The Baron Blasko Mysteries (Book 1): Fangs

by Howe, A. E.

  FANGS

  The Baron Blasko Mysteries–Book 1

  By

  A. E. Howe

  Josephine Nicolson never meant to have a vampire living in her basement.

  But then a journey to spread her grandfather’s ashes in Romania goes spectacularly wrong. Finding herself inexorably bound to Baron Dragomir Blasko, she’s faced with the choice of living out her days in his crumbling fortress or bringing him home with her to Alabama. It doesn’t take her long to make up her mind.

  With the assistance of Josephine’s suspicious maid, the pair settle into an uneasy cohabitation… until a murder just across the street causes Josephine to wonder if Blasko is to blame. As the body count rises, Josephine and Blasko must work together to prove his innocence and to find the real killer before they become his next victims.

  Books in the Baron Blasko Mysteries Series:

  FANGS (Book 1)

  KNIVES (Book 2)

  More coming soon!

  Join the mailing list to be notified of new releases by this author and to receive a free short story from his Larry Macklin Mysteries series.

  Copyright © 2018 by A. E. Howe

  All rights reserved.

  www.aehowe.com

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Other Books by this Author

  About the Author

  Prologue

  “I told you, Miss Josephine! I told you!” Grace Dunn shouted as she barged her way through the back door.

  The solidly built, middle-aged woman was breathing hard as she came charging into the hallway, still yelling. “That monster has killed him, as sure as I’m breathin’! You got to do something, Miss Josephine. He’s Satan’s puppet.” She rounded the bannister and started up the stairs. “I don’t care what Mr. Roosevelt says, fear ain’t the only thing we got to fear. We got to be afraid of that killer you got living in the basement.”

  Josephine Nicolson came out of her bedroom, where she’d been dressing for dinner, pulling her robe tight around her shoulders. “What are you screaming about?” she said, watching Grace pound up the stairs toward her.

  “I have warned you and warned you! What’d I say?” Grace yelled now, huffing as she mounted the last steps to the second floor.

  “Please keep your voice down,” Josephine said, “and tell me what you’re talking about.”

  Grace took a moment to catch her breath now that she’d conquered the stairs. Her dark skin was slick with sweat as she visibly pulled herself together.

  “Mr. Erickson, dead in his bed. Found just now by Myra. Killed. Murdered! And we all know who did it.” Grace’s chin was up and her jaw clenched.

  The two women were now standing face to face at the top of the stairs. Grace was short and full bodied while Josephine was taller and a few years younger, but both of them had stubborn eyes that were locked on each other.

  “We don’t know anything. You say Mr. Erickson is dead. Who told you this?”

  “I heard it directly from Myra. She saw him lyin’ there in his own blood,” Grace answered, her voice laced with a certain flair for the dramatic.

  Josephine wasn’t surprised that Grace had heard it directly from Myra. The two maids were close friends who often spent their days off together. However, Josephine also knew Myra’s tendency to exaggerate. She turned away from Grace and walked to the window that looked out from the second floor hallway onto the front lawn and across the street to the Ericksons’ house. Sure enough, the last light of the day revealed a number of cars, horses and wagons parked or tied up across the street in front their house.

  Josephine walked back to where Grace was standing, wearing an I told you so smirk on her face. “Until I know more, you’re to keep quiet about our guest in the basement,” Josephine told her, watching the smirk evolve into a deep frown.

  “You got to get him out of the house, Miss Josephine. He’s going to murder us in our beds,” Grace insisted, her eyes locked on Josephine’s.

  The two women stood inches away from each other with feet planted, Grace’s hands on her hips and Josephine’s arms crossed in front of her. They both held strong opinions about their current houseguest, but Josephine wasn’t so sure that Grace was wrong.

  Chapter One

  Six months earlier…

  “I’m sorry, Miss Nicolson, but I can’t do anything more for your father other than make him comfortable. His body is failing him,” Dr. McGuire said, packing up his black bag.

  Josephine thanked the doctor and walked him out the front door. The large Victorian house already felt as though it were in mourning. Nothing Josephine or Grace did seemed able to bring in more light or fresh air.

  With a sigh, Josephine entered her father’s room. Originally the front parlor, the space had been turned into a makeshift hospital room for Andre Nicolson. The man looked old and frail beyond his sixty-seven years, lying underneath the feather comforter on his large four-poster bed. It had taken five men and a master woodworker to disassemble it and carry it downstairs four months earlier.

  “Josie, come here,” he called to her. His eyes brightened just a little at the sight of his daughter, her honey-brown hair illuminated by the afternoon light coming in through the lace curtains.

  “Papa.” She sat down beside the bed and clasped his hand in both of hers.

  “Ol’ Doc McGuire told me the truth for a change. Of course, he didn’t need to. I know I’m not going to get better.”

  “Don’t listen to him. That old fool doesn’t know anything.”

