“Yes.” Grayson reached down and adjusted the collar on the black button-down shirt I’d stolen from his closet after he tried to get me to wear a Looney Tunes hoodie. There was no way that was happening. It was too on the mark.
“Try to suck in your boobs,” he whispered.
“What?” Gable asked.
Grayson whipped around to face her. “I told gramps he shouldn’t suck those things.”
“Agreed,” Gable said. “Nasty habit. Choking hazard.”
Grayson shot me a look. “I keep telling him that.”
“Where’s your sister?” Gable asked.
“She’s um ... indisposed,” Grayson said.
“Indisposed?”
“You know. Getting a high colonic. She ate a bad burrito. Her hemorrhoid cushion blew out and—”
I kicked Grayson’s knee out. He nearly fell to the floor. He turned and shot me what was that for glare.
“Gramps gets feisty when he doesn’t get his Geritol.” Grayson held out his hand. “Hand over the lollipop.”
I plucked the Tootsie Pop from my mouth and plopped the sticky sucker end into Grayson’s palm.
Gable’s eyes narrowed in her plump cheeks. “The paperwork you faxed over is for Albert Balls. I thought your grandfather’s name was George Burns.”
“Uh ... you mean Georgie Burns,” Grayson said, spinning around to face her. “That’s his ... I mean her stage name.” Grayson sidled up to the reception counter and whispered, “Remember? We told you about his little ... transition.”
Gable scowled. “I remember.”
Grayson grinned like a used insurance salesman. “So, you see, the thing is, now he—I mean she—won’t answer to anything but Georgie.”
Gable eyed me like I was a fake freak-show exhibit—The Person with No Discernable Reason to Live.
“Humph,” Gable grunted. She skirted around the reception desk and addressed me. “Albert?”
I didn’t react.
“George?” she asked as she reached my wheelchair.
I stuck my nose in the air.
“Georgie?” she said.
I glanced up at her and smiled. “Hi.”
Gable frowned. “It says on your application he’s got no teeth.”
“Of course,” Grayson said. “Those are dentures.”
Gable nodded in admiration. “Huh. Pretty nice set.” She turned to Grayson. “But they’ll have to come out before bedtime.”
Grayson nodded. “No problem.”
No problem? I see a problem!
“He ... I mean she won’t put up a fuss?” Gable asked.
“Georgie? No. No fuss at all. Right, Georgie?”
I glared at him.
“If she ever does get upset, just do this.” Grayson reached over and snatched off my ball cap. Then, with the palm of his hand, he rubbed the red fuzz growing in on my head. He locked eyes with me. “See? She really likes it when you do that.”
I forced a smile, and Grayson stopped. But when he pulled his hand away, I snapped at it like a rabid Pekinese.
Gable gasped. “She’s a biter?”
“Only at me,” he said. “Otherwise, Georgie’s quite tame, aren’t you, sweetie?”
I nodded and smiled sweetly.
Gable’s face softened a notch. She went back to the reception desk and did an encore of her brown sunset impersonation. When she re-arose, she had our application in her hand.
She studied it for a moment, then looked over at me. “Remarkable family resemblance,” she said. She glanced over at Grayson. “You look just like your grandpa.”
I heard another gasp. I wasn’t sure if it was from me or Grayson.
Gable picked up a big rubber stamp and pounded the application with a resounding thud.
“Okay, Georgie,” she said, smiling at me. “Welcome to Banner Hill. You’re just in time for dinner.”
My mouth fell open. It was only 4:30.
“What’s on the menu?” Grayson asked.
“A Friday-night favorite,” Gable said.
“Fish and chips?” I asked.
“Nope,” Gable said. “Liver and onions!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I GOTTA SAY, FOR NURSING home fare, the food wasn’t half bad,” Grayson said as he wheeled me toward my room.
“It wasn’t half bad, Grayson. It was all bad,” I hissed.
The main hallway now reeked of liver and onions, making me nostalgic for the homey smell of disinfectant and stale urine.
“Come on, Georgie, where’s your sense of adventure?” Grayson asked as he shoved me down the hallway, jockeying for position along with the other wheelchair-bound residents.
