by Sharon Joss
50th ANNUAL INTERNATIONAL SPIRIT FESTIVAL
GRAND MARSHAL FLOAT - THE HAND OF FATE
MISS MATILDA BLACKMAN
AND HER COURT
No way.
The float was a five-level pyramid job, each tier a different rainbow hue, covered in brightly colored crepe paper flowers. Crudely drawn runic symbols, decorated each tier with suns, moons, pyramids, and palm prints. On each tier stood four high-school girls, each wearing a prom gown, elbow-length white gloves, and a rainbow sash emblazoned with the words ‘Spirit Princess’ in silver glitter. One girl, with spiky, turquoise-blue hair rushed up to me, cell phone in hand, and breathlessly asked if she could get her picture taken with the ‘Queen’.
“Megan and the rest of the princesses are from different high schools around Monroe County,” Lacey said. “Enzo thought they’d appeal to a younger audience. After all, the old Grand Marshal was well, so old. Aren’t they just adorable?”
“Adorable,” I agreed through gritted teeth while Megan snapped a selfie.
Lacey pointed to the top tier of the float, to where a massive purple throne sat, covered in blue glitter, flanked by a pair of matching costumed figures, each wearing a papier mache unicorn head. “That’s where you sit.”
The blush started from my toes. “You have got to be kidding.”
She gave me an icy stare. “Now everyone will get to see who you really are.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. She laughed and shoved the garbage bag into my hand. “Don’t forget to wave!”
I scanned the parking lot, looking for Enzo, but he had the megaphone out and was instructing all of us to take our places, we were moving out in two minutes. Already, the lead marching band was starting to play
My cheeks burned. This was a joke—the cruel kind like in high school when they nominate some unfortunate loser for homecoming queen. No one would have dared to do something like this to Madame Coumlie.
What did I expect? The Hand of Fate was dead, and this whole Spirit Festival was stupid, and so was I to have let myself get sucked into it. What an idiot.
Everything I touched had either died, disappeared, or burned up. Roper was right. It didn’t mean anything to anyone anymore. With all the hype surrounding the Spirit Festival, I’d forgotten that. Only Celeste Coumlie could be the Hand of Fate. I was just Miss Fate. Too late to get out of it now.
One of the unicorn guys, Scott, scampered down from the top platform and offered to help me up to the throne. I handed him the big black garbage bag, which was filled with individually-wrapped pieces of salt-water taffy, and scrambled up the platforms as gracefully as possible. When I got to the throne atop the pyramid, the other unicorn guy, who said his name was Barry, helped me strap myself in before he took his place standing beside the throne.
I watched Enzo climb into the back seat of the little green jag, and a moment later, the float began to roll forward. The music began to blare out from beneath the throne, and the sounds of Norman Greenbaum’s Spirit in the Sky began to blast out at ear-splitting volume. The Spirit Princesses and the unicorns began to dance. The throne began to vibrate. The float pulled out of the parking lot and began to roll down Third Street at a pace only slightly faster than standing still.
Oh hell. Might as well get it over with.
CHAPTER 16
WITH A PHONY smile on my face, I waved to the crowd while the two unicorn guys, Scott and Barry, danced like fiends beside my big purple throne. I’m not kidding, they were really good and their enthusiasm was contagious. The Spirit Princesses were far more reserved, preferring to wave to the spectators, all float princesses do.
I was the only one on the float with candy, and once the crowd realized it, they started cheering and waving at me. As soon as I started tossing out the taffy, the crowd went wild—the cheering even drowned out the music at times, which was on an endless loop of that one song. The view was also pretty cool, and before long, I stopped feeling sorry for myself and got into it.
With Barry and Scott by my side, we threw candy to the kids, to everyone who’d come in costume, and anyone in uniform; just about anyone who had a smile for us as we went by. I even threw taffy to a couple of the police officers I recognized on crowd duty.
Two hours later, when the float turned off Third and we headed toward the end point at the old ice house, I was almost sorry to see the parade come to an end.
