Yes, Aunt Frances was a secret matchmaker, and in all the years she’d been setting people up, she’d never had a flat-out failure. Sometimes the people intended for each other rearranged themselves, but everyone had always ended up happy.
This year, however, was turning out a little different. For the first time since my uncle Everett had died, decades ago, Aunt Frances had a love interest of her own. She and her new across-the-street neighbor, Otto Bingham, had been smiling into each others’ eyes for months now, and I was wondering how that would affect the summer matchmaking.
She gave one last squeeze and released me. “I’m so glad you called this morning. Right after we talked, the phone calls started rolling in, asking if I’d heard the horrible news, if you’d been hurt badly, if I’d heard that you captured a killer.”
Which was why I’d called her. The speed of light had nothing on the speed of gossip, and I’d wanted to give my aunt a heads-up before it hit her full force.
“I’m fine,” I said. “It’s awful that someone was killed, but I’m sure the sheriff’s office will make an arrest soon.”
“I hope so,” she said, turning and linking her arm with mine. Though this was a little awkward for both of us, since I was half a foot shorter than my angular aunt, it wasn’t far to the front porch and the side-by-side companionship was welcome.
We climbed the wide front steps and went inside, the screen door banging gently behind us, and plonked ourselves down in the large living room, a space that oozed relaxation.
The massive fieldstone fireplace hinted that comfy fires and marshmallow toasting were in the near future. Regional maps tacked onto the pine-paneled walls whispered tales of upcoming adventures. A bookshelf stacked with decks of cards and board games ensured that boredom was never possible, and the couches and chairs were populated with cushy pillows and cozy blankets, all promising the ease of a long nap.
Through an open doorway, the dining room was laid with dishes for the upcoming dinner, and beyond that, a screened porch looked out into a backyard so filled with trees, you could imagine that you were in a treehouse.
Something tapped me lightly on the shin. I jerked out of my reverie and looked around. Aunt Frances was sitting diagonal to me, her foot still extended from the kick.
“Sorry,” I said. “Did you ask me something?”
“How you were doing,” she said, her eyebrows raised. “Preoccupied, clearly.”
“Oh, it wasn’t . . .” I stopped. Yes, I’d been thinking about how much I loved this house, but that had undoubtedly been avoidance behavior. I didn’t want to think about the murder. Didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to speculate about it, and certainly didn’t want to relive the morning. “I’ll be okay,” I said eventually. “It’ll take a while, but I’ll be fine.”
My aunt scrutinized me, then nodded. “You’ll tell me if you’re having problems.”
“Promise,” I said. “And I’ll tell my mom about it, too. Just as soon as the police put the killer in jail.”
Aunt Frances grinned. She’d known my mom longer than I had and knew how over-the-top her reaction would be. “Sounds like a plan.”
“So.” I slid down on the couch and put my feet up on the coffee table. “How are the summer romances going?” I looked around. “And where is everybody?” I settled down for a long chat, but there was no response from the only blood relative I had within three hundred miles. I asked the question a second time.
“Hmm?” was the response.
“Boarders,” I said a little louder. “Where are they?”
“Oh.” My aunt blinked out of her trance. I’d noted the direction of her gaze, which was fastened upon a book sitting on the corner of the coffee table. Titled Ice Caves of Leelanau County, it was filled with fascinating photos of Lake Michigan ice formations. It had been a Christmas gift to her from Otto. “The boarders are fine,” she said. “Victoria and Welles are on a day trip to Mackinac Island.”
The first time Victoria—widowed, almost seventy, a grandmother of five, and a retired registered nurse—had met Welles, divorced and recently retired from dentistry, romantic sparks had flown high into the sky. Their match was almost guaranteed. I moved on.
“Eva and Forrest?” I asked. They were the young ones, at forty-five and forty-two, respectively. Both were long divorced, both were teachers, neither had children, and both were huge fans of mountain biking. They’d vowed to bike every single mile of trail in the region before they left in August. In the three days they’d been north, they’d already biked a hundred of those miles, so I had full belief that they’d reach their goal.
“Eva?” My aunt’s gaze wandered back to the book. “Forrest. They went down to Bellaire, if I remember correctly. Glacial Hills—is that right?”
It was. “How about Liz and Morris?” I prompted.
They were my favorite intended couple. At fifty-seven years old, Liz was taking a “summer sabbatical” from her life. An extremely successful sales representative for a clothing manufacturer, she’d woken up one morning and been too exhausted to drag herself out of bed. She needed a rest, her doctor had told her, so here she was, not resting all that much, but having a wonderful time.
Her intended match, Morris, was a little different. At fifty-three, Morris was a middle-aged man who’d for years slid from one job to another without a specific career goal in mind. He made a lot of friends but not much money, at least until one of his buddies introduced him to a guy who know a guy who produced voice-over advertising. Morris’s voice was now ubiquitous on radio and television, and he’d made enough money in five years to take a nice, long break.
The two of them had been the summer’s first arrivals at the boardinghouse and, from the second day, had been inseparable. They were spending a lot of time on the multitude of beaches on the many area lakes and had started a blog about their observations.
“Liz and Morris.” My aunt sounded puzzled. “Liz and . . . oh yes.” She smiled. “They’ve gone to a beach.”
I did an internal eye roll. “The matches are going well this summer?”
“Mmm.” She thought a moment. “Well enough, I suppose.”
I peered at her. If I didn’t know better, I would have said she didn’t care about the matchmaking results. Which was odd, because making sure her pairs paired up properly had been the focus of her summers for umpteen years. “Are you feeling okay?” I asked.
“What?” She blinked again. “I’m fine. What makes you think there’s something wrong?”
I held up my index finger. “For one thing—”
She laughed and got to her feet. “Out, favorite niece.” Since I was her only niece, this meant nothing, but hearing her say so still made me feel warm and fuzzy. “Or stay for dinner,” she said, “but you’ll have to eat all your vegetables.”
“Got to go,” I said, jumping up. “Eddie is waiting, and you know how he can get. I’ll see you later.”
I was halfway to the door when Aunt Frances said, “Minnie, I’m sorry about the woman who was killed, but . . .” Her voice caught on itself. “But I’m really glad it wasn’t you.”
Turning back, I gave her a quick, hard hug. “Me, too,” I whispered.
* * *
“What do you think?” I held out a forkful of shrimp pad Thai.
Eddie, sitting across from me, with his chin almost resting on the houseboat’s compact dining table, sniffed at the food, then blew out a quick breath and disappeared. A second later, I heard his feet thump-thump to the floor.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “A little too spicy.” But since this was the only food I had available, other than cold cereal, I forked it in, anyway, alternating bites of pad Thai with swallows of milk. “The take-out place has a new cook,” I said. “I’ll have to be careful next time I order.”