2 A Match Made in Mystery

by J. B. Lynn

  She tilted her head to the right. “They’re in the back.”

  Before he could ask her how she knew who he was looking for, she barreled away, lugging the basket with her.

  Shrugging, he walked in the direction she’d indicated. Rounding the corner, he heard a distinctive laugh and he relaxed a little, knowing he was in the right place after all.

  “Brady!” Eric shouted as soon as he spotted him. “We were getting worried you weren’t going to make it.”

  The other three men seated at the round table didn’t even bother to interrupt their conversation to acknowledge his arrival.

  Pasting on a professional smile for the benefit of the other men, Brady ignored his co-worker’s subtle dig. His job was hard enough at the moment without getting into a pissing match with Eric in front of one of their biggest clients. “I’m here.” He glanced at his watch. “And I’m five minutes early.”

  “Oh, did I forget to tell you the meeting was moved a half hour earlier?” Eric smirked.

  “I guess so,” Brady said, even though he knew the oversight was intentional.

  “No harm done,” Keith Hasburgh assured him, waving Brady over to sit in the empty seat opposite him.

  Brady wasn’t sure whether it was amusement or annoyance glinting in the older man’s eyes.

  “We were just discussing Junior Willen’s ideas for the merger,” Hasburgh said.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Brady saw Eric stiffen. By calling him Junior, Hasburgh had made it clear that he wasn’t pleased that his business was being handled by Eric and not by his father, Milton.

  “Mr. Sears,” Hasburgh continued, nodding toward one of his vice presidents, “thinks the plan is a good one. Mr. Schneider is not convinced.”

  The other man shrugged.

  Brady tensed, knowing where the conversation was headed.

  “So what I want to know, Brady, is what do you think?” Hasburgh stared at him, an unspoken challenge shooting across the table.

  Brady did his best to meet the old man’s gaze levelly while he tried to figure out what to do. If he confessed that he had no idea what Eric’s plan was, he risked two things. One, that he’d look unprepared. Two, that the firm looked incompetent.

  While he had no doubts that Eric had engineered this whole thing to make him look like an idiot, Brady was pretty sure he hadn’t considered that Michelman, Willen and Willen could lose the business of Hasburgh Industries. While Brady had no love for Eric, he did owe his father, Milton, a great deal.

  After all, the man had loaned him a sizeable amount of tuition money for law school with the understanding that it was an interest-free loan. Brady was only responsible for paying back the principal as long as he worked for Milton’s firm when he graduated.

  Despite his family’s objections, really those of his mother, Brady had happily taken the deal and still thought it was the best decision he’d ever made.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Out of nowhere, the woman he’d encountered earlier popped up at his elbow, giving him the perfect excuse to look away from Keith Hasburgh and compose his thoughts.

  Brady looked up at her. She’d lost her hairnet and apron, but not her sharp-eyed gaze. “Um…”

  “I’ll have another martini, darling,” Eric interrupted. “I like it extra dirty.” He winked at her for emphasis.

  The waitress gave him a hard stare like he was a bug she’d like to crush under her shoe. “Extra dirty martini,” she parroted back flatly. “Anyone else?”

  Hasburgh’s men declined.

  Hasburgh requested, “Another Bud.”

  His choice brought the trace of a smile to Brady’s lips. Hasburgh was a working man who’d built his company from the ground up. There was no pretense about him. Brady suddenly knew that as long as he answered his question about Eric’s plan without pretense, Hasburgh would accept his reply.

  Buoyed by the knowledge, Brady playfully asked, “I don’t suppose you have a purple people eater on the menu, do you?”

  The waitress shook her head.

  “Well then—”

  “But I can get you one,” she interrupted before hurrying away.

  Brady blinked, stunned.

  Keith Hasburgh chuckled. “Takes a real man to order one of those.”

  Brady shook his head. “I didn’t really think I’d get one. That’s the third time I’ve asked for one this week and I was turned down cold the other two times.”

