La Vida Vampire

by Nancy Haddock

  “I must speak with the Detective March, immédiatement,” he demanded as dramatically as Yolette would have. “Vite, vite.”

  I wondered what the hurry was and if he truly didn’t blame me for his bride’s death. Maybe I shouldn’t be here when he turned around.

  I tugged on Saber’s sleeve to drag him out while Etienne was distracted, but Etienne spotted us and rushed to me.

  “Ah, Ms. Marinelli, Francesca!” He grabbed my right hand and pressed a kiss on it. “I am so sorry it was you who found my pauvre Yolette. And yet non. You saved her from disappearing altogether. To have her vanish and never know what had happened? I should be devastated.”

  Saber’s warmth at my back steadied me. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Mr. Fournier,” I said as I gently pulled my hand away.

  “C’est une tragédie! I loved her so. She was, how you say, my soul mate.” He paused with his hand on his heart. “But I do not blame you. You could not hurt her. I know this. You are not ruthless like so many of your kind.”

  My kind being vampire, I assumed. A backhanded compliment, but I glommed in on the not blaming me part.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fournier. I hope the authorities catch the killer quickly.”

  “Oui, they are sure to now. I,” he said grandly, “have information.”

  “What information?” Saber asked.

  “I see him. Cet homme horrible.”

  The horrible man? He’d seen Stony?

  “You mean the man who was stalking you?” Saber said. “You saw him?”

  “When and where?” March’s voice boomed from behind me.

  I jumped out of the way as he charged through the doorway to Etienne. In the excitement, I hadn’t heard him coming.

  “I see him at his home. I think it is his home. He carries une valise into a house.”

  “Where is the house?” March ground out.

  “I do not know the street name but on the edge of the town it is. Not far from here. I rush to tell you.”

  “Come with me,” March ordered Etienne. “Saber, you want in on this?”

  Saber glanced at me.

  “Go get him. I’ll call a cab.”

  Saber shoved the tour narrative at me, muttered “Later,” and followed the two men. I stuffed the sheaf of papers in my purse and grabbed my handy cell phone. Thirty minutes later—close to collapse—I walked into the penthouse and fell in bed.

  I jerked awake at four fifteen, still in my jeans and sweater. Eeeks, had Maggie called? Is that what startled me? I hopped up to check but found no messages from Maggie. Or Saber, for that matter.

  Should I track down him or Detective March and ask how the capture went? I had a right to know. If Stony was behind bars, then I could go about my merry business, including dance class tonight and tour guiding tomorrow.

  I got my daily requirement of Starbloods down while I cleaned out my purse. The eight-page tour narrative I left on the dining table. Didn’t need those now with Stony caught. I brushed my teeth and was washing the morning’s makeup off when the phone rang. I sprinted to my bedside to snag the extension.

  “You caught it on the first ring,” Maggie said, sounding both relieved and suspicious. “What’s up?”

  “Good news. Stony turned up today.”

  She shrieked, and I jerked the phone away from my poor ear, but I grinned all the same.

  “So tell me. What happened?”

  I relayed Etienne’s entrance and announcement, and March and Saber’s rushing off.

  “Are you sure they caught him?”

  “No, but I’m calling the sheriff’s office before five.”

  She reminded me of the time, ordered me to “Get to it,” and disconnected. Before I could punch in the sheriff’s number, the phone rang again. Deke Saber on the caller ID.

  My pulse jumped as I answered.

  “Good, you’re awake. We need you to come out to the office and ID the guy we picked up this morning.”

  “I can be there in—” I calculated hair time. “—forty minutes if I can get a cab quick.”

  “Make it five. I’m parked a few doors from you near the Greek restaurant. Black Saturn Vue.”

  The line went dead. Damn. Saber was back to being Mr. Hyde and pushing my blood pressure all the way to measurable range.

  I ran to the bathroom to slap on face powder, whip on mascara, and pop my hair in a ponytail. I jammed my feet into my shoes but didn’t change from my blue jeans and emerald sweater. They were only the tiniest bit wrinkled from sleeping in them and, besides, who was I trying to impress?

