Midlife Curses

by Christine Zane Thomas

  “You’re returning a book. That’s not patronage.”

  “I brought wine.”

  “You lied to her,” I said. “You really are a mummy.”

  “I’m not just a mummy,” he boasted. “And I don’t remember you telling her about being a witch. I bet you could get your own episode.”

  “Well,” I countered, “she didn’t interrupt my potion-making. Did you really know they were lurking around? How did this sponsorship happen?”

  “I’ll tell you over dinner.”

  “You’ll what?”

  “Oh,” he shrugged nonchalantly, “it seemed as good a time as any to ask you out.”

  “I’m serious,” I said. “Did you know they were going to be there? I don’t think you did. You just got lucky playing it off. You heard what she’s trying to do. She’s dangerous.”

  “She’s a fly that needs swatting. This is my best wine, by the way. Vintage.”

  “Tell me,” I pleaded, “are you really a mummy?”

  “I’ll tell you anything you want to know over dinner. What do you say?”

  “Tell me now.”

  “Agree to dinner, and I will.”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  “Okay,” he looked smug, “I’ll tell you over dinner. Friday night. At the vineyard. The gate will be open.”

  “I didn’t agree to have dinner alone with you,” I protested. “And you said you’d tell me now.”

  “No, I said I’d tell you anything you wanted. Not when. And we won’t be dining alone. My staff will be there. Is that good enough?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “But you’ll come anyway?”

  I shrugged.

  “I’ll see you Friday,” he said.

  “Friday.” What else could I say? I wanted answers. And he was going to give them to me.

  26

  Liar, Liar

  Friday night came far too quickly.

  Unsurprisingly, both Gran and Trish tried to talk me out of going. Even Brad was concerned.

  “I know I’m knew at this,” he boomed. “But protecting you from the undead could prove difficult. You hardly know any spells. You’re not quick on your feet. And you aren’t bringing backup.”

  “I didn’t know mummies existed.” Stevie leaped up on my bed and curled next to the raccoon. “Not that I’m an expert.”

  They stayed while I dressed, offering commentary on my attire. While concerned for my safety, their hosts’ tendencies won out. By the time I was ready, they were asleep.

  “I thought you said this was a date.” Stevie cracked an eye open.

  “I said I didn’t want it to be a date. Just dinner.”

  “Dinner with a handsome undead fellow.”

  “Something like that.”

  I went to the bathroom to, as Gran would say, put on my face. When I returned, Stevie remarked, “I thought you said this wasn’t a date.”

  “I can still look nice!”

  I stuck my tongue out at the cat and hurried down the stairs, leaving the familiars on the bed. No backup. I couldn’t really take Brad with me anywhere. He’d have to use his otherworldly senses to keep me out of harm’s way.

  Gran was the prying type. She gave me a speculative eye from her recliner in the den. “I think you might be sending mixed signals. Jeans, really? On a date?”

  “It’s not a date! And they’re comfortable.”

  “How much eyeliner does it take to walk the streets these days?” she said about my miserable attempt at wings.

  “It’s the style,” I told her. “All the girls are doing it.”

  “That’s right. Girls. A woman of forty should know how to dress for a date.”

  “For the last time, it’s not a date,” I huffed. “It’s dinner. It’s me digging for information.”

  “For the last time,” Gran retorted, “it’s not your job to sleuth. If it’s about the vampire murder, then shouldn’t the sheriff be involved?”

  “It’s not about the vampire murder,” I lied.

  A white lie. Mr. Caulfield’s death was on my mind, but there was a lot we didn’t know about Cyrus Tadros—about the undead. About mummies.

  “I think you should let the sheriff know what you’re up to,” Gran told me. “When was the last time you spoke with him?”

  “Before I got fired,” I replied.

  “You’re blaming him, aren’t you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Yes, I did he’d played a part in my termination, but not deliberately. I was angrier that he hadn’t called. I was hoping for an apology. Had he offered me dinner, I wouldn’t be wearing jeans right now.

