Tantalize

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  “Changed. We shift. They change.”

  Whatever. “Changed into a wolf, mauled Vaggio, and then . . . shrank . . . dissolved into mist . . . just before you arrived?”

  “Exactly. Quince, the restaurant, the new theme is dangerous.”

  I stiffened as I realized what he was getting at. “You’re saying Sanguini’s is attracting real, homicidal vampires? That it’s Sanguini’s fault, my family restaurant’s fault that Vaggio was murdered? That now Vaggio is going to turn into a vampire or something?”

  “No, Vaggio’s . . . he’s dead, not undead.” Kieren went into lecture mode. “It takes about a month after first exposure — by ingestion or transfusion of vampire blood — for a human being to become one. Werepeople can’t be turned, though, so —”

  “You know,” I said, rising from the denim comforter, “I road-tripped to the outlet mall in San Marcos last week with Uncle D, and there was this interview on the radio about vampires. I didn’t want to listen to it, but he did and, anyway, it was about how they’re so low-profile in modern times because they don’t have to hunt anymore. They can buy blood or pilfer it. And it’s not like they’re —”

  “Animals?” he asked.

  “I was going to say ‘eager for attention,’” I replied.

  “Look, they’ve managed to manipulate humans for centuries.”

  “Will you shut up about the goddamned vampires?”

  “They are,” Kieren said, “damned.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, calming himself. “I’m sorry. Of course you’re upset —”

  “I’m upset because your mama just told me that you’ll be leaving soon to join a Wolf pack. Leaving your family. Leaving me. Leaving forever.” There, I said it.

  Kieren didn’t meet my eyes. “A pack is not a prison.”

  Funny, that’s not what it had sounded like downstairs.

  He had a map of the Western Hemisphere mounted on his wall, various cities marked by color-coded pins. Was that where he was going? I wondered. Someplace marked with a pin?

  “You’ve been holding back on us,” I said, “because you’re leaving. You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”

  The five feet from me to him, littered with Wolf lore, seemed like a gulf.

  “I belong with a pack, Quince.”

  “You belong with —”

  “I could kill you! Don’t you get that? I almost did kill you once.”

  “You wouldn’t!” My voice softened. “You won’t. I, I trust you.”

  “I want you to be safe,” Kieren countered. “Safe from me, safe from everything bad in the world. Why can’t you understand that? Yes, I’m leaving. That’s about me, not you. I guess . . . I don’t trust myself. If I shift and lose control, a Wolf pack can handle that. You can’t. I was going to tell you —”

  “When?”

  He raised a finger, turned his head. “I hear someone outside.”

  How could he hear anything over Brazos? The dog was going ballistic.

  Kieren brushed past me. “Stay with Meghan.”

  “Wait!” I called.

  But he was gone. It was amazing how fast he could move.

  I jogged down the hall to check on the cub.

  Meghan was curled up in her wicker bedroom, her white sheets and waffle-weave blanket kicked off. I pulled one sheet over her, swept curly bangs from her warm forehead, turned on her ceiling fan. It wasn’t a fever. Werepeople had a higher body temperature than humans, most of the mammals anyway.

  Meghan twisted, nostrils flaring, settling deeper into sleep. My familiar scent had reassured her. She pulled Otto, her toy white rabbit, closer to her chest. For just a moment, it reminded me of the wolf documentary I’d seen the night of Vaggio’s murder. The blood-covered muzzle, raw chunks of prey. Then I noticed Meghan’s collection of Barbie dolls, lined up on a shelf. Not one in need of electrolysis.

  After five minutes or so, Brazos quieted, and I decided it couldn’t hurt to peek outside. I couldn’t see anything from the upstairs windows, though, so I crept downstairs and opened the front door.

  Kieren and Brazos looked alike in posture, poised on the front step, their noses to the wind. “Male,” Kieren said. “Smelled like some kind of spice. Gone now, I think.”

  On more than one occasion, Kieren had confided to me that being half human meant that his senses weren’t quite Wolf-sharp, or at least not as sharp as his mama’s. I looked around, trying to see, smell for myself. Heat, humidity, somebody barbecuing. Meghan’s tire swing flew in the wind.

