Campari Crimson

by Traci Andrighetti

  Next, I flashed a scongiuri at the fourplex, where a FIAT was parked, because it was a telltale sign there were nonne inside. And a midnight gathering of nonne could only mean misfortune.

  The necessary precautions taken, I sprinted to my porch. A new length of gutter that Anthony hadn’t bothered to hang lay on the welcome mat .

  Gritting my teeth, I gripped the door handle and hesitated. The nonne thought unescorted women who stayed out after dark were buttane, the Sicilian word for whores. So I had to forget about my brother and prepare for all inferno to break loose when I entered the house—and in high-heeled boots and red pleather pants.

  Bracing myself for the buttana backlash, I opened the door. But the only blast was from the odor of garlic bread.

  Nonna and her friends Santina and Mary sat in black mourning dress on the chaise lounge clutching rosaries, transfixed by the TV.

  Napoleon, belly up on Santina’s wide lap, rolled his eyes into their sockets and back into his head.

  So much for greeting his owner, returned from the near dead. “Why are you ladies up so late?”

  The nonne started.

  “Oh, Franki.” Nonna looked like she’d been caught stealing from the communion plate. “We’re…watching-a midnight-a mass.”

  Santina and Mary nodded with eyes as big as Hosts.

  I removed my coat and hung it on the rack. “On a Thursday in October?”

  Nonna angled a glance at her friends. “It’s a rerun.”

  I might’ve been a lapsed Catholic, but I could still sniff out a sin. I walked in front of the screen and saw a scene with Lestat and Louis in Interview with a Vampire, which explained the garlic bread. “Gosh, Nonna. I never knew Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt were priests.”

  “It’s a movie about-a midnight-a mass.”

  I turned and shot her the eagle eye. “Led by vampire clergymen?”

  The nonne bowed their heads, but not in prayer.

  “I know you guys want to help with my case, but I’ve got it under control.” That wasn’t entirely true given the coffin mishap, but I wasn’t holding a rosary like they were. “So please, leave the investigating to me.”

  “You got it all-a wrong-a.” Nonna smoothed her skirt. “We’re-a watching this-a movie for the local history.”

  I picked up a copy of The Vampire Combat Manual: A Guide to Fighting the Bloodthirsty Undead. “Is this part of your local history study too?”

  “All-a right, all-a right. We’re-a trying to help.”

  “Well, don’t. PI work is dangerous.”

  “So are vampires.” Mary reached for a piece of garlic bread. “We’ve been doing research to figure out how you can fight them.”

  Santina worked a rosary bead. “Hai bisogno di un esorcista.”

  “I don’t see how an exorcist can help.” Unless he could evict the meddling demon from Italian grandmothers and their friends.

  Nonna clasped her hands. “Talk-a to Father John. Ti prego.”

  Defeated, I dropped the book on the table. I couldn’t say no when she begged. “I’ll go tomorrow if you promise you won’t interfere in the case again.”

  Her face went flat. “I…”

  Santina, Mary, and I tilted our heads.

  “…promise,” Nonna said.

  Of course, her word was suspect after the hesitation—and after she’d tried to pass off Cruise and Pitt as priests—but I had to go with it. “Did Bradley happen to call?”

  She snorted. “You’d-a be more likely to get a call-a from Tom or-a Brad.”

  Even more upsetting than the comment was my suspicion that she was right.

  With a sigh, I went to the kitchen to drown my coffin and relationship sorrows in food. I reached into the fridge and pulled out a bowl of bucatini alla siciliana, thick spaghetti, eggplant, mozzarella, and parmigiano in a garlic-basil tomato sauce.

  As I prepared a plate, I heard Lestat ask to be put in his coffin and my stomach slammed shut.

  “Madonna mia!”

  “Madre santa!”

  “Maria dolcissima!”

  Three invocations of the Virgin signaled a Catholic crisis. I looked in the living room and saw the nonne crossing themselves as though the devil had come to watch the movie with them. My gaze darted to the TV.

  Blood gushed from Lestat’s throat, and that creepy Claudia kid held a knife.

  I told Veronica that vampiress was evil.