  “And yet you kept asking,” Hasburgh murmured thoughtfully. “Mind if I ask why?”

  “This is going to sound really… um… bizarre, but this woman, this psychic matchmaker, told me to ask for one.”

  “Wow,” Eric mocked, “you’re so desperate for a date you’ve resorted to using a matchmaker?”

  “I. No.” Brady clamped his mouth shut, realizing he’d lost all control over the situation. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to blow the Hasburgh deal all on his own, without any help from Eric.

  “Is she any good?” Hasburgh asked. “This psychic of yours?”

  Brady shrugged helplessly. “She set up a friend of mine and he just got married.”

  Hasburgh nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting. My daughter needs all the help she can get.”

  “I’d date her,” Eric offered.

  Brady barely swallowed a groan. Hadn’t Eric realized by now that Keith Hasburgh was not a man to be amused by his cheap attempts at humor?

  Keith glared at the kiss-ass.

  Eric squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “Sorry. Bad joke.”

  The older man returned his attention to Brady. “You’ll have to get me her card.”

  “I don’t have her card. I’m not sure she’s got one, but I can get you her contact information.”

  “Sooner rather than later,” Hasburgh ordered. “I want to become a grandfather while my ticker’s still ticking.”

  Brady nodded. “It’ll take a couple of days. That’s when Tom and Jane, my friends, will be back from their honeymoon.”

  “Fair enough. Now tell me, what do you think of Eric’s plan?”

  “I’m not familiar enough with it to give you an educated answer,” Brady replied smoothly.

  “One Budweiser and one purple people eater,” a woman’s voice trilled cheerily.

  Brady glanced up, ready to thank the waitress. Nothing came out. Instead of the brunette, mousy woman with the sharp gaze who’d taken his order, this waitress was a platinum blonde whose physical assets were barely restrained by her uniform. Neither of the women were his type. What had Armani been thinking?

  “I’ll take the Bud.” Hasburgh pointed at Brady. “He’ll take the purple.”

  The new waitress, Ann, according to her gold and black nametag, put the beer in front of Keith and a bright purple cocktail in front of Brady. “There you go. Anything else?”

  “Not right now,” Hasburgh told her. After she left, he stared at Brady’s drink. “I knew a lady once who loved those things.”

  Brady didn’t miss the note of longing that crept into the older man’s tone. He wondered who the woman was and what she’d meant to him, but he didn’t dare ask.

  As though he realized he’d succumbed to nostalgia, Keith cleared his throat, and said gruffly, “Tell me why you don’t know about Junior’s plan.”

  Brady considered taking a fortifying sip from the strangely colored cocktail, but thought better of it. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Three

  It had been a long day.

  Eyes heavy, Amy trudged up the stairs toward her apartment, intent on taking a nap. Helping Adrian out at the restaurant the night before had meant she hadn’t had a day off in two weeks.

  Diego had been right about one thing, she had been working a lot of extra shifts at the hospital, partially because she needed the cash and partially because they were short-staffed.

  As exhausted as she was, she still heard the heavy breathing coming from above. The sound sent a cold streak of fear skitt
ering down her spine.

  “Don’t let it be another burglar,” she muttered under her breath. “Or the neighbor.”

  Roscoe, a soft-spoken giant of a man, had moved into the unit across the hall from her a few months earlier. He was nice enough, but she got the impression he was lonely from how often he attempted to engage her in conversation.

  Squinting, she spotted a hulking figure hiding in the shadows on the landing by the door to her apartment. She froze halfway up the steps.

  It wasn’t safe to continue upward.

  “Miss Winn?” The man who waited in the shadows coughed violently and then moved toward her.

  White-haired and dressed in an outdated, but freshly pressed suit, he didn’t look like one of the neighborhood troublemakers. An old German shepherd sat by his side, panting wild.

  That explained the heavy breathing.

  “Miss Amy Winn?”

