by J. R. Rain
Tara laughed. “No bears or predators of any kind on the island. We have deer and raccoons and squirrels and a few resident seals that prefer the rocks along the north part of the island.”
The road shifted inland, cutting through a narrow road that seemed to barely have enough room for the bigger vehicles. Tara drove comfortably, clearly used to this scenic drive. Branches occasionally slapped the fender and roof.
“We have food and supplies shipped daily from the mainland. There’s a courier service we use. Not to mention any of us who come over from the mainland bring additional supplies.”
“Sounds kinda...fun,” said Allison.
“Heaven, if you ask me. My grandfather was always so open to all of us. What he had, we had. He held nothing back and always made everyone feel so welcome.” As she spoke these words, her lips curled up into that curious smile again.
So weird, I thought.
I also couldn’t help but to notice the sadness in her voice. Her grandfather had been found, of course, face-down in a swimming pool. Allison seemed to detect Tara’s tone as well and sat back in her seat. We were somber and quiet for the rest of the drive.
And what a drive it was. Winding roads, beautiful greenery, squirrels and rabbits...and then, finally, the road opened into a massive estate.
Where there had once been forest was now, perhaps, the most beautiful home I had ever seen.
“Sweet mama,” said Allison.
Chapter Eleven
We pulled around a curved, brick, herringbone driveway.
The house, I think, was even bigger than Kingsley’s monster of a house—Beast Manor, as I’d come to think of his home, complete with its safe-room.
This house was epic and rambling on a whole other level, and I was fairly certain there was even more of it in the back, too. Tara explained that the design was a Mediterranean-style Spanish Revival. Having minored in architecture in college—with a major in criminal justice—I knew the design well. But seeing it up close, and in such grandeur, was awe-inspiring.
I could be very comfortable here, I thought. A home fit for a king. Even a vampire queen.
Allison was still oh-ing and ah-ing as we stepped out of the Range Rover. I might have oh-ed, but I certainly hadn’t ah-ed. The house itself was situated on lushly manicured grounds, complete with sumptuous gardens filled, in part, with fresh herbs. I saw everything from sage to rosemary, to mint and thyme. The home’s courtyard had a distinctively European flair, with intricate brick and plasterwork. Trees were the overall theme of the home and sprouted from ornate planters situated everywhere. A five-car garage was off to one side. The garage and much of the home’s façade was covered in thick ivy.
“I’m in heaven, Sammie,” said Allison. “Remind me to thank you again for inviting me to join you.”
“I didn’t invite you. You insisted.”
“And I’m so glad I did.”
I shook my head as we each fetched our suitcases from the rear of the vehicle. As we headed up the wide flagstone stairs, I noticed Tara, our host, looking at me. Or, rather, at my suitcase.
“You don’t roll your bag?” she asked.
Oops. My bag, I saw, was bigger than both Tara’s and Allison’s. And both of them were struggling a bit up the steps, rolling and lifting. I had mine in my hand, hefting it without thought or effort. “I like the exercise,” I lied. “My trainer would be proud.”
Tara smiled as if I had made some sense. Allison snickered behind me. And once we were inside the cavernous home, I acted normal and used my suitcase’s own rollers.
The home opened onto two curving staircases with ornate, wrought-iron railings. Polished wood floors stretched seemingly everywhere. A beautiful, round marble table with fresh-cut flowers in a crystal vase greeted us immediately, along with the sound of laughter and voices and kids playing.
“Grandpa George—that’s what everyone called him, even his wife—never made any of us feel unwelcome. The entire house was on-limits, as he would always say.”
“On-limits?” asked Allison. She was scurrying to keep up behind us. Turned out my new friend had rather short legs.
I heard that, she thought, her words reaching me easily.
I giggled.
I heard that, too. And yes, I have issues with my legs.
I stopped giggling, or tried to.
“Well,” said Tara, speaking over her shoulder as we headed into a gorgeous living room. “Grandpa George always told us the entire house was available to all of us kids. There was never a room we were not allowed in, except—”
She paused.
“Except what?” I asked.
“Well, the family mausoleum, of course.”
“Er, of course,” I said. “Grandpa George sounds like he was an amazing man.”
Tara nodded and tensed her shoulders. “Yeah, the best.”
We next passed through the kitchen, where three or four people were leaning against counters, drinking and talking. Tara said hi and introduced us as her friends. They all smiled and raised their drinks, but watched us closely. Very closely. It was the same for the other rooms and other people. Introductions, polite smiles, suspicious stares.
As we swept through the house and out through a pair of wide French doors, Allison caught up to me on her stubby legs and whispered in my ear, “What was that all about?”
“What do you mean?”
“The stares. Creepy.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“At least not yet,” said Allison.
“Right,” I said, as we now followed Tara along a curved, stone path that led through even more succulent gardens. There was a volleyball net set up out here, along with kayaks lined along an arbor with what was, perhaps, the biggest brick barbeque I’d ever seen. The home, I was beginning to realize, was designed for one thing and one thing only: pleasure, and lots of it. At least of the family kind. A sort of funhouse for adults and kids and everyone in between.
