Campari Crimson

by Traci Andrighetti

  “So tell him that.”

  “Why? He’s the president of an important bank, and it’s not like he’s going to give that up for my sake.”

  “Maybe he can delegate some of his responsibilities. He is in charge.”

  I picked a thread from my corduroy pants. “If he can do that, then he should’ve done it by now.”

  She closed the file. “Why don’t you come to lunch with Glenda and me? We’re going to the Royal House Oyster Bar for Bloody Marys.” Her smile went askew. “Or Prosecco.”

  The drink reminded me that I had work to do. And eating oysters with Glenda and her oversexed libido was never an appetizing idea. “Can’t. I’ve got a pulley wheel to identify.” I slid from the chair. “But bring me a double order of their oyster tacos, and I’ll pay you back.”

  “You want two?”

  “I’ve got that cooking class at Bayou Cuisine at six. And the last time I went hungry, I ate a cockroach.”

  She gave a grossed-out giggle. “Two it is. But be careful tonight. Another storm is moving in, and this one is supposed to be severe.”

  More foreboding. Why not?

  I headed for the lobby.

  The vassal had pulled his chair up to David’s desk, and both boys stared at the computer.

  I walked up behind them and studied the traction suspension system pictured on the screen. “Have you found anything?”

  The vassal twisted in his seat. “There’s no serial number or identifying mark on the rubber, so we won’t be able to trace it.”

  Disappointment sucked the air from my lungs. “There has to be some way to nail the killer. We’ve got to keep digging.”

  David spun his chair. “At this point, our only option is to try to find Craig Rourke and his grandma.

  The lobby buzzer went off as Glenda sashayed in. The temperature had dropped, and she’d dressed for the occasion. Sort of. She wore a white fur hood with matching wrist and ankle warmers, but the rest of her snowsuit was missing. And so were her clothes.

  She lowered her hood. “Y’all looking at porn?”

  Smirking, I stepped aside to reveal the screen. “It’s one of those traction systems they use in hospitals to lift the limbs of a patient.”

  “Close enough.” She gave a slow and sultry wink. “I’ve got one in my bedroom.”

  David turned and fixed his gaze on the computer.

  But the vassal gave Glenda a slack-jawed once-over. “You don’t look like you have any physical issues.”

  She struck a pose that was at odds with her virgin white fur. “You’ve got that right, young man. All my parts work, and I can prove it, if you like.”

  The vassal’s already magnified eyes popped, and a faint sheen of perspiration coated his glasses.

  Directing the conversation back to the case I said, “David, what else are pulleys used for?”

  “Lots of things.” He talked to the screen to avoid turning around. “Curtains, garage doors, any kind of lift.”

  The vassal rubbed his lenses with the tail of his shirt. “And they’re used in industries besides medicine. Construction and shipping, for example.”

  I wrinkled my lips. “What you’re saying is, I can’t link that wheel to a nurse.”

  “I knew you suspected Raven, Miss Franki. But do you still think a woman did this?”

  “I can’t rule it out.” I flopped onto a couch. “But I can’t prove it either.”

  “It reminds me of that old detective fiction cliché, cherchez le femme.” She wriggled her hips to emphasize the gender. “And since you’re looking for a woman, don’t forget that pulleys are used in contortionist equipment.”

  I rolled my eyes and stretched out onto my back. “I don’t know what that is, and I’m not sure I want to.”

  “Child, is your mind always in the gutter? And, by the by, Anthony still hasn’t fixed mine.”

  I pulled a cushion over my face and considered suffocating myself with it. Then I had a coffin flashback and moved it from my mouth. But I kept my eyes covered.

  “What I’m talking about, Miss Franki, are all those torture devices women use to tone their muscles and lose weight.”

  She was referring to exercise equipment, which was an appropriate description in my book. “Men work out too, you know.”

  “And thank God they do, sugar. But if you’re trying to connect a pulley to a woman, then a gym is the place to start.”

