Homicide and Hot Tubs

by Annabel Chase

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I said. “Try to amuse yourself without clawing the sofa or the drapes.” I paused. “And leave my pillow alone too. The material is really soft and you’ll ruin it if you poke little holes everywhere.”

  Mischief hissed and I took that as a cue to skedaddle.

  When I returned to the lab, Brigit was gone, but I noticed that the whiteboard had been affixed to the wall. Mitzi sat hunched over Akwan’s body, pouring a pale yellow liquid over the wound on his head.

  “I hope that isn’t what I think it is,” I said, eyeing the liquid.

  Mitzi gave me a blank look. “It’s a potion to help pinpoint the timing of the wound. I think we should create a timeline of events, and determining the order of his injuries will help with that.”

  “Ooh. I like it. A timeline makes it sound like we know what we’re doing.”

  “My notes are over on the table if you’d like to review them.” She used her elbow to point to the scattered papers to my right.

  “That’s probably expected of the marshal, which is me.” I sauntered over to table and lifted the papers to inspect them. “How do you know which potions to use on the body?” It wasn’t as though there was a handbook. Until my appointment as marshal, there’d been no form of law enforcement in Divine Place at all.

  “I’m figuring it out as I go.” She remained intent on the wound as she spoke.

  “That sums up my entire life,” I said, only half joking. I tried to make sense of her mad scribblings and was immediately reminded of Carrie’s Big Board of Crazy in the show Homeland.

  “We’re making progress, right?” Mitzi asked cheerfully.

  “Um, sure.” I tilted the paper sideways to see whether that helped.

  Nope.

  “I found a couple of timing spells in the book,” Mitzi said. “I decided to try each one and see what happens. If we’re going to lose the body soon, we need to throw all the spaghetti we have at it.”

  “I think you’re mixing up your metaphors there, lab geek, but I get your point.”

  Before I could ask another question, the door burst open and Jules stood there in a white leather jumpsuit with her hair slicked back in a high ponytail.

  “I’m ready,” she announced, hands on hips.

  I squinted at her. “For what? The chance to do your Elvis impersonation in front of a live audience? Because I can promise you that your outfit is louder than anything that comes out of your mouth.”

  The vampire ignored my remark. “It’s come to my attention that you need an expert on blood spatter.”

  I glanced over at Mitzi. “Isn’t it blood splatter?”

  “No, it’s definitely spatter. No ‘l.’” Mitzi continued mixing potions.

  “But that doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “The blood splattered everywhere. It doesn’t spatter. Is that even a verb?”

  Jules gave me a menacing look. “I didn’t come all the way over to Zone 1 to have my grammar questioned.”

  “You know what? You’re right.” Even if she’d been wrong, I couldn’t afford to piss her off, not only because I needed her expertise, but because I didn’t want her to kill me any deader than I already was.

  Jules scrutinized me. “Just like that? No argument.” She glanced at Mitzi. “Did you accidentally give her a potion?”

  “I’m running through past episodes of Dexter in my head and it’s definitely spatter.” I’d watched every season of the serial killer show except the last one. I didn't know a single person with anything good to say about it, so I decided to pretend the last season never happened and that the story ended after season seven. The guy I’d been dating at the time actually broke up with me because he was so incensed that I refused to follow through with the end of the series. He said I had “issues” and needed intensive therapy. I told him that any guy who got that worked up over whether someone else watched a television show had his own issues.

  Jules eyed Akwan’s body on the slab. “I’ll need Little Miss Magic to step aside unless she wants to bleach her clothes later.”

  “Why are you wearing white when you know you’re going to work with blood?” I asked. I’d only seen the vampire in black and dark purple so far—Jules basically dressed like the bruise she was threatening to give you.

  The vampire plucked the fabric of her top. “You dress for the job you want, not the one you have.”

  “Still not sure how that answers the question, but okay.”

  Jules marched around the room, inspecting the set-up. “I like what you ladies have done with the place. Lots of potential here.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “For what—a vampire snack bar? This blood is for professional purposes only.”

