Campari Crimson

by Traci Andrighetti

  “Hello?” My mother answered in a voice reminiscent of Edith Bunker when she was in a cheerful mood.

  “You have to do something about your son,” I barked à la Archie Bunker.

  The line went dead.

  “Ugh. The call dropped.” I tapped the number again.

  The phone rang once.

  “Francesca?” my mom answered.

  “Yes—”

  The line went dead again.

  “What the hell?” I punched the number.

  Someone picked up the receiver and put it back in the cradle.

  I gasped and looked at Veronica. “My mother is hanging up on me. She’s not going to do anything about him.”

  “Can you blame her?”

  I contemplated my brother. “Uh-huh. Absolutely.”

  Anthony flipped onto his back, splayed his legs, and snored like a drunk with severe allergies and sleep apnea.

  Another “REDRUM” escaped my lips. A blood bath was about to go down, vampire-serial-killer style. I shoved the phone into my pocket and prepared to string my brother by the heels just as Chandra’s spirit friend had predicted outside Boutique du Vampyre.

  “You need to go cool off.” Veronica spun me around and pushed me into the hall. “And we need to talk about your case.”

  I broke free and made a play for my brother, but she latched onto my arm and dug in her high heels.

  “Let me kill him,” I wheezed. “Everything will be so much better. The dark cloud might even lift off the city.”

  “You agreed to host him for a month. So, technically, you can’t kill him for another three weeks.”

  I relaxed, and she seized the opportunity to pull me to an armchair in her office.

  As she adjusted her ponytail, which had been knocked off kilter in the kerfuffle, I heard a second snorer and looked for the source.

  Hercules was on his back on a dog bed in the corner with his legs splayed wide like my brother’s. Men were the same, regardless of the species.

  Veronica took a seat behind her desk. “Now that you’re settled, I wanted to talk to you about a call I got from Detective Sullivan this morning. First, he told me about the coffin, and I was horrified.” Her tone was soothing. “Are you all right?”

  Self-pity welled up within me and threatened to spill from my eyes. “I haven’t had a chance to think about it.”

  “Why don’t you take some time off? You could go to New York and see Bradley.”

  “And do what? Watch him work?” I crossed my arms. And my legs. “Besides, we’re not talking.”

  “Which is another good reason to go.” She leaned forward. “After the trauma you’ve experienced, you need to see him and clear the air.”

  “People are dying, Veronica. On a case I’m working. So, I’m going to the Crimson Cotillion tonight to try to find out who’s doing the blood draining.”

  She rubbed her forehead. “I’m glad you brought up the cotillion. After I talked to the detective, I called David to make sure he was still going with you. But he said you reassigned him to watch the fraternity brothers?”

  “Because they had blood bags and IV stands in their Dungeon room. Not only that, Craig met with Thomas Van Scyoc before the frat party, and he’s been MIA ever since.” I held back the news that Craig could be dead per Chandra’s crystal ball. If I’d shared that, Veronica would have had me admitted to Belleville House.

  “I wish you would’ve told me this on Thursday night. I could’ve hired a PI to help out.”

  My self-pity turned stoic. I didn’t want any interference in my job. There was already enough of that in my home life and relationship. “You don’t need to hire anyone. I’ve got this.”

  “I’m not so sure. And I can’t go to the cotillion because I’m in the middle of an asset search for a trial on Monday, so…”

  I didn’t like the way her voice trailed off.

  Or the way she gripped the arms of her chair.

  “So…?”

  Her gaze dropped to her desk. “I’ve hired Glenda to go in my place, and she’s bringing Carnie for reinforcement.”

  When I’d had that bad sensation, not even in my darkest moment could I have imagined investigating a vampire ball with the likes of Glenda and Carnie. Instead of “REDRUM,” a song came to me that captured my mood exactly, “It’s My Party” by Leslie Gore.

  Veronica flopped against the back of her chair. “I tried to get someone else, but no one was available on such short notice. Detective Sullivan said he’ll be there, but given his recent advances, I didn’t think you’d want to hang around with him.”

