Campari Crimson

by Traci Andrighetti

  The line went dead, and I nestled into the fluffy white chair. Even if a Native American Indian shaman led our powwow, he couldn’t heal us from the damage Nonna would inflict.

  The door opened, and a petite brunette in her early fifties glided into the office. She was pretty, possibly of Japanese origin, and well put together. Her skirt and blouse matched the cherry blossom paintings and green walls.

  “Sorry for the delay. We had an issue with a shipment.” She rested her hand on my shoulder. “Could I get you some mineral water or a protein shake?”

  After dropping David by the office, I’d had a late breakfast—and an early lunch. “Thanks, but I overdid it on the Bywater Bakery’s Halloween king cake.”

  “Then you need some nutrients.” She tapped her smooth cheek. “They help the skin stay young.” She pressed a button on her phone. “A green juice, please.”

  Linda didn’t take no for an answer.

  She folded her hands on her desk. Even her rings matched the office decor. “Isn’t it terrible what happened to Gregg? Before we went to Molly’s for a cocktail break, I told him he should find a nice girl and settle down. And then he started talking to that vampire.”

  “You saw him talk to Raven?”

  Her face drooped from disappointment. “The whole time we were at the bar.”

  “Was she wearing a Mardi Gras boa, by chance?”

  She nodded. “A man was selling them in front of the Ursuline convent, where our tour met. My girlfriend Belinda thought it was weird that a vampire would wear one.”

  “Belinda?” Pam said that Linda’s friend had canceled. “Could I get her full name and contact information?”

  “Sure, but she left before the tour started.” Linda wrote Belinda Baca and a phone number on a pink Post-It. “This was her first trip to the city, and when she saw that convent in the moonlight, she chickened out and went back to her hotel.”

  I couldn’t blame the woman. Convents were scary enough during the day, never mind at night in New Orleans. “Were you or anyone else on the tour or in the bar wearing a boa?”

  “Not that I saw.” She touched her blouse. “I never wear the cheap ones because they shed.”

  Raven must have been the woman Thomas identified. But even though she’d lied about talking to Gregg, I wasn’t ready to convict her of his killing. She could’ve been too frightened to confess to the conversation.

  A blonde with big blue eyes entered and handed me a glass.

  “Thank you, Christine.” Linda looked pleased.

  To be polite, I took a sip. The juice tasted like dirt and iron. “Mm.”

  Christine left the room, and I ditched the glass on the desk. “So, I was wondering whether Campari Crimson means anything to you?”

  Linda toyed with her necklace and stared at the Zen garden. “I told Detective Sullivan that it must be a mixed drink. What else could it be?”

  I shrugged. “I wish I knew.”

  The corners of her mouth sagged. “If Gregg had listened to my advice, he’d still be alive. Instead, he went for the bad girl and got himself killed.”

  “You think Raven did it?”

  Her almond eyes widened. “Since his blood was drained, it had to be her.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Well, I don’t know her personally, but I know of her. She worked at a retirement home called Belleville House.”

  The revelation hit my stomach with a thud. Or maybe it was the fiber in the green juice. “That’s odd, because their director was on the tour, and he didn’t mention that when I interviewed him.”

  Linda didn’t appear surprised. “Maybe he had professional reasons. But until about six months ago, she worked there as a nurse.”

  Another thud. And another oxymoron. Raven hadn’t mentioned a healthcare career. And how would a vampire get a nursing job, anyway? “How do you know she worked there?”

  “We market our products to a few doctors who have patients at Belleville, and their staff told me about her. Doctors’ offices can be gossipy, but when three different sets of employees tell the same story, I listen.”

  I wanted to listen too, but she wouldn’t get to the point. “What is the story?”

  “Raven was fired. And rumors started going around.” Linda leaned forward, and I saw concern in her eyes. “Blood bags were missing. And they were the same type that was stolen in Metairie, B Positive.”

  I was breathless, as though my blood had stopped carrying oxygen. It looked like Raven had also lied about being a psychic feeder, unless she’d stolen the blood for someone else.

