A Killer Match Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to any events, institutions, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional.

  A KILLER MATCH ©2022 by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact Renaissance Press. First edition.

  Cover art and design by Nathan Frechette. Interior design by Nathan Frechette. Edited by Joel Balkovec, Lorenzo Carrara, and Alek Cimesa.

  Legal deposit, Library and Archives Canada, October 2022.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-990086-24-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-990086-35-9

  Renaissance Press - pressesrenaissancepress.ca

  Printed in Gatineau

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  To Brittany Anne Heigh

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Acknowledgements

  If you enjoyed this book, please consider | leaving a review where you bought it. | You may also enjoy

  Aries | A Burning We Will Die | BETTY GUENETTE

  Journey of a Thousand Steps | Death by Association | Madona Skaff-Koren

  To Brittany Anne Heigh

  January 6, 1995 to January 27, 2022

  No tears will bring you back

  Or take away the pain.

  But your memory can trigger a smile

  And make us glad for all we gained

  From the years you were in our lives.

  Chapter 1

  “Well, that’s a first,” Jenna Hamilton said, staring at her cell phone.

  “What?” Hillary Greenwood asked.

  “It’s from Brad. I’ve just been dumped by text.”

  “No way! Let me see.”

  Jenna was standing behind the U-shaped wooden counter of the bookstore. She held the cell phone up for Hillary to read and Hillary leaned across the counter.

  It’s been wonderful dating you these past two months, but I met up with my ex-wife and I found I still have feelings for her. I want to explore those feelings so rather than lead you on I think it is best if we quit seeing each other.

  “What a jerk,” Hillary said. “Well, that adds to your expertise and certainly cements your title as the dating coach doyen.”

  Jenna grinned at her best friend. “Doyen? That’s a pretty significant word.”

  Hillary was tall and slender with a head of thick, shoulder-length hair. She owned a salon and liked to change her hair style and its colour often. This month, it was light brown and she wore it in cute waves. She also liked having a word of the week and apparently she had found one for this week.

  “Well, a doyen is the most well-known person in their field. You must admit that you’ve tried all the dating sites with a variety of results and that’s why you’re a famous dating coach.”

  “Famous might be too strong a word,” Jenna said.

  “Close enough. You’ve certainly helped a lot of first-timers prepare for their dates and also helped many who’ve been on the dating scene for a while finally find the right person.”

  “Well, you know that saying: those who can’t, teach. It’s just that I’m getting tired of trying to find a man through those sites. None of the guys seem to live up to their profiles.”

  “And that’s why you are such a good coach,” Hillary laughed. “You’ve met just about all the different types of men out there.”

  She reached over and pulled Jenna’s natural curly brunette hair out from behind her ears.

  “Maybe if you’d let me update your hair style and colour, you’d have more luck.”

  Jenna shook her head. This wasn’t the first time Hillary had offered, but Jenna didn’t have the time to spend styling her hair every morning. With her co-owning this bookstore and having her dating coach business on the side, she barely had time to put on eyeliner, a little blush, and lipstick.

  The bell over the door rang and a woman in her sixties walked in carrying a heavy cloth bag. She wore an ankle-length gray skirt, a yellow blouse, and an orange cardigan. Her white hair was short and curly, and she had hiking boots on her feet. She came up to the counter and hefted the bag onto it.

  “Good morning, Jenna, Hillary,” the woman said.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Bouvier,” Jenna smiled. She set her phone on the counter.

  “Hi, Mrs. Bouvier,” Hillary said.

  “You’re here early today,” Jenna said.

  “I finished the book I was reading last night and need more.” Mrs. Bouvier took the books out of the bag and piled them beside one of the cash registers. “I want to trade these in.”

  Jenna sorted through the pile, separating the hardcovers from the paperbacks. She and her business partner, Adam Olsen, owned A Novel Bookshop, one of the few remaining independent bookstores in Vancouver. They were situated on the ground floor of the two-storey Net Loft on Granville Island and specialized in new and used books. Last year they had branched out to include magazines, novelties, and ornaments. They ordered most of their books from distributers representing publishing houses but also had a small section for self-published books. For used books, they either bought them outright or the customer was able to pick one book for every two they brought in.

  “Okay, you get one hardcover and three paperbacks.”

  Mrs. Bouvier smiled and bustled over to the used book section.

  “She must be your best customer,” Hillary said. “She’s in here just about every time I am.”

  “Yes, she is a voracious reader.” Jenna turned back to Hillary. “I’ve heard that she is—or used to be a writer, too, but when I asked her about it, she just smiled and changed the subject.”

  “Oh, a bit of intrigue in her past.” Hillary rubbed her hands together with a grin.

  “You and your mysterious past theories,” Jenna laughed.

  “Everyone has a story. Mrs. Bouvier wasn’t always a little old lady living on a houseboat moored at Granville Island. Once, she was young and had a life totally different from the one she is leading now.”

