by Nic Saint
“Good morning, Father,” Gran caroled. “How did you sleep? Well, I hope?”
The priest chuckled. “Yes, very well indeed, Mrs. Beadsmore. Except for a small incident this morning, I had a wonderful night.”
Gran’s face clouded. “Small incident? What incident?”
“Well, I found a string of garlic hanging over my head this morning. And when I put on my glasses to have a closer look they dropped on my face.” He shook his head. “I have no idea how they came to be there. I also found a large fence post next to me in bed. It was quite dirty, to be honest, so I’m afraid the sheets are rather soiled now.”
Gran’s frown deepened and her lips pressed together. Her eyes swiveled to the kitchen window that looked out into the backyard. “Barnum,” she finally said.
“Your nephew?” Father Reilly asked. “Do you think he did this?”
Gran nodded, then bellowed, “Barnum!”
The sound was like a trumpet call, and bounced off the walls of the kitchen. Father Reilly winced, and I covered my ears. When Gran is mad she sometimes forgets she’s a witch, and tends to let her witchy powers run amok.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Father Reilly hurriedly. “I really don’t want to cause any—oh, there you are, young man,” he said when Barnum sauntered in.
My cousin gave Father Reilly a toothy grin. “Don’t thank me,” he said. “You’re welcome.”
Father Reilly looked nonplussed. “Thank you for what?”
“Barnum,” Gran snapped. “Did you put garlic in Father Reilly’s bed?”
Barnum shrugged. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. What’s it to you?”
“Apologize to our guest right this instance,” said Gran. “What were you thinking?”
Barnum directed a curious look at Father Reilly. “Did you tell her?”
“Tell her what?”
“About the garlic? It’s not a good idea to give away your trade secrets, you know. Us vampire hunters have to stick together.”
“Vampire hunters?” asked Father Reilly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I saw you brought some of your tools but you missed a couple.” He ticked off on his fingers. “You brought a cross—that’s how I knew—and holy water, but you forgot garlic and a stake to drive through the vampire’s heart. And silver bullets, but I can’t help you with that. I’m all out of silver bullets right now. Who are you after anyway?”
Father Reilly looked shocked. “Vampires?” He then laughed a feeble laugh. “You’re a very ingenious young man, Barnum. Most ingenious!”
“Most obnoxious, you mean,” said a voice from the door. It belonged to Barnum’s older brother Bancroft. At twenty-seven, Bancroft looks like a stick insect. He’s tall and gangly with strangely unattractive features. He’s a stylist, and likes to dress extravagantly to emphasize his sense of style. Today he was wearing a fishnet shirt that displayed his hairless torso, a pair of ripped jeans, and—for some reason—a Tyrolean hat complete with feather.
“Your little brother seems to think that I’m a vampire hunter,” said Father Reilly. “He hung a rope of garlic over my bed and put a garden post next to me.” He laughed but it didn’t come across as very hearty. The Church probably frowns on being labeled a bunch of vampire hunters.
“Don’t mind him,” Bancroft grumbled. “He’s a little pest.”
“You’re a pest!” Barnum cried, picking up a bread roll and chucking it in his brother’s direction. He had a great aim, as the roll landed on Bancroft’s Tyrolean hat and stayed there. A nice accessory, I thought.
“Hey, watch the hat,” said Bancroft crossly. “That’s a real Tyrian hat.”
“Tyrian? Like, Game of Thrones Tyrian?” I asked.
Bancroft gave me a blank look. “Tyrian is only the hottest hat designer in New York. And I don’t watch Game of Thrones. It’s all hype.”
Did I mention Bancroft is a little conceited?
“You still haven’t told me who the vampire is, mister,” said Barnum.
Father Reilly displayed a feeble smile. “Ha ha,” he said. “Ha ha ha.”
“Who’s the vampire?!” Barnum insisted, kicking the table and sending coffee spilling from the priest’s cup.
“There is no vampire,” I said. “And Father Reilly isn’t a vampire hunter.”
“But he’s got all the tools!”