  Under the cover of the cushion, I tried to think, but not about Glenda’s suggestion. Most weight machines didn’t utilize pulleys, and if they did, it wasn’t like they were detachable for use in raising a dead body.

  I snorted. The idea was laughable, really. Because the only exercise equipment with detachable pulleys were cable machines.

  I threw off the cushion and shot up.

  Linda West?

  No. Surely not.

  “Can I tempt you with a piece of my sourdough?” Chef Mel approached my kitchen station with a basket. “I made it from Sorrel. She’ll be eight years old on January tenth.”

  My eyelids pulled back in alarm. Given the way the guy scavenged for ingredients, a statement like that was inflammatory.

  “Sorrel is his sourdough starter.” Sara spoke with a laugh in her voice.

  Mel beamed like a proud father. “The flour came from the dumpster behind the Poeyfarre Market, so there might be a weevil or two. But they enhance the flavor of the wild yeasts and bacteria in the sourdough.”

  Lou’s brow Groucho-Marxed. “And give it an extra bite.”

  I’ll bet they do. To be polite, I took a slice of the bug bread and put it on my counter, intending to toss it at the first opportunity. My stomach already ached, but it wasn’t because of the four fried oyster tacos I’d eaten before I came. It was the conviction that something awful was going to happen that night, and I knew what it was.

  Another blood-draining death.

  The killer had been silent too long, and I didn’t need science or Chandra’s psychic nonsense to know that a vampire serial killer would need fresh blood.

  It made me sick.

  And also concerned.

  I was on the killer’s list, so the blood-draining death could be my own. Or my brother’s.

  But there was nothing I could do that I hadn’t already done. Sullivan and his medal ceremony were clear signals the case was closed. And I couldn’t tail the killer because I was no longer sure who it was. Nurse Sylvia seemed the obvious suspect, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Linda and her cable machine.

  Thunder rumbled outside.

  The storm was about to start.

  “Hey.” Michele put a hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”

  “Huh?”

  “You seem kind of out of it,” she whispered.

  Michele was right. And I had to stay alert to catch her or Sara because I wanted to be done with the filthy food class. “I’m allergic to mold, and it makes me groggy.”

  She gave a satisfied smile that she tried to disguise as sympathy.

  My eyes darted to Sara. She pretended to examine her cooking utensils, but she was smug too, like a cat that had eaten a parrot.

  They were closing in on me. I could feel it.

  “Okay, waste-cookers.” Chef Mel slurped from a coffee cup at the head of the room. “It’s time to get started on the main course now that you’ve all had a sourdough starter.” He laughed. “Get it? I said starter instead of snack? For the bread?”

  “Uh, yeah.” I scratched my arm. “We got it.”

  He tee-heed. “Tonight we’re making an Emeril Lagasse dish made famous by Jazz Fest, Crawfish Monica. It’s Cajun-style mac and cheese, only it has crawfish in it.” He paused. “And Monica.”

  Crickets. But thankfully not on the menu.

  I opened the container at my station. The crawfish looked like they hadn’t swum since the summer.

  Chef Mel raised a stainless steel shaker. “To save time, I pre-mixed Emeril’s Bayou Blast seasoning, so you each have one of
these at your stations. For the special ingredient, you’ll choose which of these white wines to use in your recipe.” He gestured to four bottles on a table in front of his station.

  “I’m a beer man, myself,” Lou commented randomly.

  The chef flashed a California smile. “What about you, newest student?”

  Michele and Sara hit me with hostile gazes.

  “I’m all about wine,” I replied in a teacher’s-pet tone.

  Lou approached the table to ponder his selection, and Michele and Sara shifted their eyes to his unattended sauté pan.

  Were both of them sabotaging him? Before they caught me staring, I turned to my own pan. And started.

  Chef Mel stood in front of my station with his coffee mug.

  “If you like wine, you should try Cocchi Americano.” He leaned on my counter. “It’s an aperitif wine laced with quinine, which is used to treat malaria.”

  Not a ringing endorsement.