What is this? A high-stakes race to see who can make it to the toilet in time?
“Adventure?” I asked.
“Enjoying local cuisine is an important part of the experience,” he said.
I scowled. “You’ve got to be kidding. The only thing worse than liver and onions is chicken potpie.”
“Potpie?” a frail voice said beside me.
I glanced to my right and caught a glimpse of a thin, black woman pushing a pasty old man slumped into a wheelchair.
“Don’t be silly, Melvin,” the woman in scrubs said. “You just ate. But don’t worry. Tomorrow’s Saturday. You’ll have potpie for dinner then.”
I groaned. Could this get any worse?
Then, as if to prove it could, Grayson leaned down and whispered in my ear. “That must be Melvin Haplets. You know. The grandfather of the guy who called in the reports. I want to talk to him.”
Before I could protest, Grayson spoke up cheerily. “Melvin, do you mind if we visit for a few minutes? I want to introduce you to my grandpa. He needs to make new friends. It’s his first night here.”
The nurse smiled. “Of course. Melvin loves company, don’t you Melvin?”
The old man stared up at her blankly from beneath his massive, snow-white comb-over.
She turned her head and shot me a kindly smile. “What room are you in—?”
“Georgie,” Grayson said. “Room 3F.”
“Perfect. It’s just across the hall from Melvin in 4F.” She put a hand on Melvin’s shoulder. “How about I get you settled in your chair and you can have a nice chat with Georgie?”
Melvin drooled.
“That looks like a yes,” she said, beaming at us. “I’m nurse Nina. Follow me.”
Nina settled Melvin into a brown, plastic-lined Barcalounger, then aimed him at the TV mounted high on the wall.
“I’ve got your channel all set,” she said to Melvin, and switched on the TV. Suddenly, we were blasted with five million decibels of static.
“Oops,” Nina said, lowering the volume. “I better get going. My shift ends in an hour. I’ve still got rounds to make.” She handed the half-comatose old man the remote. “Bye, Melvin. Have a good evening.”
Melvin drooled and stared blankly ahead as she exited the door.
I elbowed Grayson in the stomach through the vinyl back of my wheelchair. “The guy’s a turnip. We’re not gonna get any information out of him.”
“You’re right,” Grayson conceded. He shot Melvin a quick nod. “Enjoy your evening, sir.”
As Grayson began a three-point turn to get us out of Melvin’s room, the volume on the TV began to rise. Barely audible above it, someone said, “What kind of information youse guys lookin’ for?”
Grayson stopped mid-turn. We both turned and stared at Melvin. He was still drooling, but his eyes had taken on a slightly more focused, semi-coherent glow.
“Khakua demon possession,” Grayson whispered. “I knew it!”
“What?” I said, squirming in my chair. “That accent doesn’t sound like New Guinea to me.”
“Hush. Stay still.” Grayson held me down by my shoulders. “The khakua has him in a psychic trance.”
Grayson spoke directly to Melvin. “Great spirit of the Khakua, what is your purpose here?”
Melvin stared at us b
lankly.
“We mean you no harm,” Grayson continued. “We’re here to save you and your friends.”
Suddenly, Melvin’s eyes began to dart around wildly. I gripped the arms of my wheelchair and watched in horror as Melvin’s hand reached out ... and grabbed a tissue from a box by his armchair.
Slowly, Melvin wiped drool from his chin, then locked eyes with Grayson. His mouth opened. Words began to form on his lips ....
“Listen, Bozo. My grandson send you, or what?”
I nearly fell out of my chair—not over Melvin’s human veggie act, but from his Brooklyn wise-guy accent.
“As far as you know, yes,” Grayson said, not missing a beat. “What’s with the miraculous recovery from senility?”
Melvin sighed and rolled his eyes. “It’s a ruse.”
“A ruse?” I asked. “Why?”
Melvin shrugged. “I used to be an accountant. Everybody’s always asking me for tax advice. If you’re not careful, the idiots in here will talk your ears off. What do I care about their stupid reverse mortgages or their hippie-dippie grandkids’ trust funds?”
