A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (3 page)

Cybil raised her glass. “May the best woman win.”

We clinked and drank, and something akin to sheer terror settled in my stomach. Or maybe it was the martinis. Either way the contest was on.

It was me or Althea.

Winner takes Manhattan.

Chapter 2

Michael Coy.
The Corcoran Group, 660 Madison Avenue (between Sixtieth and Sixty-first streets), 212.605.9389.

A contented downtown resident, Michael Coy seeks to make your real estate experience just as fulfilling with his results-driven approach and focus on customer service. Add to that his great integrity, trustworthiness, and respect for clients’ time, and you get the makings of the only broker you’ll ever need for your real estate requirements.

—www.corcoran.com

∞∞∞

You didn’t think I was going to tell you where I lived, did you?

But
, since I’m not going to share that little tidbit, I thought I’d give you then next best thing. My broker. I mean, in New York finding the right apartment ranks just behind making certain you’re dressed in this year’s fashions. It’s all about location— and closet space. And fortunately, thanks to Michael, I had both.

However, just at the moment I wasn’t certain I cared. Not only was I entertaining the mother of all hangovers (I really should have known better), I was playing the role of apologetic mother for Waldo.

Seems he’d been doing his Colin-love-’em-and-leave-’em-Farrell impression again. Let me clarify before you head off in the wrong direction. Waldo is my cat. Actually Waldo is nobody’s anything. It’s more like I’m his person. And just at the moment, that was not a particularly enviable position.

You see, Waldo has had the hots for Arabella for months now, and apparently his lust led to a Houdini-like breakout that landed him inside my next-door neighbor’s apartment. (She said she’s got hair strands to prove it.) And anyway, push come to shove—which is absurdly appropriate in this situation—Waldo did his manly thing, and Arabella—a purebred Burmese—is now pregnant.

And since Waldo’s heritage is more uptown than Upper East Side, it’s not a good thing.

At least from Edna Melderson’s point of view. Arabella actually seemed fine with it. And Waldo was positively strutting. But Mrs. M. was threatening board action, and believe me, that’s a hell of a lot worse than being hauled in front of the headmaster for freezing Debbie Robertson’s bra. (How were we to know it would stick to her skin and cause permanent damage?)

So instead of meeting Cybil at Bergdorf’s for their handbag sale, I was standing in my apartment with an angry blue hair, and my second best friend, Anderson Wright.

Anderson runs one of the largest investment firms on Wall Street—which he thinks is irony at its very best. Testosterone land ruled by a queen.

I’d called him as soon as I got the message about Arabella. I wasn’t the type to face danger on my own, I needed someone on point, and since Anderson was my neighbor on the other side, he was perfect for the job.

The fact that he’d brought his partner, Richard, was all that much better. The two men were not easily cowed and therefore the kind you wanted in your corner. And in this case, I needed the backup. If you check in the dictionary under “intimidating,” you’ll find Edna’s picture. Hailing from Massachusetts, she has blood so blue you can actually see it running through her veins.

She’s probably somewhere in her sixties, but you wouldn’t know it to look at her. Never married, she has that perpetually sour expression of a woman who really needs to get laid. Add to that an assortment of clinical procedures, and she’s sort of stuck in a perpetual grimace, poppy red lipstick only accentuating the fact.

Her blue-tinted hair is always pulled back into a chignon. Although the word is probably too elegant for the actual effect. And I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her in anything except a vintage Chanel suit (she probably sleeps in them). Only, of course, hers weren’t vintage when she bought them.

I don’t think we’ve ever said more than hello and good-bye to each other in the three years I’ve lived in the building, her usual greeting a slight inclination of her head. As if she’s granting me a favor just to go that far.

Anderson and Richard haven’t had much more luck, although Richard actually carried Chanel bags into her apartment once (she gave him a tip). According to him, the apartment is a shrine to the fifties, complete with mahogany console TV and the scent of Chanel N° 5 mixed with cat litter.

The latter I have to admit I’ve been guilty of myself, although I keep the litter box in a closet. (We’ve already established that Waldo can get into or out of anything, so a folding closet door is no problem at all.)