  Jules turned from the potion bottle she was admiring to look at me. “You really need to stop assuming that vampires only think about blood. We’re the undead in the afterlife. Our thirst for blood is more of a vague desire.”

  “I get it. It’s like wanting Doritos when you’re not hungry, but just because they’re there.”

  Mitzi pushed up her glasses to the bridge of her nose. “Jules is right. It’s offensive to paint all vampires with the same brush. You don’t hear anyone saying that you’re weak and stupid just because that’s what most supernaturals think about humans.”

  “Actually, Hera says that to me all the time,” I said. I was surprised that the goddess didn’t find a way to engrave it on my badge. To be fair, the badge had been given to me by Cole in a gesture of kindness. At the thought of the demigod, my shoulders sagged. I hated that I was conducting this investigation without him. Even though I was managing, I missed his company. I missed his smirk when I said something both offensive and amusing. I barely knew him and yet…

  “Afterlife to Eloise.” Jules snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Where’s the blood I need to examine?”

  I went over to the wall and tugged on the handle revealing the drawer with the statue. “I know what happened with the statue, but it would be helpful to know when it happened.”

  Jules crossed the room and took the tiki statue in both hands, turning it from side to side. Then she hip-checked Mitzi out of the way so that she could lean over the body and inhale deeply.

  “You can time the wound by smelling it?”

  She lifted her head to look at me. “Are you questioning my method?”

  “Not all questions are criticisms,” I said, unless we were talking about my mother. Then every question counted as a criticism—Did you forget to brush your hair? Are you sure you want to wear that?

  She set the statue on the table. “This blood is about ten to twelve hours old.”

  “Any way to narrow that down even further?” I asked.

  Jules gave me a dark look. “Pretty sure I can, but you’re not going to appreciate my method.”

  I closed my eyes. “You need to lick him, don’t you?”

  “‘Fraid so.”

  “Can’t you lick the blood on the statue?” I asked. For some reason, that seemed less disgusting to me.

  “I can, but it won’t be as accurate.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Do what you have to do.”

  “You might want to turn around for this if it’s going to gross you out.” A slow smile spread across her full lips. “But I’d really prefer that you watch.”

  I peeked one eye open in the name of compromise. I cringed as her tongue shot out and swept across the wound.

  “Ten hours,” she announced.

  “It’s too bad they don’t have vampires on CSI,” Mitzi said. “It would be nice to see a positive representation.”

  “Witches would be great too,” I said. “Which reminds me—have you had a chance to research the substances in his system?”

  “Working on it.” Mitzi pointed to a tall bottle on the table that reminded me of a lava lamp. Inside, multiple colored substances flowed like liquid ribbons.

  “Anything else, marshal?” Jules asked.

  I scanned the lab, try
ing to think of anything here that I’d missed. I felt like I only had a glimpse of Akwan’s whole story. I needed more.

  “I think it’s time for a field trip,” I said. “Who’s up for a visit to Akwan’s house?”

  Mitzi chewed her lip, uncertain. “I don’t know. It would be like raiding a tomb.”

  I pictured myself decked out like Angelina Jolie in Tomb Raider. Of course, I needed to be taller, thinner, younger, and have bigger boobs, but basically the image was the same.

  “We’re not going there to plunder and pillage,” I said. “We’re looking for clues to solve the case.”

  “I didn’t accuse you of being pirates,” Mitzi mumbled.

  Jules pondered the victim. “But if we saw a few nice jewels, there’d be no reason we couldn’t take them, right? It isn’t like Akwan can use them for anything now. They become HOA property.”

  “In that case, I guess it would be wasteful to leave them,” I said.

  Mitzi nearly knocked over a potion bottle in an effort to object. “You can’t take anything for personal gain! Then you’re no better than grave robbers.”

  Jules glanced down at Akwan. “You don’t mind, do you, buddy?” She shrugged. “He didn’t object.”

  Mitzi ran to block the door. “No, I won’t let you.”

  “Why do you care so much what happens to Akwan’s stuff?” Jules asked.