  “Ha, you are the worst liar I’ve ever met. I should have taught you better.”

  “We shouldn’t have let them operate on you,” Josephine said regretfully.

  “Hush that kind of talk. We did what we thought was best. Who knows. I might already be lookin’ up at six feet of dirt if it wasn’t for the surgeons. And they never promised nothin’.” His breath became raspy. Josephine picked up the glass of water beside the bed and put it up to his mouth. He took a small sip, knowing better than to argue with her.

  Their black cat, Poe, chose that moment to jump up on the bed, curling into a ball on Andre’s chest. He stroked the animal, his mind in turmoil as he tried to decide if he should burden Josephine with his guilt. Keep it to yourself, Andre, his conscience told him. Take it to the grave with you. But another voice, one fueled by regret, told him to talk, to unburden himself to his daughter. He wanted to settle his accounts as best he could. Deep down, he feared the grave and the unknown beyond the veil. Though he’d been born in this country, his parents were from Romania and his childhood had been swaddled in the superstitions of the old country.

  “Josie,” he said softly.

  “Yes, Papa?” she said, leaning down to hear him.

  “I have something to tell you.” He stopped, still struggling with his decision.

  “What is it?”

  “Your grandfather… My father was an odd man.”

  “I remember that,” Josephine said,
smiling at the memory of the curmudgeon who’d shaken his finger at her, telling her that tomboys would always meet a bad end. But then he would show her how to make her own wooden sword so they could have mock pirate battles around the front porch.

  She had always enjoyed the time she spent with her grandfather, Grigore, but even as a child she had been aware of a darker side to him. It was a part of himself that he reserved for dark nights when he and the other men would retire to another room for bourbon and cigars. And there was no doubt he could be a hard man. She’d heard him berate her father for imagined indiscretions more than once.

  “When he was dying, he asked me to do something for him. Made me promise.” Her father’s eyes seemed to be focused on that spot in time ten years earlier when he had sat beside his father’s deathbed as Josephine now sat beside his.

  “What?” Josephine prompted.

  “There.” Her father pointed to a vase on the large marble mantel above the fireplace. “In that vase are some of your grandfather’s ashes. He asked me… Made me swear I would take his ashes back to the old country and scatter them in the graveyard of his village in the Carpathian Mountains.” He paused, breathing heavily as he tried to catch his breath. “I thought I had more time. No, no, that’s a lie. I thought it was a foolish request from a querulous old man.”

  Josephine could see the tears welling up in his eyes. “You and your father didn’t always see eye to eye. I know that.”

  “True. We were different. He was always the stern man of business. He never forgave a debt. Never.”

  “And you feel like you owe him something now?”

  “I do.” He grasped her hand tightly. “I should have done what I promised. Now… I don’t want to think that I…”

  “I’ll do it,” Josephine said without hesitation. She would have promised anything to make him better.

  Andre squeezed her hand harder, pulling himself up from the bed a few inches. “Don’t say you’ll take it to the old country unless you mean it.” He was looking her square in the eye as though trying to read her thoughts.

  “I swear. I will take Grandfather’s ashes to Romania.”

  Andre sighed. “What have I done? Forgive me for burdening you with this task.”

  “Papa, I’ll do it. I’ve always wanted to see a bit of the world.” Josephine wiped the tears from her eyes. “Don’t think about it anymore. Just rest. I promise you, it’ll be done.”

  He lay back in the bed and closed his eyes. Josephine gently removed her hand from his and stood up, looking more carefully at the vase on the mantel. It was a large blue vase that dated back to the last century. She hadn’t even realized her grandfather’s ashes were in the house, though she vividly remembered the local furor the day her father took the body to Montgomery. The fact that her grandfather was being cremated had been big news in the small town of Sumter, Alabama. Most folks had never heard of such a thing. But ten years ago, before the stock market crash and the onset of the Great Depression, every day had seemed to bring about new and different ways for people to spend their money.

  Looking at the vase, Josephine wondered what she’d gotten herself into by promising her father she’d carry the ashes all the way to Romania.

  The next morning, Andre Nicolson passed away. Jerry Connelly and some men from Connelly’s Funeral Home came and took the body away so that it could be prepared for the viewing.

  “Don’t you worry, Miss Josephine, I’ll look after him like he was my own,” the mortician told her as they placed the body into the hearse.

  “We’re going to have the viewing on Friday,” Josephine told him.

  The funeral would be huge. Andre Nicolson had owned the only bank left in town after almost four years of the Great Depression. New York and Chicago had been hit hard and early, but in southern Alabama the effects had grown over time. Eventually, two of the town’s banks had collapsed, leaving only Nicolson’s Bank of Sumter still open and solvent.

