Bite My Fire: A Biting Love story.

by Mary Hughes

  O-kay. Worried now. Definitely worried. I scanned for some sort of cover. Pink plastic flamingos, too thin. Garden trolls, too squat. (This was the rich section of town, but money didn’t always mean taste.) The only thing vaguely Elena-shaped was a largemouth-bass mailbox. I ducked behind it.

  “Who’s there?” I called to the vehicle. “Show yourself.” Automatically I put my hand over my gun.

  The Town Car slid menacingly to the curb right in front of where I hid. The rear passenger door popped open.

  And banged smack into the mailbox. The sick crunch of metal announced a thousand-dollar repair, minimum.

  Gangly Dirk Ruffles sprang out with more enthusiasm than sense. Gone was the rumpled blue uniform, replaced by a rumpled blue suit. He had paired it with a yellow fedora. No longer a duck in uniform, now he was a duck in a suit and tie.

  “Hello, Detective Ma’am! I phoned but you didn’t answer. But I found you. Am I a good detective, or what? Are we going to interview a suspect? Is it the widow? Do you think she’ll offer us drinks again? Do you think I can have a martini this time, shaken not stirred? I told my uncle about Mrs. Schrimpf’s martinis, even though I didn’t taste one. I always have a martini when I watch cable, though, so I know what they taste like. Well, at least what Barnacle Bill’s Martini Mix tastes like. I had a martini after I got off work while I watched reruns of Oprah on cable and my uncle…”

  Why Officer—now Detective—Ruffles was using fleet transport I didn’t know. But as he prattled on about martinis and his uncle and what he saw on cable my eye started twitching and I didn’t care. In self-defense, I ran away.

  Dirkenstein lumbered along behind, yakking the whole time. The Town Car followed. The faster I ran the faster he lumbered. And yammered. It sapped the strength from my legs, my body—my will to live. In desperation I turned. Held up one hand and braced myself. “Detective Ruffles!”

  He lumbered into my hand, which stopped him but not the yammering. “Yes, Detective Ma’am? By the way, I like it when you call me Detective Ruffles. Sounds so official, doesn’t it? Detective Ruff…”

  Like a heavy, muddy river, the best I could do was divert the flood. “How would you like a solo investigation?”

  “Me?” His feathery little mustache sucked in with his surprised breath. A single frown line wrinkled his forehead. “Me?”

  “Captain Titus wants this case wrapped up as fast as possible. It will double our effectiveness if you go awa—er, take half the work.” I was almost ashamed. Would it be so hard to let him come along? Just for one shift. Eight hours, dogged by Dirkenstein. Besieged by nonstop blather for four hundred eighty minutes, or five hundred forty counting lunch.

  Yeah. It was either find him a job or bang myself repeatedly in the head with a lead pipe. “The captain needs you, Ruffles. I need you.”

  “Oh, yes, Detective Ma’am. I’m your man.”

  “Good. Here’s what I want you to do.” I kept my sentences short and simple. “Before Schrimpf died, he lost a lot of blood. But no blood was at the scene. That means Schrimpf bled out someplace else.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Someplace else!”

  I closed my eyes so Dirk couldn’t see me roll them. He was so painfully enthusiastic. Like a kitten climbing your leg to be petted, even when you were wearing shorts. “Draw a ten-minute circle around Nieman’s Bar, Detective Ruffles. Search that circle—and find that blood.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Dirkenstein saluted, hitting himself sharply in the forehead. I looked closer at his frown line—or was that a dent? Dirk galloped back to the Town Car. He popped into the rear seat, popped back out, saluted me again, and popped back in. The door slammed, not quite flush because of the crumpled edge. The Town Car rocketed away.

  Heaving a sigh of relief, I turned onto Widow Schrimpf’s front walk.

  I had to solve this case soon. Josephine Schrimpf was my top suspect and I was here to break her alibi. My future as a detective rested on it. I donned my cop manners and rapped on the door.

  When I was in grade school we used to amuse ourselves with line drawings. I would draw a vertical line. Then I’d stick two triangles point-first into it, one on either side. A man with a bow tie stuck in an elevator.

  Two parallel lines with four circles (two on each side) was a bear climbing a tree.

  The Widow Schrimpf’s door opened. I couldn’t decide if I was seeing tits stuck in an elevator, or tits climbing a rope.