Anyway, the woman is formidable at best. Quite frightening at worst. And as an original co-op member, she wields a lot of power in the building. All in all not someone you want for an enemy. And thanks to my randy cat, that’s precisely where I’d landed.

This is exactly what I meant when I said that it was best for like to marry like. Look at the mess Waldo’s made, and he’s just a cat. A loud one at that. I’d shut him up in the bedroom when Arabella and Mrs. M. arrived, but kitty senses are keen and he was more than aware his lady love was in the next room.

“What I want to know,” Mrs. M. sniffed, “is what you intend to do about this?”

Since it was somewhat after the fact, it didn’t seem to me that there was really a lot I
could
do. I shot a look at Anderson, pleading for an out.

“Well, I’m sure Vanessa will be happy to pay for any vet bills you incur during Arabella’s, um,” Anderson swallowed a smile, “confinement.”

This wasn’t a small offer, either, as Mrs. M. favored a veterinarian who made house calls and specialized in feline acupuncture and holistic medicine. (I’m serious, check out housecallsforyourpet.com.)

“I assumed she’d do that much, but what I’m looking for,” she shot an Elmira Gulch-worthy frown in the direction of the extra room, “is some kind of guarantee that
that
animal won’t do this again.”

Waldo’s yowl echoed through the room, and I swear Richard crossed his legs. We all knew what the woman was alluding to, but I just couldn’t see taking Waldo’s manhood. It seemed a cruel punishment just for fulfilling a basic need. And besides, it takes two to tango. I shot my best venomous look in Mrs. M.’s direction.

“Of course, I’d be more than happy to pay for Arabella to be spayed.” Hit hard, when they’re not expecting it. I’d learned that from my father. Let her cat be the one to suffer the indignation of losing gonads.

“That’s not exactly what I had in mind.” She stroked Arabella with bony fingers, her eyes narrowing until there was nothing but eyeliner visible. My thoughts switched from Elmira Gulch to that woman in
Sunset Boulevard
.

“Well, I’m sure as hell not going to cas—” Anderson pinched the underside of my arm, but it was too late. Mrs. M. had followed the gist.

“My Arabella is a grand champion. And as such she is more valuable if she can be bred.”

“Just because Waldo isn’t a show cat. . . I managed before Anderson pinched me again. I wriggled out of reach, certain that I was going to have marks.

“Your
cat
,” Mrs. M.’s mouth pursed as she practically spit out the word, “is a mongrel. And as such, a menace. While there may be nothing I can do about Arabella’s present situation, I will not tolerate it happening again. To that end, you will either solve the problem, or that animal,” she waved a bejeweled hand in the direction of the spare room, “will be evicted. Am I making myself clear?”

I clenched my fists, my vision going red. I really hated being ordered to do anything. Fortunately Richard was well aware of this fact.

“So,” he said, standing up with finality, “Vanessa will look into options for preventing another liaison and report back to you. Certainly there are all kinds of variables to be taken into consideration, before anything rash occurs. And should it come to that, we’d of course need to be certain that both parties were as represented. Authentication would be crucial, wouldn’t you say?” Did I mention that Richard is an attorney?

Mrs. M. fingered the Judith Ripka brooch at her throat, her expression now guarded. “I’m sure we can reach some kind of agreement.” The about-face would have been comical, except that we were discussing the fate of my cat’s testicles. I glanced over at Richard with a frown, but he only shook his head slightly, his benevolent gaze still on Mrs. M.

“We’ll be in touch,” Richard dismissed her. “And as Anderson suggested, feel free to have the vet’s bills sent to Vanessa. It’s the least she can do.”

With a sigh worthy of high melodrama, Mrs. M. waltzed (and that’s an accurate description, really) out the door, leaving the three of us standing in a cloud of Chanel N° 5.

“Well, at least she didn’t stuff poor Waldo in a basket.” Anderson had obviously seen the resemblance to the Wicked Witch as well.

“But I don’t understand why she backed off,” I said, still flummoxed. “I mean, not to knock you, Richard, but she’s pretty formidable. I’d have taken her over you in a bet any day.”

Richard smiled. “Ah, but you see I came with ammunition. When you called I did a little checking. It seems there was a suit filed by the CFA several years back after Arabella won Best-in-Show at the National Capital. Apparently there was some question as to the authenticity of her pedigree.”

