Part 14 (1/2)
”Howdy who?”
”You know. Howdy Doody and Clara belle? The kids' show.”
I'd never seen Howdy Doody, but the phrase kid's show was enough to tell me this was way over my head.
”Howdy's this puppet. He has pasty white skin and lots of freckles and he wears a plaid s.h.i.+rt. And a neckerchief.”
O-kay.
”And he parts his hair on the side.”
Just say no. You can't produce an alpha Howdy Doody. No one in the Free World could come up with one. Ever. Much less in a week and a half.
”One alpha Howdy coming right up.”Hey, we're talking late fees.
”Wonderful. Oh, and tell your father that he can spray as much weed killer as he likes on my bushes, but it won't work. The girls and I have been peeing on them for at least a month. They're so healthy, they're immune to any and everything short of nuclear fallout.”
I had a quick mental of Viola and the NUNS ”fertilizing” the length of hedges that separated her property from my folks.
”I'll be sure to pa.s.s on the information.” Just as soon as Morse code became vogue again and put Sprint out of business. ”I'll contact you in a few days. And remember, there's no need to worry. I can do this.”
”I can't do this,” I told Evie a few minutes later when she picked up the phone. ”Not by myself. I need your help.”
”Lil?” A yawn punctuated the question. ”I mean, Mrs. Vandergartenpitt?”
”It's flunkinpitt, and you can lose the alias. The police aren't tapping your line.”
Another yawn. ”How do you know?”
”I've got connections.”
”The bounty hunter.” Sheets rustled and mattress springs creaked. Her voice took on an air of excitement. ”You're with the bounty hunter, aren't you? I knew it. I went over all of the possibilities in my head, and it could only be the bounty hunter. He's the only one who could actually help you get out of this mess. I mean, he's got connections and he knows how to track down killers. It only makes sense that you would go to him for help.”
”I am so not with the bounty hunter.”
”You are so lying.”
”Am not.”
”Are, too.”
”Can we get back to the subject? We both have work to do.”
”It's four in the morning. I'm not due into the office for another five hours. Tell me about Ty.”
”Who?”
”Ty Bonner. The bounty hunter. You are with him.”
I tried for a laugh, which came out sounding as nervous as I felt. ”Says you. Listen, I really need your help.”
”I already told the police that you would never chop anyone into little pieces.”
”Thanks for the vote of confidence, but that's not what I'm talking about. You know our new client? Viola Hamilton?”
”The one who was in your office when the cops came?”
”That's the one. She wants me to make several matches, which is no problem except that one of them needs to be a redhead. A testosterone-oozing redhead.”
”Like a young Kenneth Branagh?””More like Howdy Doody.”
”You've got to be kidding.”
”You know Howdy?”
”I don't just watch CSI. Listen, Lil. It's not possible. We're talking orange hair. You're not going to find a man with orange anything who oozes testosterone.”
”Just keep your eyes open. If you see anyone on the street who fits the bill, slip him a card. Also, check out some of the online sites. Cruise profiles and see if you can spot someone-anyone-who might work. I'll be looking, too. Oh, and you know the new client-Rachel Sanchez?”
”She called yesterday.”
”I'll work on her while I'm doing Viola.” While I knew Evie could make a great match, herself, she wasn't privy to all Rachel's quirks-namely that she morphed into the Taco Bell spokespooch when the moon was full-and so I felt compelled to handle the were myself. Step one? Googling the mating habits of were-Chihuahuas.
”Oh, and Esther called again,” Evie said. ”She wants to know if you've found her anyone and I said no. You haven't, have you?”
”No.” Esther, made vampire and old maid, was proving to be a much more difficult match than I'd originally expected. The problem? I didn't really know any male made vampires, except for Ty, and he totally was not her type. At first, I'd thought so, but after I'd gotten to know him (via Google-ya gotta love the Internet-a really hot and heavy kiss, and, oh yeah, drinking his blood), I'd ruled him out as a possibility.
”She sounds so... sad. What should I do?”
”You don't have any more uncles do you?” We had, on at least one occasion, paired up a client with one of Evie's relatives for a practice date until we could find the real thing. While it hadn't been a huge success (he'd been old and p.r.o.ne to falling asleep and she'd been a vivacious vampire who'd liked to dance), it hadn't been a total failure either (vivacious vamp had bought the practice date spiel and given us another chance). ”Maybe one who isn't collecting social security?”
She seemed to think. ”There's my uncle Darwin. He's on disability rather than social security because he lost a t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e during World War I.”
In other words, the man was older than dirt.
On the other hand, Esther had been around during that war (she was over one hundred and she hadn't had a date in as many years) which meant they might actually have something in common.
”Set them up,” I told Evie.
I called The Ninas next, but neither picked up, so I had to leave a message. I also called my brothers, and Francis and Melissa (my first vamp client and his live-in human girlfriend), and Ayala aka the pickiest born vamp in existence. The night was still young (if you were a vamp) and so the only one who actually answered was Melissa. I explained my predicament and gave her my new cell number in case she needed to contact me (not that she would since she and Francis were extremely happy despite their obvious differences). But the phone call pumped my ego enough that I actually started to think I could find a redhead who oozed testosterone. I'd matched up Francis, the geekiest vamp in the universe. Nothing could be harder than that. Right?
I left a message for Ayala, along with a ”Born vamp coming right up!” and then I sat staring at the phone.
I really should call my folks. Then again, I was a businesswoman (not a chicken). I had priorities.Punching in the number, I spent the next minute navigating through my voice mailbox until I reached my messages.
”Hi, Lil. It's Ayala. You still haven't called me back and I'm wondering about this weekend. I think we should try something different. Maybe a blond again. But taller this time. With very little facial hair because I really don't like a lot of facial hair. And loyal. This last guy had the number for Marc's Speedy Supper programmed into his cell phone. I absolutely won't abide by an eternity mate who's constantly sinking his fangs into someone else. I want a bottle man.” A beep signaled the end of the message.