A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (28 page)

The creamy envelope indicated that the flowers had come from Park Avenue Floratique, a fabulous shop on Park Avenue South. I’d used them myself on occasion. But oddly, what excited me more was the fact that they weren’t that far from i Trulli. Okay, I know that it shouldn’t matter at all, but the idea that Mark Grayson had sent me flowers was pleasing in ways I couldn’t even put a name to.

I shot Harry a smile and slid a finger under the envelope flap.

The card was short and to the point.

Congratulations, you’re hooked the fish. Now let’s see if you can land him. —Althea

It was a backhanded compliment at best, at worst another passive-aggressive jab. Fish and flowers did not a pretty picture make. And to imply that Mark Grayson was a fish. Well, the idea was ludicrous. Of course, she was right about one thing. In order to win the bet, I did have to marry the man off.

But I had a secret weapon—Cybil. And things were already well under way. The hard part had been getting him on board in the first place. And I’d managed it. Although to be honest, I wasn’t completely sure how. Still, the point was the game was on. And I was up to the task. I was a matchmaker after all. I had instincts about these things. Mark and Cybil were a match made in heaven. Or more realistically a match made on Madison. And frankly in Manhattan they were sort of one and the same.

“Thanks, Harry,” I said, picking up the vase with renewed vigor.

“Someone special?” he asked with a knowing smile.

“In a roundabout way. Let’s just say they’re a sign that things are looking up.”

Famous last words.

The door to my apartment was open. Most people would immediately fear a burglary. I thought immediately of my cat. Now, before you start thinking that I’m a moron for not running for the elevator while dialing 911, you have to understand the kind of building I live in. Fort Knox isn’t as well fortified. There’s a doorman, a concierge, a security guard, and enough security cameras to put together a montage of the entire building. Add to that a live-in super, a gaggle of porters, and an army of maintenance men, and you’ll begin to have a picture of how safe I really am.

Not only that, Richard and Anderson are right next door.

Or not.

I stopped in the doorway, clutching my flowers, staring into my living room with something akin to complete and absolute terror. No, it wasn’t an ax-wielding, fake fireman rapist. It was Mrs. M., and she didn’t look happy. And sitting right next to her was Leo Walderstein, president of the co-op board.

Reinforcements in the form of Anderson and Richard were the only thing that kept me from turning tail and fleeing. Dorothy needed her friends, too. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the Cowardly Lion’s courage, she’d probably have been toast, or gingerbread, or whatever it is that witches turn you into.

I blew out a breath and stepped inside. “So what’s happening here? A last-minute board meeting? If I’d have known, I’d have ordered refreshments.” Anderson shook his head, Richard smiled, and Mr. Walderstein’s face twitched. But Ms. M. was not amused.

“What have you done with my baby?”

“Excuse me?” I said, still holding my flowers, trying to work out exactly what was going on.

“Arabella has gone missing,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“And you think she’s here?” I shot a questioning look in Richard’s direction. I was a lot of things, including the owner of the feline equivalent of Don Juan, but I wasn’t in the habit of stealing other people’s pets. The one I had was clearly more than enough.

“Actually, we’ve searched the apartment,” Anderson said, his tone apologetic. “Waldo’s gone, too, I’m afraid.”

“Again? Did you check the garbage room?” Anderson had snagged him from the recycling bin just that morning. Waldo has a decided penchant for slightly used food, particularly when it contains milk products. Yogurt, sour cream, you name it, Waldo craves it.

“He wasn’t there.”

“So you think they’ve eloped?” I couldn’t help myself.

“This isn’t funny.” If Mrs. M.’s gaze were lethal, then I would most certainly have expired on the spot.

“No, of course not.” I shook my head and walked over to put the flowers on the table.

“Secret admirer?” Richard asked.

“No. Althea. Congratulating me on securing Mark Grayson as a client.” In the face of the assembled company, it suddenly didn’t seem such a big deal.

“I realize it’s a bit imposing for us to have come in without you,” Mr. Walderstein said. He is one of those rail thin, stoop-backed men who walk as if they carry the world upon their shoulders. He’d inherited the presidency when Minerva Baker stepped onto an elevator that was unfortunately sixteen floors below her. Thank you, Otis Elevators. I’d often dreamed of luring Mrs. M. to the same fate. All it would have taken was a bottle of Chanel N° 5.