  But either way, if she’d stolen bags of blood, then she could have stolen it from the elderly gentleman who’d died at Belleville—and from Gregg too. Which meant that I needed to find out their blood types—and fast.

  Because a vampire would need to feed again.

  9

  The young officer’s gaze swept me like a bug detector from behind the counter. “You’re that PI lady who stripped.”

  My lips flattened. I should’ve expected to be ID’ed for my striptease. I was at the Criminal Investigations Division. “Good memory.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t at Madame Moiselle’s that night. But everyone at the station still talks about how Detective Sullivan tipped you a fiver for doing a crab walk.”

  If only I had pinchers. “Is he around?”

  “Behind you, Amato.” Sullivan’s drawl crawled up my back and caressed the nape of my neck.

  Without thinking, I leaned backward. Then a police siren yelped in my head. Why had I reacted like that? I turned, hoping he hadn’t noticed my body’s betrayal.

  Sullivan’s eyes were alight with laughter. “Couldn’t stay away?”

  Apparently, he had noticed. I tightened my grip on my bag, hoping to get a better grip on myself. “Don’t get excited. I came to talk to you about the case.”

  “Let’s go to my office. I was about to have a late lunch.”

  I followed him down a hallway, and he ushered me inside a stark white room. A diploma from Notre Dame and numerous awards adorned the walls, but no family or friend photos. Six months before I would’ve blamed the professional décor on his all-work-no-play personality, but after Anthony’s revelation, I blamed it on his divorce. Because, as I’d been finding out, the detective was definitely the type to mix business with pleasure.

  “Have a seat.” He pulled out a chair.

  I sat quickly, way too aware of his powerful presence behind me.

  He settled in at his desk and shot a rapid-fire glance in my direction.

  An air-raid siren wailed. Wesley Sullivan was nervous. Danger was imminent.

  “Care to join me?” He removed the lid from a jumbo Tupperware container. “There’s enough here for the whole Homicide Section.”

  A garlic-and-wine aroma beckoned to my DNA, but breaking bread with Sullivan seemed like cheating on Bradley, especially in light of the arancini affair. “I’ve eaten, thanks. Did my assistant drop off the wine bottle?”

  “It’s already at the lab.” He chuckled and pulled a paper plate from a desk drawer. “Carmela told me what happened with Anthony.”

  I overlooked his first-name basis with my nonna in favor of a more pressing problem. “You talked to her today?”

  “When she dropped this off.” He spooned food onto the plate.

  Spaghetti and chicken breasts. Al limone.

  My mouth puckered. Nonna was planting lemon tradition seeds in hopes that they would sprout—into a proposal from Wesley, not Bradley.

  “Anyway, my contact at the lab is putting a rush on the tests, so I should have the results in a few days.” Sullivan filled his fork with noodles. “But she said it didn’t appear to contain blood.”

  Anthony would be relieved, which was why I planned to wait to give him the news. “So, Josh was just hoarding wine like his vampire count crush?”

  He swallowed and smirked. “The kid is twenty-six. But he’s still on my suspect list.”


  He was still on mine too. “What about Raven and her firing from Belleville?”

  “She denies stealing any blood. And before you ask, I know about the old man, and she denies that as well.” He lowered his fork. “You know, this meal is exquisite. Would you like a bite?”

  “Uh, I’ve had it.” My tone was as sour as the sliced lemon on the chicken, which I wanted to knock from his desk. But I didn’t want to jeopardize the new spirit of cooperation between us. Sullivan’s insight and information could help me solve the case. “And you believe Raven?”

  “She doesn’t strike me as a liar, but we’re digging around in her background. The problem is that no police reports were filed on either incident, so it’s going to take time.”

  I wasn’t surprised the crimes hadn’t been reported. Corruption seemed rampant at the retirement home. “I’d be willing to believe Mr. Van Scyoc had something to do with the missing blood.”

  “Yeah, there’s something not right about that guy. But he doesn’t have a record, and he had a business incentive to keep the offenses quiet.”

  True, but I didn’t think Belleville’s income was his sole incentive. “Were you able to verify the blood types in either incident?”