  Amy slipped her hand into her purse, feeling for the can of pepper spray she always carried. Curving her fingers around the cool metal canister bolstered her confidence. “Who’s looking for her?”

  “My name is Rex Leeves. I used to be a process server. I’m retired now.”

  That explained the suit.

  “But I have one last job to do. A job I’ve waited twenty years to do. And that’s to deliver this.” He waved a manila legal envelope at her.

  Amy frowned. Twenty years ago she’d been seven. “I think you’ve got the wrong person, Mr. Leeves.”

  “No, ma’am. I’ve been keeping track of you for all these years. You’re the one I need.”

  “Need?”

  He coughed again. “I made a promise decades ago to deliver this to you when the time came.” He paused a moment to catch his breath. “By rights that should be in six months, but the docs aren’t sure I’m going to last that long. Lung cancer.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I led a good life.” He waved the envelope at her. “Climbing these stairs nearly did me in.”

  Tightening her grip on the pepper spray, Amy climbed the rest of the stairs and took the faded envelope. Her name was scrawled across the front, the ink barely visible after years of fading. “What’s in it?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “Who hired you to give it to me?”

  “I promised I wouldn’t say.” He coughed again, so hard he had to hold onto the wall for support. The dog stood and leaned against his master, trying to hold him up.

  “Do you need a glass of water or something?” Amy offered grudgingly, her conscience getting the best of her.

  Wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, he shook his head. “I gave that to you. That’s all I needed. Good luck, Ms. Winn.” Slowly, coughing every step of the way, he made his way down the stairs and out of the building, the shepherd following behind.

  Releasing her grip on the pepper spray, Amy watched him go. She looked down at the envelope, wondering who, twenty years earlier, had been so determined to contact her.

  She rapped twice on her own door before inserting a key into the lock to let Diego, if he was still there, know she was coming in.

  Opening the door, she was greeted by Pippin, who wrapped herself around Amy’s ankles, purring louder than a vacuum cleaner.

  “Look what I got.” Amy showed the cat the envelope.

  Pippin sniffed it, then turned her head, signaling her disinterest.

  “I know, I know. It’s awfully thin.” She tossed it on the kitchen table and bent down to pick up her feline friend. “How was your day?”

  Pippin nuzzled against her neck, her whiskers tickling Amy’s cheek.

  “Did Diego feed you?”

  Pippin purred.

  “Did he say whether he’s coming back?” Amy surveyed her small apartment. Everything was back in its rightful place. No sign of Diego remained.

  She sighed. She’d enjoyed having him around for a few days. It had been nice to have human company for a change. Sometimes she thought the four walls of her home practically echoed with her loneliness.

  Two sharp knocks at her door startled her out of her maudlin thoughts. Frightened by the sudden noise, Pippin flexed her claws, pricking Amy with their sharp points.

  “Easy,” Amy murmured, gently lowering her to the ground.

  “It’s getting cold,” a male voice called.

  Amy grinned. Diego had come back after all.

  She threw open the door to find him balancing a combination of brown paper bags.

  “Quick, let me in before Roscoe gets me.” He glanced over his shoulder dramatically as if he were being followed by her weightlifter neighbor.

  She wouldn’t be surprised if Roscoe was right behind him. He always seemed to walk out of his place the moment she opened her door. “What do you think he’d do to you?”

  “I’m pretty sure he wants to put me in a diabetic coma.”

  Amy chuckled. Her oversized neighbor did have a penchant for handing out delicious baked goods almost every time she saw him.

  “We can’t have that happen.” She ushered him inside. “I’d thought you left.”

  “Without thanking you for your hospitality?”

  He dumped the collection of bags on the table, covering the envelope.

  Like a magician pulling a tablecloth out from beneath a set table, Amy saved her mysterious delivery from being tainted by the grease that spread from one of the bags.

  Diego began to unpack the bags with startling efficiently. “I got all your favorites.”

  “You got enough to feed a dozen people.”

  He grinned. “Like you don’t love the leftovers. Plates?”