  She stepped back and waved a glass of amber liquid toward the inside of the house. “Detective O’Rourke, right on time. Do come in. Can I get you a drink?”

  No maid? It occurred to me if Sappy Nappy was as horny as everyone said, the maid might have as much motive to kill him as the missus. Maybe more. “Where is Martinez? Does she have the night off?”

  “I just sent her home, actually. I’m going out of town. Why pay her if I’m gone?”

  “You’re leaving?” Anyone with a TV knew you weren’t supposed to leave town if you were a crime suspect. By trying to duck out, Josephine Schrimpf was practically shouting her guilt. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Schrimpf. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to put off your trip.”

  “But why?” Josephine blinked long-lashed eyes at me. “I’m so overwhelmed arranging Nappy’s funeral. Surely I deserve a break? The house is so empty without him.” She squeezed out a tear.

  I gave her my best cop glare.

  Josephine shrugged, as if to say, “A girl’s gotta try.” Briskly she continued, “It’s only for a few days, to New York. They have the best shopping. And I just heard about a place called the Model-T Escort Club. The men have car names, like Mr. Thunderbird and Lexus DeVille. I’m just dying to take an SUV for a test drive, if you know what I mean.” She winked.

  Ri-ight. “The investigation isn’t closed yet, ma’am. I need you to stay in town.”

  “That’s silly. It’s been three days. Surely you’ve solved the case by now.”

  Oh, for a bullet to chew on. “This isn’t a crime show, ma’am. We don’t solve cases in an hour.”

  “How disappointing.” Josephine sipped her drink. “So did you come all the way over here just to tell me I can’t leave?”

  “No. Mrs. Schrimpf, I want to search the premises.”

  She nodded. “All right.”

  I blinked in surprise. She couldn’t mean all right. “I want to search, ma’am, but I don’t have a warrant.”

  “No problem. Search away. The faster you finish, the faster I can go to New York.”

  I wasn’t expecting that. First, no one ever cooperated with the cops in Midwest Police Monthly. And second, I hated to admit it, but I didn’t like her. I didn’t like how she treated her servant and I didn’t like that she didn’t seem to mourn her dead husband at all. And I was jealous to death of her thirty-six Cs. I’d thought she’d fight me. I hoped she’d fight me. I was looking forward to slapping her down. “No, you don’t understand. I want to search your house. Top to bottom.”

  “Well, I didn’t think you wanted to search my underwear drawer, Detective O’Rourke.” She smiled slyly. “Or maybe you do? Nice thong, by the way.”

  I glanced back, saw I’d yanked thong above jeans after Bo’s handiwork (and oh, boy, was he handy…shit). I blushed and doggedly tried one last time. “Mrs. Schrimpf. I want to look for damning evidence.”

  “Yes, Detective. Look away. I hope you find something. Plant evidence, if you want to. I mean, we’re talking about riding Mr. Mustang here. Upstairs first, or down?”

  I gave up. “Basement? Or, um, root cellar?”

  The Schrimpf abode was meticulously clean. Martinez, if she was the housekeeper, earned her buck ninety-five. Four immaculate bedrooms, five squeaky-clean bathrooms, a totally innocuous basement and two spotless offices later I was about to give up.

  “One more bedroom.” Josephine pointed at the last door.

  This had been a total waste of time. And with everyone pushing for the case to be solved yesterday, time was one thing I didn’
t have. I didn’t want to look.

  But it was my job. By-the-book thoroughness (and the specter of Tight-ass) made me grab the knob and twist. The door opened to mega-equipment. Benches. Pulleys. Straps. At first I thought I was seeing a home gym.

  Except…the straps were shiny and link-shaped. And there were no weights.

  I blinked. The pulleys and straps were chains. The benches were equipped with cuffs. A pair of shackles hung from the ceiling. “What…what’s this?” My voice was a little gaspy.

  The goofiest smile appeared on the widow’s face. “Nappy’s Happy Room.”

  “I…see.” I blinked again, but both the dungeon motif (bad) and the goofy smile (far, far worse) were still there. Yeesh. Apparently I had led a rather sheltered life.

  But I was a cop. A detective. Information was my job, dammit. I pulled myself together, entered the room. “So what made Nappy happy, Mrs. Schrimpf?”