  “And what do you think it was?” Jenna didn’t know her first name; she’d looked up Mrs. Bouvier on the Internet but hadn’t found any reference to a writer. If she was an author, she could be writing under her maiden name or a penname.

  Hillary shrugged. “I don’t know, but there’s an elderly woman who lives down from me who was a crop duster.”

  “Crop duster?”

  “Yes, she was a pilot who flew a plane over fields and sprayed the wheat or barley or oats. If you saw her now, you wouldn’t think it. And she’s told me a lot of juicy stories about the affairs she had with the farmers.”

  “Sounds like the makings of a good book.”

  “That’s what I keep telling her.” Hillary looked at her watch. “But I’d better go. I have a client at 9:30.”

  Hillary looked over at the used book section.

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Bouvier,” she called. “I’ll see you tomorrow for your trim.”

  “I’ll be there,” Mrs. Bouvier said, not taking her eyes off the blurb on the back of the book she was holding. “Say hi to Bruno for me.”

  “Will do.”

  Hillary waved to Jenna and pet the cat
sitting on the padded wooden chair by the door as she left the store.

  Jenna waved back and then picked up her phone and looked at the “Dear Jenna” text from Brad. And she’d thought he might have been a keeper. This would make a good subject for her dating blog—how to, and not to, break up with someone.

  “Oh well,” she sighed. Maybe it was time to accept that she was going to be a thirty-three-year-old spinster.

  “What’s the matter, dearie?” Mrs. Bouvier set some books down on the counter.

  Jenna jumped. She’d forgotten about her customer. “Oh, nothing. Just got dumped by my boyfriend.”

  “Oh, I didn’t even see him come in.”

  Jenna smiled and held up her cell phone. “He sent me a text.”

  “Well, it seems to me you’re lucky to be rid of him if he didn’t even have the nerve to tell you face to face. In my day, we didn’t hide behind a little box. The one doing the breaking up did it with grace and kindness.”

  “It would have been nice if he’d at least met me for coffee.”

  Mrs. Bouvier reached out and patted Jenna’s hand. “Don’t worry. You’re young yet. You’ll find yourself a man.”

  Jenna smiled to herself and wondered what stories this little lady had to tell.

  Mrs. Bouvier looked at the stack of books on display at the end of the counter. “Who is this Darin Damien doing the reading tonight?” She scrutinized the poster of a young man with reddish-brown wavy hair and blue eyes that was set beside the books.

  “He lives in Kitsilano. This is his first mystery novel.”

  “Is it any good?”

  “I’ve read it and was surprised by the ending, so I think it’s good.”

  Mrs. Bouvier picked up one of the books and read the title. “Is This Your Scarf? That doesn’t sound so mysterious.”

  “That’s what makes it so good. You don’t expect how it ends.”

  “Okay.” Mrs. Bouvier put the book back. “Maybe I’ll come tonight and get a signed copy.”

  Hello, Mrs. Waverly,” Bruno King said, going up to the elderly woman who’d just entered the salon. “Let me take that for you.” He reached for her purse and hung it on the hook near the cash register.

  “That dress looks perfect on you,” he continued as he escorted her over to the chair next to where Hillary was working on a client.

  “Thank you, Bruno,” Mrs. Waverly said demurely. She waited while Bruno lowered the chair to her height then took his proffered hand and slid into the seat.

  Hillary enjoyed owning Hillary’s Hair and Spa in the Net Loft. It had been a small shop when she bought the business, using the monetary portion of the inheritance her aunt had left her as a down payment. She’d reorganized the space so she could offer manicures, pedicures, and facials. The shop was open seven days a week to accommodate her regulars as well as drop-ins.

  And now she smiled as she trimmed her customer’s hair. She liked listening to Bruno interact with the patrons, especially the older ladies. He wasn’t very handsome, his face being long and his hair dark and bushy, but he had a way of flirting with the women and acting in the well-bred, gracious manner that these ladies were used to and they loved it.

  “And how would you like your hair done today?” Bruno asked, as he pumped the pedal to raise the chair again.

  “I’m going to an anniversary dinner at my sister’s this evening. I’d like something new.”

  “Okay.” Bruno swung the chair so he could look at her squarely. He studied her face while fluffing her white hair around her head. “I think a pixie would look perfect on you.”

  “A pixie?” Mrs. Waverly smiled.

  “Yes, it will accentuate your beautiful face.”

  Mrs. Waverly blushed. “I thought pixies were for young girls.”

  “Aren’t you a young girl?”

  “Well, not for a few years,” she giggled.

  “Let’s try it. We’ll leave the hair longer around the ears and wispy at your neck and forehead. I know it’ll turn out well.”

  “I’ve always trusted you, so go for it.”

  Bruno beckoned to one of his fellow staff members. “Marcie will take you to the shampoo sink and wash your hair.”

  After Mrs. Waverly left, Bruno went over to one of Hillary’s clients who was sitting under the dryer. He lifted it and checked her curlers. “A few more minutes, Mrs. Baxter. Then Hillary will be with you.” He smiled down at her.