  “You might’ve had it in a Corpse Reviver #2.”

  I pulled a head from a crawdad. “You sure know a lot about alcohol.”

  “Besides studying to be a sommelier, I also study cocktails. I have a full bar in my house. Vodka, rum, bourbon…”

  He lost me with the list—just long enough to see Michele dump half of her Bayou Blast into Lou’s pot and then join him at the wine table.

  That princess is going down.

  “…gin, tequila, brandy…”

  Sara entered my peripheral vision as she tiptoed behind me to Lou’s pot and tossed in more Bayou Blast.

  I’m taking down the athlete too.

  Finally, I was free of this case.

  “…whiskey, sake, grappa…”

  And of Chef Mel’s lists.

  But his knowledge of alcohol gave me an idea. “Chef,” I interrupted, “have you ever heard of a drink made with blood?”

  “I made one just the other night called Reign in Blood.”

  He had my full attention for a change. “What kind does that call for? Animal or human?”

  “Ha ha, very funny.” He tapped my arm. “A butcher friend gave me some day-old pig’s blood.”

  As if fresh pig’s blood wasn’t gross enough.

  “You use it to coat the inside of a chilled chalice, and then you strain in the other ingredients.”

  I held my breath, hoping I could crack the mystery of Gregg’s Campari Crimson message. “What are they?”

  He put down his mug to tick off the ingredients on his fingers. “Scotch, crème de cacao, cherry liqueur, Averna, coffee, and blood orange juice.”

  The blood orange juice and the Averna were intriguing, especially since the latter was an amaro produced by Campari. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “I’m an open book.” He chuckled. “And I tell a pretty good story.”

  “Uh-huh. So, why would you want to drink something like that? You’re not a vampire, are you?”

  “No, but I’m a blood brother.” His mouth widened into a grin. “Just kidding. But there are people who drink human blood.”

  “I know. Real vampires.”

  He grabbed his mug and slurped. “Them too.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “There are others?”

  “Yeah, a startup called Ambrosia does infusions of plasma and blood from eighteen-year-olds that supposedly keeps you young.”

  The victims in the case were too old to fit that demographic. Especially Gregg Charalambous. But if there were non-vampire segments of society who sought out unnecessary blood infusions, I needed to know who they were. “Who’s Ambrosia’s target market?”

  “Rich people. It costs eight thousand dollars a pop, and you’ve got to do quarterly infusions, so you’re looking at thirty-two grand a year.” He shielded his mouth from the others. “Their biggest clients are Silicon Valley CEOs.”

  Christine said that Linda was up for promotion as CEO of Pharmanew, but that was too much of a long shot. Sylvia, on the other hand, could’ve been selling the blood she stole to a company like Ambrosia, albeit one that purchased the blood of older individuals or lied about the ages of its sources.

  “The theory is that if you have young blood injections, you can prolong your life indefinitely. It seems like science fiction, but proponents argue that it works because of specific blood nutrients.”

  Nutrients.

  The word sent a burst of energy through my system like I’d had an infusion myself.

  It all made sense.

  Campari Crimson was a cocktail of blood and other ingredients that the killer was using in a creepy quest for eternal youth.

  And during my investigation I’d discussed that very subject with two people. One was Father John, who’d told me that the psycho nineteenth-century socialite Madame LaLaurie relied on the nutrients from bathing in human blood to stay young.

  The other was Linda West, who’d been preoccupied with me getting nutrients for my skin. And who Pam had said was taking Pharmanew in a holistic, anti-aging direction.

  “You’re totally fine, Franki,” I said to myself on the drive home from Bayou Cuisine. “You’re in your car, and Nonna’s got dinner waiting in the oven that wasn’t scavenged from a trash can.”

  But I wasn’t convinced about the fine part.

  The sense of safety I’d had in the waste-cooking class—aside from the threats of student sabotage and food poisoning—had dissolved on the walk to my car. No one had followed me as far as I knew, but there was a presence or a force that loomed.