“Those are not vampire hunting tools,” I said. “Those are a priest’s tools.” At least that’s what I thought. I’m not exactly a specialist on priestly stuff. But Father Reilly gave me a nod so I guess I wasn’t spreading any untruths.
“Priest’s tools?” asked Barnum, screwing up his face.
“Have you been going through Father Reilly’s things again?” asked Gran. “You know I told you never to go up to the third floor.”
Barnum shrugged. It was obvious that whatever adults told him went in one ear and out the other. “I just figured he needed my help.”
“And I thank you for that, young man,” said Father Reilly. “But I think I can handle the vampire hunting all by myself.” And he gave a big, fat wink to Barnum, whose face lit up with delight.
“You are a vampire hunter!” he exclaimed.
Father Reilly gave him another wink. “Don’t tell anyone, you hear?”
“Oh, no, mister! It’ll be our secret. Us vampire hunters have to stick together!”
We all laughed, except Gran, who was shaking her head. She probably had seen the devastation Barnum had wrought to her flower beds. And Bancroft wasn’t laughing either, but that was because he was checking his phone.
“What are you reading?” asked Estrella, nibbling a scone.
“The Kim Kardashian app. She just posted some new pics.”
“Oh, can I see?!” Strel exclaimed. Like Bancroft, she was a huge KK fan.
For the next few minutes, all was quiet on the stylistic front.
“So how long are you in town for, Father?” Ernestine asked our guest.
“Well, I would like to stay another day,” he said. “You see, this used to be my parish, and I’m visiting a few of my former friends and parishioners.” He smiled. “It’s been such a delight to catch up with everybody.”
“You can stay for as long as you want,” said Gran.
“You’re too kind,” said Father Reilly. “I’m very obliged to you and your wonderful family.”
“It’s a blessing to have a priest in the house,” said Gran with a warm smile.
Father Reilly blushed. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Beadsmore.”
“Cassandra, please.”
“Did you say this used to be your parish?” I asked, sipping my coffee.
“Yes, indeed. I was here for close to twenty years.”
“And what made you move away?”
His smile faltered. “Well, the powers that be decided that my specific talents were required elsewhere.” He spread his arms. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, for I spent these past few years in a wonderful place.”
“Where were you stationed?”
Father Reilly laughed. “Priests aren’t stationed, Edelie. We’re sent by the bishop where the needs are the highest. I was sent to Mozambique. That’s in Africa,” he added in case I was geographically challenged.
“Wow, that’s a pretty big change,” I said.
The priest chuckled. “Yes, I had some adapting to do. But my parishioners were so wonderful, and I’ve come to appreciate the many joys and wonders of the Mozambican plains and its inhabitants.”
“Sounds hot,” said Ernestine.
He smiled. “Yes, I’ve had to get used to the heat. Though the New York summers can be pretty hot as well.”
“New York summers suck,” said a voice from the door. “Which is why I like to spend them in LA.”
The voice belonged to Busby. He’s Barnum and Bancroft’s brother and is the bodybuilder in our family. He was wearing a tank top, displaying his beefy chest and sizable biceps. He and Bancroft recently spent some
time on the West Coast, where Busby had high hopes of becoming a trainer to the stars and his brother wanted to become Kim Kardashian’s stylist. Neither of those ambitions had panned out, and they’d since returned to live with my aunt and uncle in Happy Bays, a bucolic town in the Hamptons.
“Yes, LA has a great climate,” Father Reilly agreed.
“Are there a lot of vampires in LA?” Barnum asked.
“Barnum, enough about vampires already,” said Gran.
“Oh, it’s fine,” said Father Reilly, ruffling my cousin’s hair. “Boys will be boys.”
“I’m not a boy,” said Barnum. “I’m a vampire hunter—and a GI Joe protecting us from the Germans.”
“Ha ha,” said Father Reilly. “What an imagination. Don’t you just love it?”
“As long as he leaves my flowers alone it’s fine by me,” said Gran.
It was obvious she had a lot more to say on the matter, but didn’t want to do it in front of our house guest. Which kinda proved Estrella’s point: our house wasn’t our house anymore. At least not completely. Now we had to watch out what we said and how we dressed. Not that I minded too much. I liked having guests in the house. As long as they let me sleep.
