La Vida Vampire

I glanced at Shalimar’s set face. Had the thought come from her? If so, she sounded a lot different in my head —almost masculine. I glanced at Gomer, who watched intently. When he caught me looking at him, the edge drained from his eyes and he shrugged slightly.

Ready to see the last of this crew, I led them the final half block to our starting place, where Janie and Mick waited with the forms. As promised, each group member gave me contact information, even the goth gang and Gomer. Music from the live band at the Mill Top Tavern made conversation difficult, so the group drifted off quickly.

“You did great, Cesca,” Janie said as the newlyweds left and Gomer trailed along behind, pelting them with drawled questions about France. “Grace under fire, for sure.”

I sighed. “That guy was one of the famous Covenant freaks, right? The group that stalks vampires to kill them?”

“The one you called Stony? From the way he acted, I’d say so, yeah. In the nasty flesh.” Mick tapped the sheaf of papers against his palm.

“Charming. Of all the tours in all the cities in all the world, a nutso vampire watchdog shows up at mine.”

I’d read that a cell had provoked a lone vampire a few years ago, then cried foul when the vamp defended herself. Perhaps too forcefully, but she hadn’t killed any of them. Still, the bullies had run to the law, demanding an execution. And got it. Wait, a cell. Teams.

“Don’t these guys work in teams?” I asked.

“Yeah, they do,” Mick said slowly. “They also catch vamps alone, not with an audience around.” He paused. “We could report him if we knew his real name.”

Janie frowned. “The French couple said he was tailing them, but they aren’t vampires, right?”

I had to smile. Me, Janie could take. More vampires, probably not. “No, they’re just folks.”

I glanced at Mick, who seemed to know about cults of all kinds. Someday I ’d ask him why. “Mick, was tonight just a chance opportunity to harass me, or is there more to it?”

He scratched his jaw. “I don’t know. Could be chance, if he’s really following the Frenchies. Could be a change in tactics. Even a shot at getting publicity for his cause. Tell you one thing. I’d watch my back, if I were you.”

Janie patted my arm. “At least you’re forewarned now. I wouldn’t lose sleep over him.”

Janie is ever the optimist, and I grinned. “You’re right. Hey, those sweet ladies tipped me forty dollars to share with you. How about a drink at Harry’s? We can work on the report while we unwind.”

Mick grimaced. “No offense, Cesca, but if you’re drinking blood—”

“No, no,” I interrupted, “I don’t drink in public unless it’s sweet tea. But I do like crunching ice. Will that bother you?”

“Ice?” Mick blinked. “You’re kidding.”

Janie, who’d caught a snack with me a few times, gurgled a laugh. “Why would she kid, Mick? Geez. I can go out for a while, but not to Harry’s. The ghost in the bathroom creeps me big time. How about Scarlett’s?”

The musty smell upstairs at Scarlett’s where the bathrooms are creeps me, but I don’t have to use the facilities often, so I agreed.

We strolled south on St. George, then took a right on the side street Hypolita, chatting about the cute little boy, the Jag Queens, and Gomer. Mick and Janie both thought Gomer was too much a caricature, but none of us had a clue what the man might have been up to. Then I asked if the wiseguys were really mobsters, and Mick told me I watched too much TV. He may have a point, but I won’t give up my mystery shows. Or HGTV.



Scarlett O’Hara’s is plain fun. Good food and drink (when I nibble or sip any of it) and live entertainment nightly, so the place was usually packed with tourists and students from Flagler College right down Cordova Street. The exterior is cypress and cedar, and the two now-joined buildings dated roughly from 1865. The coolest thing? Three palm trees grow right through the floorboards where you walk up the steps.

Seats in the rustic outdoor oyster bar were taken. We peeked inside at the Gone with the Wind movie posters and portraits of Scarlett and Rhett, but Mick wanted to smoke, so we snagged a table on the porch when four men in business suits left. Our waitress, Cami, appeared almost immediately to scoop up her tips, wipe down the tabletop, and hand us menus. A pert twenty-something and very slender in her black slacks, black rubber-soled shoes, and a wine-colored T-shirt with a white Scarlett’s emblem, she’d waited on me a lot when I came in with Maggie and Neil. She always put a little sweet tea in with my ice but never offered to serve blood. She knew I didn’t drink in public, because I’d told her so.

“Hey, Cesca, where’s Maggie? Off with that hunk of hers?”