  “I don’t care about his stuff. I care about what happens to you,” the witch said. “If you take something that doesn’t belong to you, then you won’t be improving. If you don’t improve, you’ll be here forever.”

  Jules gave her a sad smile. “Well, aren’t you sweet?”

  I could see that Mitzi was about to bust open a vein in her forehead and I didn’t want to deal with the cleanup. “Relax, Mitzi. We won’t take anything unless it’s relevant to the case. I promise.”

  She exhaled in relief. “Thank you.”

  “No. Thank you for looking out for me,” I said. Although part of me was merely placating her, another part of me felt moved by her response. I wasn’t used to anyone looking out for my best interest aside from Mischief. It felt strange—and also kind of nice.

  Jules didn’t seem to share my feelings. “Whatever, loser,” she said. “Come on, marshal. Let’s see what we can rub out of the jinni’s lamp.”

  I scrunched my nose. “Okay, I thought the blood was bad, but now you’ve really grossed me out.”

  Chapter Seven

  I parked my golf cart in the driveway of 13 Spirit Way and contemplated the beige bungalow. It was pretty unassuming for the home of a skilled jinni. Then again, all the villagers were skilled in their own way.

  Except me.

  “I’ve been on this street for a party,” Jules said. She craned her neck to look at a bungalow across the street. “That one there.”

  “One of your employees?” I asked.

  “No, an ogre named Boipelo. He’s a good customer. Loves his dark rum.”

  We vacated the golf cart and I noticed Jules grimace as her gaze skimmed the cheerful artwork on the side.

  “It wasn’t my choice,” I said defensively. “I inherited it.”

  “You don’t need to keep it this way if you don’t like it.”

  “I’ve been planning to paint it, but I was worried there was some HOA rule I’d be in violation of.” And I didn’t want to be on the wrong side of its president.

  “Even if that were true, it’d be worth the penalty to get rid of whatever that is.” Her judgmental finger zigzagged in front of the design.

  “Gia likes it,” I said. “I think she’d be sad if I painted over it.”

  Jules narrowed her eyes at me. “You don’t strike me as someone who cares if your neighbor is sad.”

  I took a moment to self-reflect. She was right. It wasn’t in my nature. In Chipping Cheddar, I was the house on the street that everyone skipped when it came time for charity fundraisers and I was left off the neighborhood Facebook group, as well as the group text where neighbors tended to share personal news. They knew I didn’t care.

  So why did I care about Gia’s feelings?

  “It’s your golf cart,” Jules said. “You’re the one who has to be seen riding around the village in it. If it doesn’t suit you, change it.”

  “You’re right. It should reflect me more than its previous owner.”

  Jules started toward the house. “Damn straight. I don’t expect to see you behind the wheel of a…glitter-corn.”

  We strode up the walkway to the front door. The bushes were neatly trimmed and the lawn seemed an appropriate length, so I ruled out ‘blight on the neighborhood’ as a motive for Akwan’s obliteration.

  Jules opened the door without any trouble and I marveled again over living in a place where no one locked their doors. They might want to reconsider this practice if villagers continued to head into the unknown against their will. With that in mind, I made a mental note to start locking mine. I didn’t need Cole wandering into my bedroom again at an inopportune time. I couldn’t count on Mischief to warn me because she’d taken a liking to the demigod. It was somewhat infuriating given that Mischief had hated every guy I’d ever brought home. She would hiss and swipe her paw and generally make a scene, mostly reinforcing the visitor’s decision to be a ‘dog person.’

  The interior of the bungalow was eerily quiet. I stood in the compact foyer, debating where to search first. At least this wouldn’t take as long as the search of Zeus’s grand villa. Cole and I spent hours in there trying to find a clue that would point to the thunder god’s murderer. Little did we know she’d accompanied us on the quest.

  “I’ll start in the kitchen,” Jules said, and walked straight ahead like a vampire on a mission, which she basically was.

  “Then I’ll take the master bedroom.” According to the witch, Linzy, this wasn’t where the magic happened—only the snoring.