“So are you going to invite us all to your show tomorrow night?” Gran asked, directing a pointed look at Estrella.
Uh-oh. Busted. Estrella’s face took on a darker tinge of scarlet. “Show?” she asked. “What show?”
“The show you’re doing at The Luinness.”
Estrella’s lips parted wordlessly as she directed a helpless look in my direction. I couldn’t help smiling. I wondered how she was going to get herself out of this one.
“I—Oh, you mean my show! At The Luinness. It’s funny you should ask. I completely forgot about that.”
“You forgot about your very first performance?” Gran asked.
Estrella swallowed away a lump. “Yes—yes, I did. I was going to ask you, of course.”
“Of course,” said Gran.
“Um, Father Reilly? Are you up for a musical performance tomorrow? Cause if you are, I’m singing live at The Luinness. That’s the Irish pub just down the street. It’s called The Luinness on account of the fact that the owner’s name is Lou, and Guinness is his favorite beer—he’s Irish.”
“I’d be delighted,” said the priest. “What do you sing, dear?”
“She doesn’t,” I muttered. “She caterwauls.”
Estrella tried to kick my shin but missed and hit Father Reilly’s shin instead.
“Ooph!” said the latter, directing a scathing look at Barnum.
“For the occasion I’ll be singing Irish folk songs, actually,” Strel said with a nasty look at me.
“Oh, you mean like The Wild Rover and Whiskey in the Jar?” the priest asked enthusiastically.
“Um, yes,” said Estrella after a pause. “Yes, those will definitely be in my repertoire.”
“That’s just wonderful,” said Father Reilly. “I’m part Irish myself, you see. My great-grandmother Mary Reilly came over from the old country.”
At this, Barnum looked up, his eyes glittering. “Mary Reilly? As in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”
“Ha ha,” said Father Reilly. “Ha ha ha. Not exactly, young Barnum. That’s just a book. Like Dracula is just a book. None of that is real, see? It’s all fiction.”
“I haven’t read the book,” said Barnum. “But I saw the movie.”
“You haven’t read the book because you can’t read yet, little buddy,” said Busby, who was scarfing down scrambled eggs by the pound. “Don’t listen to him, Father,” he added. “And if he bothers you just tell me. I’ll set him straight.”
“Oh, he doesn’t bother me one bit,” said the priest. “Not one wee bit.”
“So what time does your performance start?” asked Gran, startling Estrella, who’d hoped the conversation had veered away from her.
“Five,” she said curtly. “They gave me the pre-dinner slot.”
Gran gave her the sweetest smile. “I’ll be there.”
“Of course you will,” Estrella said, just as blithely.
Just then, I heard the door opening and closing. I directed a look at Gran, who seemed worried all of a sudden. She wiped her lips with her napkin and got up. “Oh, dear,” she muttered. “Oh, dear.”
We all looked up when Renée Reive entered the kitchen. She’s one of our neighbors and Gran’s best friend. The moment she walked in I could see something was wrong.
“It’s Mrs. Peach,” she said with a pained look at Gran. “She’s dead.”
Chapter Three
Before we could recover from the shock, the doorbell rang, and then immediately the front door was pushed open. Ever since Gran launched her Airbnb, the front door stays open during the day—or at least when we’re here.
“Hello!” a stentorian voice rang out. “Anybody home?”
A shiver ran through me when I recognized the voice as belonging to Sam Barkley. The NYPD detective and I had been dating on and off for a while, but it had been off again since he went out of town last week and didn’t bother to call me for four days straight.
“We’re in here, Sam!” Ernestine called out. “In the kitchen.”
Sam walked in and seemed surprised to find the kitchen a lot more crowded than usual. The burly detective’s keen blue eyes flitted from face to face until they landed on mine.
“Hi, Sam,” I said. I’d just stuffed a muffin into my mouth, so I didn’t exactly look my sexiest.
He gave me a nod. “Edie.” Then his eyes continued their search until they found what they were looking for. “Cassandra. Can I have a word?”
