Catnapped! (A Matchmaker Mystery Book 3)

by JB Lynn

  “I’ve got some more research to do,” he said, “and something of my own to work on. Just call if you need anything.”

  “Thank you, Pete,” Mildred replied graciously.

  He hurried out the front door, leaving Alyssa to reset the house alarm behind him.

  When she turned back, Mildred was watching her curiously. “Pete seems like a nice young man.”

  “Does he?” Alyssa relied coolly, not relishing the idea of the older woman playing matchmaker.

  “He reminds me of Sarge.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Mildred chuckled. “He’s my husband, my dear. Brady’s boss… Well his ex-boss now that Brady quit.”

  “Sorry,” Alyssa muttered, mentally kicking herself for asking the question. “I should have known that.”

  Mildred shook her head, “You might be a great detective, Ms. Montgomery, but there’s no reason you should know my husband’s nickname.”

  Alyssa didn’t believe she was a “great detective.” After all, Mrs. Burberry had been snatched from under her nose.

  “He seems to be sweet on you,” Mildred continued and then waited expectantly.

  “He does,” Alyssa agreed slowly, taking care not to say anything about her own feelings.

  Mildred watched her carefully for a long moment. “And he’s been kind to help out.”

  “He has.” Alyssa could almost see the gears turning in the older woman’s head. Not wanting her to try playing Cupid, Alyssa changed the subject. “You’ve gotten the money together for the ransom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll deliver it at the appointed time, make the exchange, and bring Mr. Burberry home safe and sound.”

  “Maybe I should deliver the money,” Mildred suggested.

  “Absolutely not.”

  Mrs. M. blinked at Alyssa’s forceful tone. “But—”

  “No buts,” Alyssa steamrolled. “Brady wanted me here because he was afraid you were in danger. If something happened to you, he’d kill me.”

  “And if something happens to Mr. Burberry,” Mildred said quietly, “that will kill me.”

  Alyssa patted the old woman’s shoulder. “I understand.”

  “I hope you do, Ms. Montgomery. I have no children. Mr. Burberry is the closest thing I have.”

  “What about him?” Alyssa pointed to the picture that featured her husband and stepson.

  “Ralph?” Mildred sniffed dismissively. “I’ve had goldfish more worthy of my fondness.”

  Alyssa winced, unaccustomed to hearing the usually sweet woman’s venom.

  “You will bring him home, won’t you?” Mrs. M. asked plaintively.

  “I’ll do my best,” Alyssa pledged, fervently hoping her best would be good enough. As crazy as Mildred made her with her prying questions, she’d hate to let the good-hearted woman down.

  Roscoe appeared behind them. “You’ve insulted me, Mrs. M.”

  “How is that, dear?” Mildred put the picture she held down.

  “You barely touched your breakfast,” the big man pouted. “Didn’t you like it?”

  “Of course I did. It was delicious.”

  “Then come, eat something. You should keep your strength up.”

  Alyssa flashed him a quick, grateful smile over Mildred’s shoulder.

  She was grateful for the reprieve, but she didn’t fool herself into thinking it would last long.

  Feeling guilty for upsetting Pete about his brother, she asked Roscoe to watch over Mrs. M. and she went to apologize to Pete.

  She rang the bell at the address she’d been told he lived at. It was an unassuming house, in an unassuming neighborhood, not the kind of place she imagined someone with such a high tech job would live. It seemed… nice.

  She wasn’t prepared for how quickly he opened the door.

  “Hey”.” He sounded pleasantly surprised to find her on his doorstep. “Everything okay?”

  She nodded. “I just needed…” She trailed off, unsure of how to proceed.

  He ushered her inside. “What?”

  She glanced around, taking in the details of his personal space. The warm wood floors, plenty of plants, and lots of photographs hanging on the walls, decimated her expectations of a sleek, modern living area.

  “Surprised?” he asked.

  “A little. I figured you would share a swanky office with your brothers.”