  I wrenched open the SUV passenger door six minutes later and ducked into the seat. Saber looked different, and it took only a second to see why. He didn’t wear a jacket to hide the holster on his hip.

  He caught me staring and gave me a quick once-over before he wheeled into traffic. “Sleep in your clothes?”

  I ground my teeth at the crack, but stayed focused. “Why do I need to ID Stony? Is he denying being on my tours?”

  “We just need to know if he’s the same man who threatened you and the Fournier woman.”

  “What’s his real name?”

  “Can’t tell you.”

  Huh? My blood pressure spiked again, this time in pure irritation. “What happened? Did he put up a fight? Did you find anything incriminating?”

  “I can’t say.”

  I watched his profile as he wove through the narrow streets, saw a muscle jump in his jaw, and figured he must be clenching his teeth. Was he tense or ticked? Whatever it was, my stomach knotted with nerves.

  I tried another question. “You’ve held him all day waiting for me to wake up?”

  “No comment.”

  “That’s bogus.”

  He cursed, I thought at me, but it was aimed at a driver who cut in front of us. “The narrative you gave me this morning. I need it.”

  “Then take me back. It’s on the table.”

  “Damn!”

  “Look, you commanded me to be at your car in five minutes. You caught Stony. I didn’t think you needed the darn thing.”

  Saber raised a brow. “Get up on the wrong side of the crypt?”

  “Just drive. Let’s get this over with.”

  At the sheriff’s office, Saber pulled on his jacket as we entered through the main building. We wound through the corridors and straight to the desk where Detective March sat.

  “Ms. Marinelli,” March said as he rose and indicated a chair beside his desk. I sat and faced him catty-corner, while Saber leaned against the partition behind March.

  “You know Etienne Fournier came in this morning with a tip,” he said rather ponderously, straightening his tie over his rumpled white shirtfront.

  I nodded.

  “We want you to tell us if the man we located is the same one you call Stony, then we want to talk with you again. Would you like your attorney present?”

  My stomach full-on cramped this time. Gut instinct was telling me something, but what did I have to fear?

  I considered a moment then said, “I can call her office, but she’s probably gone for the day.”

  He pushed the phone toward me and leaned back in his swivel chair, hands clasped on his belly. I took Sandy’s card from my wallet and punched in the number. As expected, she’d left, and so had everyone else. There was an emergency number, and I jotted it on her card, but I didn’t see the point of dragging her or her associate in on a Friday afternoon. How bad could this be?

  “I got the answering system, Detective March. Tell you what. To move things along, I waive my right to have my lawyer here for now but reserve the right to change my mind.”

  He smiled politely and gave me a single nod. “Fair enough. Let’s do it.”

  My pulse thudded, albeit slowly. Unlike books and movies, this was a real, live lineup and a moment of truth. I started to rise until March opened a folder and placed six photos on the desk.

  “Ms. Marinelli,” he said, “please look carefully and point
out the man who threatened you and the victim.”

  “This is the lineup?” I asked.

  He didn’t smile. “We’re doing a printed lineup. Do you recognize any of these men as the one you call Stony?”

  I spotted Stony immediately. The snarly lips, the scar, the weirdly light eyes. I tapped the photo. “That’s him.”

  “You’re absolutely sure that’s the guy?” March asked.

  I glanced up at Saber, then back at March. “Unless Stony has a down-to-the-scar identical twin, I’m sure.”

  March sighed. “Then we have a problem, Ms. Marinelli. The man you identified has an ironclad alibi.”

  ELEVEN

  How could I be innocent, but suddenly feel guilty?

  No alibi, that’s how.

  I was so stunned by the revelation that Stony had an ironclad one, I followed March into an interview room in a fog.

  Until I saw the clear plastic cup of ice on the table, a good inch of water melted in the bottom. Then I got it. No wonder March asked me about having my attorney present. He’d known this was more than a trip to ID Stony. Saber had, too, the swine.