  “Or maybe it was a she . . . ?” Kieren trailed off. “Or a Cat?”

  “A cat?” I asked.

  “Dogs and Cats don’t get along.”

  Hiring staff had been a no-brainer, already handled for the most part before Vaggio’s death. The vast majority — the pastry team, prep and line cooks, bartenders, servers, and busers — had worked here when it was generic Italian and fang-free.

  In strategic makeup and the retro Euro duds Uncle Davidson had bought at All the World’s a Stage, every last one could entice the soul from B. B. King or lure Elvis back into the building.

  All Uncle D needed them to do was hock food and liquor. Trouble was, with no chef, neither food nor liquor had been lined up for the hocking.

  Uncle Davidson’s monitoring of incoming applications had revealed that hardly anyone viable wanted to replace Vaggio while his killer was still at large.

  I took a breath and held it until I felt the burn. At the moment, Kieren and the headlines kept talking about vampires. From the questions Detective Bartok had asked me, it seemed like the cops suspected a shifter, which didn’t necessarily mean they were ruling anyone or anything out. It could’ve been a human, playing on prejudice against werepeople. It could’ve been anybody. Nobody knew yet what had happened.

  At the back door to the restaurant, the same one the murderer likely used, that thought prompted me to glance over each shoulder, keys clenched tight in my fist, their jagged and pointy metal bodies sticking out like claws from between my curled fingers.

  That Friday night, the parking lot was full of pickups, sports cars, two rather cute side-by-side purple PT Cruisers, and a red VW bug painted with black polka dots whose owners had all ignored the Sanguini’s PARKING ONLY sign.

  At the tiny turquoise-and-pink cottage on the nearest cross street, two men — longtime neighborhood hippies — sat in rocking chairs, smoking weed on their front porch, jamming to classic Willie Nelson and the tinkle of wind chimes. I could hear their voices, but not what they were saying. Could they be inhuman? Could they be talking about me?

  A German shepherd — bigger than Brazos — lay curled on the walk leading to their entry stairs, his jaws open and panting. Was he really a dog? I wondered. Was that what Kieren would look like if he could fully shift?

  Half past 8 P.M. seemed safe in theory, but . . .

  No matter. I’d volunteered to get into the office to register at every single help-wanted website on the Internet. The pay kind that supposedly would get results Uncle Davidson’s freebies hadn’t. I couldn’t do it at home. I’d left both my day planner and my laptop in the office. That’s where I normally did my homework and my work work.

  I had considered waiting until the next day. But it was already Friday, August 16, counting down fast to Friday, September 13’s debut party, and if that wasn’t bad enough, this Monday would be the first day of school. Best to get in the queue ASAP.

  I jammed the oversize key into the lock, and the force pushed the door open a crack. Unlocked, I realized. Light on. A radio piped out Eartha Kitt at top volume.

  Still standing on the outside step, I swallowed hard, thought fast. Uncle Davidson had the one other key, and he’d left home over three hours ago to take Ruby to a Death Jam concert in San Antonio.

  Still, someone was in the kitchen.

  I inched the door closed, maneuvering the knob to mute the latch as it slid back into place. Then, barrier restored, I exhaled, and that’s when the huge, f
ilthy hand landed on my shoulder and squeezed.

  With a yelp, I jumped aside, revealing a sixty plus man, tanned skin, gaunt and scabby, tobacco seeding his left jawline, peering at me with blue eyes that twinkled like Santa’s. He was carrying a hand-lettered, dirty cardboard sign. It read:

  “Mitch!” I whispered, checking the door. “God, don’t sneak up on people!”

  “Quincie, Quincie, I, I, sweetie pie, I was just seeing if you needed a hand.”

  Mitch and I looked after each other. Had for years.

  “S’okay,” I said, filling him in on what I’d discovered as we both sneaked next door. “Did you see anybody?”

  “No, nope, didn’t see. Been down at the hike-and-bike trail, watching the ducks swim, swimming ducks, on the lake. Swans, too! It sparkled, sparkled so nice today, that lake did. Came on back up the hill. Sor, Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m calling the cops.”

  “Then I gotta go, if you’ll be, if you’re gonna be —”

  “I’ll be fine.” Truth was, I wished he’d stick around until the police got there, but it seemed selfish to ask. “You go ahead.”