  He laughed. “I’m not in business with my brothers. I love ‘‘em and would do anything for them, but my brother Danny and I would kill each other if we worked together.” He shrugged. “And here you were, thinking I’m perfect.”

  She grinned at his joke. “Hardly.”

  “Do you want the grand tour?” He dropped his voice lower. “I could show you where the magic happens.”

  She blinked and felt heat flooding her cheeks.

  He grinned. “I meant my office. Get your mind out of the gutter, Ms. Montgomery.” He gave her a cheeky wink.

  She couldn’t help but shake her head and smile. “I can’t stay. I don’t think Roscoe can take too much of Mrs. Michelman today.”

  “I understand.” Pete crossed his arms over his chest and grew serious. His gaze filled with concern. “What do you need?”

  Looking up at him, she knew that he’d do whatever she asked. Not because he was getting paid. Not because Brady needed his help. But because he cared and wanted to make her happy.

  About her.

  It had been a long time since someone had cared enough to want to make her happy.

  The thought brought tears to her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but she couldn’t get anything past Pete.

  “Whatever it is”—he put a reassuring hand on her shoulder—”I can help.”

  Swallowing the lump that rose in her throat, she blurted out, “I wanted to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “Upsetting you about your brother. You’ve been nothing but kind and helpful since we met. You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”

  Frowning, Pete considered her for a long moment.

  Balling her hands into fists, she waited for whatever his response would be, knowing she’d overstepped her bounds and he had every right to be upset with her.

  “Kind and helpful?” he asked, clearly disappointed. “Not hot and sexy?”

  She blinked. Instead of being upset with her, he’d made a joke. “That too,” she admitted slowly.

  “Say it,” he urged with a quiet intensity that set fire to her core.

  “You, Peter Hanlon,” she said quickly before she lost her nerve, “are kind and helpful, and hot and sexy.”

  He grinned wickedly. “As long as you understand that, we’re good on everything else.”

  Her mouth went dry. “I should go.”

  “You probably should,” he agreed. “I won’t get any work done with you here and I have a lot to do.”

  Neither of them moved.

  She expected him to try to kiss her, but he just watched her. Waiting. Giving her the chance to back out. Letting her call the shots.

  Her stomach fluttered excitedly as she realized he was treating her like a partner in their relationship. What happened next was up to her.

  “That dinner invitation,” she began hesitantly.

  A smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  “Could I take you up on it after this case is done?”

  He smiled. “I’d like that.”

  “I think I would too,” she admitted shyly.

  A phone began to ring somewhere in the house.

  “You should probably get that”

  “I should,” he agreed.

  “So I’ll see you later?”

  He nodded.

  Turning, she let herself out of the house. A glance over her shoulder revealed he was watching her go.

  Once she reached her car, he closed the front door of the house.

  She headed back to the Michelman house, more excited about a dinner than she’d been in a l
ong time.

  Chapter 14

  Pete frowned at his trio of computer monitors. All three featured information about his brother, Geoff.

  Together they painted a clear picture of the man.

  Geoffrey Hanlon was a loyal, heroic, good man according to the information Pete had dug up in the past few hours.

  He hit a couple of keystrokes revealing the dirt he’d dug up on his “victim,” Danny’s ex-girlfriend. She was not the woman Pete remembered, having a string of accusations and charges attached to her name.

  Groaning, Pete hung his head. Alyssa was right. He’d misjudged Geoff and effectively banished him based on claims of a professional liar.

  He switched the monitors back to Geoff and slumped in his seat, staring at the image of a brother he no longer knew.

  A knock at the door startled him. Instinctively, he switched what was revealed to benign screensavers. He remained seated, hoping that whoever was at the door would go away. He wasn’t in the mood to talk with anyone. Not even Alyssa.

  “I know you’re in there, handsome,” a woman called. “Open up before I’m forced to huff and puff and blow the place down.”

  Unable to place the voice, he jumped out of his seat and hurried to the door. Opening it, he was surprised to find Armani Vasquez standing on his doorstep.

