Dying for a Date Read online

  "So...how was your date?” Her blue eyes looked anxious as she wound her auburn ponytail around her index finger. Was this the time to have that mother/daughter chat about the perfidy of men? Should I share any details about my oversexed dinner companion?

  Someday. But not right now.

  "He's not my type,” I muttered as I stood up and washed my mug in the sink. Too bad I couldn't scrub away the memory of the previous evening.

  "Maybe you should wait a few more years to date.” She refused to meet my gaze as she stared at her gnawed nail stubs. “You know...like after Ben and I are out of the house."

  "How about if I hold off until I'm ready for assisted living? Then when I meet some hottie in a wheelchair, we can roll off into the sunset together."

  Jenna chuckled. “Good one, Mom."

  I kissed the top of her head and walked into the family room. It was time to get the boys ready for their first soccer game of the season. I detached the duo from their Nintendo controls, ruffling Ben's hair and adding several more cowlicks to his shaggy chestnut mop. As they raced each other upstairs I noticed the crest on Ben's royal blue and red pajamas. Superman jammies. Was this a reminder I should stick to pint size supermen and forget about finding a grown up version?

  While I dressed, I reminisced about my high school days. Every Friday night, I sat in the bleachers supporting my boyfriend, Hank, the star quarterback. Back then cheerleaders in short pleated skirts constantly chased after him.

  When we married right after college it never occurred to me that adult women in short skirts would continue to chase after my husband decades later. But that was past history. Hank had moved on to greener pastures and so would I. Today my concentration would be focused on my son and the grassy green soccer field.

  I threw on a turquoise sleeveless shirt, khaki shorts, and a pair of matching turquoise straw mules I'd found at the mall, fifty percent off. The weather was expected to be in the mid eighties, sunny with patchy clouds, so I could multitask and work on my tan while I watched the game.

  The second grade teams play in a park located four miles from our house. With the influx of so many new residents in the area, the league was forced to hold games on Sundays as well as Saturdays, until a new field could be constructed. Thirty minutes later, I stood on the sidelines of an emerald green rectangle, cheering along with the other parents.

  My son inherited my athletic genes, or lack thereof, which was a huge disappointment to his jockstrap father. Ben had spent the summer practicing his soccer skills by dribbling his soccer ball back and forth across the front lawn. All I could do was cross my fingers and hope for his success.

  A whisper of a cloud temporarily blocked the sun as the ref blew his whistle for the second half kickoff. One of the forwards on Ben's team kicked the ball backwards and it smacked into my son's foot. He stood in place, stunned, probably from the shock of having possession of the ball.

  Ever the supportive Mom, I screamed, “Go Ben."

  Whether it was my yelling or the pack of soccer players bearing down on him, Ben finally began to dribble the ball down the field, a sea of blue and gold hot on his rubber-spiked heels. One of the other team's players, a gold number two emblazoned on his royal blue shirt, towered over my son.

  All of a sudden number two's foot shot out and kicked Ben above his shin guard. My baby flew over the white and black patchwork ball. When he landed, his body was as still as...

  My heart.

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  THREE

  I sprinted across the field as fast as a woman wearing turquoise mules can run. Never having experienced an injury to my child in a soccer game, I assumed it was natural for his mother to run to her baby's rescue. The tiny kitten heel of my left shoe became mired in one of the muddy ruts so I left it behind in my frantic attempt to get to Ben.

  By the time I reached my son, his teammates were gathered around his recumbent figure. Ben's coach ambled over and a big guy from the opposite side of the field joined us.

  "Honey, are you okay? What hurts?” I clutched his tiny hand as I knelt down beside him. Tears shimmered in Ben's eyes but he didn't cry. I looked up at the craggy faced coach. “Dan, that little boy intentionally kicked Ben."

  The coach ignored me. “Ben, can you stand up?"

  "I think I can,” Ben whimpered, “but can you make my mom go away?"