But of course Mr. Walderstein’s first official act had been to get the elevators renovated and rewired. So it was sadly nothing more than a fantasy. Okay, I’m not sadistic, I swear. It’s just that wicked witches are supposed to get theirs. And there were no buckets of water in sight.

Anyway, I digress. Mr. Walderstein was standing now, nervously lacing his fingers together. Thanks to the fact that everyone in the building feared Mrs. M., no one wanted to be on the board, and certainly not take on the role of president. So I suspected Mr. Walderstein was in it for life.

Poor little man.

“It’s fine. I’m sure you did what you thought best,” I said, looking first at Mr. Walderstein and then with a sympathetic glance to Richard and Anderson. I’m sure they had far better things to do than protect my humble abode from Mrs. M.’s hysteria-driven hunt.

“I want you to tell me where they are. Now,” Mrs. M. said, her red lips pursing in anger. Years of smoking had given her radiating lines around her mouth, her current expression only magnifying the effect.

“I don’t know. And in your current state, I’m not sure I’d tell you if I did.” I’ve always managed to let my temper get the best of me. But really, the woman was intolerable. We were talking about cats, not children, not diamonds, not even a good pair of Manolos.

“Well, I never . . .” Mrs. M. crossed her arms over her bony chest, her frown transferring the wrinkles from her mouth to her forehead.

“Look,” I said, trying for a more compassionate tone. “I’m sorry that Arabella is gone, but I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“If it wasn’t you, it was that. . . that animal of yours.”

“Waldo is pretty damn amazing, but I don’t think he’s mastered the art of picking locks.”

She snorted and mumbled something under her breath.

“I searched the entire building. Even got the staff involved,” Anderson said.

My heart twisted as I considered for the first time that maybe something awful had happened to him. Waldo was my family. I might bad-mouth his behavior, but I loved him, and the idea that something might have happened to him made my stomach flutter.

“No sign of him at all?” I asked, feeling suddenly bereft.

“Nothing. Richard looked, too.” Anderson glanced over at Richard and he nodded, his expression full of remorse.

“We tried,” he said, lifting his palms in apology.

“I know you did.” Guilt washed through me hot and heavy. I was the one who’d left this morning not knowing where he was. “It was my responsibility. If anyone’s at fault, it’s me.”

“See, I told you she was behind it,” Mrs. M. said, looking to Mr. Walderstein for support.

He, of course, had no choice but to nod his head, or she would probably have incinerated the poor guy. Think Uncle Henry—who actually always pissed me off for letting Miss Gulch (no way was she married) take Toto in the first place. I mean, his bluster came way too late for it to have had any real impact.

“I’m not behind anything. I just should have watched out for my cat.”

“Well, at least she’s admitting that Walter got out.”

“Waldo,” Richard and I said simultaneously.

“Whatever.” Mrs. M. waved her hand, dismissing me and my cat. “What I’m trying to say is that your cat has kidnapped mine.”

“Is that even possible?” I asked, looking to see if anyone else was taking the woman seriously.

Unfortunately, Mr. Walderstein apparently knew which side of the bread his butter was on. “You have to admit, Ms. Carlson, there have been numerous incidents involving your cat.”

There was truth to that. There was the year he’d single-handedly—or pawedly—managed to knock over the lobby Christmas tree. And then there was the time he snuck out the window and onto Mrs. Smyth’s balcony. He’d wound up parading around the building in her unmentionables. “But he’s never hurt anyone.”

“What about Arabella?” Mrs. M. sniffed. “She’ll never be the same again.”

“Motherhood certainly has a way of changing everything,” Richard offered, only to be greeted by a glacial frown.

“Well, I, for one, think we ought to be out searching for them,” Anderson said. “We can sort out what happened after we know that they’re all right.”

“It’s been a long time. Do you think they could have left the building?” Mr. Walderstein asked. “They could be anywhere by now.”

“They’re cats,” I said, anger mixing with trepidation. Waldo had never been gone this long before. “They’re not likely to have taken a taxi or the F train.”

