“The pay is great, and I get to lay around all day.”
I had no doubt about that, or about the fact that the frat was going to stay suspended. “Listen, I’m investigating a case, and I need to talk to the person who reported Mr. Charalambous missing.”
She tried to put a hand to her cheek but missed. “Someone stole our scotch? I’d better call the cops.”
“Uh, one of your sons already did.” I didn’t correct her on the scotch issue because Charalambous did sound similar to Chivas. “Can you ask one of the guys inside who made the call?”
“Wait here. I can’t let you inside on account o’ I have to protect my boys.” She slammed the door, and I closed my eyes and nose to shield myself from the odor onslaught.
A car passed with music blaring, and I turned and surveyed the multi-million-dollar homes glowing in the golden streetlight of St. Charles Avenue. I was no expert in architecture, but even I could spot several styles, Spanish, Italianate, Gothic, which raised two questions. Was Phil right that the killer had matched the style of the tomb to his victim? And if so, why?
I leaned against a twenty-five-foot-plus column, and another question popped into my head. How was it possible that a bunch of college students lived in an estate in the Garden District, while I lived in a rundown fourplex near the university?
The door opened.
A bored-looking frat boy appeared with a joystick. He wore the standard “frattire,” a backwards baseball cap, pink polo shirt with a turned-up collar, belted khaki shorts, and boat shoes. “Yeah?”
“Are you the individual who reported Gregg Charalambous missing?”
“No.”
Great. The talkative type. “And your name is?”
His lids lowered. “Craig.”
Clearly, I wasn’t going to get an invite inside, but from the way it smelled, that was fine. “Can you please tell me who contacted the police about Gregg?”
He turned his head. “Yo, Dom. Door.”
A dark-haired male in a New England Patriots T-shirt and jeans strutted over with a bag of Cheetos and a set of chopsticks.
Craig gave Dom a hard stare. “What are you doing?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t want to get my hands dirty.”
If this guy was a neat freak, he’d picked the wrong kind of organization to associate with.
Craig widened his eyes at his finicky frat brother. “This investigator wants to know why you called the cops about Gregg.”
“Oh, uh…” Dom gazed at the manicured lawn rather than at me. “On Saturday night, Craig and I went with him on one of those French Quarter walking tours to get ideas for our Halloween party, and he never made it home.”
I pulled a pen and notepad from my bag. “Do you happen to know Gregg’s address?”
“On the couch by the stairs.” Dom gestured behind him.
“He lived here?” I tried to see inside, but neither one of them moved aside. And I wondered what they were trying to hide.
Craig tightened his grip on the door handle. “Moved in his senior year.”
If Gregg had been the age of most seniors when he moved in, that would’ve been eighteen years before. “But you have to be in school to live in a frat house.”
Dom gave an I-know nod. “He was.”
I would never again feel guilty for taking five years to graduate. “What made you think he was missing and not at a friend’s house?”
“He didn’t show up on Sunday to make the mold for the ice luge, and he knew how important that was to the frat.”
“What for?”
Craig’s head retracted to emphasize his smirk. “Uh, for the party?”
And I’d thought jack-o’-lanterns were the Halloween must-have. “What can you tell me about Gregg?”
Their faces were as blank as uncarved pumpkins.
I stifled a sigh. “You know, personality, likes, dislikes?”
Dom’s face tightened in concentration. “He played the kazoo.”
In my opinion, that alone was enough to get the guy offed. “Did he have enemies?”
Craig burped. “Every woman he ever dated.”
“Could you give me their names?”
Dom scratched his head. “I don’t even think Gregg knew them.”
The more I heard about the guy, the more I questioned whether he had been murdered by a vampire. From the sound of things, the killer could’ve been an ex out for blood. “Did he have any family?”
“Delta Upsilon Delta.” Craig’s tone signaled the end of the discussion.
They didn’t know much about Gregg. Or, that was what they wanted me to believe. “Just a few more questions. Does the phrase Campari Crimson mean anything to you?”