  “Are you kidding?” I laugh-snapped. “At this point, I’d even go with the vampire serial killer. As his date.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I am. And I’ll handle this on my own, thank you.”

  “You’re my best friend, so I don’t want to pull rank. But if you insist on going alone, I’ll have to play the boss card.”

  I exhaled and frowned at Hercules, who’d awakened and was doing the unspeakable thing that only males of certain species could do.

  Veronica waved to get my attention. “Hey. You know there’s safety in numbers, and I want you to go armed.”

  Given recent events in the case, I had to agree. But just about bringing my gun. Because if a vampire did attack me, the only things I could count on Glenda and Carnie to do were shimmy and insult him. “Okay, but I don’t see why you’re so dead set on this.”

  She winced.

  And it was right after I said dead. “Why did you make that face?”

  “Because I haven’t told you about the rest of my conversation with the detective. As your employer, he wanted me to know you’re in danger.”

  “Oh, David already told me that,” I said, relieved Sullivan hadn’t dropped some other bad news bombshell.

  “Well, David wouldn’t have known the reason.”

  I had a feeling in my blood that I was going to wish I didn’t know it either.

  “The New Orleans PD have determined that Thomas Van Scyoc used a computer at Belleville House to google you.” She paused and looked into my eyes. “And he specifically looked up your home address.”

  From the driver’s seat of my Mustang, I caught sight of the small Saint Anthony statue in the garden behind the Saint Louis Cathedral. His outstretched arms beckoned to me in the waning daylight, but I averted my eyes to the Bourbon Orleans Hotel where the Crimson Cotillion was underway. As the patron saint of lost things, Anthony was a double reminder of my brother, who I wanted to forget.

  A Goth Marie Antoinette passed in front of my car in a bloodied pearl choker and black French pannier gown—the kind with the doublewide hip span—decorated with red satin rosettes. She turned and stared at me through a black handheld mask of a face. Then she entered the lobby.

  That was disturbing. And the mask was a reminder of someone else I wanted to forget. I glared at Carnie in the rearview mirror.

  She was in the backseat drawing the eyebrows on her Countess Dragula look, which had turned out to be a vampire version of Cher in her infamous academy awards outfit—the one with the black feather headdress that looked like a murder of crows.

  “Are you done painting? It’s seven o’clock, and we got here at six forty.”

  She lowered her purple garage doors—drag for single-shadowed eyelids—and pursed her I Love Lucy lips at Glenda, who was beside me in the passenger seat. “Look who’s ungrateful after we worked so hard to make her presentable.”

  “Hard?” I snort-laughed. “I look like a cross between Amy Winehouse and Elvira. And this ratty wig weighs like ten pounds.”

  “Gurrrl, that beehive cost me three hundred dollars at Fifi Mahony’s, and it’s an improvement over that limp brown blanket you call hair.”

  I kicked open my door, wishing it was her derriere.

  “Don’t get out yet, Miss Franki. I have to put on my costume.” Glenda stuck a pair of plastic fangs in her mouth. “Ready.”

&nbs
p; “That’s it?” I gave her the once-over. “Teeth, pasties, and a thong?”

  “This is what they wear at Casa Diablo in Portland, and it’s a vampire-themed vegan strip club.”

  Because everyone knows that blood is vegan, not to mention the female flesh they’re selling.

  A young man in a Bourbon Orleans uniform approached the car. “Are you ready for valet service?”

  “Please.” I handed him the keys. “And don’t bother putting up the top.” I shot a loaded look at Carnie. “Otherwise, my hair won’t fit.”

  She slammed the car door. “Don’t blame the wig. It’s your big head.”

  “Can we just go inside?”

  She extended her handbag arm. “Purse first, ladies. And Franki.”

  Sighing, I entered the marble-columned lobby. Femininity digs from a drag queen were exhausting.

  We stepped into the elevator, and I pressed the button for the second floor. “To review, while I keep an eye on the vampire, Raven Smith, you guys collect drink samples, especially the ones with Campari.”