  Mitch and area law enforcement had a mixed relationship at best, not that I’d ever asked for details. He’d haunted the neighborhood my whole life, sometimes bumming change or a sandwich, sometimes joining me as I walked to school or work. Mitch was a local institution, a frequent write-in candidate for mayor. People liked him and his ever-changing signs. I liked him, too — his dentally challenged smile and easygoing attitude. As had Vaggio, who’d fed him on more nights than not.

  I pulled my cell phone from my purse. The charge was low, but it connected. I speed-dialed 911, and crouched behind the prickly pear cacti dividing Sanguini’s parking lot from the one behind the Tex-Mex restaurant next door.

  Despite ongoing farewells, Mitch lingered. Too loyal to bail. Tugging on the cuff of his flannel PJ bottoms, I urged him to hide beside me.

  The police kept me on the line, answering questions, making it clear I was to vacate the area. I didn’t.

  They sent two squad cars, lights off, no sirens, one officer per sedan. Neither much older than me. I stayed still, waiting to see what would happen next.

  Mitch hovered until they entered the building. “I’m going, gotta go, go.”

  “Go ahead,” I whispered as Mitch began to creep away. “And by the way,” I raised my voice, “good luck with the new sign.”

  He grinned, using it to wave good-bye, straightening to march to the sidewalk and plead his case to passersby.

  Seconds later, the cops were escorting a skinny, cowpoke-looking guy out of the kitchen door to the back lot.

  “Fellas, I’m telling you,” he was saying in the kind of tone used to talk the suicidal off bridges, “I work here. A Mr. Davidson Morris hired me this morning. He gave me the keys, said we needed a new menu yesterday, and took off with his girlfriend to a concert in San Antonio. I thought I’d come in and get the feel of the place, start playing with the appliances . . .”

  Oh, oh, oh no, I thought, relieved Vaggio’s killer hadn’t been lurking in Sanguini’s kitchen, surprised Uncle D had neglected to tell me he’d finally managed to hire a chef, embarrassed I’d called the cops for nothing. None of which was an excuse for letting APD grill the guy or, worse, haul him away.

  “Wait!” I called, bounding out of my hiding place, catching my leg on a cactus needle, drawing a thin line of blood. “Officers?”

  The cuter of the two paused. “Stay back. This is police business.”

  “I’m Quincie Morris, the one who called 911. That man he just mentioned, Davidson Morris, is my uncle.” Breathing hard, I slowed to a stop in front of them on the asphalt lot. “I’m sorry about the false alarm. I didn’t know about Mr., uh, Mr. —”

  “Johnson, Henry Johnson,” the detainee pitched in.

  After the police left, I gave my full attention to the new guy. His fair hair, widow’s peak, gangly limbs, and western shirt. No more than twenty-two or three. I could hardly believe Uncle D had chosen such a young chef. We were desperate, but so much was at stake. It was a good thing my uncle had assigned me to keep an eye on him.

  Johnson smiled, and I noticed the teeth. They were pointed, all of them.

  “What the hell?” I asked.

  “I almost forgot,” Johnson replied with a horsey chuckle. “No wonder the coppers kept staring at me like that.” He lifted out pointy wax teeth to reveal his real, regularly shaped lower set. “I was playing with these when the police showed up. What do you think?” He raised one bent elbow as if to cover all but his hazel eyes with an imaginary cape. “I vant to suck your blood.”

  “It’s a little much,” I said, laughing. “How’s your cooking?”

  “If you’d like to join me inside,” he offered, “I’d be happy to show you.”

  I considered it, but I was still skittish about being in the kitchen and not quite ready yet to deal with Johnson one-on-one.

  “Let’s meet back here tomorrow morning,” I said. “You, me, and my uncle D.”

  “Sounds swell,” Johnson replied.

  Uncle D shut the front door of the house behind us.

  “Lock it,” I urged.

  “Oh, sure.” As he reached into his pants pocket for the keys, his cell trilled.

  I crossed my arms in the bright sunshine as my uncle took the call.

  “Uh,” he said into the phone. “Hang on.” Uncle D put his hand over it and yawned. “It’s Ruby. Can you give us a few minutes?”

