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Chapter One

If Annabelle hadn't found a body lying under "Sherman,"she wouldn't have been late for her appointment with thePython. But dirty bare feet stuck out from beneath hernana's ancient Crown Victoria. One extremely cautious glanceunder the car revealed they were attached to a homeless manknown only as Mouse, who was famous in her Wicker Parkneighborhood for his lack of personal hygiene and fondness forcheap wine. An empty screw-top bottle lay near his chest, whichrose and fell with the sounds of his wet snorts. It testified to theimportance of her appointment with the Python that she momentarilyconsidered trying to maneuver the car around thebody. But her alley parking space was too tight.

She'd allowed plenty of time to get dressed and make the tripdowntown for her 11 a.m. appointment. Unfortunately, obstacleskept creeping up, beginning with Mr. Bronicki, who'd caughther at the front door and refused to leave until he'd had his say.Still, this wasn't an emergency yet. All she had to do was getMouse out from under Sherman.

She gingerly prodded his ankle with her foot, noting as shedid that the emergency mixture of Hershey's chocolate syrupand Elmer's glue she'd applied to a scuff mark on the heel of her favorite pair of strappy sandals hadn't entirely camouflagedthe damage. "Mouse?"

He didn't stir.

She prodded him more vigorously. "Mouse, wake up. Youhave to come out of there."

Nothing. Which made it time to revert to more drasticmeasures.With a grimace, she bent over, gingerly picked up onefilthy ankle, and gave it a shake. "Come on,Mouse.Wake up!"

Nada. If it weren't for his slurpy snorts, he might havebeen dead.

She shook him more vigorously. "This happens to be themost important day of my professional life, and I could use alittle cooperation here."

Mouse wasn't interested in cooperation.

She needed more leverage. Gritting her teeth, she carefullyslid up the skirt of the buttercup yellow raw silk suit she'dbought yesterday for 60 percent off at a Field's Day sale andcrouched by the bumper. "If you don't get out from underthere, I'm calling the police."

Mouse snorted.

She dug her heels into the ground and yanked on bothfilthy ankles. The morning sun beat down on her head. Mouserolled over just far enough to wedge his shoulder under thechassis. She yanked again. Beneath her jacket, the white sleevelessshell she'd chosen to complement Nana's pearl teardrop earringshad begun to stick to her skin. She tried not to thinkabout what was happening to her hair. This hadn't been thebest time to run out of styling gel, and she prayed the ancientcan of industrial-strength Aqua Net she'd found under thebathroom sink would tame the bedlam of her red curls, alwaysthe curse of her existence but especially so during a humidChicago summer.

If she didn't get Mouse out in the next five minutes, she wasin serious trouble. She made her way around to the driver's-side door. Her knees cracked as she crouched down again and peeredinto his slack-jawed face. "Mouse, you have to wake up! Youcan't stay here."

One grimy eyelid flicked open then slid shut again.

"Look at me." She poked his chest. "If you come out fromunder there, I'll give you five dollars."

His mouth moved and a guttural rumble oozed out, alongwith a string of saliva. "G'way."

The smell made her eyes water. "Why did you have to picktoday to pass out under my car? And why my car? Why not Mr.Bronicki's car?" Mr. Bronicki lived across the alley and spenthis retirement coming up with new ways to make Annabellecrazy.

Time was running out, and she was starting to panic. "Doyou want to have sex? Because if you come out, we couldmaybe talk about it."

More drool and another putrid snort. This was hopeless.She jumped up and dashed toward the house.

Ten minutes later, she managed to lure him out with anopen can of beer. Not her best moment.

By the time she'd maneuvered Sherman from the alley tothe street, she had only twenty-one minutes left to navigate thetraffic into the Loop and find a place to park. Dirt streaked herlegs, her shirt was crumpled, and she'd broken a fingernailwhen she'd opened the beer can. The extra five pounds thathad accumulated on her small-boned frame since Nana's deathno longer seemed like such a big problem.

10:39.

She couldn't risk the construction gridlock on the KennedyExpressway, so she cut over to Division. In the rearview mirror,another curl sprang free of her hair spray, and perspiration glistenedon her forehead. She detoured down Halsted to avoidmore road repair. As she maneuvered Sherman's tanklike bulkthrough the traffic, she scrubbed at her dirty legs with the damp paper towel she'd snatched up in the kitchen. Why couldn'tNana have driven a nice little Honda Civic instead of this biliousgreen gas-guzzling monster? At five feet three inches,Annabelle had to sit on a cushion to see over the steering wheel.Nana hadn't bothered with a cushion, but then she'd hardly everdriven. After a dozen years of use, Sherman's speedometer didn'tquite register thirty-nine thousand miles.

A cab cut her off. She laid on the horn, and a trickle of perspirationslid between her breasts. She glanced at her watch.10:50. She tried to remember if she'd put on deodorant afterher shower. Of course she had. She always put on deodorant.She lifted her arm to make sure, but just as she took a sniff, shehit a pothole and her mouth bumped against the buttercup yellowlapel, leaving behind a smudge of tawny lipstick . . .

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Excerpted from Match Me If You Can by Susan Elizabeth Phillips
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.