  And it was dark. I could feel it in my blood.

  I pulled up to a stoplight and checked the locks for the third time. Then I switched on the windshield wipers. A light rain had begun to fall.

  The proverbial calm before the storm.

  “Why did you just think that?” I asked myself aloud.

  “Because the case is getting to you,” I replied.

  “Okay, enough with the split personality stuff, you two,” I said.

  Oh my God, do I have one?

  I gripped the steering wheel and tried to get a grip on my head. Maybe it would help if I ran through the suspects out loud.

  “Let’s start with Thomas. Seems like a serial killer, looks pale, and has a poor diet, so he could use some blood nutrition.”

  “Linda. Works for a pharmaceutical company, is into nutrition, and is over fifty, so she could be concerned about staying young.”

  “Sylvia. Also over fifty, a nurse who would know about nutrition, stole and sold patients’ blood.”

  I threw up my hands. “It has to be Sylvia, right?”

  The light turned green, and my phone rang. Startled, I pressed too hard on the gas. My tires spun, and the car fishtailed to the right and came to a stop.

  I exhaled hard, grateful that another car hadn’t been in the lane beside me. Then I grabbed the phone from the passenger seat and looked at the display. Bacigalupi family.

  The Utah mom.

  I answered and put the call on speaker. “Hello?”

  “This is Drea Bacigalupi.” Her voice was soft, feminine. “I apologize for taking so long to call you back, but we’ve been on vacation.”

  The rain had picked up, so I kept my eyes on the road and my ears on the phone. “Thanks for getting back to me.”

  “No problem. Brad and I were shocked to hear what happened after that tour we took, but we’re relieved the case has been solved.”

  “Yes, well, I represent the individual who was arrested, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions about the bar stop.”

  She hesitated, possibly conflicted about helping me with the case of an accused killer. “I guess that would be all right.”

  “Do you happen to remember if anyone was wearing a Mardi Gras boa?”

  “Yes, because my daughters wanted one, so we went all over the Quarter looking for them.”

  “And what did this person look like?”

  “Mm…She was petite and had dark, longish hair.”


  Raven or Linda. “The woman with the vampire teeth and white-blue contacts?”

  “No, there was another one. She looked like she might be Asian?”

  Linda.

  “Anything else you remember about her?”

  “Well, she was flirting with—”

  The phone cut out.

  “Hello?” I shouted because the rain had intensified, and it was getting harder to hear. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, I’m here,” Drea said.

  “Could you repeat that last part?”

  “I said that she was flirting with the fraternity boy, or man, who died. And then Brad and I saw them together after the tour. They were on Bourbon Street, and he looked pretty drunk. He was stumbling, and he had one of those drinks that comes in a long green cup.”

  The drink was a hand grenade, and the information she’d provided to me had the same explosive effect. “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.”

  “No problem. I hope everything works out.”

  Me too. I tapped End and dropped the phone in my lap.

  And I got angry. Angry that Linda had lied to me, angry that I’d been tricked, angry that Sullivan had been so stubborn.

  Rain washed over my windshield. The storm was getting intense. I turned up the windshield wipers and pulled a U-turn.

  For the police station.

  My phone rang again, and I jumped.

  It was my mom. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have answered. But regardless of what was happening with the case, I wanted to get rid of my brother. “Hello?”

  “Francesca, this is your mother.”

  “It can’t be. My mother abandoned her kids.”

  “You’re in a mood.”

  “Woman,” I paused, overcome by the enormity of everything I faced in that moment, “you have no idea.”

  She sniffed. “Now I see what Anthony’s talking about.”

  “Oh, so you’ve been talking to him and not me?”

  “Well, no.” Her tone was laced with guilt, and a pending excuse. “But only because I’ve been so busy at the deli.”

  That’s not what Larry said.

  “But he just texted and let me know that you’re mistreating him.”

  My overcome feeling morphed into outrage.

  “And no matter how mad you are at me, Francesca,” she droned, “you have no right to take it out on your brother.”