  Josephine floated in behind me, caressed a hand along the bench. “We would have a couple drinks. Then I’d put Nappy in here and feed him a couple more. He liked to get a little sloppy, if you know what I mean.”

  Yeah, I got that. I’d have to get totally soused before I’d let anyone tie me to a rack to do unspeakable things…unless he had big hands and battleaxe shoulders and a killer dimple…eek.

  Josephine fondled a cuff. “I’d turn out all the lights and change into my costume. Then I’d light a single candle, and—do him.”

  “Do him?” My voice cracked.

  “You know.” She pursed her lips and did a silent whistle.

  Not getting her drift, I shook my head.

  “Swallow the sword, Detective O’Rourke. Chew the meat. Play the skin flute.”

  Good grief. Where did people come up with these things? The images made me want to burn out my retinas with mace. “Blow job?”

  “Right.” Josephine smiled and drank off her liquor. “It was Nappy’s favorite form of sex.”

  “I…see.” I’d read an article on blow jobs, in Great Housekeeper, of all places. “How to Vacuum-Suck His Upholstery ’Til He Screams.” I had not picked it up with Bo in mind.

  “This is the costume.” Widow Schrimpf went to a clothes rack and pulled out a long, flowing black dress. She handed it to me while she dug around for some other things.

  Deep V-neck. Tight skirt and wasp waist. Tags of fabric fluttered at the wrists and the flippy little hem.

  “Here’s the rest.” Josephine plopped a black wig on her head and stuck some dentures in her mouth.

  Dentures with fangs.

  She reminded me eerily of Drusilla. “Mrs. Schrimpf. When you, uh, blew Napoleon…did he ever ask you to do more? More than blowing and, um, licking?”

  “Of course.” The widow chomped her dentures and grinned saucily. “Got us into trouble more than once. Just Sunday night, in fact. Nappy screamed a little too loud. The neighbor called the cops. Can you believe it?” She chomped the fangs again. “’Course, I might have nipped just a teensy bit too hard.”

  Well, this certainly explained why Nappy was shaved. So Josephine didn’t get a big mouthful of hair when she…and Drusilla…

  Things came together with a bang.

  –—

  “Drusilla! I know you’re here, you fanged little whore. Show yourself!”

  I stalked the black asphalt parking lot outside Nieman’s Bar. I’d been stalking for the past half hour, and getting more and more frustrated. “Where are you?”

  “There’s no need to get foul, Detective O’Rourke.” Drusilla glided from the shadows, a dress like liquid gold flowing over her voluptuous figure. She held a PDA and was clicking something off. “And I prefer ‘lady of the evening’ to ‘whore’.”

  She would. I stalked up to her. In her four-inch spiked heels I looked her square in the eye. “Did Napoleon Schrimpf ever ask you to put in fake fangs and bite him?”

  She smiled pertly. “Which question do you want answered first, detective? Did I put in fake fangs, or did I bite him?”

  “Whichever gets me a yes.”

  “Yes, he asked me to bite him. Nappy enjoyed playing vampire. But the sex is superior.” She raised both sleek eyebrows suggestively.

  “Spare me. Did you bite him the night he died?”

  She toyed with one long black lock. “I may have.”

  “And did he bleed to death out of his scrotum or did you suck him dry?”

  “Really, detective. How vulgar.” Drusilla tossed the lock behind her shoulder. A single hair was left on her dress, black stark against the gold. She peeled it off and dropped it. It floated to the pavement. “Nappy enjoyed a little bite. A little sip. But never more than that.”

  “So you’re saying you didn’t kill him? Even by accident?” I stared at her, hard. “C’mon, Drusilla. It’ll go easier for you if you cooperate.”

  Drusilla’s gaze hardened in return. “I am cooperating, Detective O’Rourke. And for your information, when I bite—I don’t leave holes.”

  The intense will suddenly revealed in those long-lashed eyes almost unnerved me.

  Almost. But who had the gun here? “Fine. Another question, then. Did Happy Nappy make noises about you being number eight?” Josephine’s tenure was coming to an end. Had learning about Dru pushed the widow into murder?

  Dru relaxed back into insouciance. “Number eight? Oh, you mean wives. Of course he did. But—” She tapped her PDA. “I’m not the marrying kind.”