An imposter. Kind of raised my estimation of Waldo’s paramour.

“Additionally, I talked with the Beckers in 1IC, and apparently their cat, also an unneutered male, has been known to find refuge in Miss Arabella’s paws.” He flashed his ladies-and-gentlemen-of-the-jury smile. “So I suspect that the last thing that Edna Melderson wants is a microscope on her poor Arabella’s sexual habits and lineage. My advice? Put up window screens and you should be good to go.”

“Or not go, as the case may be,” Anderson said with a laugh.

There was a thunk, a click, and the spare room door swung open, Waldo falling into the room with the dignity only a cat can pull off.

“On second thought, maybe you should just lock the windows.” Richard tipped his head toward the cat. “He does seem to have a knack for escape.”

Waldo ignored all of us, walking over to the window and leaping up to sit lapping at a paw, watching traffic below—or planning his next rendezvous with Arabella.

I would wind up with a lothario for a cat. Sort of apropos, I suppose, considering my occupation.

“So enough with the cat,” Richard said settling back on my white sofa. “Tell me about
Page Six.
"

Anderson sat down next to his partner, his eyes twinkling in anticipation. Nothing made Anderson happier than a little gossip. And
Page Six
was as good a place as any to try to keep up.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” I rubbed my temples, wondering if I should dose myself with bismuth or just have a Bloody Mary. Hair of the dog and all that. The thought actually made the Pepto sound positively fabulous.

“You haven’t seen the paper.” It was a statement, not a question, but Richard was smiling.

“I wouldn’t even be awake if it weren’t for Mrs. M. and her seductive siren of a cat. Besides, I haven’t been up to anything that would rate
Page Six
exposure.” Well, except agree to a practically impossible bet on the off chance that I’d score the match of a lifetime. But we’d been discreet. Sort of. I reached for the still folded
Post
, quickly turning to the gossip column, which in all actuality is usually found on page ten.

I scanned the newsprint, settling on my name highlighted in bold. At least they’d spelled it right. There’s a singer named Vanessa Carlton. She won a Grammy a few years back.

Anyway, I’m forever having people want me to be Carlton instead of Carlson. Of course, her life is probably better so maybe I missed an opportunity.

But I digress.

The paragraph cut right to the chase:

Manhattan glitterati with a desire to find the perfect mate have a new champion in matchmaker
Vanessa Carlson
. With her fledgling business giving the competition a run for the money, Ms. Carlson, 35, is definitely hot, hot, hot. Spotted last night at Bemelmans Bar in a heated discussion with mentor/rival
Althea Sevalas
, 52, speculation is running rampant. Sources swear that the discussion centered on downtown playboy
Mark Grayson
. If either Ms. Carlson or Ms. Sevalas were to score Grayson as a client, there’d be no question as to who ruled Manhattan’s matrimonial mergers. For what it’s worth, this writer’s money is on Ms. Carlson. . . .

“Shit.” I leaned back in the wingchair pushing the paper away as if it were offensive, trying to remember who had been sitting around us. Someone with a big mouth, obviously.

“It’s not that bad. At least it doesn’t mention the martinis,” Anderson said.

I’d had to admit last night’s lapse of good judgment when they’d arrived, if only to assure them that I hadn’t suddenly contracted a fatal illness. Although at the moment I was doing a damn good impression. “But it does mention Mark Grayson.”

“So that part’s true?” Richard’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows shot up.

“Yeah. I told you it was a wild night.”

“Apparently.” I couldn’t tell if Anderson was reprimanding my behavior or just wishing he’d been there for the party. “So spill the rest of the story.”

“You sound like Paul Harvey.” (I know that makes me sound like an old geezer, but my mother used to always listen to him on the radio.)

“Vanessa . . . ,” Richard said, using his best badgering-the-witness voice.

“All right. We were discussing Mark Grayson. Betting on him, actually. Or I guess, more accurately, betting that one of us could marry him off.”

“This is the same Mark Grayson who is rarely seen with the same woman twice?”

“The very one. He was there, at Bemelmans, with Tandy someone or other,” I said by way of explanation—although in actuality it explained nothing. “Look, there were copious amounts of martini involved. Dirty ones at that.”