  Another older woman entered the salon. Her face lit up when she saw Bruno.

  “Mrs. Sweeten.” Bruno’s voice conveyed joy at seeing her. He held out his hands.

  Hillary hid her grin at the way Mrs. Sweeten scurried over to him. He hung her purse for her and helped her out of her coat. Hillary was so grateful to Bruno for taking such good care of her clients. The women loved him, and she knew some of them came in more often than they actually needed just to spend time with him.

  He’d answered her advertisement a year ago and had references from a shop in New Westminster. He didn’t have his own clients to bring with him, but it wasn’t long after he’d started that she’d noticed her clientele had increased among the older generation.

  At first, many of the women came from the condos on both sides of False Creek. The ones on the island side walked to the shop when they could, or took taxis in bad weather. Those who lived on the other side of False Creek came across on the water taxis. Most would then have a snack and do some shopping at the Granville Island Public Market before heading home. It was a day out for them. And they were the ones who’d spread the news of the young, considerate hairdresser who paid so much attention to them. Now, family and friends from outside the general area came to have their hair done. She’d also noticed that many of the drop-ins came back more than once.

  The only minor flaw with him was that he was unable work extra hours when someone was sick.

  “Sorry, I have other plans,” he said graciously the first few times she’d asked him.

  Eventually, she’d taken the hint and quit bringing it up. They worked shorthanded or one of the other hairdressers stayed longer.

  “I believe you’re here for a manicure and pedicure as well as a hair style.”

  “Oh, you remembered!” Mrs. Sweeten gushed.

  “How could I forget? Come with me to Claire and she’ll get you started on your manicure and pedicure. When that’s done, I’ll give you a new hairdo.”

  Hillary smiled. He just seemed to know what to say to make them feel special.

  Bruno led Mrs. Sweeten over to the manicure and pedicure chairs where Claire was laying out tiny bottles of nail polish. Bruno helped Mrs. Sweeten sit.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Sweeten,” Claire said. “What colour do you want on your nails today?”

  Hillary finished up her trim and then walked with the woman to the cash register on the counter to take her payment. After saying goodbye, Hillary went over and raised the hair dryer.

  “Come on, Mrs. Baxter. Let’s comb that out.”

  The phone rang. Hillary walked back to the counter and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Greenwood?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Amanda Hunter, Ella Wilson’s daughter. My mother won’t be able to make her appointment today.”

  “Oh, is she okay?” With many of her clients being older, she received quite a few phone calls from their families cancelling appointments because of illness or accident.

  “She’s in the hospital with a broken arm.”

  “Oh, no!” Hillary exclaimed. “What happened?”

  “A noise woke her last night. She picked up her cell phone and went to find out what had caused it. She saw someone sneaking through her living room. She dialed 911, but the burglar saw the light of the phone. He ran to her and knocked the phone out of her hand. She fell against the hearth of her fireplace and banged her arm. It was X-rayed at the hospital and the doctor said it was fractured. She’s staying with me for a few days until it heals and we can g
et an alarm system installed in her house.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. Thank you for letting me know. Please pass along best wishes to her from me and my staff .”

  “I will.”

  Hillary saw that everyone was watching her as she hung up. “Mrs. Wilson has to cancel her appointment today because she has a fractured arm.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Mrs. Baxter murmured.

  “Yes, I hope it heals soon,” Mrs. Sweeten agreed.

  Marcie brought Mrs. Waverly to the front again and sat her in Bruno’s chair. “Thank you, Marcie,” he said, as he laid out his scissors and combs.

  Mrs. Waverly took off her glasses and handed them to him. He turned the chair so that she faced him.

  “Oh, Bruno,” Mrs. Sweeten called. “I forgot to take my pill. Could you please get it for me?”

  “Anything for you,” Bruno said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He put his hand briefly on Mrs. Waverly’s shoulder then went to where the purses hung. He had to search through Mrs. Sweeten’s purse to find the bottle of pills. He shook a small, yellow pill into the palm of his hand then returned the bottle to her purse. He got a paper cup of water from the water cooler and took it with the pill over to Mrs. Sweeten.

  “You’re so wonderful.” Mrs. Sweeten popped the pill into her mouth and took a sip of water. “Thank you.”

  Bruno smiled at her as he threw the cup away and went to work on Mrs. Waverly’s hair. “So, tell me how your granddaughter’s piano recital went.”

  “It went very well,” Mrs. Waverly said. “She was the third presenter, and everyone clapped when she finished.”

  Hillary removed the curlers and brushed out Mrs. Baxter’s layered, shoulder-length hair as she listened to Mrs. Waverly talk about the party her family had held after the recital. She braided and twisted the top layer of hair around Mrs. Baxter’s head, then backcombed the lower layer to give it body.

  Bruno concentrated on his work and soon finished up with a flare. He combed and sprayed and then handed Mrs. Waverly her glasses.

  Mrs. Waverly studied herself in the large mirror in front of the chair. “Oh, Bruno. I love it!”

  “It certainly makes you look years younger,” Bruno said.