Scar Wars

By Elise Sax

“Fans of laugh-out-loud romantic suspense will enjoy this author as she joins the ranks of Janet Evanovich.”—Booklist

“Elise Sax will win your heart.”—New York Times bestselling author Jill Shalvis

Gladie and Spencer have the perfect marriage. Or do they? Lately, Spencer has been spending a lot of time with the sexy owner of a new pie shop in town. He also changed his cologne, and he’s been giving his hair more attention than normal. Gladie is furious...and worried. When she’s offered a chance at a major makeover from a local plastic surgeon, she decides to take it in order to give the sexy pie shop owner a run for her money. But before Gladie can get refreshed, the plastic surgeon winds up dead, and now Gladie has been swept up in the town’s dangerous scar wars.

Scar Wars is the third book in the Matchmaker Marriage Mysteries, the continuing adventures of Gladie Burger with all of the regular characters from the Matchmaker Mysteries. It’s perfect for fans of Miss Fortune, Stephanie Plum, and small-town, funny mysteries.

Matchmaker Marriage Mysteries...sometimes love comes with a few dead ends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elise Sax
• Release date: Jul 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005971922

Elise Sax

USA Today bestselling author Elise Sax writes hilarious happy endings. She worked as a journalist, mostly in Paris, France for many years but always wanted to write fiction. Finally, she decided to go for her dream and write a novel. She was thrilled when An Affair to Dismember, the first in the Matchmaker Series, was sold at auction to Ballantine.Elise is an overwhelmed single mother of two boys in Southern California. She's an avid traveler, a beginner dancer, an occasional piano player, and an online shopping junkie.Like her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/theelisesax?ref=hlFriend her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ei.sax.9Or just send her an email: [e-mail] can also visit her website and get a free novella: elisesax.com

Book preview

Chapter 1

How many roads are straight, bubbeleh? None! Even the straight ones aren’t straight, and besides, they have potholes and bumps and rocks, and all kinds of dangerous nosherei on them. Why do you think the Indianapolis 500 goes round and round? Listen, dolly, those Indianapolis drivers are the mavens of roads. They know what they’re doing. And they know that roads are not straight. So, you have to be light in the keppe not to keep an eye out for the curves. You know what I mean? It’s one thing to miss a turn, but it’s another thing to keep going straight when the road ahead looks like my Auntie Ethel’s hips.

– Lesson 35, Wedding Business Advice From

Your Grandma Zelda

And that’s why I’m scared of music, Stevie Hatfield explained.

Grandma nodded like she understood completely.

Because of the bug eggs in your ears? I asked Stevie, trying to understand but really not wanting to understand. I mean, why would I want to know more about the bug eggs in his ears? My ears were already starting to itch, just thinking about it.

My name’s Gladie Burger, and my husband Spencer and I live with my Grandma Zelda in her large Victorian home in the mountain town of Cannes, east of San Diego. I used to help my grandmother with her matchmaking business, but now I’m a wedding planner.

Grandma had matched Stevie, who worked in the apple orchards just outside of town, with Lillian Wesley, who was the butcher’s daughter. Now, I was in charge of planning their wedding.

The planning had been going smoothly, but Stevie asked for an emergency appointment with Grandma and me, and without his fiancée.

It was a big uh-oh moment; I had thought. I would have bet money that Stevie wanted to cancel the wedding, which would be a problem for me because I had already spent my paycheck on a Home Shopping Network incident one night when I had insomnia. I had managed to hide that indiscretion from Spencer, but it wasn’t easy because the boxes kept coming, and I had to find new hiding places.

Right at that very second, there were sixteen dolls from the International Fancy collection hiding in empty Cool Whip containers in the kitchen pantry. Luckily, Spencer was a whipped cream man and never touched Cool Whip, but it was only a matter of time before he started asking questions about the sixteen Cool Whip containers in the pantry that made noise when he shook them.

Anyway, I couldn’t afford to refund Stevie and Lillian. I couldn’t afford a new bra. Sure, Spencer and I had a joint bank account, but I was trying to be an independent woman, and my independence came with very little cash.

I glanced at Grandma.

You can be independent and spend Spencer’s paycheck, dolly, she told me, winked, and patted my knee. No matter what Ruth says about it.

Of course, she was right, but Ruth Fletcher, the octogenarian tea shop owner with a bad attitude, had said a lot about it to me, and I wanted to prove her wrong. No, I wasn’t a leech. No, I wasn’t pushing feminism back to the dark ages. No matter what Ruth said.

Grandma and I sat on the couch in the parlor, and Stevie sat on a chair facing us. He was wild-eyed, and his blond hair was standing up on its ends where he had run an anxious hand through it multiple times.