  Nonna pressed pause on the remote. “Franki, Lestat drink-a the bad-a blood.”

  Santina’s face was as white as her hair. “Sangue morta.”

  “Dead blood?” I looked at Mary.

  “It’s a scene where Claudia tricks Lestat into drinking blood from dead twins,” she said.

  “Remember that for your case, eh?” Nonna shook her rosary at me. “Blood from-a the dead kill-a the vampires.”

  As though I kept a vial of that lying around.

  “Blood is life,” Mary said. “And it’s good for you. Have you ever eaten blood pasta?”

  I looked at my bucatini and dumped it in the trash. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Sì, pasta al sangue.” Santina gave a curt nod of approval. “È buona.”

  Mary grabbed another slice of garlic bread. “In Trentino-Alto Adige, they make pork blood tagliatelle called blutnudeln.”

  The Northern Italian region bordered Austria and Switzerland, one of which had to be responsible for the deathly dish.

  “It’s made with rye and wheat flour, eggs, and lots of blood.” She bit into the bread with gusto and covered her mouth. “Pig’s blood is so rich in vitamins and minerals that it’s considered a superfood.”

  I’d sooner eat slop from a trough. “I’ll stick to supplements, thanks.”

  Nonna pressed the play button, and Lestat resumed bleeding out.

  I headed for the bathroom to get ready for bed. But I wasn’t thinking about Lestat, the coffin, or the blood. Instead, that pasta recipe had gotten me thinking about Campari again.

  There was something about the ingredients, something I’d overlooked or couldn’t grasp.

  I scrutinized my reflection in the mirror. My skin was sallow. Lifeless. If anyone needed a superfood it was me. But not pig’s blood or any other sanguine concoction.

  And then a thought hit me so hard I sat on the side of the tub.

  Was Campari Crimson a drink made with blood?

  With eyes in ADHD mode, I lay rigor mortis–like on the pallet between my bed and the wall. It was one a.m., and sleep was nowhere in sight. The narrow space again evoked a coffin, and thanks to my recent burial, it seemed especially closed in. But there was no way I’d bunk with Nonna given her Bride of Dracula gown. And nowhere outside my bedroom was safe with my brother in town.

  “Dio mio!”

  I jumped even though the cry had come from Santina in the living room. And I wished the nonne’s Netflix binge-watchathon would end. After Interview with a Vampire, they’d started the sequel, Queen of the Damned. Between their wailing and everything that had happened, from Bradley and Sullivan to the case and the coffin, I related to the title.

  Where was Bradley, and what was he doing besides not calling me? Granted, I hadn’t phoned him back, but I expected him to fight a little harder for my affections. It seemed the least a man in love would do.

  I was disappointed in Sullivan as well. I’d left him a message about my stint in the coffin, and no matter how hurt his feelings were about my rebuff, I expected him to contact me. But so far, my near death hadn’t warranted so much as a text.

  As I ran through my missing persons list, I couldn’t help but think of Craig. Although I hadn’t seen him at the party, I suspected him of trying to do me in. After all, his absence would give him an alibi. He could tell the police he was at his grandma’s instead of putting me in my grave.

  Regardless of whether the coffin-closer was Craig or even Domenic, one of them hadn’t wanted me to live to talk about those hospital beds in The Dungeon. Or those IV and blood bags. B
ut what were they doing with the stuff? Were they drinking it with Campari? Or was I way off base?

  One thing I was sure about, the coffin incident had convinced me that I’d been followed when I left Anthony at Madame Moiselle’s. And if Craig was the culprit, he could target David or the vassal at the frat house.

  I pulled my phone from the nightstand to check on the boys. It rang in my hand. Pam? At this hour?

  I tapped Answer and heard the noise of a crowd. “What’s happening?”

  “The retirement home dude is here.”

  “Thomas?” I sat up. “Where?”

  “On my Vampires and Victims tour, man. Where else?”

  “Why would he take the same tour again?”

  “How should I know, man? Maybe bloodsuckers are his bag.”

  The conversation reminded me of a Cheech and Chong skit I’d seen on YouTube, but without the Maui Wowie. “Reveling in tales of people getting the life drained out of them is a strange bag to have, especially since he was on the tour with Gregg.”

