Vulgarian Vamp (A Wendy Darlin Comedy Mystery Book 5)

by Barbara Silkstone

  “What the hell-heck?”

  “Finding a spider in the folds of a wedding dress is very good luck. Vulgarian tradition.”

  These people have more traditions than the mafia.

  “Take the spider off my dress. Do not squash it. Just make it go away!”

  Squirl pouted. “These are the things a bridesmaid must do to ensure a happy marriage for the bride.” She wrangled the spider and set him on the windowsill where he made good his escape.

  “Got any more of those Vulgarian superstitions? Let ‘em out now.”

  “Well… the bride should cry before her wedding so she will be happy in marriage. And it’s a good sign if a relative sneezes before the ceremony.”

  “Anymore?”

  “To drop the wedding rings means death.”

  “Done?”

  “I believe I am.”

  I pirouetted in the mirror to get the full effect of the dress. I smiled at my reflection and held back the tears. My hair was limp and dirty. My smile exposed one gummy wad of a fake tooth that wouldn’t fool Mr. Magoo in the dark.

  A baby can feel when his mama is sad. I wasn’t about to have Little Roger upset just cause I looked like a lady wrestler after the last round. “Yay for me,” I said in false bravado.

  “What’s wrong?” Roger asked sneaking up behind me and admiring his reflection over my shoulder.

  “Perfect! Now you’ve jinxed our wedding. You’re not supposed to see me before the ceremony. It’s bad luck.”

  “Nah… Our stock is on the rise. I’ve found my brother, we’re expecting a son, and we’re about to start the rest of our life together. What could possibly go wrong?”

  “Will you stop tempting fate? You might as well have walked under a ladder carrying a black cat and wearing a kick-me sign.”

  He leaned closer to the mirror adjusting a caramel-colored silk ascot.

  What? I can’t let him out of my sight. An ascot? He looked like a dandy out of Jane Austen.

  He preened.

  I wanted to pop him.

  “You look ridiculous with that a..s..s..s..cot.” The ‘s’ sound forced the biscuit tooth from my jaw. It flopped on my lower lip.

  Roger gasped.

  “I look like an idiot, don’t I?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he jammed his foot in his mouth. “Darcy has great teeth. When we get back to the States, I’ll get you the name of her dentist,” he said.

  The world famous archaeologist came within inches of exploring moon craters. On what planet did he think he could mention his siliconed ex-girlfriend and not get a rise out of me? For a brilliant scientist he was a knucklehead where women were concerned.

  “I thought we left her ashes in Cleopatra’s tomb?”

  “Don’t let another woman between you and the mirror!” Squirl squealed from across the room.

  “Another Vulgarian superstition?”

  She scrambled to my side coaxing me closer to the mirror. “If another woman comes between you and your reflection in your wedding dress, that woman will someday take your husband.”

  “Does mentioning her name count?”

  Squirl shrugged and backed off. “Maybe?”

  Roger’s dark brown eyes took on all the wonderment of a child at Disney. “You can’t still be jealous of her? I’m marrying you.”

  Each time he spoke, Roger dug himself a deeper hole.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Did Roger think he was doing me a favor? I was the party who had to be coerced into marriage. I shot him my best glare. “I was perfectly happy single. Then you stepped into my living room with your brown eyes and brown hair and brown briefcase and ugly brown shoes. Next thing I know I’m getting married to a guy in a brown tuxedo. You know there are other colors.”

  He smirked. I loved his smirk. It made him look like a little boy who thinks he’s pulled one over on mom. I hope Little Roger has that same smirk.

  “You seduced me. You ravaged me and then left me to return to selling Miami real estate,” he said.

  I swallowed a giggle. “You were the seducer. I was the seducee. How many women are forced to run off with an Egyptian antiquity?”

  “Dunno. Ask Omar Sharif.”

  I clocked him in the shoulder catching him off guard. He fell down rubbing his arm. Roger sprawled on the floor faking an injury when Kit walked in carrying a basket of wild flowers, his blue gown flittering as he strode across the room, his long legs encased in glitter hose, his feet in satin pumps. He set the basket of flowers on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  “I heard you two lovebirds from down the hall. You don’t want to give the wrong impression about married life. Mina and Bram are talking about committing the ultimate act.” He touched the tip of my nose with his finger. “You just might have a brother and sister-in-law.”

  I smacked my palm on my forehead. “A mixed marriage?”

  “Stop this Tyson-Holyfield routine and shape up. Mina will be here any minute to weave your crown of flowers. Can you get a bit more romantic? Fake it.”

  I held out my hand and helped Roger to his feet. He was such a good sport.

  My little satin drawstring bride’s bag hung around the hanger. I slipped it off and loaded it with Squirl’s cross, lip balm, and my waxed dental floss. Knowing our wedding feast would be mostly nuts and berries, I anticipated an evening of flossing.

  I planned to avoid any Loutish casseroles just in case there was skullduggery on the menu.

  Mina floated into the room and plopped down on to the floor. There was something so Zen about her. New love is like smelling a baby. It has a soft powdery feel that tranquilizes all who come in contact with it.

  Kit placed the basket of flowers next to Mina. The blooms fell in a tumble around her. She laughed and the sound was like fairies at play. Not that I’d heard many fairies laugh.

  Mina began to pull the baby’s breath and daisies weaving their stems together quickly forming a lovely tiara of flowers.