  Was this another interview or an interrogation? I wasn’t sure of the difference, but strongly considered calling a halt right then and there and phoning the emergency number I’d scribbled on Sandy’s card. I decided to go with the flow unless things took a bad turn.

  Dumb move, right? A too-stupid-to-live move that Maggie and Sandy would have my head for if they found out about it. Thing is, I’d held my own so far, and I hated waiting until who knew when for a lawyer to show. Besides, I really wanted to get to my dance class at eight. That was my normal routine. That was control. The sooner we got down to business, the better.

  We took the same seats we had last time I was here. Was that just yesterday? After the routine of recording the date, time, and names of three of us present in the room, March followed procedure to the letter and asked if I’d still talk with them without my attorney present.

  My bravado faded, and I tried not to audibly gulp as I answered, “For now.”

  “Very well,” he said. “The man you identified as threatening you and Yolette Fournier is Victor Gorman. You recognize the name, Ms. Marinelli?”

  “I don’t,” I said, but my voice sounded a touch shaky. Shakier than I wanted it to. “He really has an alibi?”

  March didn’t answer me. Instead, he opened a file folder on the table. “For the record, tell me again about your run-ins with Mr. Gorman.”

  Ire and self-preservation flared. “Detective, let’s be clear that he created the run-ins.”

  March gave me a rather condescending nod, and I went through the events of Monday and Tuesday again, including the confrontation at Scarlett’s.

  “Tell me what you did on Wednesday night,” he said next.

  “Played bridge until nine and went home.”

  “Where?” March pressed.

  “Where was bridge club? At Shelly Jergason’s house in Crescent Beach.”

  “Where were the Fourniers staying?” Saber asked, arms still crossed on his chest.

  I angled my chair so I could more easily look at both March and Saber. “According to Gomer—I mean Holland Peters—they were staying in some fancy neighborhood, but he didn’t say where.”

  March leaned marginally closer. “When did you have that information?”

  I tapped my chin, even though I wanted to squirm. Didn’t take psychic senses to feel where this was headed.

  “Holland told me on Tuesday night. He said the Fourniers told him. He also said Stony followed the Fourniers to their car on Tuesday night after the tour, and that he, Holland that is, followed Stony.”

  “Where were the Fourniers parked?” Saber shot.

  “I don’t know. They all headed toward the visitor’s center parking garage.”

  “Must’ve been quite a parade,” March said. “Saber asked this once. I’m asking again. Where exactly were the Fourniers staying, Ms. Marinelli?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t have a clue. If Holland knew, he didn’t tell me.”

  “The fact is,” March said tersely, “the Fourniers were renting a house in your friend Shelly Jergason’s neighborhood.”

  “They were?”

  “And Ms. Jergason remembers mentioning these people at your bridge club.”

  My jaw dropped. “The people that yelled at each other? That was the Fourniers?”

  “Cut the act, Ms. Marinelli. How long have you known Holland Peters?” Saber fired at me.

  “I don’t know him,” I said, panic warring with patience. “It’s more like know of him. Holland—who I still called Gomer then because I didn’t know his name—was on the Monday and Tuesday tours. When everyone else left Tuesday, I talked to the mystery writers who took the tour, then started walking home. He found me and asked to walk with me. We saw Maggie, my roommate, at the door to my building. When Holland leaned over to help her pick up the stuff she’d dropped, I saw the gun stuck in his waistband at the small of his back. That made me nervous, so I hustled Maggie inside, and that’s the last I saw of him.”

  “He hasn’t called you?” March asked.

  “Why would he?”

  “Why would he walk you home?” Saber snapped.

  I shrugged. “He said he wanted to be sure I got home all right. That Stony might come back or one of Stony’s buds might be watching me.”

  Saber persisted. “So he told you he was protecting you?”

  “Actually, he said something like his mother would have his hide if he let a lady who’d been threatened walk home alone.”