  Crookshanks purred to life. I drove through town. Main Street was ready for the Midsummer Festival. White lights twinkled up and down the thoroughfare.

  I drove past the track to Nell’s cabin. I would have missed it but they left a cone to mark it.

  The vineyard was a further fifteen miles out of town. It was creepy, more Addams Family than The Munsters—there is a difference!

  The gate was open. I eased Crookshanks around a circular drive, parking next to a fountain with no water.

  Like Cyrus had promised, a member of his staff was there to greet me.

  Adding to the experience, his butler exuded Addams Family vibes. Uncle Fester vibes. He had a gleaming bald head and heavy bags under his eyes. To top it off, he wore a name tag proclaiming him to be Lurque.

  “How is that pronounced?” I asked him.

  “Lurk,” he said. “It’s French. This way, Madame.”

  “It’s, uh, Mademoiselle actually.”

  Lurque smirked. I’m sorry, that’s what he did. “Whatever you say, Madame. We actually did away with the use of Mademoiselle a few years ago.”

  He led me to a large dining room with three long tables in the center. Only one was set for dinner. Dinner for two. A sideboard was prepped with a pitcher of water and opened bottles of wine.

  Lurque seated me, comedically at the end of the long table. It reminded me of the scene when Bruce Wayne and Vicki Vale have dinner in the first Batman movie. I was going to have shout for Cyrus to hear me.

  “Monsieur Tadros will be joining you shortly. He’s tied up at the moment.”

  “Thank you,” I said, my confidence growing. On dates, I’m typically clumsy.

  This isn’t a date, I reminded myself.

  Lurque departed and another member of staff filled my wine while yet another served soup. She put bread in the center of the table, well out of my reach.

  The way the eccentric undead man had strong-armed me into this evening, this quasi-date, I didn’t imagine he’d allow me to go much longer without his presence.

  The servants left me, alone in the room. They returned twenty minutes later, scooping up my untouched soup and replacing it with salad. I was happy for a fresh glass of wine—that had been touched. Except I remembered a little too late that alcohol had no effect on me thanks to Hilda’s gift.

  “Is this a game?” I asked, not having any fun.

  “Monsieur Tadros will join you shortly, Madame.”

  “When?”

  “Monsieur Tadros prefers to dine in the kitchen but will take his coffee and dessert here with you.”

  “Surely, you’re joking.”

  Irritation crossed over the possibly French, maybe Italian, servant. “Surely, I am not.”

  “Then, can I dine in the kitchen?”

  “Monsieur Tadros prefers his guests to dine in the dining room. He prefers that no one watch him eat.”

  “Does he eat?”

  She chose not to answer.

  If only Gran could see what kind of date this was turning out to be. Thankfully, the jeans were comfy.

  I took the salad and my wine, scooted my chair back, and made for the swinging doors after Miss Possibly French.

  If I wanted to eat alone, I could’ve stayed at Gran’s—I could’ve eaten at the bar at Orange Blossom’s. Neither would have stuck me in a room by mysel
f.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” I said, catching sight of him.

  Still on his salad course, he covered his mouth with a hand. “Constance,” he said, “give me one second to finish chewing.”

  “One,” I said, like a child.

  He laughed, and I noticed a bowl sitting next to him.

  “Allow me another.” He turned away from me, taking the bowl, and when he was done chewing, he spit the food into it. “I’m missing a few vital organs needed for things like digestion.”

  I didn’t know what to say, but my gag reflex was going off the charts.

  “Let me explain. My restorative process, well, it doesn’t work on everything. I’m still very much what you’d imagine on the inside.”

  “You really are a mummy,” I said, not as shocked as I sounded.

  “Not a mummy. I’m the mummy,” he said again, like that should mean something.