“But we’re going to find out,” said Allison.
“I’m going to find out,” I corrected.
“Hey, I’m your assistant.”
“Fictional assistant,” I added.
And there it was, just around another turn in the path: the swimming pool where Tara’s grandpa had been found last summer, face down and quite dead. I noticed Tara kept her eyes averted. I didn’t blame her.
Next, was a row of guest homes in the back, which is where Allison and I would be staying. Bungalows, actually. Each was as big or bigger than my home in Fullerton. Tara showed us to one such structure, which proved to be a two-bedroom suite, with bedrooms on either end and a kitchen and living room in the middle. A fireplace was there, too. Firewood and kindling was stacked neatly nearby.
I made arrangements with Tara to come back and debrief us once we were unpacked and settled in. I also requested that she bring family photos. I needed to know everyone who was here. Intimately. She understood.
“Debrief?” asked Allison when Tara had left.
“That’s detective talk,” I said.
“You mean detective mumbo-jumbo.”
“Remember why we’re here,” I said. “To catch a killer.”
“Well, I’m here to keep you alive.”
I snorted.
“Don’t scoff,” said Allison. “I saw it clearly.”
“You saw what clearly?”
“Me saving your life.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Convenient.”
“Don’t scoff at us mystics, Sammie. We work in mysterious ways.”
I snorted again and picked the room on the left.
“Hey,” said Allison. “Why do you get that room?”
“Because you work for me, remember?”
“Oh, damn,” said Allison, plopping down on her own bed and then stretching out. “I forgot about that part.”
But she was asleep before I could respond.
Chapter Twelve
> Yes, I wanted to sleep, too.
And, yes, the medallion made it possible for me to withstand the sun, but the golden disk didn’t take away the burning desire to lay down, close my eyes, and die all over again. Because that’s how sleep often felt to me: a mini-death.
I am so very, very weird.
But I was also here only for the weekend. It was Friday afternoon, and coming on evening. I had tonight, tomorrow and all of Sunday to solve this crime. Our flight back to civilization was Monday morning.
Lots to do, I thought. Too much to be laying around and snoozing.
I pulled out the one thing every good investigator needs: my clipboard with my case notes. Yes, I’d already been making notes on this one. Lots of them. Knowing I had only a few days to prep for this case meant that I needed names and pictures. I looked at my list now of the many names, some of which had thumbnail pictures next to them. I had drawn lines attaching the names to various family members.
For now, they were just names and pictures and slightly squiggly lines. The deceased in question was George Thurman, or Grandpa George. The name had a certain ring to it. Yes, he sounded important but—but from what I was gathering, he didn’t act it. He was a recluse at heart who loved his family. Although he was known for his generosity to charities, he rarely, if ever, opened up his home to outsiders.
His home was his safe haven, his escape.
And now, his tomb.
George Thurman had had two sons and a daughter, all of whom now ran the family hotel empire. An empire that was very much kept in the family. Much like his home, where only family members were invited, the business was the same: only family members were appointed to important roles. For now, it was the eldest son, Junior Thurman, who was the president. The youngest son, August, was the vice-president. Other important roles went to brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, nephews and nieces. George’s wife, Ellery, had long since passed.
By all accounts, the family was über-rich. The two sons’ own daughters were often found in tabloid magazines. One of them had even made a sex tape. I’d refused to watch the sex tape. For now. Yes, I knew I needed to be thorough...but eww.
From the next room, I heard Allison mumble something in her sleep. The mumbling then turned into loud snoring. I got up and shut her bedroom door, just as she let out a short, sharp snort.
Nice.
Back in the living room, I looked some more at my notes. The deceased in question, George Thurman, had long since retired, handing the corporate over to his oldest son. That had been, according to my research, nearly ten years ago. So, power couldn’t have been a factor.
Money, maybe.
Undoubtedly, George had left untold millions behind, bequeathing them to who knows who. The potential to inherit millions of dollars might be a motivating factor.
But to sons who were already wealthy?
That didn’t ring true.
I made a note to follow up on the disbursement of the inheritance, who got what and how much. But I suspected this was a dead end. Then again, what did I know? As for me, the most I could leave my own kids was a mortgage in which I was almost upside down. That and a minivan and, maybe, a few thousand dollars in petty cash.
I need to get my shit together, I thought.
I went back to what I knew of George Thurman’s death. As I did so, I got up from the leather couch and moved over to the front door, where I stood in the doorway and looked out across the manicured grounds. There were four bungalows, and untold numbers of guest rooms in the mansion. Enough, surely, for twenty or thirty people to stay comfortably.
There was the pool behind the main house. There was a fence around the pool, which was a good idea with all the grandkids. There was also a balcony directly above the pool, a balcony that led off to one of the rooms.
Had he been pushed? Had he fallen in?
According to the autopsy, there had been no alcohol in the old man’s system, nor any drugs. George hadn’t had a heart attack, either, nor a stroke. In fact, there had been no evidence of foul play of any type. His death had been ruled an accidental drowning.
George Thurman had been 79 at the time of his death. Too old to remember how to swim? Hell, how does one accidentally drown, anyway?