  It felt strange to be snooping around someone’s house that I wasn’t dating. I hadn’t felt awkward in Zeus’s place because the villa was so comically huge that it didn’t feel real. Akwan’s house was different. The jinni hadn’t been a larger than life figure in Divine Place, not that his obliteration was any less important. In a way, it seemed worse because he wasn’t a public figure with a bad reputation. He was just a regular member of the community.

  The master bedroom was definitely designed to Akwan’s taste. The black blanket on the bed featured a stark white musical note in the middle. I couldn’t say which note because I didn’t know how to read music. I’d dated a guitarist once, but he played by ear so there was no musical wisdom to absorb other than ‘be quiet, Eloise, I’m trying to listen.’ Needless to say, I couldn’t be quiet, so the relationship ended.

  A heavy wooden chest painted in black lacquer stood at the foot of the bed, reminding me of a life-sized music box. I wasn’t wrong. Music began to play when I opened the lid to peer inside.

  “Whoever designed this did a good job,” I said to no one in particular. Although I didn’t recognize the tune, it was a soft and slow enough not to be jarring.

  “What’s that sound?” Jules entered the bedroom.

  “Akwan’s storage chest comes with a sound system,” I said, kneeling down to root through it.

  She looked over my shoulder. “Cool.”

  “It’s like an oversized music box.” Minus the little ballerina and the mirror. I’d had one like that when I was a kid. Aunt Alicia had given it to me for my seventh birthday. She’d been determined to convince me to like ‘girl stuff’ because I didn’t adhere to her standards for femininity. She’d been alarmed by my resistance to the color pink and apparently talked nonstop to my parents about what this might mean in terms of my future sexuality. Never mind that she was talking about a seven-year-old. When I was older, I made sure to share my sexual exploits in excruciating detail with Aunt Alicia. Oddly, she didn’t seem to appreciate this.

  I began to pick through the contents of the chest, wondering how Akwan had
spent his final day in the afterlife. Were there dirty dishes in the sink that he’d planned to clean this morning? If he’d known he was on the way out, would he have written goodbye notes? Even ascension was tricky because villagers didn’t know when it might happen. There was no way to prepare.

  “I wish I’d created a death book,” I said.

  Jules regarded me. “Why do I get the feeling that we’d mean different things by that?”

  I shifted to my bottom before the pins and needles in my feet worsened. “Do you have any idea how many embarrassing things I left to be discovered by my family?” I waved a casual hand. “Aw, screw it. They deserve to be uncomfortable.”

  “Now I’m curious,” Jules said. “What sort of thing wouldn’t you want them to find?”

  “Oh, you know. The usual. Drug paraphernalia. Porn. A collection of stamps I stole from my brother Jeff when we were kids and then swore up and down that I saw my stepmom throw them in the trash.” Anita had been forever ‘tidying’ and ‘cleaning,’ which basically translated to erasing all traces of our existence. Her most unforgivable crime had been giving away my Nancy Drew books. I always said I would’ve been an avid reader for the rest of my life if she hadn’t scarred me like that. I couldn’t walk into a library without breaking out in a cold sweat, anxious that someone was going to sneak in later and empty the shelves of their books.

  “That stuff will come as a surprise to your family?” Jules asked.

  “Oh, they always accused me of those things, but now they’ll know they were right.” I rested my chin on the heel of my hand. “Which kind of sucks.” If I had to die young-ish, I should at least get the last word.

  “Your family life sounds complicated,” Jules said. “You should’ve been a vampire and avoided all that.”

  “Hey, if I’d known they existed, maybe I would have become one.” I continued to rummage through the chest. “So what’s your story, Jules?”

  “My story?” The vampire opened the closet and started shifting hangers to the side as she examined each article of clothing.

  “How did you end up here? I would’ve expected vampires to go somewhere else.” I kept my tone casual, not wanting to imply that she belonged in a place like Hell. Who was I to judge? I once rear-ended a car in the parking lot of the grocery store but didn’t leave a note because it was a Mercedes SUV. I figured they could afford the repairs more than I could.