Burned in Broken Hearts Junction: A Cozy Matchmaker Mystery (Cozy Matchmaker Mystery Series)

Burned in Broken Hearts Junction

A Cozy Matchmaker Mystery

by

Meg Muldoon

Published by Vacant Lot Publishing

Copyright 2014© by Meg Muldoon

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance whatsoever to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Other Works by Meg Muldoon

The Christmas River Series

Murder in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery

Mayhem in Christmas River: A Christmas in July Cozy Mystery

Madness in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery

The Christmas River Box Set: Books 1—3

Burned in Broken Hearts Junction

by Meg Muldoon

Chapter 1

Most people don’t want to know who their soulmate is.

They pretend like they do. Like if they just knew who their true love was, where they were, and how to find them, all of their problems would just disappear like smoke in the wind. Like all the ugly parts of their life would just fade away into the background and be replaced by red roses and fairy dust and long walks on the beach just as soon as
the one
finally showed up.

But it doesn’t work out that way. Doesn’t even come close.

Believe me. I would know.

Because your soulmate isn’t the dashing prince who’s strong and intelligent and tender and kind, and who also happens to be drop dead gorgeous with a fat bank account. It isn’t the beautiful princess with a heart of gold, a dynamite sense of humor, and an encyclopedic knowledge of the NFL that puts your guy friends to shame. 

No. Those kinds of soulmates don’t exist. Because those kinds of people don’t exist.

Your true love is the short man in the corner with
Sideshow Bob
hair, sweat stains under his armpits, and a laugh that sounds like cat nails on a chalkboard, nursing one too many tequilas and smoking like a chimney. Or he’s the guy with jock good-looks and a sly smile who’s in and out of jail as much as he’s in and out of seedy dive bars.

She’s the tall pretty blonde who seems to have the world on a string, but spends her nights sneaking sips of vodka in the bathroom, wondering why her father never loved her. Or the homely-looking woman with smeared lipstick and a nervous smile, chewing her nails down to the wick while watching the news on the bar TV, so sure that the world’s going to come to an end tomorrow morning.

That’s what prince and princess charming really look like for most of us: problematic, unappealing, and mostly damaged beyond repair.

They’re just people. Like you and me. And the truth is, most of us would rather not know who fate has in store for us. We’d rather just stumble around in the dark, throwing our line in for all the wrong fish in the ocean, pretending like we’re looking for the “right” one.

Take my best friend, Beth Lynn, for example.

I’d been telling Beth Lynn Baker for weeks now that she ought to be looking for a stocky lawyer-type with caterpillar eyebrows, thick bottle-top glasses and frizzy black hair, like the man I’d seen in my vision. But here she was, on another Saturday night at The Stupid Cupid Saloon, with a man far too young for her and far too impossibly good-looking to match the description of her soulmate.

But then again, I didn’t know what else I should have expected from Beth Lynn.

A former queen of the Broken Hearts Junction Rodeo, Beth Lynn still dressed and curled her hair the way she did when she was 17, and had more trouble than most letting go of her preconceived notions of what her soulmate should look like.

She sidled up to the bar, holding onto her young arm candy like if she loosened her grip, he might just float away like a balloon.

“A
Cupid’s Slingshot
for me,” she said, leaning over the bar, revealing a little too much cleavage as the neckline of her tight-fitting sweater took a plunge.

She was ordering the drink with her name on it, all right.
Stupid
was how she was acting tonight. Stupid had been the way she’d been acting for weeks now.

Her guy’s eyes drifted down where she had wanted them to go, but when he saw that I was looking at him, waiting patiently on his drink order, his cheeks turned bright red, just like a little kid’s.

“Uh, I’ll take one of those, too,” he said quietly, looking away quickly.

I grabbed two glasses and the lowest shelf whiskey, combining the spirit with cherry juice, a splash of lime juice, and some honey simple syrup in a shaker. I divided the contents out into the glasses, topped them off with a dash of bitters, and in a few seconds, both Beth Lynn and her boy toy had the house specialty cocktail sitting in front of them on the bar.

If it were up to me, I’d have used a nice mid-level whiskey. But Dale was being a stickler lately about saving money at the saloon, which translated into charging customers more and slumming when it came to the liquor.  

“Thanks, Bitters,” Beth Lynn said to me, sipping her drink and making a sour face, which went a ways toward highlighting those late-30s-almost-40s wrinkles that had started to settle in at the edges of her eyes and mouth.

“Y’all here for the show tonight?” I asked going back to my station where I’d been chopping up lemons and limes.

“We’ll see how the evening pans out,” Beth Lynn said, looking starry-eyed at the kid next to her.

Jeez. It didn’t seem like such a stretch to believe that he was young enough to be her son.