I didn’t know as I gazed out over the sun-drenched backyard, as the shadows of evening encroached.
Time to get to work.
Chapter Thirteen
Allison was still asleep.
I could smell the barbeque cooking. The smoking meat triggered a primal hunger in me, a hunger that I couldn’t feed. I hadn’t brought any of my own nourishment with me. Allison had volunteered for the job. Fresh blood. Her blood. Smelling the meat now triggered a hunger in me.
A hunger for her.
Jesus.
I found myself pacing inside the small bungalow. The floorboard creaked beneath me. I always paced at this time of the day, medallion or no medallion. When the sun was about to set, that thing which was inside me awakened.
Awakened to the night.
I paused at the open window. The sky beyond was purplish—and filling up with low-hanging clouds. So much for the sunny skies. This was, after all, the Pacific Northwest.
And just like that, the first drops appeared against the big window, splattering, collecting, sliding.
I continued pacing.
As I paced, both a sadness and an excitement filled me. Excitement for the coming night. Sadness for what I was. After all, just when I would think I was feeling normal, or feeling human, this would happen: the day would merge into night. And, when that happened, I would feel anything but normal. Anyone but myself.
I felt on edge, anxious, angry.
This would be when I would snap at Tammy and Anthony—and even more often at Danny—more than enough times for them to know to stay away from Mommy at this time of day. Of course, back in the day, my kids didn’t know the reason why.
Now they did. Now they knew everything.
They knew Mommy was a freak. They also knew that they were pretty freaky themselves.
Not my fault, I thought, as I shook my hands and continued pacing. I didn’t ask for this. I was only out jogging. Jogging as I had done many times before. Hundreds of times before.
Had the bastard been watching me seven years ago? Or had I simply crossed paths with him unexpectedly? An unfortunate crossing of paths?
I didn’t know...and perhaps would never know, unless...
Unless I talked to the vampire hunter who’d killed my own attacker. The vampire hunter named Rand.
Then again, wasn’t there another who knew the answers? My guardian angel had been neither a guardian nor an angel.
Ishmael had, apparently, orchestrated my attack. How, I didn’t know, but I was going to find out. What strings had he pulled? In the least, what did the son-of-a-bitch know?
I shook my hands again.
Good God, when was the fucking sun going to set?
Soon, I knew. Soon. I could feel it out there, beyond the forest of evergreens. Its rounded upper half was still above the distant horizon. I couldn’t see it but I could feel it. Every ray. Every particle of light. Every fucking photon.
Screw Fang. He didn’t have to push me so hard. I might have come around. I might have fallen in love with him, too. Screw Detective Hanner, too. Whatever her game was, I didn’t know, but I did know one thing.
She wasn’t going to win. Not if she came up against me.
And by stealing Fang from me—my very best friend—well, she made it personal. Very, very personal.
I accidentally elbowed the corner of the kitchen. Plaster exploded and the whole house shook.
Easy, I thought. Calm down.
I thought of Danny and Kingsley. Two cheaters. Two bastards, and I nearly drove my hand through the front door as I passed by it.
That’s not calming down, I thought.
I thought of my kids and took a deep breath. I thought of Detective Sherbet and smiled. I thought of Allison sno
ring in the room next to me, and almost laughed.
I was calming down. Good. Willing myself to calm down. Yes, good. But there was another reason for why I was finally relaxing. Oh, yes, another reason, indeed.
The sun was slip, slip, slippin’ away.
I paused by the big window and breathed in deeply, filling my worthless lungs to capacity with useless air. And by the time I had filled them completely, the anger and hostility had disappeared.
I felt like a new woman. Or a new vampire.
The sun, after all, had set.
And I was alive again.
Truly alive.
I turned around and saw Allison watching me from the shadows of her doorway, her hair mussed. “Feeling better?” she asked.
“Very,” I said.
“Hungry?”
“Very, very hungry,” I said.
Chapter Fourteen
Dinner was served in the dining room.
And what a dining room it was. It had a vaulted ceiling complete with a hand-painted mural of a mountain that I suspected was the nearby Mount Rainier. Very Sistine Chapel-like, and it, no doubt, would have taken a skilled artisan months to complete. The dining table itself looked like it was out of a movie set. So long that it seemed comical, it was vaguely boat-shaped, as in, it tapered off near the end, wider in the middle. It had a beautiful golden floral inlay, with intricately carved pedestals holding the whole damn thing steady.
Italian, I figured, and worth more money than I would make in a month. Two months.
Steaming filet mignon and crusted chicken breasts and barbequed ribs filled many platters placed along the center of the table. All of which smelled heavenly. All of which were off-limits to me. Yes, I accepted a small serving of salad, claiming I was a vegetarian. Allison snickered at that, and I gave her a small elbow in the ribs.
Well, maybe, not that small. She oophed and nearly toppled over.
My bad, I thought.
Meanie, she thought back.
But she had played it off well, turning the explosion of air into a hacking cough that earned a few scowls from those around the table. When she was done hacking into her napkin, she glared at me. I shrugged and smiled sweetly.