  I stood up and stomped my remaining sandal, which sunk into the soft grass. “That monster should be disqualified from playing soccer forever. I'd like to have a talk with his parents."

  A hand tapped my shoulder. I looked up, way up, into a pair of hot fudge sundae brown eyes, fringed with outrageous black eyelashes. Only a man would be blessed with natural eyelashes like that.

  He scowled at me. “I'm Kristy's father. You want to talk with me?"

  "Kristy? Your son is named Kristy?"

  The bear of a man folded muscular arms over a faded brown tee shirt that matched his faded brown ball cap. The brown eyes that glared at me weren't faded at all. “Kristy is my daughter. I can assure you, Ma'am,” he said, with a pronounced emphasis on the last word, “she would never deliberately kick your son. She's been taught to play soccer fair and square."

  He drew his daughter close and she leaned against him. Now that Papa Bear was protecting her, little Goldilocks had resumed her aggressive stance, shooting me a defiant look. Hard to believe the super-sized girl was Ben's age. She was almost my size.

  "Mrs. McKay, can we get on with the game?” Coach Dan asked, his lined face looking weary. “Ben can rest a few minutes and come back in when he's ready."

  Ben struggled to his feet. “I'm fine, Mom. Go back to the sidelines and stay there."

  I stood up and brushed off the dirt that had caked on my knees.

  "Yeah, ‘Mom.'” A deep baritone parroted my son. “Go to the sidelines where you belong."

  The middle finger of my right hand itched to respond but I restrained myself. Kristy's father turned and I watched as his long legs loped to the opposite side of the field.

  "Men,” I muttered, frustrated with the bunch of them. Small and tall.

  With a valiant attempt to look dignified, I limped across the field and retrieved my ruined sandal. As I approached the sidelines, my eyes made contact with a familiar pair of green eyes. Swamp green eyes, as our daughter affectionately described them.

  "When did you get here?” I asked.

  "I arrived just in time to see your performance.” My ex tipped the visor of his black Giants baseball cap to me and snickered. “Nice job embarrassing our son."

  I glared at him. “At least he has one parent who cares.” Despite the fact he lives only thirty miles away in Sacramento and is a self-employed contractor, Hank's attendance record at Ben's games was far from perfect.

  I turned away and tried to concentrate on the game. Ben appeared to be fine. He could have limped a little and made me feel less like an overprotective hysterical mom.

  Hank cleared his throat. “I heard you had a date last night."

  "Yup.” I didn't see any reason to elaborate. One of the kids must have told him I had a date. I'd better institute a “need to know” policy concerning their father. Basically he didn't need to know about my social life.

  "Do you think you'll go out with him again?"

  Not in a million years but Hank didn't need to know that. “I don't think that's any of your business."

  His face flushed and he shot me an angry look. “Of course it's my business. What kind of mother are you? Your job is to focus on our children, not your love life."

  My mouth opened so wide in protest I almost swallowed a wasp that had been circling around in search of sustenance. What kind of mother was I? What kind of father was he, leaving his family and moving in with the woman who had hired him to replace some tiles on her roof? It took Nadine Wells less than a week to woo him down from her roof and into her bed.

  He didn't just replace her tiles. He replaced me.


  Cheers from the parents who were not engaged in close verbal contact with their ex-husbands erupted. The game was over and we'd won. I was furious with my ex so I stood off to the side while he and Ben talked. Hank promised Ben he would attend the game the following week. I'd believe it when I saw it. His erratic appearance in our children's lives was one of the reasons I had started the search for a replacement.

  The boys clambered into the back of my periwinkle Prius, a tight fit for the seven year olds, but my car made me feel like I was contributing to making the world greener, one gallon of gas at a time.

  I took the boys out for lunch then dropped them off at Jimmy's house. My next stop was the Love Club, which was located in Placerville, one of the more infamous gold country towns whose beautiful Victorian houses were portrayed by Thomas Kinkade in his early paintings.