  “Carnie’s going to handle that, sugar. Miss Ronnie gave her the vials and said I was to stick to you like a pasty.”

  Somehow I knew that wasn’t Veronica’s analogy. “Uh, don’t stick that close. It’s a square room, so you’ll be able to see me from anywhere.”

  The elevator doors opened, and a huge, hooded executioner stood before us against a soundtrack of harpsichord music. “Your tickets.” His voice was deep with a hint of Caribbean or West African French. “Or your heads.”

  My hand moved to my too-exposed throat. The Elvira dress was cut low, and the sword-wielder had noticed. “We’re guests of Raven Smith.”

  His black eyes bore into mine through slits in the leather. “Carpe noctem.”

  “Seize the night?” Glenda translated. “I’d be happy to do that, Mr. Handsome Hangman.” She tapped just above his nostril holes. “With your assistance.”

  Taking that as my cue to run for my life, I entered the Orleans ballroom. The hotel alleged that it was haunted by a Confederate soldier and nuns and orphans from the Holy Family Sisters’ Convent that had been on the site in the early 1800s. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but the way the yellowed damask drapes hung from the windows like giant phantoms was vaguely unsettling.

  And the décor for the Crimson Cotillion only enhanced the eerie setting. The chandeliers had been covered in red fabric to give the room a bloody pall, and a guillotine towered in a corner. Beside it was a bucket of human heads that had been strategically placed next to a buffet of steak tartare to give them that raw meat smell. The pièces de résistance, however, were the guests’ prosthetic teeth and bloodstained eighteenth-century clothing.

  “Looks like the Vampire French Revolution,” Carnie said.

  For once I agreed with her.

  A young man in a top hat and Regency shirt approached and passed out his business card. “Jay Owens, mademoiselles.”

  Carnie raised a painted arch. “Why should I care?”

  “Because I’m the top-selling fangsmith at vampires.com. Normally, a good set of fangs runs you two-to-five grand. But you’ve got a healthy set of chompers, so I could do yours for the discount rate of only fifteen hundred.” He stretched back his lips to reveal considerable canines.

  “Flash those fangs at me again,” she said, “and these chompers will be all over you.”

  Jay backed away, and I didn’t blame him. A three-hundred-fifty-pound Dracula Cher was truly terrifying.

  “Complimentary Vampire Cocktails.” A courtesan with bottom fangs handed Glenda and Carnie yellow drinks from a serving tray.

  I declined with a wave. Then I realized that what I’d thought was a straw was actually a syringe—filled with a red substance. “What is that?”

  “Raspberry puree,” the waitress replied. “You inject it into the drink.”

  I nudged Carnie. “Definitely get a sample.”

  Glenda squirted the puree and took a sip. “It’s just punch, Miss Franki. But it’s too rich for my blood.”

  “Put a stake in it, will ya? There are vampires in the room.” I looked around to make sure no one had overheard. And I got quite a shock.

  Josh Santo stood near the guillotine in his Compte de Saint Germain getup.

  I strode over to my client and eyed his red wine. “What’s a guy who claims that his only interest in vampires is the count doing at the Crimson Cotillion?”

  “The count became famous in the court of Versailles. For all we know, he’s with us tonight.”

  Even though I knew that was absurd, I did a side-eye sweep of the room. “So this is book research?”

  “Not entirely. I’m on a date.” He flashed his Donny Osmonds. “With Raven Smith.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  He winced and wrinkled his lips. “What? I’m not a ladies man, but I do all right.”

  “With a suspect in your case?” I wanted to roll my eyes, but my wig would have tipped me flat on my back. “For such a smart guy, you’re totally clueless.”

  “I resent that.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “And you’re not making much progress, so I decided to do some investigating.” He swirled the sanguine liquid in his glass. “Because I’m pretty sure she’s the one I saw outside the blood bank the night Todd Plank was killed.”

  The drink reminded me of the count’s love of wine mixed with blood. And of those bottles in Josh’s refrigerator. And I wondered whether he and Raven were involved in the murders together. “How did you find Raven, anyway?”