  “I’m Osiris. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? God of the undead, among other things. When my brother Set cut me into pieces, my wife, Isis, who was a witch like you, wrapped my body with a restorative dressing. I returned to life not only healed but with a youthful vigor.”

  “You’re married?”

  “I was married. So were you, as I understand it.”

  This again.

  I did some mental calculations.

  “That’s what you were doing the night of the podcast. You were here restoring yourself. And you scared them away.” Then I understood. “Your father never died, did he? You’re Mister Armand. You and he are the same person. Mummy. Whatever.”

  “I wasn’t going to explain that, if I could help it.” Cyrus smiled. “Then again, I guess I didn’t have to.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “No, no. The part about living in Europe is true, although it was four centuries ago. And it wasn’t with my mother.”

  “You dog.”

  “What can I say?” He shrugged. “I’ve lived a long and full life. Many lives. And just so you know, when I visited the bookshop, I did need the book. That wasn’t a lie. Something is amiss.”

  “And that is?”

  “This house used to be haunted. I’m serious. There were ghosts residing here, many from around the time of the civil war. One day, they just vanished without a trace. Then a vampire died.”

  “And a witch.”

  “Which witch?” Cyrus narrowed his eyes.

  “Her name was Nell Baker,” I told him. “She lived on this side of town.”

  “Yes,” Cyrus said with contempt, “I’m familiar with Nell. A bit of nuisance. Always had her hand in several cauldrons, if you know what I mean.”

  There was something bothering me, something niggling in the back of my mind. But I couldn’t figure out what it had to do with Cyrus.

  A chef popped appeared and asked, “Are you ready for the main course, sir?” His Southern drawl stood out.

  Cyrus looked at me. “What do you say? Is all right if I join you?”

  My stomach grumbled. Traitor. “Sounds good.”

  Cyrus returned with me to the dining area and took a seat close to mine, not the one set at the other end of the table. He sipped wine while I ate steak, Brussels sprouts, and mashed potatoes. There was coffee and dessert wine to pair with a red velvet cake, which was moist and perfect.

  I relented, listening to stories from his youth in Egypt and his travels across the world. We chatted about the vineyard and Creel Creek’s own history. Then I asked why he’d came here when he could be anywhere he wanted.

  “I moved here to be with someone,” he said sadly. “We had heard about a place accepting of our kind.”

  I didn’t know exactly what—or who—he meant. I was about to press further when Lurque interrupted our conversation.

  “There’s someone at the door,” he told my host.

  “Did you tell them to bugger off?”

  “I did, sir. But they’re quite insistent they must speak with you. I’m afraid they didn’t give me any choice in the matter.”

  “What do you mean?” Cyrus asked with a scowl.

  Lurque stepped away from the doorframe, then Willow and Dave appeared. Dave, with his gun drawn. Willow was holding handcuffs.

  “Constance?”

  “Dave?”

  The sheriff shook his head grimly.

  “Cyrus Tadros, Edward Armand, whoever the hell you really are,” he said, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Eric Caulfield.”

  “Arrest?”

  “He couldn’t have done it,” I protested. “He was on that podcast too. You heard it.”

  “The thing about poisoning,” Dave said as Willow slapped the cuffs on Cyrus, “The poisoner doesn’t have to be there when it happens.”

  I finally connected the dots. I remembered by Cyrus’s own admission Mr. Armand and Mr. Caulfield hadn’t gotten along.

  I wondered if that was always the case or if it was a recent development. His last words really struck me. He’d moved here for someone.

  I could only guess who that someone was.

  27

  In Witch Someone’s Pants are on Fire

  I thought for sure Dave would question me at the vineyard and let me go on to Gran’s on my own, no big deal.

  Wrong.

  Dave hardly spoke to me. But lately, that was par for the course. He hadn’t spoken to me in days. Not that I’d tried to contact him. But still, it irked me.

  At least he allowed me to sit in the front of his car when they drove us in for questioning. Questioning—like I had some connection to this, aside from being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  If anything, that was what I seemed to have a knack for—I was a wrong place, wrong time kind of gal.