  “Yeah, at first I thought the cat was just square, but he’s hippy dippy looney tunes.”

  There was so much I could say to that it was almost unfair. “Why? What did he do?”

  “We’re on the bar break at Molly’s, and he’s staring at me like a wacked-out weirdo while he sips his red drink.”

  The color caught my attention. In New Orleans, “red drink” usually meant Barq’s Red Crème Soda, but I had to be sure. “He’s not drinking Campari, is he?”

  “Nah, the bartender poured him a soda.”

  Not as alarming, but suspect nevertheless. “Is that frat boy Craig with him by chance?”

  “No, he’s solo. Same as last time.”

  Thomas could be the one to fear instead of Craig, unless…

  Were the two in cahoots? That would explain how the killer had hung Gregg from the hook.

  “Pam, do you have someone to walk you to your car?”

  “My old man’s with me, and our ride is our feet.” Her pitch was in protest mode. “Cars are for capitalists, dig?”

  I sighed. Everything was political these days. “Listen, besides the incidents at the Ursuline Convent, are there any other local legends or incidents about drinking blood that could explain the phrase Campari Crimson?”

  “Well, back in the 1930s John Carter and his brother Wayne liked to unwind from their day laborer jobs with human blood.”

  My throat squeezed shut. “From a glass?”

  “Negative. Straight from the source. A chick who escaped from their pad in the Quarter told the fuzz they’d been sucking blood from her wrists. The fuzz went to investigate and found four others they’d been feeding from tied to chairs and fourteen bodies drained of blood.”

  I lay back and pulled the covers to my neck. “They sound like the real vampires here in New Orleans, except for the dead people part.”

  She stoner-laughed. “It took eight cops to cuff them. And after they were executed for the crimes, people reported seeing them around. A year later, when one of their relatives died, an undertaker discovered that John and Wayne had split from the family vault.”

  “O, Signore!”

  Nonna’s shout sent a shock through my system. If the Catholic caterwauling didn’t stop soon, I’d go to my grave for good.

  “Hey, the bar break’s over. I’ll rap at you later.” Pam hung up before I could get a word in.

  For all her emphasis on peace and love, that hippie was kind of rude.

  I tapped David’s number.

  “Yo,” he answered. “I was about to text you.”

  Thomas Dolby’s “She Blinded Me with Science” played in the background. Songs with academics in the title didn’t strike me as the DUDs’ type of music. “You back at your dorm?”

  “In the car.” His voice was charged with excitement. “Sullivan just showed up at the frat house with five cops and shut the party down.”

  I rose to my feet. “Did something else happen?”

  “He knew about the coffin thing, and he was raging. The dude burst in like Schwarzenegger and ripped off Domenic’s mask. He didn’t confess, but Sullivan knew it was him.”

  My brain told my body not to react, but my heart fluttered nevertheless. I swallowed and shook it off. “Did Craig ever show up?”

  “Not that I saw. But that’s when the cops cleared us out, so I can’t say for sure.”

  I peered through the curtains. Until I knew where Craig was, I planned to stay on heightened alert. “So, change of plans about the Crimson Cotillion. I need you to keep an eye on the frat boys as they party hop the next couple of nights. See if your friend Andrew can help you with that.”

  “But you need someone to go with you. The vassal would do it.”

  I smiled at the memory of my Buffy boyfriend. “I’d rather have the two of you helping me find out what the DUDs are doing with those hospital beds.”

  David was silent for a moment. “Do you think they’re, like, involved in the murders?”

  “This case is so confusing, I have no idea. But based on what happened to me tonight, it would be a grave mistake to put it past them, pun intended.” I sat on the side of the bed and pulled aside a curtain for another check.

  And I dropped the phone on the bed.

  A figure crept past my window, but all I could see was the top of a dark-haired head.

  Craig?

  13

  “David, I’ve got to go.” I pulled my purple Ruger from the nightstand drawer. “There’s a man outside.”

  “Uh, you should call the cops. I’ll try to contact Sullivan.”