  “Are you going to invite me in?” she teased, tossing her hair and putting her good hand on her hip.

  “Come in.” Pete stepped back and ushered her inside.

  “Thank you. You know who I am this time?” She limped across the threshold.

  “Armani, the matchmaker.”

  She preened at the title. “You bet your sweet butt I am. That’s why I’m here.”

  “It is?”

  She nodded vigorously, sinking into the nearest chair. “Are you and blondie getting it on yet?”

  Pete blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You and Alyssa.” She arched an eyebrow knowingly. “Besides being a matchmaker, I’m also psychic.”

  “Well then, shouldn’t you know the answer to your own question?”

  Armani threw back her head and laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls. “So you’re not.”

  Pete frowned, refusing to confirm or deny, but he knew that if Alyssa had stayed in his home any longer when she’d come to apologize, it would have been a confirmation.

  The memory of her agreeing to go to dinner with him brought a smile to his face.

  Reaching into the oversized purse she carried, Armani pulled out a purple cloth bag. Holding it out toward him, she gave it a good shake. Something clattered inside. “Pick,” she ordered.

  He eyed the bag suspiciously. “Pick what?”

  “Pick seven.” When he didn’t move, she challenged, “Are you afraid of a little bag?”

  “Of course not.” He closed the distance between them and plunged his hand into the bag. He pulled out four pieces of wood, realizing they were Scrabble tiles.

  “Seven,” she reminded him, giving the bag another shake.

  He pulled out three more.

  Dropping the bag into her lap, she held out her good hand, palm up. “Hand ’em over, big boy.”

  He gave them to her, watching in fascination as she studied them carefully.

  “Interesting,” she murmured.

  “What’s is?”

  “The message.” She laid out the letters A E E H R S V on the arm of the chair. “Ever ash doesn’t make a lot of sense. Maybe there’s a fire?” she asked hopefully.

  “Maybe it’s supposed to ‘ash ever.’ Like an urn of ashes.” He paused after he said that, realizing the psychic matchmaker had managed to pull him into her odd orbit.

  “Could be,” she agreed. “Do you know who keeps their cremated loved ones nearby?”

  He thought of Mildred and all the stuff she had dedicated to her past and present cats. “Maybe.”

  “Have they had them made into a diamond?”

  “What?”

  “Diamonds. People have ashes turned into diamonds.”

  Pete stared at her unsure of whether this was more stuff she was making up as she went along, or if it was a real thing.

  “It’s true,” she assured him.

  He tried to remember if Mildred had been wearing diamonds.

  “Shaver,” Armani blurted out.

  “Huh?” Pete shook his head, trying to shake off the feeling he was involved in some bizarre conversational whiplash.

  “It spells shaver.”

  He looked down at the letters again, trying to see what Armani saw, but instead he saw something that made his entire body go cold. Panic tightened like a vise around his chest. He found it hard to breathe.

  “Sit,” Armani ordered, hopping out of her chair, and shoving him down into the place she’d just occupied. The tiles fell to the floor, but neither of them noticed.

  Pete was desperately trying to rationalize what he’d seen. They were just random letters, not some message from a world he didn’t even necessarily believe in.

  Weren’t they?

  Armani grabbed his chin and stared at him with eyes dark with concern. “What do you see?”

  He shook his head, not wanting to even give it voice.

  “Tell me.”

  He swallowed hard, trying to get his throat muscles to relax enough to get the words out. “Save her.”

  Chapter 15

  Alyssa was starting to believe that Roscoe’s baking could make everything better. After spending a couple of hours studying Pete’s list of suspects and chasing down useless leads, she’d returned to the Michelman house tired and disheartened.

  Roscoe had told her he’d convinced Mildred to take a nap, so for the moment, it was just the two of them in her kitchen. Insisting that Alyssa being hungry and exhausted wouldn’t help the situation, he fed her a bowl of chicken vegetable soup and a slab of crusty homemade bread straight from the oven. The soup may have nourished her body, but it was the bread that had restored her faith in the world.