  Uncle D had shown up at home from his date with Ruby after 4 A.M. that morning, too mellowed on artificial substances to appreciate what I’d had to say about Johnson and my call to 911. A mere five hours later, his squinty, bloodshot eyes suggested he’d seen enough Death Jam for a while.

  “We’re going to be late,” I said.

  “Well, how ’bout this: you go ahead on foot. I’ll take the car and beat you there. How does that sound?”

  “Fine.” I could only hope he and Ruby were in the midst of some kind of melodrama that would lead to a permanent breakup.

  It’s not like Uncle D had always been like this. He’d graduated with honors in poli sci from Texas State. But this past year he’d been more and more absent, wild. At work, he was usually his old self, but whatever. It was probably all Ruby’s fault.

  Making my way through the neighborhood, down the hill, up South Congress, I felt hyperaware of each passing stranger — a mom pushing a stroller of twins on the sidewalk, the neighborhood locals and tourists reading newspapers at the outdoor coffee shop, the gardening crew at the Unitarian church, the cops in the passing patrol car. I’d always paid attention when I walked, but not with this kind of intensity. Not as though anyone might be a killer.

  I reminded myself that I couldn’t let what happened to Vaggio change my whole life, that the street was busy, populated, and that at seventeen, I was practically a woman.

  I let myself in the back door of Sanguini’s, peeking into the kitchen first before stepping in. No Uncle D, and his convertible wasn’t in the back lot yet either.

  I heard a car pull in behind me and turned in the doorway to spot Johnson parking. He’d arrived at Sanguini’s armed with an open box containing Calphalon cleaner, a tin of paprika, a small bottle of canola oil, and a collection of wooden forks, spoons, ladles, and spatulas. He was a few minutes early.

  “Black cherry utensils,” he said at the back step. “Very pathogen-resistant.”

  I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed with his vigilance against salmonella or insulted by his implication about the cleanliness of Vaggio’s kitchen. Then I remembered it had been last scrubbed by a private service recommended by APD’s victim services counselor.

  “Miss Morris?” Johnson asked.

  The neighboring shops had opened minutes earlier. To the south, a few beat-up employee vehicles cluttered the lot next door. To the north, the lot was empty. On our property, one car had been parked betwe
en the lines in the first row, Johnson’s beige SUV. I was being rude, not letting him in, but new hire or not, he was a stranger.

  “I know what’s wrong.” Johnson handed me the box, plucking two spoons and holding them like a cross in front of his heart. “This is a ‘vampire’ restaurant. Aren’t you going to say it?” His smile revealed classic fangs, which looked silly with his rodeo T-shirt and faded Wranglers. “Uh-hem.”

  “Huh?” I replied, no idea what he was talking about, trying to dredge up an inoffensive way to say I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of the two of us alone together.

  “Enter freely and of your own vill,” he intoned. “Not,” he went on conversationally, “that public places require an invitation, but just for fun.”

  And that was when Uncle D swung his yellow 1970 Cutlass convertible, also known as “The Banana,” into the parking lot. Top down, in sorry need of a wash.

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Come on into the air conditioning.” I called “Hey,” to Uncle Davidson, whose returning wave looked weak. At least he was off the phone.

  Turning on my sandal heel, I led the two men into what had been Vaggio’s dream kitchen and dumped the box on the brushed stainless countertop, which was littered with more wooden kitchen utensils. Black cherry, no doubt, and crusty from food prep.

  I peered into the stockpot filled with a watery mess of congealed rigatoni and the saucepan laden with rock-solid marinara. In addition to being disgusting, it spoke little of the new chef’s creative zeal. To his credit, though, Johnson immediately picked up the pot and headed toward the sink to dump it out.

  “Quincie, honey,” Uncle D began. “You two can make nice while I go lie down in the break room. My head’s killing —”

  “No,” I said. It was too soon for one of us to be in the break room while the other was in the kitchen with someone new. “I mean, why don’t you two haul in the recliner?”

  My uncle slung an arm around me, misunderstanding my anxiety as pissed-offness. “Sorry about last night.”

  With a sigh, I shrugged him off and fetched a bottle of orange Gatorade from the fridge. “Rehydrate,” I suggested.