  “You’re not the only PI I’ve got working this investigation. I hired a backup in case you suck.”

  I was about to thank him for the vote of no confidence, but I didn’t trust him either. “Has it occurred to you how bad this will look to the police?”

  “It’s hard to see how I could look any worse.”

  “Especially after a stunt like this.” I shook my head, and the beehive wobbled, almost knocking me off my feet. Clutching it with both hands, I scanned the crowd. “Which one is Raven?”

  “She’s in one of those Marie Antoinette dresses. But hers is all black.”

  She must’ve been the woman who walked by my car because I hadn’t seen any other Goth doublewides. “Huh. I saw her earlier, but she didn’t say hello even though I’m her guest tonight.”

  “Don’t take it personally. She’s pretty stressed out.”

  That detail got my attention. He was either covering for her avoidance of me or something else was eating at her. Maybe guilt. “Do you know why?”

  “Planning a party.” He gave me a pointed look. “Being a suspect in some murders.”

  “Touché.”

  Josh cleared his throat and looked at his glass.

  I turned expecting to find Raven listening to our conversation. Instead, it was Detective Sullivan dressed as Barnabas Collins.

  “Can I have a word with the Mistress of the Dark?” he asked.

  My stomach fluttered, but I wrote it off to the horror of his ruffled collar and not the unexpected sexiness of his cloak. “You want to talk now? Because I’ve been trying to reach you for a couple of days, and you haven’t responded.”

  “I’ll explain outside.”

  I followed him onto the balcony. He walked to the rail overlooking Orleans Avenue, and I glanced at the sky and repressed a gasp.

  Night had fallen, and the blood moon glowed as red as the covered chandeliers. It was frightening and strangely fascinating, but I had to look down. My big beehive threatened to snap my head from my neck. “Well?”

  He turned to face me. “I’ve been swamped—”

  “But you found time to call my boss? Next time I’m in danger, I’d appreciate a personal call.” I regretted the personal comment because a corner of his mouth lifted like a ray of hope.

  “Fair enough.”

  I took a step back. There was something about his half smile and Dark Shadows costume that was mes
merizing, like Dracula’s gaze. “Anyway, what have you found out about Thomas Van Scyoc?”

  “He seems awfully interested in you, for one thing.”

  “And what about Craig? Has he turned up?”

  “Negative. And zero activity on his credit cards and bank account.”

  I thought about Chandra’s crystal ball, but I kept my mouth shut. Sullivan would have either laughed me off the balcony or had my PI license stripped if I’d confessed to consulting with a psychic. “What happens next?”

  “We check out Craig’s grandmother. She stayed at Belleville House while Van Scyoc was there.”

  I couldn’t have been more gobsmacked if a bat had flown into my beehive. “Where is she now?”

  He rubbed his jaw. “In an apartment in Metairie.”

  “Where the blood bank was broken into.” And robbed of my B Positive blood type.

  “We’ve ruled out her connection to that.”

  “But you suspect Craig, right?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s getting into territory I can’t discuss.” He made up the step I’d put between us. “And I didn’t ask you out here to talk about work.”

  Alarmed, I jerked my head up to look at him, and my beehive propelled me backwards.

  He caught me and pulled me to his chest. “Forgive me, but I can’t resist all that neck you’re showing.”

  His lips locked onto mine, and I responded as though in a trance.

  The kiss was soft, and then it deepened until I feared he would suck the blood from my body. I knew it was wrong to be with him, but there was a sensuality to his mouth that was intoxicating. The same way Dracula’s female victims described his bite.

  “Franki?”

  The intoxication turned toxic. It was a male voice, but it didn’t belong to the detective because our lips, among other things, were still entwined.

  I pulled away and spun around.

  Bradley stood in the doorway holding a yellow rose. His face was grim, or maybe Grim Reaper. He stood as still as a statue, like Anthony, the patron saint of lost things.

  And I couldn’t help but wonder if the saint had foreshadowed the loss of our relationship.