  Driving down Main Street, I automatically looked up at the mustached man in frontier clothing hanging from the pole above Hangman's Tree Tavern. The man is a dummy but it's still kind of cool. During the gold rush, the locals used two enormous oak trees downtown to eliminate a couple of troublemakers. After the hanging of “Bloody Dick” it was called Hangtown for a brief period. I thought about my encounter with bloody Garrett and decided those pioneer women would have been proud of me.

  The Love Club is housed in the refurbished brick Cary House, best known as the hotel that provided beds for Mark Twain, Buffalo Bill and Ulysses S. Grant. Too bad Buffalo Bill wasn't around last night. I wouldn't have minded if a few shots of lead had pelted Garrett's posterior.

  The Club's young receptionist greeted me as I pushed open the heavy oak door. With her perky nose, violet blue eyes, and blonde streaked mane of hair you could tell she wasn't a member.

  I grabbed a few books from the shelves and settled into a chestnut colored leather club chair. The agency wasn't large but it claimed to be the most successful matchmaking service in northern California. Hard to argue with a seventy-five percent success rate.

  Member profiles are separated by gender and divided alphabetically by first name into individual volumes. Garrett had been the one to select me, so I decided this time, I would do the choosing. I skimmed through the “H", “I” and “J” books. If I found a profile I liked, I could watch their DVD. Unlike the online dating sites, the agency required that photos and videos be updated annually. No false advertising at the Love Club.

  The Harrys, Henrys and Hermans were all too old. On the plus side, they were probably too feeble to attack me. The “I” prospects looked like baby-faced boys, too young for me. I wasn't ready to be a cougar. I moved on to the “J” book.

  The Love Club required that all clientele go through a credit check and complete a comprehensive psychological profile, supposedly to weed out any weirdos. Evidently they needed a little help with their system. But like Liz said, Garrett was probably an aberration.

  New members filled out a six-page questionnaire, which included vital statistics like age, religion and education, hobbies, pet peeves, ideas for a romantic evening. A more practical approach would be to ask if the men left the toilet seat up, dropped their clothes all over the floor, and were attached at the wrist to the TV remote.

  There were enough potential suitors in the “J” book to keep me occupied for my entire enrollment. I entered one of the screening rooms, sat down, and scrutinized the videos of four men. One of the reasons I had agreed to go out with Garrett was that not only was he attractive, his video had portrayed him as a man of integrity.

  Did his attack mean that when it came to judging men, I was clueless? Maybe I couldn't tell the good guys from the bad ones. Or was I such a hot babe Garrett couldn't help himself?

  In my dreams.

  After reviewing their bios once more, I finally ended up choosing a doctor named Jeremy and an engineer named Jack. Neither of them made my heart hum, but they both appeared stable, if a little dull. After last night's excitement, dull sounded kind of appealing.

  Once I turned in my choices, the club would notify the member by both email and voicemail that someone had selected them. If Jack or Jeremy was interested in me, they would be given my email address and phone number. A simple concept, but it worked. I scribbled my selections on the blank member request form then walked up to the glossy cherry wood reception counter.

  "Hi, Laurel,” said the gorgeous blonde, batting her two inch eyelash extensions at me. “Did you choose anyone today?"

  "Hi, Sunny. I thought these two men looked interesting. And safe. You wouldn't believe what happened last night when I went out with this guy named Garrett Lindstrom."

  Her face grew paler than the white forms I held in my hand. “You were with Garrett last night?” she squealed.

  "Uh, yes. Why? Did he tell you what I did to him?” I was surprised Garrett would have divulged what happened.

  "You mean, you're admitting it?” Her voice rose to a crescendo, her eyelashes flickering so fast they were creating a draft.

  "Of course. I'd do it again if the same thing happened on my next date."

  Sunny looked at me like I was crazy. I was beginning to think she was missing a few screws herself.

  I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the counter. “So what exactly did Garrett say?"

  Sunny pointed her crimson tipped index finger at me. “Garrett didn't say anything. He's dead. You killed him."