Dom squinted. “Sounds like a drink.”
Of course a frat boy would think that. “When was the last time you saw him?”
Craig squared his stance. “At Molly’s on Decatur. The tour we were on stops there for a drink break.”
“What company did you use?”
He adjusted his cap. “Where Dat Tours.”
I jotted down the name. “Which one? Ghosts and Goblins?”
Dom frowned as though he regretted what he was about to say. “Vampires and Victims.”
“You’re being ridiculous, Franki,” I said as I peered at Thibodeaux’s from the rearview mirror of my Mustang in my driveway. It was hard to see through the thick rain, but I could make out a few people inside. After all, it was only ten p.m.
And yet my gut told me to stay in the car.
I looked again at Veronica and Glenda’s apartments.
Darkness.
No signs of life.
I glared at myself in the mirror. “Okay, that was melodramatic even for you. They’re just out somewhere. Now get out yourself and let Napoleon out.”
I threw open the car door and dashed from the driveway to the porch, wishing I’d turned on the outside light.
As I fumbled to get my key into the lock, water dribbled down my neck, reminding me of blood.
And vampires.
And victims.
I spun around and surveyed the cemetery. After seeing the gruesome photos of the crime scene, the caped figure weighed on my mind, as did Phil’s meat cleaver. And salami.
Thunder boomed, startling me from my thoughts.
I turned back to the door.
Lightning lit up the sky.
And the Bride of Frankenstein in my doorway.
I screamed like the bride when she’d met the monster in Dr. Frankenstein’s lab, and I launched my bag into the air.
A clunk echoed in the night followed by the groan of metal.
Water doused my head with the intensity of a fire hose.
“That’s a fine way to welcome your family.” My mother’s shrill voice sliced into my brain like a dissection kit. “And you broke Glenda’s gutter.”
I sputtered and pulled a cluster of slimy leaves from my eyes.
My mom stood before me wearing a face full of cold cream, a hairnet over her bouffant brown bob, and a 1970s chiffon nightie that could’ve doubled for Lily Munster’s shroud.
One day I would listen to my gut.
I collected my bag from the wet grass and glanced at the driveway, longing to escape and looking for the Ford Taurus. “I didn’t know you were here because I didn’t see your car.”
“Anthony took it.”
“Where?” I brushed past her and entered the apartment. “You just got to town.” I wanted to add, And remarkably quick.
She closed the door. “He said he wanted to go to the French Quarter to start looking for work.”
That explanation was as thin as a sheet of my nonna’s seven-yolk ravioli dough and every bit as rich. Still, the news that he was out alone made me uneasy in light of Chandra’s prediction and what had happened to Gregg. The truth was, I was worried about my brother, which is why I took Josh Santo’s case despite my suspicions about the guy. But I knew better than to tell any of that to my mom. Otherwise
, she would never leave.
I tossed my purse on the floor and kicked off my shoes.
Napoleon lay on his back on the bearskin rug with his paws twitching like he was running in a dream.
I felt betrayed that he’d slept through my scream. “I hope you’re at least running to my rescue in your sleep.”
The twitching stopped.
“Apparently not,” my mother said.
Scowling, I set off for the bath. I entered my bedroom, and a bolt of lightning illuminated the room.
I went rigid as though I’d been struck.
Because I saw a sight more terrifying than the Bride of Frankenstein standing in my doorway—a Bride of Dracula sleeping in my bed.
I stomped into the living room to confront my mother, who was rummaging in her purse on the velvet zebra-print chaise lounge. “You brought Nonna?”
“I had to, Francesca.” She pulled out a tissue and wiped off the cold cream. “Your father needs me at the deli, so I can’t make Anthony’s meals.”
I rested my head in my hands. Sending a surrogate to cook for your thirty-two-year-old slacker son was not conducive to helping him start a new life—or to getting him out of my apartment.