  “Gallant of him,” Saber sneered. “Did you feel safer?”

  “Not particularly, but I didn’t feel unsafe until I saw his gun.”

  “What kind was it?” March asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know modern guns.”

  March arched a brow. “When did you last handle a firearm?”

  Soon as he asked, the memory blossomed. Unworthy of me as it was, I leaned back in the uncomfortable chair to enjoy the moment.

  “The very last time was about October 1792. Or was it ’93? No, ’92, when I was twelve. A friend and I got into the dueling pistols an Englishman had given my father.” I paused a dramatic moment, inwardly snickering at the incredulous expression on March’s face. “Boy, was my father angry. Before that, in 1790, when I was ten, there was the Spanish soldier’s musket incident. But, really, neither weapon went off.”

  March cleared his throat. “So for the record, you have never handled a modern firearm?”

  “I have not.”

  “What did you do this past Halloween?” Saber asked.

  I blinked at the left-field question. “Huh?”

  “Did you attend a party with your roommate? A function in town? How did you spend the evening?”

  “I think I watched a Dresden Files marathon.”

  “You didn’t dress up?” Saber pressed. “You know, a wig, a cape, fake fangs?”

  “I don’t extend my real fangs,” I said, narrow-eyed. “I wouldn’t be caught dead with campy fake ones.”

  When neither of them fired another tag-team question, I leaned forward, hands clasped on the table, and eyed Detective March.

  “I’ve played nice—without my attorney, I might add—now it’s your turn. Does Stony really have an alibi?”

  March’s gaze held steady. “It’s Victor Gorman, and yes, his alibi checks out. He was in Key West from Wednesday morning until this morning.”

  I blinked. “He’s not the one who trashed my truck?”

  “Correct.”

  I tried wrapping my head around the idea that Stony could be innocent. “I know Key West is like ten hours from here, but it’s not completely impossible for him to come back.”

  “Except,” March said, “he was with family members deep sea fishing by day and apparently drinking by night.”

  He said the last so wryly, I figured the drinking made some impression on the town. Wh
ich is hard to do in Key West. That place is wild, or so I hear.

  Fishing. Fishing rang a tiny bell, but I couldn’t place it.

  I felt like the falsely accused heroine in a cozy novel, except that the hot seat wasn’t remotely cozy.

  “So,” I said slowly, “I’m getting the third degree again because my alibi went kaflooey when my tracker did, and the Fourniers happened to be renting a house in the same neighborhood I was in on Wednesday night. Am I right so far?”

  March nodded.

  “Then again,” I continued, “if you’re holding this guy, it’s been over six hours. Which means you probably found something at his house for you to keep him this long.”

  “Mr. Gorman is accusing you of setting him up,” March said.

  “Well, of course he—” I stopped short. To set someone up you need—The light dawned, and I snapped my fingers. “Evidence. You can’t set up someone for a crime without it.”

  Saber remained expressionless, but March cocked his head at me. “What makes you think that?”

  “Detective, it’s a classic mystery plot element.”

  He allowed himself a small smile. “We did find a few things—in his house and in the Dumpster of a restaurant nearby.”

  I spread my hands. “So what am I supposed to have planted?” Then it hit me. “Wait. Fake fangs and a gun. That’s why you asked me about them. You found them at Stony’s.”

  “Victor Gorman,” March said.

  “Whatever. Am I right?”

  “Among other things, yes.”

  “Did you get the cast of my fangs from the state yet?”

  “We did, and they don’t match the bite mark, but,” March said sternly, “that only clears you of biting the victim. Not of shooting her or breaking her neck.”

  “You honestly think I shot Yolette—a relative stranger—when I don’t know squat about guns, then broke her neck, then bit her with fake fangs, and finally dumped her body in the ocean all to set up a man who made a threat?”

  March shot Saber a glance, then looked back at me. “You have that backward,” March said.

  “I have what backward?” I snapped.

  “The victim didn’t die from the gunshot. She died from the broken neck.”