Gran nodded. “Let’s go to the parlor.” She walked out, Sam right behind her.
“This won’t take a sec,” he said for the sake of the rest of us.
“What’s this all about?” asked Ernestine.
He hesitated, then he said, “There’s been a murder. Leann Peach.”
And without another word, he closed the door behind him.
We all stared at each other. “Who is Leann Peach?” asked Busby.
“She’s one of our neighbors,” Estrella said. “She lives across the street—lived.”
We all looked at Renée, who seemed to be the only one who knew what was going on. She knew the drill, for she launched into an explanation without having to be prompted. “She was found this morning. At St. Michael’s. Crushed to death by a cross.”
“Crushed to death—you mean literally?” I asked.
She nodded. “The cross fell on top of her. Death was instantaneous.”
I didn’t ask how she knew this. Somehow Renée always knows. She’s a slight woman with short gray hair, soft brown eyes and a friendly face. And whenever something happens in Haymill, she knows all about it.
“But Sam said it was murder,” said Estrella.
“Someone must have dropped that cross on her,” said Bancroft.
“That’s impossible,” said Father Reilly. “A single person cannot lift it. It takes at least four to hold it up. I would know since I was one of the people who helped take it down during an extensive renovation in the nineties.”
“Oh, that’s right. St. Michael’s was your parish, wasn’t it, Father Reilly?” Renée asked.
He nodded amiably. “Indeed it was. Although I don’t remember ever seeing you in church, Mrs…”
“Reive. Renée Reive.” She gave him a deferential smile. “I’m not Catholic, father. I’m Presbyterian. But I did hear many great things about your time here.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Reive. But as I said, no one person can hold up that cross. If Mrs. Peach was murdered, as the detective indicated, there must be some other explanation.”
“Maybe the vampires got to her,” said Barnum excitedly. “Was she a very juicy woman, sir? Lots of blood and guts?”
The priest seemed taken aback by the comment. “Um, I wouldn’t exactly describe Mrs. Peach as a juicy woman, young Barnum. She was more of a dry prune,
actually.” The moment he said it, he seemed shocked at his own words, for he gave a surprised chuckle. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”
“A dry prune,” Busby said with a laugh. “I like that.”
“No, but you’re right,” said Mrs. Reive. “Mrs. Peach wasn’t exactly a peach. In fact she wasn’t well liked.” She quickly made the sign of the cross, then added, “I know one should never speak ill of the dead, but she wasn’t.”
“You’re quite right, my dear Mrs. Reive,” said the priest. “Leann Peach was not a very pleasant woman. There were many complaints by many parishioners about her, even in my day.”
“Why is that?” asked Bancroft, interested.
“Because she was a vampire!” Barnum said, slathering a waffle with Nutella.
“She hated us,” explained Estrella. “For some reason she kept filing complaints about us with the local police department. Said we were…” She hesitated, and directed a quick look at me.
“Witches,” I said. “She said we were a bunch of witches.”
“Hey, that’s so weird,” said Busby. “Everybody knows witches don’t exist.”
“Yeah, everybody knows that,” Ernestine confirmed. “Except Mrs. Peach.”
“She just hated Gran,” Estrella explained. “Because Gran didn’t back down whenever Mrs. Peach came after her.”
“Vampires hate witches,” said Barnum knowingly. “Because witches can defeat vampires.” He glanced at Father Reilly. “So that’s the vampire you were after. Mrs. Peach. Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you slay her!”
The priest laughed again, and ruffled Barnum’s hair. “You’re funny.”
“Yeah, a regular barrel of laughs,” said Bancroft with an eye roll.
“Try living with him, Father,” said Busby. “You won’t think he’s so funny then.”
“I wonder why Sam wanted to talk to Gran,” I said, directing an anxious look at the door.
“He’s probably talking to everybody that knew Mrs. Peach,” said Renée. She uttered a little cry and flung her hand to her chest. “Oh, my. That means he’ll want to talk to me next. How is Detective Barkley?” she asked me. “Is he nice?”