I don’t have any bug eggs in my ears. Not anymore, Stevie said, shaking his head. Not after the doctor over at the clinic took them out. Spider eggs. He leaned forward and shook his finger at us. Let me tell you something. I’ve never been the same, since.

Grandma whistled in appreciation. Think about that. Two spiders laying eggs in your ears. Or was it one, who traveled to both ears?

Two spiders, like they were organized. Like they were in a gang and it was an organized attack. The doctor said he had never seen anything like it, Stevie told her. He said he had seen a lot of stuff with gerbils, but he was limited to bites when it came to spiders.

I touched my ears. As Stevie spoke, I could have sworn I could feel a gangland spider in there, moving around and getting ready to lay some eggs.

So, you’re scared of music because of the egg incident? I asked him, trying to get to the heart of the issue. I had a wedding tomorrow, and I needed to tie up a lot of loose ends before it. I didn’t have a lot of time to talk about spider eggs.

Not scared, he said. Those eggs did something in there to me, and when I hear music, I get a little… strange.

Imagine that, Grandma commented.

So, you want to cancel the music at the wedding? I asked him.

Like someone turned on the sprinklers, Stevie began to sweat. His face was dripping, and he wiped at it with his shirtsleeve. "We can’t do that. Lillian has a whole playlist planned out. Taylor Swift’s The 1 for the walk down the aisle, Taylor Swift’s Cardigan for the vows, Taylor Swift’s Exile for the walk back down the aisle, and Taylor Swift’s The Last Great American Dynasty for the first dance. Oh, my God. What am I going to do?"

He was right. Lillian was a big Taylor Swift fan. She wouldn’t be happy if Taylor was uninvited to her happiest day.

It’ll be all right, Stevie. You’re being too hard on yourself. You’re not that strange, I said. Even if his head spun around at will, I had had stranger than that at some of the weddings I had planned. So, I wasn’t worried about Stevie’s level of strangeness.

My last birthday, the guys at the orchard sang Happy Birthday, Stevie recounted, like he was lost in the memory. One of them still walks with a limp, and there’s a big hole up there where there used to be trees.

I heard about that, Grandma said. I didn’t know that was you. The mayor said it was a UFO.

My buddies started that rumor to save my reputation, Stevie told her.

How big of a hole? I asked.

Big. And perfectly round, which was weird. I don’t know how I did that, but when the music plays, I don’t remember much.

I’ll talk to Lillian, I assured him. She can do without Taylor for one day.

No! Stevie exclaimed. He was sweating big time now, and Grandma handed him a box of Kleenex to mop up his face. You don’t understand. I can’t let her know she’s marrying a spider egg freak. That’s why I’m here.

He wants you to prevent him from becoming strange during the wedding, Grandma translated for me.

How will I do that? I asked.

Stevie looked at me with a hopeful expression on his face. Do you have any three-strand polypropylene rope?

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Grabbing my purse, I opened the front door. Grandma came into the entranceway and looked surprised to see that I was leaving.

Aren’t you going to practice with the nunchucks that Stevie gave you? she asked.

I need coffee before I try to learn how to use a lethal weapon.

Grandma shrugged. Well, don’t let it go too long. I think it takes a while to learn how to use those.

Do you really think I’m going to need it?

I think Taylor Swift is going to start to sing, and you better have every weapon you can find to subdue that man, Grandma told me.

She was right. My grandmother had a way of knowing things that couldn’t be known, and I had the same way. But my way came and went and mostly came when someone was murdered. I hoped that Stevie wasn’t going to be murdered, and I double-hoped I wasn’t going to be the one to murder him at his wedding with nunchucks while Taylor Swift sang in the background.

I left the house and closed the door behind me. Outside, it was a beautiful October day. There was a brisk wind blowing, and I pulled my jacket tight around me. Cannes had been founded in the late nineteenth century when gold was discovered there. The gold ran out pretty fast, but some people stayed on.

Nowadays, Cannes was known for its apples and antique shops. I lived in the Historic District, which was a few square blocks in the center of town. I walked a couple of them to Tea Time, a tea shop where I liked to get my coffee.

I turned the corner onto Main Street and was hit with the scent of apple pies baking. October was the height of apple season, and there was no way to escape the apple cider, apple pies, apple doughnuts, apple candles and diffusers, apple-embossed tea towels and clothes, and just plain bushels of apples. The fruit brought in the tourists, and every shop owner had some kind of apple theme going.

Every shop owner except for Ruth Fletcher, the owner of Tea Time. She was definitely not a joiner, no matter how much the mayor pleaded with her to put a tasteful apple display in the window.