As we cruised toward the parking lot, I spotted three sheriff’s cars, the Coroner’s van, and Ted Roper’s olive green government vehicle parked beside the ice house, which was now festooned with yellow crime scene tape.
A deputy waved the parade away from the lot, directing us to the lot of the meat packing plant next door. I unfastened my seatbelt and slipped down the platform to the edge of the float, barely waiting until it came to a halt before jumping to the ground. I hit the ground running,
The ice house had been condemned years ago, and a cyclone fence topped with barbed wire encircled the property. Several NO TRESPASSING signs warned violators of legal prosecution should they enter the premises.
I was sweaty and out of breath by the time I reached the circle of law enforcement vehicles. Someone had cut through the rusted chain link fence which surrounded the building. Crime scene tape and a Sheriff’s deputy stood between me and Agent Roper, who was standing in the shade of the building, having a word with Sheriff Reynolds and an older fellow.
The deputy stepped in front of me. “This is a crime scene, Miss. You’ll have to leave.”
I ignored him, and waved at Roper, hoping to catch his eye.
Instead, Sheriff Reynolds saw me and strolled over, his face grim. “What are you doing here, Mattie?” His eyes drifted toward my chest. The corners of his mouth twitched. “Or should I say, Miss Fate?”
Doh! I whipped the stupid sash off and shoved it into the pocket of my culottes. “It’s another body, isn’t it?”
He jerked his head toward the parking lot next door, noting the tail-end of the parade. “I can’t believe I’m going to do this.”
To my surprise, he lifted up the yellow crime scene tape and beckoned me to accompany over to where Roper was speaking to an iron-haired fellow with black horn-rimmed glasses and mutton-shop sideburns. The men stopped speaking as we approached.
“This is Craig Ferrens, the Monroe County Coroner. And this,” Reynolds sighed loudly. “Is the Hand of Fate, Mattie Blackman.”
Roper made a face. “Oh geeze, Blackman. Somebody mentions your name, and here you are.”
They were talking about me?
“The call came in as an anonymous tip,” Ferrens said. “The body was dumped here. No clothing, no identification. ”
Lou Scali must have made the call. He had connections in the coroner’s office; I hadn’t realized it was the coroner.
“The caller said the Hand of Fate could read people’s auras. He thought you might be able to tell us whether or not this one was human or not. It that true?”
“You mean you want to know if he was like Wiley Willy?”
Roper shot me a sharp look. “You know what he was?”
“A dhampir.” I debated whether to tell him about the rest of the band being dhampirs too. No doubt Reynolds and Roper already knew. The body in the ice house, whoever it was, wasn’t Mayor Brunson—he’d been in the parade.
Craig Ferrens nodded, wiping his glistening forehead with a handkerchief. “I found four bites in the groin area on this one, and he looks like the others. We want to know if he’s human or not. It would save us some time.”
Lou must’ve told him I could read a dhampir’s life line. I wasn’t sure if I could tell after a body had died, though. “I’ve never tried it on a dead guy before.”
“We’re trying to determine if we’ve got a serial killer on our hands,” Sheriff Reynolds explained. “Agent Roper has already concluded we do, but I’m not convinced there’s any real threat to the human population. Dr. Ferrens tells me it will take 48 hours for the test results, but if you can
tell us now, we’ll get a jump on it. Maybe save some lives.”
Of course. If the victim was another dhampir, law enforcement wouldn’t count the death as human. Easier to keep it quiet and out of the news until they found whatever it was that was killing them. “Let me see the body.”
The entrance door had been pried off its hinges, the air inside as hot and dry as a convection oven. I couldn’t help but think that the tin roof could bake just about anybody into jerky in no time.
Roper led the way to the naked body, which looked so very similar to Wiley Willy’s. Like tanned hide, stretched paper-thin over bones. No spider webs. No smell of decay, but an incongruous scent lingered—something familiar. Sweat dripped into my eyes as I leaned over the corpse for a better look.
The distinctive blend of Brylcreem and Aqua Velva triggered a flash of recognition.
“Shit.” I wiped my face on my sleeve.