  “Schrimpf was rich. You could have bought a lot of men, married to him.”

  Drusilla shrugged, a graceful rise and fall of one shoulder. “Wouldn’t have done me any good. Nappy made all his wives sign those annoying little prenuptial agreements. Besides…” She winked. “I’d rather the men pay me.”

  “I bet you would.” Unfortunately, that made sense. But Josephine wouldn’t necessarily know that. And even a thirty-six C was trumped by a pair of DDs.

  “You know, Detective O’Rourke, I think something like this would have happened sooner or later anyway.”

  “Something like what?”

  “Nappy. His little predilections. Booze and violent sex. At least he died happy.”

  Testosterone plus alcohol. The chemical equation for idiot-chloride. “All right, Drusilla, we’re done for now.” If I was to believe her, Drusilla had no motive. Means, yes. Opportunity, hell yes. But not a single reason to kill Napoleon Schrimpf. “This time, though, you’re not leaving before I get your full name and home address.”

  Her lips ripened into a full smile. “I don’t have a household, Detective O’Rourke. But the last name is Strongwell. And if you need to talk with me, I’m here every night.”

  She melted away into the darkness, leaving me gaping.

  And leaving that single black hair.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You’re married to Drusilla? Why the hell didn’t you tell me!” I stomped into the marble-floored foyer so hard even my soft soles rang satisfactorily. I had tons of questions for Strongwell, but right now this was top of the list. He was a suspect connected to another suspect, and he hadn’t said squat—bad enough. But how the hell had I had orgasmed with a married man?

  Bo’s reply was mild. “I’m not married to Drusilla, Detective. Nor anyone else.” He turned from me as if he’d answered the only question that really mattered. “Come upstairs.”

  I followed him up the sweeping front staircase. The smooth silk muffled my angry steps, much less satisfying. “Then why the fuck is her name Drusilla Strong…oh. Is she your sister?”

  “Not in the way you’re thinking. Dru lived in my apartment building at one time. We became like a family to her. When she left to go out on her own, she kept the name.”

  “A family?” I added without thinking, “Is that the reason for the communal kitchen?”

  “You have been efficient, Detective. Here we are.”

  He opened the door to the fourth floor. A corridor lined with thick Berber carpet stretched the length of the building. On the
left were two doors, probably a pair of apartments. Four doors on the right were evenly spaced.

  I stared. “How many people live here?”

  Bo’s lip did the amused curl-thing. “There are twelve units. Currently we have twenty-four adults, eight children and two old ones—that is, retirees.”

  Adults, children and old ones. Oh, excuse me, retirees. I must have been getting used to all the oddness because I simply asked, “Four units to a floor?”

  “Four on the second and third floors. Two each on the first floor and here.”

  “And those four doors on the right? Pretty small apartments, crammed in like that.”

  “Those aren’t apartments, they’re bedrooms. This is mine.” He opened one. “Like to see?”

  I sucked in a breath. Bo’s bedroom. Bo was showing me his bedroom. As in, his room with a bed.

  Not daring to breathe, I peered in. Small for an apartment, but as a bedroom…Bo’s room with a bed…

  It was spectacular.

  A massive four-poster dominated the room. Heavy oak, piled high with pillows, even bigger than the trampoline downstairs. A soft russet-and-indigo quilt spread across it like a warm summer sky. Lamps glowed on either side.

  I released my breath and braved entry. Past the bed was an en suite bathroom in deep green and old gold. I peeked in. Emerald marble shot with gold topped a waist-high oak cabinet. Mediterranean tile floor, heated, unless I missed my guess. The shower mimicked an Amazon waterfall. Toilet—and bidet.

  “If you’ve got all this, why the rooms in the basement?” The words were out of my mouth before I remembered what they revealed. That I had snooped in Bo’s building. And had found his freaky root-cellar-cum-den.

  “Don’t panic, Detective. I knew you’d been downstairs. I smelled you when I returned this morning.” Bo loosely grasped my shoulders and turned me for a gentle kiss. The warm play of his lips made me reel.

  That must be some sniffer. “Working.” I pulled away. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  He smiled at me. His dimple caused collateral damage. “You’re working? All right. How goes the investigation?” He pulled me in again for a deeper, harder kiss. My brain nearly short-circuited.