La Vida Vampire

“The very last time was about October 1792. Or was it ’93? No, ’92, when I was twelve. A friend and I got into the dueling pistols an Englishman had given my father.” I paused a dramatic moment, inwardly snickering at the incredulous expression on March’s face. “Boy, was my father angry. Before that, in 1790, when I was ten, there was the Spanish soldier ’s musket incident. But, really, neither weapon went off.”


March cleared his throat. “So for the record, you have never handled a modern firearm?”

“I have not.”

“What did you do this past Halloween?” Saber asked.

I blinked at the left-field question. “Huh?”

“Did you attend a party with your roommate? A function in town? How did you spend the evening?”

“I think I watched a Dresden Files marathon.”

“You didn’t dress up?” Saber pressed. “You know, a wig, a cape, fake fangs?”

“I don’t extend my real fangs,” I said, narrow-eyed. “I wouldn’t be caught dead with campy fake ones.”

When neither of them fired another tag-team question, I leaned forward, hands clasped on the table, and eyed Detective March.

“I’ve played nice—without my attorney, I might add—now it’s your turn. Does Stony really have an alibi?”

March’s gaze held steady. “It’s Victor Gorman, and yes, his alibi checks out. He was in Key West from Wednesday morning until this morning.”

I blinked. “He’s not the one who trashed my truck?”

“Correct.”

I tried wrapping my head around the idea that Stony could be innocent. “I know Key West is like ten hours from here, but it’s not completely impossible for him to come back.”

“Except,” March said, “he was with family members deep sea fishing by day and apparently drinking by night.”

He said the last so wryly, I figured the drinking made some impression on the town. Which is hard to do in Key West. That place is wild, or so I hear.

Fishing. Fishing rang a tiny bell, but I couldn’t place it.

I felt like the falsely accused heroine in a cozy novel, except that the hot seat wasn’t remotely cozy.

“So,” I said slowly, “I’m getting the third degree again because my alibi went kaflooey when my tracker did, and the Fourniers happened to be renting a house in the same neighborhood I was in on Wednesday night. Am I right so far?”

March nodded.

“Then again,” I continued, “if you’re holding this guy, it’s been over six hours. Which means you probably found something at his house for you to keep him this long.”

“Mr. Gorman is accusing you of setting him up,” March said.

“Well, of course he—” I stopped short. To set someone up you need—The light dawned, and I snapped my fingers.

“Evidence. You can’t set up someone for a crime without it.”

Saber remained expressionless, but March cocked his head at me. “What makes you think that?”

“Detective, it’s a classic mystery plot element.”

He allowed himself a small smile. “We did find a few things—in his house and in the Dumpster of a restaurant nearby.”

I spread my hands. “So what am I supposed to have planted?” Then it hit me. “Wait. Fake fangs and a gun. That’s why you asked me about them. You found them at Stony’s.”

“Victor Gorman,” March said.

“Whatever. Am I right?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“Did you get the cast of my fangs from the state yet?”

“We did, and they don’t match the bite mark, but,” March said sternly, “that only clears you of biting the victim. Not of shooting her or breaking her neck.”

“You honestly think I shot Yolette—a relative stranger—when I don’t know squat about guns, then broke her neck, then bit her with fake fangs, and finally dumped her body in the ocean all to set up a man who made a threat?”

March shot Saber a glance, then looked back at me. “You have that backward,” March said.

“I have what backward?” I snapped.

“The victim didn’t die from the gunshot. She died from the broken neck.”

I felt my eyes widen.

“The Daytona victim’s neck was broken, too,” Saber added.

“Bu-but it’s hard to break a neck, isn’t it?”

“How would you know?” Saber asked.

“Mostly TV.”

“CSI?” March scoffed.

“Bones,” I answered, remembering a specific episode of the series. “You have to be a ninja or a special forces guy—or drop someone on their head or something.”

“Or have vampire strength?” Saber taunted.

“For your information,” I snarled, “I don’t use my vampire strength, and the only thing I ever purposely broke was a cooking bowl of my mother’s. I was three.”

“Uh-huh,” Saber drawled. “Let’s get back to Gorman. You told us yesterday afternoon that you would file an assault complaint if you knew his name.”





His snide tone fired my temper. “No, I said I could have, as in having grounds to do it. Besides, since when is filing an assault complaint equal to setting a guy up for murder?” I snapped my fingers. “Oh, I know. It’s not.”

“We also found paint cans in the Dumpster,” March said, watching me closely.

I sat straighter. “The kind of paint on my truck?”