As I got near the tea shop, a Volkswagen Bug slowed down and stopped at the curb next to me. It was one of my best friends, Bridget Donovan. She waved at me, turned off the motor, and hopped out of the car.

She was wearing her usual hoot owl glasses and thick blue eye shadow. Bridget had the biggest heart in the world and was usually protesting one thing or another so much that she carried her own sandwich board in her trunk, just in case she needed to do some protesting on the fly.

Bridget kept waving at me to make sure I had seen her. I called after her.

Are you going in for coffee? I’ll go in with you, she said after I nodded. I’m getting an herbal tea. It’s part of my practice.

You’re practicing drinking tea?

No, I’m practicing to relax after the incident.

I nodded but didn’t comment about the incident. The whole town had heard about it, and I had been a witness.

Even though that wasn’t my fault, Bridget continued. I mean, Jonathan was supposed to be the tree, and that little Cody boy who was supposed to be a rock, honed in on Jonathan’s role.

Preschool’s rough, I noted, but I was distracted by a man dressed like the Lone Ranger, riding down the street toward us on a horse.

But the horse sounded like it had a motor.

I’m trying to raise a child to believe in social justice, Gladie, so I had to toss that little pissant rock off the stage.

Bridget’s face had turned red, and she must have been steamed because she never used words like pissant. The man on the motorized horse got closer.

At least the rock was made out of foam rubber, so the kid bounced. He bounced twice and hit the principal on the second bounce, knocking him unconscious. The rock’s mother didn’t press charges after I told her to set her Hawaii trip for the week of November 6 because the weather would be perfect and the prices low. I had been guessing about the prices, but my third eye was always dead-on accurate about weather.

The masked cowboy tipped his hat at us as he got nearer.

Anyway, I’ve started meditating, Bridget said.

Across the street, an old woman dropped her purse in the street. The cowboy stopped his horse by her. I will save you! he announced, and reached for her purse.

Get your hands off my pocketbook! the woman screamed at him. Stop! Thief! Stop!

My practice is working, Bridget continued. Just last night, I read about a union-busting effort at Walley’s, and I didn’t go out and protest. I didn’t even call my congressperson.

I’m not a thief, ma’am. I’m here to help! the cowboy cried as the woman pummeled his head. He managed to pick up her purse and hand it back to her.

The woman was clearly surprised by the act, but she checked the contents of her purse just to make sure. Obviously happy that her purse was returned intact, she shook the cowboy’s hand. A few passersby applauded, and the cowboy tipped his hat to all of them and putt-putted away on his horse.

But this morning, I read about a new natural gas pipeline coming in north of us, so I thought I should try some herbal tea, she admitted, biting her lower lip.

Didn’t you see that? I asked her.

What?

The masked cowboy on the horse-cycle.

Oh, the Vigilante, Bridget said. Haven’t you seen him before? I thought for sure Spencer would have talked to you about him. I heard that he’s driving the police crazy.

No, Spencer hadn’t mentioned him. I wondered why.

Maybe he’s been too busy to talk about it, Bridget said, avoiding my eyes. I heard he’s been busy.

He has? I asked. I hadn’t noticed that he was busier than normal.

Bridget pointed at the Tea Time door. Boy, I’m parched, she said and walked toward the shop.

I followed her, and just as we reached the door, a goat walked by. It was wearing a blue collar and seemed to have a destination in mind.

How about that? I asked Bridget. Did you notice that?

Elon Musk?

No, a goat.

Bridget opened the door to Tea Time. That’s Elon Musk. His owner is obsessed with Elon Musk, but he couldn’t afford a Tesla or a trip to Mars, so he bought a goat. But the goat escaped three days ago, and nobody can catch him so everyone’s given up trying.

Wow, for a psychic, I sure was in the dark. I had no idea what was going on in town. I was definitely off my game.

Inside the shop, business was booming. There were only two tables available. Tea Time was housed in an old saloon. It had the original bar, which had been polished to a high gloss, and there were still a few bullet holes in the wall from its Wild West days.

Ruth made a religion out of tea and despised coffee drinkers, but she made the best latte in town.

I slapped my credit card on the bar, but Ruth wasn’t there. Bridget pointed at a table by the wall. Ruth was sitting there, in deep conversation with an attractive middle-aged man.

My radar wasn’t picking up anything about him, but Ruth was riveted to every word coming out of his mouth. I wonder what Ruth’s doing with Dr. Kyle Christie, Bridget said.

What kind of doctor? I asked, and chewed on one of my fingernails. It wasn’t that I loved Ruth, but I didn’t want to think of life without her.

"Plastic surgeon. He’s given new boobs to half of the mothers in the PTA. I can’t imagine