotten just how petite Aunt Mabel was.

  The girls tried to hide their laughter when I came out of my room, and I dug a nail into my arm to stop myself from tearing up. r />
  Lilly looked at me sideways. “Oh Mom,” she said, shaking her head like she was about to show a puppy how to use his paper for the umpteenth time. She twisted the dress a little at the middle and pulled a couple strands of my salt-and-pepper hair out of the lumpy bun I’d created.

  “Better,” Violet said, like she knew. But at that point, I just took her word for it and we left.

  After I dropped the kids off at three different schools, I breathed a small sigh of relief. I had successfully made it through another crazy morning. Then, I remembered I was about to start a new job in an ugly polka-dotted dress, and I almost hyperventilated into a wardrobe malfunction.

  I was not at all excited about love or matchmaking, or any combination of those two words, but a job was a job. I only wished I knew a little bit more about it. I had no idea what I was getting into except that Aunt Mabel considered it “legitimate,” whatever that meant.

  Pulling around the corner of her neighborhood, I kind of got a sense.

  One of the best parts about living in San Diego is it’s a big city made up of many small communities, each with its own flavor and style. And my aunt lives in one of my favorite communities — Kensington.

  I drove down her tree-lined street, passing the neighborhood houses that all screamed “old San Diego money.” Quiet little millionaire-quaint, gingerbread-looking houses with immaculate lawns. Even though Southern California was still in the kind of drought that made even the most expensive of houses look like a dirt lot, somehow Kensington never showed it. And Aunt Mabel’s house was no exception. But today, I wasn’t noticing her rock garden or stone-embossed waterfall. What I couldn’t take my eyes off of was a 10-foot sign sprawled across her converted garage. Two enormous pairs of bright red “kissing lips” decorated the sides of the vinyl sign that read in hot pink letters:

  SNATCH YOUR MATCH

  at the San Diego Matchmaker’s Club

  CHAPTER TWO

  I FELL BACK against my seat, staring up at the sign. Oh how her neighbors must love her now. They probably hated her three years ago, back when she was the “gold-digging wife” of their wealthy elderly neighbor, and probably even more so when said-neighbor croaked and left her the house. But I was pretty sure she’d won them all over now with this “completely legitimate business” she was running from her garage.

  I opened my door, trying to figure out how to gracefully climb out of a 1998 Odyssey in a dress that was too short and too tight for me. I shifted my knees to the side, squeezing them as hard as I could without popping a kneecap. This dress was awful, but technically, I wasn’t coming to work looking at all like myself. So technically, she should be happy.

  I looked up from my knee squeezing. One of my aunt’s neighbors was eyeing me from his lawn. Great. Why do you have to water your lawn right now? We’re in the middle of a drought!

  Slowly, I managed to slide both my legs out without feeling too much of a breeze.

  The man never took his eyes off me. The veins on his almost-transparent 70-year-old neck seemed to grow thicker as he watched. His eyes bulged out from his balding head, and I began to worry he might actually be having a stroke or something, so I smiled and waved. “How’s it going?”

  “That’s illegal!” he said, pointing at my aunt’s sign. The end of his blue watering hose shook in his hand, and water sprayed out randomly, splashing the poor gray tabby by his feet. “Running a brothel out of a house. I’ve contacted the authorities about this! You ought to be ashamed. Hussy!”

  “Mind your own business,” I yelled back. Men were not on my good list at the moment, and especially not ones that called me hussy, even though I was pretty sure that might’ve been an accurate description of my way-too-tight polka-dotted dress.

  Thunderous flapping echoed off the side of my aunt’s garage where the humungous vinyl sign blew around like it was trying to escape. I gestured toward it. “Trust me, my aunt has all the permits to run this legally, I can assure you. But let’s talk about why your grass is so green in the middle of a severe drought. Let’s talk about how legal it is to be watering your lawn right now!”

  He muttered something under his breath and threw down his hose. Picking up his cat, he walked away. I actually had no idea if it was legal or not to water like that. I didn’t water anymore, but that was because I could hardly afford the water we used for showers. I was certainly not going to let him know all that, though. As far as he knew, I was the water police.

  He turned back toward me before he went into his house. “Tell your aunt, she’d better have all the permits and paperwork for that brothel of hers. Or her days are numbered!”

  I ignored his tirade, straightened out my bunched-up dress, and dramatically slammed my crappy minivan’s door. It made a pathetic “I’m-dying” squeak before it softly closed. “Please, Aunt Mabel,” I thought as I walked up the driveway toward those humungous lips. “Please have all your ducks and permits in a row for this one.”

  ---

  A thick cloud of incense smacked me in the face as soon as I opened the door. I stumbled back against it, coughing and gagging, my tongue instantly numb from what tasted like I’d just licked the front counter of a head shop.

  I made my way through the initial haze and into the darkness of her office. For some unknown reason, the lights were off and the blinds were drawn.

  “Hello?” I said, as I felt along the wall for a light switch. “Did the power go out?”

  “Oooooooooohmmmm!”

  I turned toward the noise, trying to get my watery eyes to focus so I could find my bearings.

  I heard my aunt’s Tennessee accent. “Tony… oh Big Tony… tell us now… are any of these eligible bachelors suitable?”

  A candle gave off flickers of light, causing weird shadows to dance off the walls and couches. I scanned the room, finally able to see what was going on. My aunt was sitting at a card table in the middle of the room, a round-faced woman with short curly hair sat across from her. Their hands glided along the top of the table. I stepped in closer, noting the Ouija Board in front of them.

  “Yes!” the woman said when she saw the pointer had landed on a word. “Big Tony said ‘yes.’”

  “I told you,” my aunt replied. “He wants you to move on with your life, Helena. Now let’s see which of these hotties he wants you to move on with.”

  My aunt took three pictures from off her lap and placed them across the Ouija board. She drew out her words like she was telling a ghost story. “Biiig To-ny, one more thing. Tell us… Which one of these men is best for your darlin’ Helena?”

  Even though both women’s eyes were closed, I could tell they were probably peeking as they moved the pointer along the wrinkled faces of the “eligible bachelors” on the table. It moved straight to the best looking one of the bunch, the one that actually had hair and teeth.

  Helena opened her eyes, adjusted her bifocals, and squealed.

  “Looks like I’ve got some calls to make,” my aunt said. “Big Tony’s got good taste in men.”

  Helena coughed.

  “Figuratively speaking, of course,” my aunt said, turning on the light. Her face just about fell to the floor when she saw what I was wearing even though her outfit wasn’t much better. She was walking around in 3-inch turquoise stilettos, her thick blonde hair piled high on top of her head like a ponytail crown.

  As she finished up with Helena, I glanced around the room and just about gagged. The place looked like a lingerie boutique had a baby with a timeshare presentation. Glittery framed posters lined the walls. In one picture, a young couple strolled down a beach hand in hand under a caption that read “Let the journey begin.” Another poster had an older couple lovingly looking up at each other with the caption “A lifetime of love begins with a smile.”

  It was a good thing I hadn’t had time for breakfast.

  As soon as Helena left with the picture of her late husband’s chosen hottie tucked under her arm, Aunt Mabel strutted across her zebra-striped shag rug over to me, the side of her over-botoxed puffy mouth up in a half-scowl as she eyed my outfit. I could not believe the nerve of that woman, turning her nose up at my dress when her pants were so tight she could barely bend at the knee right. But that was my Aunt Mabel. She never saw the thorn in her own eye.