  Dropping the envelope onto the seat of one of the chairs, Amy grabbed two plates out of the small cabinet over the sink and put them on the table.

  Diego set a couple of bottles of cold water in front of the two chairs and quickly dispensed heaping piles of fragrant, steaming food onto the plates. “Sit. Eat.”

  Amy sat.

  Diego picked up the envelope that had ended up on his seat. “What’s this?”

  While they ate, she filled him in on her encounter with the retired, but determined, process server.

  “Twenty years,” Diego mused. “That envelope is older than our friendship.”

  Amy smiled. They’d been friends since they were ten. He’d been one of the first people she’d met after she and her mother moved to the neighborhood.

  “What do you think is in it?” Diego asked.

  She shrugged. “Not much. It’s awfully thin.”

  “Maybe it’s a secret inheritance.” Diego popped a dumpling into his mouth. “Maybe I’ve been hanging out with a wealthy heiress all these years.”

  Amy chuckled.

  “Hey, maybe I could be your boy-toy. You could buy me stuff. Lavish me with gifts.”

  “What kind of gifts?”

  “A car. New threads. Trips to exotic destinations.”

  “You don’t have a passport,” she reminded him. She’d had her own passport for years. She’d never used it, but she had gotten it for her future trip to Ireland.

  “You can get me one of those too,” he agreed easily. Then he grew serious. “Do you think your mom left this for you?”

  Amy rolled her eyes. “You knew my mother.”

  Diego nodded. “She was always nice to me.”

  “She was,” Amy agreed. Her mother had possessed many good qualities, but the ability to plan ahead had not been one of them. “But we both know she couldn’t plan her grocery shopping list for the week. Do you really think she could have thought ahead twenty years?”

  “Good point.”

  While she packed up the leftovers, cramming them into her tiny refrigerator, Diego made coffee and quickly washed the two plates.

  While the coffeemaker gurgled, they sat back down at the table, eyeing the envelope.

  “You gonna open it?” Diego asked.

  “A guy came into Busy Bea’s and ordered a purple people eater,” Amy s
aid simultaneously.

  Diego shuddered as though the sweet, purple cocktail was the most vile thing imaginable. “Really?’

  “Young guy.”

  “How young?”

  “Thirty maybe.”

  Diego traced the seal of the envelope with the tip of his finger. “You think it was a sign?”

  “A sign?”

  “From Bea.”

  Amy took a closer look at her friend, worried he’d suffered some sort of brain injury and had forgotten she didn’t believe in that kind of stuff. “Are you kidding me?”

  He shrugged. “Have you ever known anyone else who drank those things?”

  She shook her head.

  “Strange timing.” He picked up the envelope and tapped it against the surface of the table. “Very strange.”

  “It’s not a sign.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You only say that because you don’t believe in such things. You don’t want to believe that there are forces at work in this world that we can’t possibly understand.”

  Amy kept her mouth shut. This was an argument they’d had many times. Diego’s superstitious nature was one of his more annoying personality quirks.

  “Fine. Dismiss it.” Diego groused. “But you can’t ignore this.” He handed her the envelope.

  She refused to take it. “I could. I could put it right in the trash.”

  “It’s important.”

  Even though she was pretty sure he was right, she asked with stubborn petulance, “How do you know?”

  “You’re a chickenshit,” he accused gently. “Open it.”

  She shook her head. “What if it makes things worse?”

  He made a point of looking around her apartment. “You live in this palace and you work two jobs you hate. How much worse could it get?”

  “But I have you,” she countered quickly. “I have Pippin. I have my Ireland fund.”

  “You want me to open it for you?”

  She nodded.

  Pulling a switchblade from his pocket, he flipped it open and slid the sharp edge along the seal.

  Amy’s stomach churned nervously and she knew it had nothing to do with Chinese food. A rising panic clawed at her throat as he removed a single sheet of slightly yellowed paper and unfolded it. She searched his face as he scanned whatever it said.