La Vida Vampire

“Have they found Stony?”


I pulled my hood tighter as a gust of wind blew off the bay. “They have a sketch, but I don’t know how hard they’re looking for him.”

“Well, Janie and I put in the good word for you.”

“Thanks.” I smiled and looked around. “Is anyone signed up for the late tour?”

“Yeah, nine hearty souls. You’re stopping at the drugstore, right?”

He meant the building that housed the oldest drugstore, circa 1737. The building was once a house of revelry north of town, then moved and plopped atop an Indian burial ground that was part of the Tolomato Cemetery. The drugstore is one of the most haunted places in an entire downtown of haunted places, and one of the buildings I’d skipped on Tuesday’s tour.

“Yep, that’s on tap tonight.”

“Mind if I tag along for a while? Ghosts flock to you, and I want to find the bugger that bit my arm last week.”

“Fine by me, but I’ve had two weird tours this week. Sure you want to risk another one?”

“I’ll chance it. I brought my digital Kodak. And if the ghost biter doesn’t show, maybe Stony will.”

“Oh, yeah, I’d love to hand his mug shot to the cops.”

“Great minds think ali—What the heck?”

I turned in time to be engulfed in a Shalimar embrace.

“Francesca, you poor dear!” Shalimar Millie was back and dressed in Jacksonville Jags sweats again—minus the visor—as were two other ladies from Monday’s tour. Their purses were beach bag–sized and hitched on their shoulders.

“Millie, you’re all right,” I said, smiling.

She pulled away, looking part confused, part indignant. “Did you think I was ill?”

“Oh, uh, no,” I stammered to cover my apparent gaffe. In my admittedly limited experience, people of a certain age either complained about infirmity or denied it. “You just looked tired, or, um, worried or something on Tuesday night.”

She flipped a hand in dismissal. “I simply had some unfinished family business on my mind.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re back.”

“Oh, we plan to keep coming back.” She nodded firmly. “We’ve adopted you.”

I stared for a beat. “Excuse me?”

“We’re sure that frightful man from the other night killed the Frenchwoman and is trying to pin it on you. ” She smiled broadly. “Until that troublemaker is caught, two or three of us will take every tour you lead. And, ” she added, patting her purse, “we’ll be packing.”

My mouth fell open. Packing? As in armed? I wanted to laugh until I realized she was perfectly serious. Then I felt my eyes widen and stuttered, “B-but, ma’am, you don’t need—”

“Not, ma’am, just Millie. That’s Grace Warner, and that’s Kay Sims,” she said, pointing to ladies who both had short silver hair and identical determination-stamped expressions.

“Millie, I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but—”

“No buts,” she said, holding up her beringed hand. “Some people adopt highways. We’re adopting you. We have disposable incomes, senior discounts, and we’d love to help nail that nasty man. Not that the Frenchwoman wasn’t a pariah, but that wasn’t your fault.”

I had two seconds to digest Millie’s announcement—and puzzle over her pariah comment—when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my shoes as I spun around to find a twenty -something man in jeans and a Flagler College sweatshirt standing almost on top of me. When did he sneak up? Vampire Senses Stunned by Shalimar Lady. Film at eleven.

“Ms. Marinelli? Paul Thoreaux. Has the sheriff’s department made any progress on the French Bride murder?”

“Hunh?” Quick when I’m startled, aren’t I?

“Are you a suspect in the case?”

Yikes, a reporter? I glanced at the press ID clipped to his sweatshirt and gathered my sadly scattered wits.

“I don’t think I can comment other than to say I had no reason to harm the bride, and the groom has my sincerest condolences.”

“He says you didn’t do it.”

I blinked. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer tonight. “Who and what are you talking about?” I asked.

“The husband. Etienne Fournier. He says you didn’t kill his wife but thinks some guy who was following them around did it.”

“Stony, the Covenant guy?” I asked.

“The stalker was honest-to-God Covenant?” Reporter Paul all but wagged his tail in excitement. “Shit, they play rough, but I didn’t think they bothered regular people.” He darted me a glance. “No offense.”

“None taken. Mr. Fournier is right. I didn’t kill his wife.”

“That remains to be seen,” a deep, mellow voice said from my right.

I turned. In slow motion. Hoping what I heard would prove to be a trick of the wind. It wasn’t. Deke Saber sauntered toward our little group in the same clothes he’d worn this afternoon minus the sunglasses. The jacket was buttoned to hide his gun, but I saw the slight bulge at his hip. Could this day get any worse?