“Perfectly understandable,” Grayson said. “And, might I add, well played.”
Melvin offered up half a smile. “Thanks. So what’s your scam?”
“Scam?” Grayson asked, taken aback.
Melvin eyed me up and down. “I may be old, but I still know a broad when I see one.”
“And I know an antique when I see one,” I quipped.
“Grandpa Georgie has gender identity issues,” Grayson said.
“Yeah.” Melvin smirked. “Whatever. But lemme tell you, sonny, if you care about your dear old ‘gramps’ there, you won’t leave her here overnight.”
“Why not?” I asked, beating Grayson to the punch.
“Sounds like you already know why,” Melvin said.
Grayson nodded. “The missing vets, yes. But we only know part of the story. We need you to fill us in.” He sidled up to Melvin and clicked the black spy pen in his hand. “Tell us about the suspicious activities you’ve witnessed.”
“Okay.” Melvin glanced around, cleared his throat, then leaned in and whispered into the pen, “That was the third time this week they’ve served liver and onions.”
Grayson’s face fell like a drop-kicked soufflé. He clicked the pen again. “Well, thanks very much for the intel, Mel.”
“No,” Melvin said, grabbing him by the arm. “You don’t get it. The Army always fed us liver to strengthen our blood. You know. So we could donate to the wounded.”
“The guy’s delusional,” I whispered to Grayson. “He thinks he’s still in the army.” I gave Melvin a sappy smile. “We’re at a nursing home, Melvin.”
Melvin shot me a sour look. “No shit, Sherlocksky. But I know a battle zone when I’m knee deep in one.”
Grayson chewed his lip. “What do you mean? Facilities like this are supposed to be the safest place for seniors such as yourself.”
“Oh yeah? Tell that to Charlie,” Melvin said. “Or Harry and Larry. Guys are disappearing around here faster than the stale cookies at teatime.”
“Charlie Perkins?” Grayson asked.
Melvin glanced around, then upped the volume on the TV. “Yeah. He’s the latest. He disappeared from 3F last night.”
I grimaced. “My room?”
“What do you know about it?” Grayson asked.
Melvin hunkered down and turned up the volume on the TV even higher. He chewed his lip for a moment, then said, “All this past week, Charlie and the other guys kept disappearing for a couple of hours after breakfast. When they came back, they were all pale and weak, like somebody’d nearly sucked the life out of ’em.”
“Maybe it was the liver and onions,” I said.
“Or maybe they were the liver and onions.” Melvin said.
“Huh?” I asked.
Melvin’s eyes shone like a mafia madman’s. “Don’t you see? They feed our blood, then they feed on us!”
“Spam,” Grayson said absently.
“What?” My eyes darted from Charlie to Grayson and back again. “Are you saying Charlie was eaten?”
Worst liver and onions EVER!
Melvin nodded. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. They did something to Charlie and the other guys for a couple of days, then took them away for good in the middle of the night.”
“What do you think ‘they’ did to the men during the days before they disappeared?” Grayson asked.
Melvin scowled. “Season ’em with A-1 Sauce? Sprinkle ’em with meat tenderizer? How the hell should I know?”
“Okay,” Grayson said. “Do you recall exactly when Charlie disappeared last night?”
“Yeah. I’d just switched off America’s Got Talent. That’s when I heard his wheelchair squeaking down the hall in the middle of the night.”
“Did you note the time?” Grayson asked.
“No. But it had to be nearly nine o’clock.”
“That’s the middle of the night?” I asked.
Melvin made a sour face. “It is around here, dick-chick.”
Grayson nodded. “Did you see Charlie?”
“Naw.”
“Then how did you know it was him?”
Melvin sighed. “Listen, bub. I was a mechanic in the Army. I used to be able to tell a Ford engine from a Chevy half-drunk and blindfolded at a hundred paces. It was Charlie’s wheelchair all right. I could tell by the squeak of its wheels.”
“Right,” Grayson said. “Was Charlie alone? Did you hear any voices?”
“No. Just his wheelchair squeaking. Then he didn’t show up for breakfast this morning.”