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  FOUR

  "You killed him. You killed him.” Sunny was now backed against the paneled wall, right and left forefingers crossed in front of her, as if she was trying to ward off a vampire. Or prevent the homicidal woman standing in the reception area from attacking her.

  "What are you talking about—Garrett's dead?” The room started to tilt so I dropped into one of the overstuffed chairs, bent over and breathed deeply. I lifted my head and stared at the receptionist. “Are you sure we're talking about the same person? Garrett Lindstrom?"

  Sunny picked up a black cordless phone, staring at me with anxious eyes. Was she going to call the police? Or use it as a weapon against the supposed murderer in the lobby.

  "A sheriff's deputy stopped by a few minutes ago. A neighbor found Garrett this morning. Sitting in his car. In his driveway.” Her arms performed mini calisthenics as she expostulated. “His head was bashed in."

  I shuddered and slumped back against the chair. This couldn't be happening. All I did was hit Garrett on the nose with his phone. You can't kill anyone that way. Although his head did hit the window and there was blood everywhere, but I thought that was normal with any head injury.

  "You really didn't know he was dead?” Sunny was clutching the phone like she'd been given an extra lifeline, but at least she hadn't dialed the police. Yet.

  "No,” I whimpered.

  She hesitated then set the phone down, inching closer to the reception counter. “You don't look like a killer."

  I chose to take her comment as a compliment. “Umm, thanks,” I said with a half-hearted smile.

  Sunny must have decided my non-threatening visage meant it was okay to confide in me. “The deputy said they found one of our invoices on Garrett's desk and guessed he was a member. They want me to find the women who chose him, and who he picked in the last few months. I found twenty so far, but I didn't come across your name yet."

  Twenty women? Who did this guy think he was—Don Juan Lindstrom? Well, with his amorous assault style maneuvers, it was unlikely he ever went on a second date with anyone.

  My head buzzed with unanswered questions, but a line of single females had formed, waving their selection forms at Sunny. I stared at the women waiting in line. Had any of these women been on a date with Garrett? Perhaps they too fought off an attack by him.

  Or...killed him.

  The line of restless women distracted Sunny as she immersed herself in paperwork. I slipped out the door and walked through the parking lot mulling over this startling development. Sunny wasn't the brightest bulb in the chandelier. She could hav
e mixed Garrett up with someone else.

  During our dinner, Garrett mentioned he lived in Villa Dolce, one of the gated subdivisions that comprise the massive Serrano housing development in El Dorado Hills. It couldn't hurt to do a brief drive-by, and it might make me feel better.

  Fifteen minutes later I was driving up Serrano Parkway. Villa Dolce was located near the top of the Parkway on the south side of the street. By riding the bumper of a black SUV, I was able to sneak through the gated stone entry. After aimlessly driving up one street and down another, all lined with earth colored stucco McMansions that blended into the earth colored hills, the futility of my mission sank in.

  Hoping to find an escape out of the maize maze, I turned right then slammed on my brakes. It would be impossible to miss the spacious one-story house with the beige Lincoln Town Car in the driveway. The two sheriff's cars parked in front of the house. And the yellow tape stretched...everywhere.

  Sunny was right.

  My first thought was that Garrett must have been one heck of a CPA in order to afford a house this expensive. Or maybe he was involved in something shady. One of his clients might have disagreed with his method of depreciation and accelerated Garrett's death.

  As my car crawled down the street in the direction of the house, two of the county deputies, clad in pressed khaki shirts and forest green pants, glanced up. The dark haired officer with the miniature Hitler moustache frowned at me. Time to move on. My pastel vehicle wasn't designed for undercover detecting.

  As I drove to Jimmy's house to collect my son I pondered my predicament. Should I contact the police and tell them what happened on our date? I didn't think the Dating for Dummies Guide had any advice on what to do when your date is found dead less than twenty-four hours after you hit him with a cell phone.