  Three times during the drive, it looked as if Dave was going to say something. Each time, he stopped himself and sighed, irritated.

  It was like he was personally affronted I was there.

  I asked him a dozen questions, but only in my head. My mind was doing somersaults trying to figure out the clues he’d put together without me. The connection between Cyrus and Mr. Caulfield.

  I guessed it was some sort of lovers’ quarrel between beings that had loved and lived with each other for centuries. Who knew how long they’d been apart—or how long they’d been together?

  Cyrus had basically told me as much. He must’ve moved to Creel Creek to be with Mr. Caulfield.

  Then something happened. Things went sour. And Cyrus acted. It was a perfect way to get away with murder—using his magical wrappings to turn old Edward Armand into the young and debonair Cyrus Tadros.

  How did Dave figure it out?

  I bit my lip, anxious to ask him.

  But Dave left me in an interrogation room. It was just like the ones on TV, with the two-way mirror and everything. Although I suspected no one was on the other side.

  I assumed Dave was going to talk to Cyrus first. Get his side of things.

  Time did one of those things where ten minutes felt like ten hours. I was tired and full, from the delicious dinner Cyrus’s chef had served. I’d almost nodded off, slumped in my chair, when Dave opened the door.

  He looked tired. Pale. A little thinner than I remembered.

  “Well, he’s not talking,” Dave said, closing the door and taking the seat opposite me. “He lawyered up. And his power-broker DC attorney can’t drive down here until next week.”

  Still feeling sluggish and sleepy, I didn’t know what he wanted me to say. Was I back on the case after the silent car ride?

  I was about to lay into him but he stopped me before I could speak.

  “Can you just,” he shook his head, obviously fighting back anger, “can you just tell me what exactly you were thinking? What were you doing there?”

  He sounded almost like he was jealous. Almost. I put that thought away for safekeeping.

  “I was having dinner,” I said. “He asked me out. That’s not allowed?”

  “It’s allowed.” He wouldn
’t look at me. “But you had to know that man was on my radar for the murder.”

  “No,” I exclaimed. “How would I know that? You never told me. Heck, you haven’t talked to me since you asked for my help the other day. You know I got fired for that, right?”

  “I—No, I didn’t. It’s been a weird couple of days. I’m sorry about that.”

  He finally met my eyes. “This is going to come out of left field, I know, but I was trying to protect you. I like you, Constance. I haven’t liked anyone, not like this, in a long time. I thought I—”

  “You like me?” My traitorous heart fluttered. Remember—we’re mad at him…

  “I did.” He flushed. “Or I do. I do.” He huffed. “Don’t get me off track, Constance. Tell me what you were really doing there. And does it have any connection to the case? I need complete honesty.”

  “Kind of.” He wanted the truth, so I was going to give it to him. “I was trying to help—trying to get some information about Cyrus. I mean, he asked me to dinner. I took him up on it to get the scoop about the whole mummy thing. I didn’t think he was the murderer or anything. You remember the podcast. I was just interested.”

  We discussed Cyrus’s past, trading information we’d gathered. Me, over the course of dinner, and Dave over the last few days.

  The theory I came up with on the silent ride was correct Cyrus and Mr. Caulfield had a long connection with each other. And like the Cullens from Twilight, they’d been calling Creel Creek home since the was town’s founding in the 18th century.

  They were both ancient beings. Cyrus had as many centuries as most humans get in years.

  “That’s a lot of time to learn about vampires,” I said. “And their weaknesses.”

  “That it is,” Dave agreed. “There’s just one thing that’s bothering me.”

  “That is?” I asked, not sharing his concern.

  “I don’t have proof.” He struggled for a moment before deciding to let me in. “See, Mr. Caulfield drank coffee every morning. Had his own coffeemaker in his office. And from what we’ve gathered, he mixed a packet of blood with it.”