Beth Lynn had sunken to new depths of
cougarism
with this catch.

I thought about saying something, but bit my lip. The last thing anybody needed from a bartender was a helping of judgment, let alone from a best friend. No matter how much Beth Lynn might have deserved a reality check.

And besides, I didn’t interfere anymore. After nearly two decades of matchmaking, I’d made a pact to stop meddling with other people’s love lives. I’d helped enough people in my time. And now, I just wanted to focus on getting my own life together. Making something of myself instead of spending all of my time making others happy.

Still, it kind of bothered me that Beth Lynn was disregarding my advice so blatantly. One of my visions wasn’t something to take lightly. But instead of looking for Mr. Right, she was wasting her days on every young and dumb Mr. Wrong she could find. Last month it was that beefy, greasy gas attendant, Kirby Carruthers. This week, it was this kid with shaggy hair, a five-o-clock shadow, and big puppy dog eyes that made him look even younger than he probably was.

He whispered something into Beth Lynn’s ear, and she started giggling like a teenager.

I glanced down at the other end of the bar, making sure I wasn’t neglecting any customers. Or maybe I was just looking to be spared from the stomach-turning scene in front of me. But the Saturday night rush hadn’t quite started yet in The Stupid Cupid Saloon, and everybody had been taken care of. A quiet-before-the-storm type feeling had settled over the bar.

A truck driver in a wide-brimmed cowboy hat standing by the jukebox hit a button, and the saloon was soon filled with a ‘90s Brooks & Dunn song that reminded me of a simpler time.

But soon, Ronnie’s wasn’t the only voice echoing throughout the bar.  

“Dammit, Dale! There’s a reason you don’t see livestock
setting
down at the poker table. How many times do you have to lose before you realize that you don’t have the damn betting sense of a donkey?”

Courtney’s tone had that high-pitched, grating quality that it had when something really irked her.

I sighed.

The quiet before the storm was shattered by Dale and Courtney’s usual brawls over money and the lack of it. Arguments that always had a way of drifting out into the main bar area, making everybody within earshot feel uncomfortable.

“Don’t speak to me about sense, woman,” Dale rebutted. “Not when you’re wearing those fancy designer cowgirl boots ‘
arderd
straight outta the
cat-a-log
.”

Dale’s come-back fell right in line with his usual come-backs: ripping on Courtney’s lavish fashion expenditures.  

“If you were half the husband you promised to be when we wed, then you’d a bought these boots for me with your winnings,” she said. “But since you can’t bet for sh—”

“You watch your mouth when you speak to me, woman!”

A few of the customers looked around like they weren’t sure whether or not the saloon was actually open for business given the dispute taking place.

I nodded at them reassuringly, letting them know that it wasn’t them—it was us. 

For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why Dale and Courtney put themselves and everyone else through this daily ritual. Despite having been high school sweethearts, it was plain to see that the two of them weren’t meant for each other—you didn’t need psychic gifts to come to that conclusion.

Still, they carried on. Stuck together like two ill-fitting peas in a pod whose only aim in life was to push the other one as far as possible to the other end until the very fabric that held them together burst apart. 

It wasn’t an easy environment to work in, to say the least. Half the time I was caught in their crossfire. But I did the best I could. Because I didn’t have many other options in a town this size.

Plus, I wasn’t at The Cupid because I liked Dale and Courtney. I was here for something else.

I tried not to listen to them arguing. I hummed along to
Neon Moon
, wishing somebody would put a quarter into the jukebox and pick a Dwight Yoakam song next.

Dwight never failed to lift my spirits. And on a night like this, with Courtney and Dale at each other’s throats, my best friend ignoring my advice, and the impending Saturday night rush of customers on the horizon, I needed my spirits to be at their highest.

I placed the freshly-chopped citrus in a silver deep-dish tray, and went about making sure the bar behind me was in order, with the bottles all in the right places.

Good organization was key to surviving a busy night. A disorganized bar meant a disorganized bartender. And that meant a drop in tips. And that meant being late on the rent.

Again.

I grabbed the half-empty bottle of Grand Marnier that had somehow misplaced itself on the bottom shelf of the bar, returning it back up top. The short, tight-fitting black shirt that Dale had me and Courtney wear as our bar uniform lifted higher than I would have liked it. I left the bottle on the top shelf, and started wrestling with the fabric, which was riding high, completely exposing my less-than-flat midriff, reminding me that I’d been through a rough few years.  

“Damn, skinny girl shirt,” I mumbled. “Dammit.”

The top was made for a teenage girl, not a 34-year-old busty woman who had been unsuccessfully trying to lose 15 pounds for three years now.

I suddenly felt eyes on me. That kind of feeling that you get when someone’s watching you and only you.  

The music ran out just as the hair on the back of my neck stood up on end.