  “Both B Positive. But Mr. Charalambous had O Positive.”

  My B Positive blood began to race. “O Positive can donate to B Positive. So there could be a link to the blood bank break-ins.”

  Sullivan stared at me interrogator style. “You’re a good investigator. You know that?”

  I flushed at the compliment. Another betrayal by my traitorous body.

  He smiled and refilled his fork. “Now I insist you try this spaghetti.”

  I opened my mouth to refuse, and he shoved a forkful inside. Olive oil dribbled down my chin.

  He wiped away the oil with his napkin.

  Our eyes met, and I froze with spaghetti dangling from my lips.

  His gaze was sincere, soft, sexy.

  Sexy? A tornado siren sounded as a twister churned in my chest.

  I pulled away.

  Hurt flickered across his brow. Then he reclined in his chair and laid a lazy grin on me. “I was just telling Bradley that I could see why he’s so into you.”

  “When—” I choked on the spaghetti.

  “Easy, Amato. You’ll ruin your digestion.” He patted my back. “Your roaming Romeo called when I was at your place for dinner.”

  I ignored the jab at my boyfriend and mentally jabbed myself. I was sure Bradley had tried me at home because I hadn’t returned his call to my cell. And I didn’t want him calling the house with Nonna on the prowl. And Sullivan too. “What were you doing answering my phone?”

  “What your nonna told me to do.” He stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork. “She was busy in the kitchen, and she’d sent Anthony to the bathroom to fix his hair.”

  An advanced tactical maneuver from her meddling manual. Distract dim-witted grandson so targeted suitor can do your wedding bidding.

  “Look, Wesley…we need to talk.”

  His face darkened, and I was sure he anticipated my impending rejection.

  The door opened with such force that it blew my hair.

  A ginger-haired officer aimed eyes as intense as gun barrels at the detective. “We’ve got to go. ASAP.”

  The Charalambous case? My gaze sought Sullivan’s.

  But he wouldn’t look at me.

  He rose and strode from the room.

  Outside Thibodeaux’s, I turned my back to the cemetery and dialed Bradley’s number. Maybe it was me but discussing a wounded relationship while staring at a graveyard seemed like a bad omen.

  The phone picked up, and so did my stomach.

  This is Bradley Hartmann.

  My stomach dropped. Voicemail. Again.

  I’m away on business until the 9th, but please leave a message and I’ll return your call promptly.

  The tone beeped, and I tapped End, another less-than-positive sign.

  Bradley might’ve been returning other people’s calls promptly, but not mine. I’d left him three messages in as many hours.

  With a sigh, I went back inside the tavern and headed for the bar.

  Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising” blared on the stereo. I’d forgotten about the blood moon, and I didn’t appreciate the reminder. Foreboding omen number three.

  “He’s still not answering.” I sat on the stool next to Veronica.

  “I ordered you a Candy Corn in honor of Halloween.” She slid the Galliano and Arancello cocktail in front of me. “It’s only six o’clock in New York, so he’s probably still working. But before he calls, you need to contact Wesley and tell him you’re not interested.”

  My body tensed like I’d been found out. Why had it done that? Sullivan was attractive, but that didn’t mean I was interested. Did it? No, I was just tired from lack of sleep. And from the energy-draining vampires in my life.

  “Franki?” Veronica’s gaze bore into my brain. Like a tendril. “You’re not interested, are you?”

  “How could you ask me that?” sprung from my mouth, which had skillfully avoided her question.

  “Well, he is really handsome.” She glanced at the celebrity gossip show on the TV above the bar. “Anyway, I suggest you be firm when you talk to him, because he doesn’t strike me as the type to accept defeat.”

  Didn’t I know it. Sullivan was a fighting Irishman, and he had the Notre Dame diploma to prove it. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Okay, then.” Her voice was as bright and bubbly as her pink Prosecco. “How’s it going at home?”

  I gave her a voodoo-stickpin stare.

  “Let’s try work. Where are you with the case?”