“You recognize him.” Roper wasn’t asking.
A sick feeling twisted in my gut. I raised my eyes to meet Sheriff Reynolds. “It’s Mel Moody.”
“Ah, crap.” The sheriff squinted at the face. “How can you be sure?”
I pointed to the tattoo on Mel’s desiccated forearm. “That’s an Indigo Diamond Piranha.”
“Is he human or paranormal?” asked Roper.
“Human.” The sheriff sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “He owns Dave’s Killer Burgers.” He made a face. “Now that is a damn shame. I’m going to miss those double bacon chili cheeseburgers.”
CHAPTER 17
I hung around until they got Mel bagged up and loaded into the Coroner’s van. Sheriff Reynolds and Ted Roper seemed to accept my identification of the body—and immediately expressed concern that whoever had been killing off dhampirs had changed his modus operandi and had moved up to humans. Pending the coroner’s official findings, a serial killer was on the loose here in Shore Haven.
The why, what, how and who it was remained a mystery. Reynolds, I knew, would be looking for a human suspect, while Roper would no doubt be looking for a supernatural killer. Neither man was going to say much in front of me, but both were on the same page in terms of keeping the news quiet until the last possible moment, and both threatened to have me arrested for hampering the investigation if I spoke to the press before either of them made a statement. This being Wednesday, I wondered if they would keep the news under wraps until after the Festival was over, or release it sooner.
Either way, I wasn’t invited to the party.
By the time Roper and Reynolds were done warning me off the case, all the parade participants were long gone. I’d missed my chance to warn Mayor Brunson about the dhampir hunter. I called and left him voice message, saying that I would stop by his office in the morning, then started walking toward home.
On a whim, I walked up to Dave’s Killer Burgers. The note was still taped to the inside of the glass door:
CLOSED FOR THE PARADE 11am-3pm
I recognized Mel’s handwriting, He was alive when he locked the door. Whatever killed him had sucked him dry and dumped him at the old ice house sometime between 11am and 1:30pm, when the coroner got the call. Whatever got him had to be close by.
Someone in the crowd, perhaps. It could have been anyone, I suppose, but Roper and Reynolds were both of the opinion that Mel had been killed elsewhere and dumped in the ice house. That meant that the murder probably took place somewhere between the restaurant and the ice house.
I looked up and down the street, wondering where he might’ve gone. Mel lived in Webster, a twenty-minute drive. Not worth the trip. Under normal circumstances, I would have expected him to take a nap in his office, as he often did. Or, maybe he’d decided to watch the parade, after all.
The lavender and black awning of Les Belles Jollies dress shop caught my eye. Felicity had scheduled my final fitting for tomorrow. I remembered the way Mel had spoken of her when he mentioned her shop, and wondered again if maybe he and the seamstress had a thing. She was right down the street.
The shop was closed for the parade and the rest of the day, like many of the smaller shops along Third Street. I peered through the window. The store lights were off, but through the drape leading to the workroom, the lights were on. Maybe she was working. Probably on my dress.
I debated knocking. She really wasn’t Mel’s type at all. It seemed far more likely that he’d fallen asleep in his office and been attacked there. And he’d been looking so tired lately. Come to think of it, Mel looked as exhausted as I felt. I shivered as I thought of Luçien Bold.
At the ice house, Roper had smugly informed me that he’s already interviewed Felicity. She told him her nephew had returned to Rome the previous week. When I asked about the spider webs, he said they were still waiting on lab results. He was confident it would turn out to be a were-spider.
If Luçien had really gone back to Italy, he couldn’t be a were-spider and couldn’t have spun those webs in my room. But Luçien told me he was a dreamstrider. Maybe he didn’t need to physically access the victim’s room. What if he could get to anyone through their dreams? And if he was only in their dreams, what about the spider webs? Those were real enough; even Ted Roper had seen them.
There would be one way to be sure, though. If Mel had been asleep in his office, and whatever bit him was some sort of were, there would be spider webs in Mel’s office. The police hadn’t yet sealed off the restaurant. It might be hours or even days before they got around to it. The webbing might be gone by then. Dissolved, like it had begun to do in my room.