“What do you think happened?” Grayson asked.
Melvin turned up the volume on the TV so high I thought his Miracle Ear might explode. “Aren’t you listening? They took him.” His fist pounded the arm of his Barcalounger. “The bastards sucked the blood out of Charlie, marinated him in mustard sauce, then served him for dinner!”
I blanched in horror and disgust.
Melvin leaned over toward me. “A little tip, Missy. Whatever you do, don’t eat the potpie.”
I shot Grayson a pleading look and mouthed the words, “Can we go now?”
Grayson cleared his throat. “Melvin, the nights that the other men disappeared. Were the circumstances similar?”
“Identical,” Melvin said. “That’s why I got me this.” He reached over and opened a drawer on the nightstand.
I gripped the wheels on my chair, in case Melvin was packing a machete and I needed to burn rubber. I glanced over at Grayson. He was reaching for his Glock.
“Never go to bed without it,” Melvin said, and pulled out a whole head of raw garlic. He peeled off a clove and popped it into his mouth.
“Garlic?” I asked.
“Yep,” Melvin said between gnashing his dentures. “They don’t cook with garlic around here. Say it gives the old guys the farts.”
“And it keeps the vampires away,” I deadpanned.
“That’s just a myth,” Grayson said.
“The garlic farts or the vampires?” I quipped sourly.
“Better to have garlic breath than end up a garlic pot roast!” Melvin said. He leaned forward and grabbed my arm. I nearly jumped out of my wheelchair. “You know what? If you like, you can call me Shrimpy.”
I grimaced. “Uh ... no thanks.”
“You got some nice choppers there,” Melvin said, staring at my teeth. “Better hold on to ’em tight.”
I cringed and yanked my arm away. “Why?”
“They ought to call this place Scammer Hill,” Melvin said. “It’s crawling with kleptomaniacs.” He glanced up at the TV. “Listen, you two better get out of here, on the double.”
“Before they get suspicious?” I asked.
“No. Before my TV show comes on.”
“Matlock?” Grayson asked.
Melvin shook his head. “No. It’s time for Ha
nnibal.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“WHAT DO YOU THINK—VAMPIRES, cannibals or khakua?” Grayson asked as he wheeled me to my room across the hall from Brooklyn Mel.
“Dementia,” I answered. “Melvin got all those crazy ideas from watching reruns of Hannibal Lecter.”
“I disagree. Hannibal never drained his victims of blood. At least, not over a prolonged period of days.”
“That’s your problem with this?” I asked, shaking my head. “Grayson, I’m telling you, nobody’s getting killed by vampires around here. And nobody’s being served up for dinner, either. They’re all merely the delusions of a lonely old man.”
“But the disappearances aren’t a delusion,” Grayson argued, wheeling me into my room. “How do you explain the missing men?”
I got up out of the wheelchair and closed the door to my room. “Here’s a concept. Maybe they all died of old age.”
Grayson frowned skeptically. “But why hide it?”
“Duh! Maybe the staff here didn’t want to upset the other residents?”
Grayson laughed. “That’s what I like about you, Drex. I can always count on you to come up with some ridiculous alternative solution.”
“Wha—” I threw my hands in the air. “Wow. Look at the time. I better get ready for bed. It’s almost six thirty. Surely visiting hours are over, aren’t they?”
I glared at my unwanted houseguest as I unbuttoned the black shirt I’d stolen from his closet. Underneath, I was wearing a Dead Head T-shirt so tight it doubled as a corset and a bra. I untucked the T-Shirt from my purple leotard and smiley boxer shorts, and looked around for the duffle bag with my stuff in it.
Suddenly, the door to my room popped open. A familiar face surrounded by dreadlocks poked in.
“How’s our new resident settling in?” Stanley asked, and shot Grayson a wink. Then he glanced over at me. His eyes doubled in size. “What are you doing here?”
“Balls flew the coop,” Grayson said.
“And I’m plan B,” I said.
“Geez!” Stanley stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Are you serious?”
“Afraid so,” I said.
Stanley eyed me up and down. “You can’t wear that to bed. Let me get you a gown.”
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