  Faith that was rewarded when he slid a slice of apple tart in front of her.

  “I shouldn’t,” Alyssa protested.

  “I make a mean crust.”

  “Crust is overrated.”

  “Not mine.” He scooped a forkful of tart from her plate, spun the fork so that the handle faced her and urged, “Try a bite.”

  Grateful that he hadn’t tried to force-feed her like a series of unfortunate dates had, she took the fork and slid the food into her mouth.

  The man hadn’t lied about his crust; the flaky, buttery goodness practically melted on her tongue.

  He watched her expectantly, waiting for her reaction. “Good?”

  She shook her head.

  Surprise and disappointment warred in his eyes, making the big man appear surprisingly vulnerable.

  “It’s great,” she hurriedly assured him and was glad to see joy and pride in his expression. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

  His expression shuttered closed. “I have a lot of time on my hands.” His voice, like his face, gave nothing away.

  Without thinking, she reached out and patted his arm. “I know what it’s like and I’m sorry it happened to you.”

  Roscoe looked down at where her hand rested on his forearm for a long moment, considering her offer of support. “You were accused of a murder you didn’t commit, crucified by the media, and lost everything you’d spent your whole life working for?”

  She was surprised to hear grief, not anger in his tone. “Not exactly, but—”

  The chiming of the doorbell interrupted her.

  “That’ll wake Mrs. M.,” he growled protectively, jumping to his feet and stalking toward the front door.

  “Wait,” she cried, hurrying after him. “It could be a trick.”

  Slowing his pace, he glanced down at her. “A trick?”

  “Assuming that Brady’s right, and I think he is, this could be a ruse for someone to gain entrance while we’re distracted by the who
le cat thing.”

  “And here I was thinking you were distracted by the whole Pete thing,” he ribbed gently. Before she could protest, he continued, “Don’t worry, they’ll have to get through me to get to Mrs. M.”

  Scooting ahead of him, she peered through the peephole, wondering, not for the first time, why a house as opulent as the Michelman’s didn’t have a camera set up with their security system.

  Peering through the distorted glass, she struggled to focus on the yellow bow-tied man on the other side. “Gerald?”

  He waved. “We’re here.”

  “We?” she asked, moving away to disarm the alarm system.

  “They wanted it to be a surprise,” Gerald explained as Roscoe swung the door open, allowing the visitors entrance.

  “They?” Roscoe asked suspiciously.

  “Who the hell is he?” a man demanded to know.

  “He’s the friend of Brady’s I was telling you about,” Gerald explained quickly. “Roscoe, this is Mr. Michelman, Mrs. M.’s husband.”

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” Roscoe said easily, managing to both extend his hand and step back from the door, in one fluid motion.

  “Where is she?” Mr. Michelman asked, giving Roscoe’s hand a perfunctory shake. “Where’s my Mildred?”

  “She’s taking a nap,” Alyssa supplied helpfully.

  The older man turned his gaze on Alyssa. Even though he was dressed in a polo shirt and khakis, she would have guessed he was an attorney from the way he summed her up in a half-second glance. Automatically, she stiffened her spine and made her face as blank as Roscoe’s, having faced Mr. Michelman’s kind before.

  “You’re the one Brady hired.” The older man stated it as a fact.

  She nodded.

  “You’re not earning your keep.”

  Alyssa winced internally as he voiced her own doubt, but she maintained a neutral expression.

  “Brady wanted her to protect Mrs. M.,” Gerald interjected. “Mr. Burberry wasn’t even a consideration.”

  The older man whipped his head in the younger man’s direction. “Interns are not paid to correct me, Gerald.”

  “Actually,” Gerald replied mildly, though his eyes flashed with resentment, “since I no longer work for your firm, you’re not paying me.”

  “Why are you here then?” Mr. Michelman asked, making a dismissive shooing motion with his hand.