A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) Read Free Page B

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