  “I’ve interviewed everyone except that family from Utah and Linda’s friend. But right now I’m focusing on Thomas and Raven. Neither mentioned knowing the other or the incidents at Belleville.”

  Veronica’s mouth twisted to the side. “My guess is that there’s a settlement preventing them from talking. But I couldn’t find any record of one at the courthouse.”

  I sucked down some Candy Corn. “They didn’t involve the police, so maybe they cut out the attorneys too.”

  “It’s not uncommon.” She straightened the bow on her blouse. “Can you imagine how damaging it would’ve been if the man’s death had gone public? I’m sure Belleville paid out quite a sum to keep it quiet.”

  “That’s what Lou said.” I chewed my drink straw. “I just wonder if the real culprit was identified. Raven denied any involvement to Sullivan, and I have my suspicions about Thomas.”

  “In the Charalambous case as well?”

  “Definitely. But I also suspect anyone else who had the strength to overpower and hang Gregg—like his frat brothers and Josh.”

  Her eyebrows twerked. “What about Raven? Or Linda?”

  “Linda’s only about five foot one, and Raven’s not much taller, so I don’t see how either of them could have done it. Unless the stereotype about vampires having superhuman strength is true—in which case, I’d have to go with Raven.”

  “Don’t underestimate the power of a woman, Miss Franki,” Glenda drawled at my back. “I’ve met some who can work a pole one-handed.”

  I thought of Raven’s yoga pants. If she was a practicing yogini, then she might’ve been strong enough to put Gregg on that hook.

  “Oh my gosh, Glenda.” Veronica squealed with delight. “You look so Victorian Vixen.”

  Despite my better judgment, I spun on my stool. Glenda wore a tiny corset on each breast, a G-string, and thigh-high stockings that laced up the back with red ribbon. “Mm, it’s more Victorian Vampire…Stripper.”

  Phillip the bartender delivered a plate of eggplant fries to Veronica and tossed a coaster in front of Glenda. “My friend Lisa’s a vampire.”

  Every time he spoke, I imagined Jeff Spicoli in Fast Times at Ridgemont High falling from a van in a cloud of pot smoke. “You say that like it’s normal.
”

  Glenda rested her corsets on the counter. “Vampires are people too. And as long as they’re not hurting anyone, I don’t have a problem with it.”

  “Call me crazy,” I said, “but isn’t biting someone and draining their blood the definition of hurting them?”

  Phillip shook dishwater-blond bangs from his cheeks. “Lisa’s not doing it to be mean, man. It helps with her fibromyalgia.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “She says a lot of vampires have it.” He placed a flute of champagne in front of Glenda. “Vampirism is an affliction. Their bodies don’t produce enough energy. Drinking blood makes them feel energized.”

  I suffered from low energy too, but I preferred coffee. Nevertheless, I was intrigued by the news. Raven hadn’t mentioned a medical component to vampirism, and I hadn’t thought to look for one.

  Glenda raised her glass. “Let’s move to a table for our powwow, shall we?”

  I grimaced and rose from my stool. I’d already been dreading the meeting, but after seeing her corsets I had a feeling she was going to hold court.

  We settled into a booth overlooking the street.

  “Now let’s get down and dirty.” Glenda shot me a regal stare. “When we first met I told you The Visitor Policy—female tenants aren’t allowed to have more than two male friends spend the night at one time—”

  “Because you’ve got a reputation to protect, and you don’t want people thinking you rent to whores,” I parroted.

  “If the Lilliputians try to tie me up again, I’m going to have to amend that policy. Miss Ronnie will confirm that it’s within my legal rights as your landlady.”

  Veronica nodded. “She put a proviso in the rental agreement.”

  “I’ve got nothing against little people, sugar, but those Sicilians are sneaky suckers. I can take one or two, but any more than that and they get my hands behind me. And frankly, I have to question their moral character.”

  My head tipped forward. “You’re talking about the elderly Catholic women who hang out with clergy?”

  Glenda sipped champagne. “The Bible says Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain, and yet the nonne drop Oddio’s and Dio mio’s like Dulcolax.”