La Vida Vampire

“Here you go, ma’am. Sure sorry that man was rude to you.”


I took the lantern by its twisted handle. The metal base and cage were dented, and the plastic hurricane lamp cracked, but at least we didn’t have glass all over the sidewalk.

“That Stony guy’s a real jerk,” Skinny Goth Boy said. “Why’d he go off on you?”

Though I had a good idea, it was best to get over rough ground lightly. I shrugged. “Probably needs more fiber in his diet. Now, if you’re all ready to walk back, let’s head up Treasury Street.”

“Just a moment, dear,” Shalimar said. “Don’t you need to file an incident report? Let us give you our names as witnesses.”

“Oui. That man, he must be considered dangereux,” the bride said, her sultry voice sounding more peeved than concerned. “He attacks you, and he follows my Etienne and me everywhere. ” She did the hair-tossing-over-the-shoulder thing again. “He is spoiling our honeymoon.”

It shouldn’t have been funny, but I felt a grin coming on because I wanted to send the bride to a chiropractor. The comic relief helped calm me, and I held up a steadier hand.

“You’re right, of course. We’ll report this to the tour company and possibly to the police, but,” I said to the bride, “you need to make your own report if you feel threatened.”

I clapped my hands like a teacher getting attention. “Right, now we really do need to head back to our starting place.”

Janie whispered that she and Mick would take a shortcut back to the tour substation. They ’d alert a tour supervisor by phone, and get started on the report paperwork.

To end the evening on a higher note than the scene with Stony, I joked and answered more questions as I led my reduced group back to St. George Street.

Did I breathe and have a heartbeat?

Yes to both. It takes breath—air moving over the vocal cords—to speak and laugh. My heart beats at a comatose snail’s pace, but it does thump ten or so times a minute, more when I’m exercising. Unless I’m sleeping or being very still, in which case I may not breathe but once in a while or have a pulse over five beats a minute, but I didn’t tell them that. Could I eat and drink, like, regular food?

Yes again. I’m full after a few bites because a shrunken stomach doesn’t tolerate food well, but I buy gelato at the shop on St. George Street every chance I get. It looks like colored whipped cream, and talk about smooth!

What do I do in my spare time besides watch TV and read?

Surf, rollerblade, listen to music, and play bridge.

The surfing and blading intrigued the teens, as did my music interests from jazz to Jimi Hendrix. The ladies played more Texas hold ’em than bridge, they said, but they oohed over some of my favorite actors. Cary Grant and Sean Connery are two. Then I mentioned Adrian Paul in the Highlander TV series, and Etienne struck a pose.

“Ah, yes. My Yolette, she collects the Highlander DVDs and jewelry. Even the swords. Very expensive, non? But my little wife loves these things, and she can buy what makes her happy.”

Little wife? Was that condescending or what?

To turn the conversation and satisfy my curiosity, I asked the newlyweds, “What made you choose St. Augustine for your wedding trip?”

Yolette tossed her head again. “Oh, I learned of the city from a friend. Then we heard of you, and I decided we must come.”

I blinked. “You heard of me? In France?”

Her jerky husband laughed. “My Yolette, she is fascinated with vampires, so naturellement, we came to—” He paused a nanosecond. “—investigate you.”

I’m not often speechless, but I stopped and gaped. Shalimar, bless her, stepped forward. Literally stepped in front of me, almost confronting the couple, though her voice was mild.

“Are you staying at one of our beautiful bed-and-breakfast inns downtown?”

“Non,” Etienne said. “We rent a house on the beach. C’est très moderne where we may watch the sunrise. We spare no expense.”

Yolette wrinkled her pert nose at the older woman. “Madame, your perfume is very strong. Shalimar, n’est-ce pas?”

“Yes.”

“My late husband spoke of an aunt who wore too much Shalimar. I never met her, you understand, but he says to me it made him sick and I—I am allergic.”

Shalimar stiffened, her expression stricken. Probably as insulted as I was for her, but she stood her ground. “What happened to your first husband?”

“He tragically died by—”

“Accident,” Etienne said.

Murder, I heard in my head.