“The good news is that she’ll cook for you too.” My mother adopted the forced cheerful tone she used every time she opened a gift from my father. “And you’ll hardly notice they’re here because you’re never home.”
And I was going to make it a point to be home even less. “They’ve got one month,” I growled. “No more, no less.”
I stormed to the bathroom, grateful that I didn’t have any straight razors, and switched on the light. I looked like Sissy Spacek in Carrie but without the pig’s blood.
Blood.
Why did I have to go there?
I stripped off my wet clothes. Things were tough enough in my personal life, so I couldn’t get carried away about vampires in my work. Bloodsucking zombies did not exist, and I had to stop worrying that they did.
My ringtone sounded from my purse in the entryway, but I needed a soak—and a shot—before I could face my mom again. The call was probably from Bradley, and it would serve him right to wait.
“Detective Sullivan! It’s Brenda Amato. We met in March?”
I bristled at the realization that my mother had rifled through my purse—and that she’d assumed the breathy voice she reserved for attractive men. I threw on my robe and rushed into the entryway.
“Why, yes, Detective.” She fiddled with her hairnet in full-on flirtatious mode. “Franki does sound like me.”
I did not sound like my mother, especially not when she was imitating Marilyn Monroe. Outraged, I did an impersonation of my own—Jack Nicholson’s psychotic stare in The Shining—and grabbed the phone. “Franki here.”
“Brenda adores me.” His normally smug tone smacked of extra smugness. “Like mother, like daughter.”
I sputtered again—without the gutter water.
“I see you’re still overcome by my embrace, but we’ll have to table our relationship talk for another time.” He paused to let the insinuations stew. “I imagine Phil showed you the family photo album?”
“Mm-hm,” was all I managed. My mother was studying me for any signs of emotion, so I couldn’t allow my cool façade to crack.
“Then you understand that we need to keep the puncture wounds between us—and the so-called ‘residents and guests’ of St. Cecilia cemetery.”
I wanted to tell him to drop the cemetery sarcasm, but my mom’s eyes were trained on me like Napoleon’s were when I had human food or a dog treat. “Not a problem.”
“Meanwhile, I suggest you brush up on local legends about vampires.”
“Vampires?” My façade cracked like an old coffin. “Surely you don’t believe in them?”
“Not the undead kind.” He’d gone from smug to spookily serious. “But there are real, live people who drink human blood. And we’ve got a homicidal one on our hands.”
6
“The Times-Picayune mentions the puncture wounds?” I stood before Veronica’s desk holding the Baileys Chocolatini creamer I’d planned to pour into my morning espresso.
“That’s what it says.” She looked at the article. “Someone must’ve leaked it to the press, and you know what that means.”
“Yeah, it could compromise the investigation, and Sullivan’s going to blame me.”
She folded the paper. “No, it’s going to bring all the crazies out.”
I gaped at her. “Who do you think we’ve been dealing with up until now?”
“I know the detective’s got you spooked about this case.” She reclined in her fuchsia chair. “But I can guarantee that you won’t be killed by a vampire.”
“Only because my family’s going to kill me first.” I shook the creamer in lieu of my fist. “I barely slept last night after the shock of my mother and the gutter. And she cleared out at three a.m. when Anthony blew in. Then I kept getting woken up by thunder.”
“I didn’t hear any thunder.”
“That’s because it was only in my apartment, i.e., Napoleon and Anthony’s snoring and Nonna in the bathroom.”
She grinned and rose to her feet. “Why’d your mom leave so early?”
“Her official line was that she had to get to the deli by eight,” I said, following her to the kitchenette. “But she really wanted to clear out before Anthony or Nonna had time to decide to go back to Houston with her.”
“Ah.” She poured some French Press. “What about Bradley? Have you talked to him?”
“Not since the phone call fiasco at the cemetery.” I leaned against the doorjamb. “But that’s probably a good thing. You know how worried he gets about my homicide investigations, and I don’t relish the idea of telling him that this one involves a vampire. And Chandra.”