It wouldn’t hurt to look. I knew where Mel kept his spare key. If anybody saw me, I could just say I was there to feed the fish.
CHAPTER 18
The key was hidden in a magnetized box stuck inside the fender of Mel’s red and white 1969 Ford Fairlane 500—a two-door fastback with bucket seats. The car, which he’d named Priscilla, was only driven in the summer. He’d been meaning to have it restored and detailed for years. Now, that would never happen.
I went in through the service entrance and paused just outside his office to allow my vision to adjust to the gloom. To my right was the big refrigerated walk-in, to my left, the door to Mel’s office.
I walked tentatively into the kitchen, still warm from the morning shift. Behind the service window, the grill had been scrubbed, and the broilers and food prep stations had been wiped down. Clean dishes had been stacked neatly in place, ready for the next shift. The pick-up station had also been wiped clean and the chili and soup warmers had been turned off. The place looked orderly and clean. He’d planned for this.
I returned to his office and after a moment’s hesitation, opened the door.
There were no spider webs. No sign of anything suspicious. Just the usual clutter and the still-powerful scent of Brylcreem and Aqua Velva. In fact, the Aqua Velva bottle was still sitting out on his desk, as if he’d just given himself a fresh coat of the stuff before leaving. Maybe he had a date. Or not. Mel practically bathed in that stuff.
Nothing. So much for my great idea.
It hit me then. I was out of a job, as was everyone else who depended on Mel. Dave’s Killer Burgers was an anchor for Shore Haven. It had the best food in town. Everyone, be they living or dead, came here. It was the hub of the community.
What would happen to Shore Haven without it? Probably get bulldozed to make room for a bank or bought out by a franchise and remodeled. No more 24-hour chili fries, no more jukebox music, and no more piranhas in the dining room.
I went to the walk-in and grabbed the bag of thawed shrimp for the fish. I didn’t know if Mel had family living nearby, but the fish were his babies and he would want them taken care of. I climbed the ladder beside the tank and settled myself on one of the rungs, before dropping handfuls of shell-on shrimp into the tank. You couldn’t just dump all the shrimp in at once—otherwise the fish would get over-stimulated and begin attacking each other. They swarmed in eagerly to eat.
I watched them for a while,
my eyelids heavy. The hum of the filter was hypnotic. I laid my head on the edge of the tank and slept like the dead.
* * *
I woke up feeling more alert than I had in days. The clock said six am—sheesh. I’d slept right through the night. And no bad dreams of Lucien Bold. Maybe he was really gone, of maybe he couldn’t find me here. Good to know.
The school of newly-orphaned piranhas hovered near the surface, their fishy little faces hopeful for more food.
“Sorry guys, that’s all there was. I’ll be back this afternoon.” I closed the top of the tank and climbed down from the ladder. After pulling another bag of frozen shrimp from the freezer I placed it on the counter to thaw. Mel was my friend. Until someone stopped me, taking care of his fish was the least I could do.
I was covered in blue glitter from the float. I needed to get home and get cleaned up before I drove over to Picston to talk to Mayor Brunson. I locked the door behind me and pocketed the key.
* * *
I caught up with Mayor Brunson in the parking lot at Picston City Hall as he arrived for work on Thursday morning. I told him what Enrique and Neldene had told me about their son, Harvey, and how he’d been the one who’d sent the letters to the newspapers, trying to ruin Brunson’s chances to win the election.
“They feel terrible about it, and even worse that you won’t let them explain. They said they love you and miss you. I believe them.”
Brunson scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t know any vampires.”
“We both know that’s not true. You’re a dhampir, just like Willy and the rest of the Rogues.”
Brunson’s jaw dropped.
“Don’t deny it, I see it in your aura. I understand why you’d want to keep that out of the press, but Enrique and Neldene are worried about you. They asked me to warn you.”
Brunson looked like he’d just been sucker-punched. “If this gets out, I’m through.”