  “No, don’t.” My tone came out too terse, but given the detective’s feelings for me, I couldn’t let him come to my rescue. “I can handle this. And don’t forget that I’ve got three Sicilian grandma’s here, and when they’re mad, they’ve each got the strength of Samson and ten vampires. I’ll text you when I know more.”

  I closed the call and looked at my gun. I was in my nightgown, so I stuck it under my arm to hide it from the nonne. I wanted to break the prowler situation to them gently to avoid total chaos.

  Calmly, I entered the living room.

  “Santo cielo!” Santina gesticulated at my side. “Una pistola!”

  I don’t know why I thought I could get anything past a nonna. They were akin to drill sergeants, and all grandchildren in their vicinity were on permanent uniform inspection.

  Nonna clambered from the chaise lounge. “Franki, what’re you up-a to?”

  “Don’t get all agitated,” I said, already knowing the command was futile. “I saw someone outside and—”

  “It’s-a the vampire!” Nonna shuffle-ran to the kitchen.

  Santina and Mary scrambled to their feet. The former held out her rosary cross, the latter a loaf of garlic bread.

  Nonna returned waving her rolling pin. “I club-a him with-a this, and-a we tie him up-a with an apron.”

  For the first time, Glenda’s Lilliputian story made sense.

  The nonne fell in line behind me with their weaponry. In my white gown and their black dresses, we resembled a nun rebellion.

  I pulled out my Ruger and peered through the peephole. “Stay back until I make sure he’s not hiding on either side of the porch.” I turned and pointed to my gun. “I don’t want any of you getting shot, okay?”

  The nonne crossed themselves.

  I opened the door and crept onto the porch.

  A clatter ensued, and I went airborne.

  Then I face-planted in the yard.

  “Now’s not the time to mess with that gutter, sugar,” Glenda chided from the stairs above. “The police just arrested a man on our side street.”

  I spit out a patch of grass, but I was so mad at my slacker brother that I could have spit blood. I kicked the gutter from beneath my feet. Then I pulled myself up and put my gun on safety. I looked at Glenda, who stood at the second-floor railing in nothing but a see-through robe. “Did you get a look at the guy?” />
  “No, but I think he was a peeping Tom.” She pulled the sheer fabric around her nude body, as though that would help.

  “Well, I’m glad you reported him.”

  “Oh, I didn’t call the cops, Miss Franki. I thought you did.” She gasped and her eyes grew wide, and she strut-scuttled into her apartment and slammed the door.

  Convinced a vampire serial killer was behind me, I spun with my Ruger aimed.

  It was Nonna, apron in hand.

  I lowered the pistol, but my pulse stayed raised. “You can’t sneak up on me like that. I’ve got this gun, remember?”

  “And I’ve got-a this.” She lifted the rolling pin.

  I didn’t argue because that kitchen utensil could probably stop a bullet. She’d brought it from Italy, where it had been passed down for so many generations that the wood was almost petrified.

  A squad car turned in front of Thibodeaux’s and pulled into our driveway. Two officers got out. One was a kind of Shaquille O’Neal on steroids, and the other was a tiny blonde with a bun.

  “I’m a PI, and I’m carrying a firearm.” I crossed the lawn, followed by the nonne. “I just had a creeper outside my bedroom window.”

  The male officer gestured to the back of the car. “We’ve got him, along with his sidekick.”

  Craig and Domenic?

  “I’m Officer Honoré,” he said, “and this is Officer Gentilly. We found the two of them in the alley, casing the place.”

  I looked in the rear passenger window, and it was a good thing the authorities were present or there would have been a shooting spree. “That’s my brother.” My brow had dropped as low as my growl. “And his date.”

  “Antonio mio?” Nonna stabbed the sky with the rolling pin and threw open the car door. “Get in-a the house.”

  He shrunk into the seat. “I’d rather go to jail.”

  “You ain’t talkin for me,” Crystal shouted. “Can I get out now?”

  Nonna eyed her Madonna getup, lingering on her bustier and then her baby bulge. “Take her to the hoose-a-gow.”

  I leaned inside the car. “Anthony, what were you doing lurking outside my window?”

  “Not lookin’, that’s fo sho. I thought you were at the frat party.”