“Not to mention frat boys.” She swallowed a sip of coffee. “Which reminds me, since Glenda and Carnie know Maybe Baby, we should have them ask her about Delta Upsilon Delta.”
“Don’t mess with me when I’m on edge, Veronica.” I blocked the doorway, prepared to do battle. “Glenda and Carnie suck the lifeblood out of me, and given the nature of this case, I don’t have any to spare.” I punched the double option on our new espresso machine for emphasis. “Besides, I told you about Maybe. Do you really think she’s going to be able to tell anyone what those boys are up to?”
“Valid argument, the latter not the former.” She took a seat at the table. “So what do you suggest?”
“David and the vassal are in a frat, even if it is for computer science, so we have them find out what the DUDs are hiding.”
“That could get complicated, and we don’t actually know that they’re hiding anything. Maybe they didn’t invite you inside because they’re being cautious after getting suspended.”
“Hiring a stripper house mom seems cautious to you?”
Veronica cocked her head, conceding defeat. “Then you think they’re behind Gregg’s death?”
I opted not to rehash my reservations about Josh. “It’s too early to say.” I pulled my Whole Lotta Latte mug from the machine. “First I need to interview the other people on the Vampires and Victims tour. And I need to figure out what Campari Crimson means.”
“Any ideas besides a mixed drink?”
“Not so far. But why would a guy who’s dying write the name of a drink?”
She lowered her mug. “To tip off the police that it was drugged?”
“But that wouldn’t tell them much in terms of solving the crime, unless the drink is specific to a particular bar. Even then, why not write something more incriminating like the killer’s name?”
“Maybe he didn’t know it.”
“Based on what his fellow DUDs said about him and women, that’s probably the case. But he could’ve been out-of-his-mind drunk too.” I grabbed a teaspoon and stirred in a half-cup of creamer. “Not to stereotype, but to stereotype, he was a frat boy, and he was last seen at a bar.”
/> “I guess we’ll never know. The coroner’s office can’t very well test his blood-alcohol level, can they?”
I dropped the spoon into the sink. “That really could’ve been left unsaid.”
The door buzzer sounded.
Veronica looked at her watch. “Are you expecting a client?”
“No, but I’ll go. Maybe it’s someone with a normal case.” I picked up my mug and headed down the hall, but when I entered the lobby my hopes of normalcy waned.
Chandra sat on one of the couches in a short yellow-orange dress with a wide silver belt that resembled a Hula Hoop encircling the waist, and her big bob had gone totally blonde. Except for her Moon Boots, she looked like Saturn.
“If you came to remind me about Lou’s cooking class tonight, I’m on it.”
“I wish that was the only reason I’ve come.” Her moon pie face turned maudlin. “The spirit told me they found his body at Saint Cecilia Cemetery. He popped in yesterday while I was getting my highlights done, and my stylist was so spooked she spilled the bleach.”
That explained the hair. “Actually, I was contracted by a suspect in his death.”
She gasped and pressed her paddles to her mouth.
My gaze dropped to her charm bracelet, which I willed not to jangle. “If you want to see Lou in that gumbo pot come Mardi Gras, don’t channel the spirit.”
“But he’ll want to talk to you if you’re working his case.”
Ignoring her, I took a sip of my Chocolatini latte and grimaced, not because of what she’d said but because the creamer made the coffee taste like Count Chocula, which wasn’t the flavor I’d been going for.
“Aren’t you going to ask what he said?”
I walked to the reception desk and pretended to check the calendar. “Not even if you pay me quintuple my fee.”
Her head rotated like a planet in the solar system. “But he could help you solve the case. And save your brother.”
In light of my living situation, saving Anthony wasn’t a selling point for the spirit. On the other hand, he’d been my protector since we were kids, and I felt the same protective instinct toward him. “All right, but this had better be worth my time.”
“Oh, it is. And you need to listen anyway because a blood moon is coming.”
Campari Crimson Page 7