“I heard about a cat who accidentally boarded a plane to France. They sent it home first class,” Anderson offered.

“You’re not helping,” I snapped.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

“All right,” Richard said, taking charge. “I think we should divide the building into sections and each of us can take one.”

Mrs. M. opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again at an almost ballsy glare from Mr. Walderstein. It didn’t take long to divide up the floors. I drew the short straw—the basement levels, which included a laundry room, the incinerator (don’t even think it), and various other dark and dingy places that house the mechanics of the building.

Oh, joy.

Fortunately, Mrs. M. had joined forces with Mr. Walderstein, and Richard had called the super so that he could access any empty apartments. That left Anderson to team with me, which meant that I had company for my descent into hell.

The basement of our building is old. I mean really, really old. It even predates our building, which has been around since the turn of the century (the one before last). Suffice it to say, it’s not someplace where you’d want to spend a great deal of time.

But Waldo was my first priority.

“So if you were Waldo, where would you hide?” Anderson asked.

“Anywhere but here?” I said, turning around the dingy hallway in a circle. Before you start thinking I live in a tenement slum, let me assure you the basement was scrupulously clean. It’s just that it was surrounded by dank, dark earth, which meant a certain degree of debris and whatnot accumulated despite the erstwhile efforts of the building staff.

And there was the prospect of rats. No matter where you live in Manhattan, they’re always an issue. And the lower you go, the more likely you are to encounter beady eyes and sharp little teeth.

Hey, why do you think I have a cat?

“Waldo?” I called, somewhat timidly. I mean, maybe there was a rat with the same name, and I really didn’t want to be calling him.

“Waldo,” Anderson said, with considerably more force. “Come on, kitty.”

We waited a moment with the ridiculous notion that he’d answer. But, of course, there was nothing but silence.

“Waldo,” we cried again, this time moving into the laundry room. Five dryers and eight washers later, we hadn’t had any luck. And judging from the interminable silence of my cell phone, neither had anyone else.

“Mr. Walderstein is right. They could be anywhere.”

“So you do think they’re together,” Anderson said.

“I don’t know. I just figure it’s too odd for them both to be missing on their own. And Waldo has always managed to be a bit of a troublemaker.”

“Maybe he’s just trying to take care of his lady love.”

“Anderson Wright, you’re an unabashed romantic.”

“Wouldn’t do you a bit of harm to be a bit more that way yourself. One of these days Mr. Right is going to show up at your front door and you’re not even going to notice.”

“Don’t be silly. No one can show up on my doorstep without being announced first.”

“And that, my dear, is the whole problem.”

Since I had absolutely no idea what Anderson was talking about, I ignored him. “Waldo, come out here this minute,” I said, trying to imitate my mother’s most authoritative voice. Unfortunately, it didn’t work any better on Waldo than it worked on me.

“Shall we tackle the boiler room next?” Anderson asked.

I’d never been in a boiler room in my life, but the word called up images of The
Poseidon Adventure
. You know, spewing oil and fire. Sweaty men without shirts . . . Okay, maybe that’s from another movie. “All right,” I said, preparing myself for the worst.

Instead of finding brimstone and glowing embers, Anderson opened the door to a hobbit-like living room or study. Made up of castoffs from the building, nothing matched, but the decor took second place to the warm comfy feeling of the place. In the corner, the boiler, which wasn’t much larger than a Dumpster, hummed merrily in the background.

There was a battered old rocker and a plaid lounger straight from the fifties. There were tables and books, a couple of hideous lamps, and a gilded mirror that was probably worth money. One man’s junk is another man’s treasure. Isn’t that the way the saying goes? The room was evidence of recycling at its very best.

“Does someone actually live here?” I asked, picturing a street person with secret digs on the Upper East Side.

“No. I think the staff comes here. The mechanics, at least,” Anderson said, hands on hips as he looked around the room. “It’s actually kind of cozy.”

“Puts new meaning to the idea of shabby chic.”

“Maybe the trend originated here,” he said with a smile.

“Well, if Mrs. M. was chasing after me, I’d certainly consider hiding in here.” I moved farther into the room. “Waldo?”