  “We’ll have him back by tomorrow afternoon. Your father made all the preparations a couple of months ago. There’s nothing for you to trouble yourself over,” Connelly said with just a hint of Ireland in his accent. He’d been born in Semmes County, but his father and mother had immigrated just before the War Between the States. His father had carried a piece of Yankee steel in his leg until the day he died and, when Jerry had prepared his father for burial, he’d removed that reminder of the cruel war with the words, “Aye, there, that won’t be bothering you anymore.” Connelly had put the piece of shrapnel inside the same box that held his father’s old Colt Army revolver.

  After Connelly left, Josephine walked through the house, feeling like a stranger.

  “You knew this day was goin’ to come,” Grace told her.

  Grace had worked with Anna, the cook, and Jerome, the yard man, to get the house in proper order for the viewing and the gathering after the funeral. Even though neighbors and friends had brought enough food to feed a small army, under Anna’s scrutiny much of it had gone to the farms to feed the dogs. Anna inspected every dish that came in the door, declaring only a few good enough to be laid out for the mourners.

  “He went downhill so fast,” Josephine said.

  “The cancer will do that. I’ve seen ’em working one day and in the grave the next month. The good Lord does what he knows is best. Now you just rest. We’ll have everything ready for the visitors,” Grace said, easing Josephine over to the sofa.

  The maid couldn’t imagine not having any family. Her extended clan stretched out far and wide into all corners of Semmes County. When they got together for a marriage or a funeral, there wasn’t room for anyone else. But here was Josephine, with her mother laid in the grave years ago of the fever and her father now ready to be placed in the churchyard beside her. Other than a few aunts and cousins scattered across the country, Josephine had no one. Grace just shook her head.

  The viewing and the funeral went smoothly, with most of the town showing up to pay their respects to a man whose careful handling of the bank’s and his customers’ finances had left the community with more than most in these hard times of the boll weevil and economic uncertainty.

  On Monday, Josephine tapped on the door of the bank well before opening time. She was let in by Martin, the head clerk. Her father had insisted that neither he nor Josephine should have a key to the bank. Due to Prohibition and the Depression, banks had become the prime targets of a new style of gangster. There had been quite a few bank owners who had been accosted at night and forced to open their banks by desperate men.

  Andre Nicolson had thought that, if it was widely known he and Josephine didn’t actually have a key to the bank or the safe, then they would be in less danger. One key was held by the bank manager and another by the county sheriff, in the event of an emergency. The bank manager also held a key to the safe, as did the head clerk. In a world populated by Baby Face Nelson, Pretty Boy Floyd and a host of others, Andre Nicolson had refused to take chances. Still, Josephine chafed at the thought of not having her own key to the bank.

  She wished Martin a good morning and went straight back to Daniel Robertson’s office and knocked on the door. The bank manager greeted her with a lowered head. He wore a black armband in mourning for her father.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you for a while,” Robertson said kindly. He was a small, older man who still wore Edwardian attire and a full beard. His hands constantly fidgeted whenever he wasn’t working on account sheets.

  “I need to discuss some business with you,” Josephine said, looking around the office where she had spent so many hours. After her mother had died, her father had gotten into the habit of bringing Josephine to the bank when he was working.

  “Of course. I’m at your service,” Robertson said sincerely. He’d worked for the bank almost from the day it was founded in 1911 and felt a strong attachment to both Josephine and her father.

  “First, I’d like to have a key to the bank,” she said, watching as Robertson leaned
back in his chair and took another look at her.

  “Miss Josephine, you know why your father didn’t keep a key. I think it would be very unwise…”

  “I can take care of myself.” She opened her purse and showed him the Colt revolver she kept with her. “I assure you.”

  Robertson blanched, even though he knew she could handle a gun. She’d gone dove hunting ever since she was a child, but he still wasn’t comfortable with the thought that she could be forced to face down a hardened criminal. These days, even he felt nervous as he opened the bank in the morning. He would let his eyes roam suspiciously over anyone standing within a hundred feet of the bank whenever he put his key in the door.

  “I know you can handle a firearm. That’s not the point,” he protested.

  “I insist.”

  Her ego wasn’t the only thing at issue. Josephine knew how easy it would be for the men who ran the bank on a daily basis to take her for granted. If she showed any weakness at the start, she would be at risk of losing control of the business. She’d thought long and hard about her new role since she’d learned she’d inherit the bank in a matter of months instead of years. Her choice was to sell her shares or to exercise control. She’d decided, at least in the short run, to keep control of the bank. Eventually she’d have to decide if she wanted to continue to chair the bank’s board of directors, but that decision could wait.

  “Of course. We have another key in the vault. I’ll get it for you.”

  Robertson stood up stiffly and walked out of the office, his posture telegraphing his unhappiness with the situation. That’s fine, Josephine thought. She wanted everyone to know that she was not going to conform to anyone’s ideas about how she should act.

  When Robertson came back, he laid the key on his desk in front of her with a scowl. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Josephine held up the key. “I don’t want you to think that this is because I don’t trust you. Father had a great deal of faith in you and I do too.”