  I’d given up on hiding my gown from Roger or anyone else. Come on in world. See my gown before the wedding.

  John and Paul glided silently into the room. Dribbles of blood stained their collars.

  I stepped behind Roger, fingering for my cross.

  Bram seemed not to notice their stained collars. “Did you return the Book of Names?”

  They nodded.

  Lying postulants.

  “The Book is not in the church,” I said.

  I tugged on Roger’s sleeve and whispered in his ear. “Blood on their collars.”

  His knees buckled, I caught him under the arms.

  A rumble of carts and the clatter of horses’ hoofs caused us to turn as one to the windows temporarily forgetting the errant postulants. A parade of covered casseroles and more potato salad than Wolfie’s Deli dished in all its years in Miami cut along the path between the cemetery and the walled courtyard headed for the pavilion.

  How could the Louts not notice the open graves?

  I peered further out the window. Mina was barely distinguishable in the dark trees. She leaned forward and grinned at me. The light shifted and I could see the little vamp had filled in forty graves. Good thinking. I gave her a thumbs-up.

  When I turned back, John and Paul were gone.

  I grabbed Kit and pulled on his décolleté, “They didn’t get you, did they?”

  “Who?”

  “The postulants are vampires. Avoid flirting at all costs.”

  He shivered.

  Bram clutched his throat when I told him about his trainees.

  “Did they get you?” I asked. My heart dropped to my red-bow shoes. Please don’t let Roger lose his brother now.

  He pulled his collar from his neck. “Any bites?”

  I sighed. “You’re clean.”

  I turned to the group. “Red alert! We have three unfriendlies. The postulants Paul and John are now bloodsuckers. They may attempt to free Edward from the confessional box in the church where he is imp
risoned. How do we stand on holy water?”

  “Real carefully?” Squirl said.

  “No. I mean do we have any?”

  “It’s all down in the church,” Kit said.

  “The church is off limits because of Edward,” I said. “Let’s head out to the festivities before the Louts get suspicious.”

  I positioned my crown of daisies and pinched my cheeks for color. The bouquet was a perfect riot of colorful native Vulgarian blossoms. I slipped the bride’s purse over my left wrist and held the bouquet in my hand.

  “Where’s Mina?” Bram asked.

  “She’s able to float in the shadows of the cemetery. She should be able to see the service from there.”

  A year ago, we were on the trail of Cleopatra’s grave, now we were being bombarded with potato salad and surrounded by semi-vampires. Life is good if you keep your sense of humor.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I had proceeded to the wedding pavilion admiring the tables with checkered cloths that lined the hillside. It was like a giant garage sale about to set. Huge bowls of potato salad extended the length of half a football field. Crispy fried potato pancakes added a spot of golden color. And dozens of casserole dishes with family names taped on them dotted the table-scape. If no one remembered the Spam we were good to go.

  Peter Cushion’s political signs had popped up in the grass like mushrooms after a summer rain. He was taking full advantage of our private wedding and captive audience. Politicians!

  The skinny politico stood on a wooden crate labeled ‘cabbage’ with his mouth in full gear and his balding head reflecting the setting sun in an oily pattern of pinks and blues. His voice sounded like an old-fashioned phonograph record, scratchy and broken. He waved an unlit torch in his left hand.

  “Carfax Abbey has been known for the practice of dark arts for centuries. It has been brought to my attention that the Lugosi Comet is controlled from the abbey. How much longer will the good people of Loutish allow this abomination? Once I am re-elected we will file a petition to burn the abbey to the ground and throw the ashes into the sea.”

  The Louts’ cheers were muffled by their potatoes, pancakes, and casserole-filled mouths.

  Cushion continued, his skinny body stomping on the cabbage box, his fist pumping the air. “But first the monks must be held accountable. How many more of our elderly citizens must be found drained of their blood before we admit there are vampires in our midst? I call for a reveal of the identities of these so-called monks. Each one must prove his humanity.”

  The mayor made eye contact with each and every Lout before he continued. “I have been told the abbey possesses a book. It is a register of names and dates of birth. Should there be a monk of extraordinary age listed in that book, he will be examined by our inquisition. If found to be weighing more than a duck and older than the average Lout, he will be beheaded, stuffed with garlic, and burned.”

  The crowd cheered spitting potato salad in the air.

  This wasn’t exactly the wedding of my dreams.

  Cushion looked back at the table of food. “Now hand me some of those potato pancakes. Is there any Spam?”

  The mayor stepped down from his soapbox to munch on a fried pancake.

  The crowd grew silent as I approached the pavilion in my bridal finery.

  Squirl led by performing a spring dance straight from a school play, skipping and sprinkling petals in our path. It was a shame she wasn’t able to pick up her bridesmaid’s dress from the inn, but what with Edward lurking it seemed wise to keep her close. She’d taken off her apron, pinned daisies to her black frock and scattered tiny flowers in her hair. She encircled her ponytail with a band of baby’s breath.

  Kit followed in his filmy blue gown, his Downton Abbey hat at a rakish angle. He carried a fistful of small purple wildflowers. His Carol Channing wig added just enough of a feminine touch to confuse the Louts. He looked like the mother of the bride, but I would never tell him that.

  Roger left my side long enough to dash to the pavilion and greet me like a proper groom wearing a ridiculous ascot.

  The villagers appeared impressed as I made my way up the pebbled path. There were the usual gasps and ooo’s. “What a beautiful bride.”

  The hausfrau spoke in a stage whisper to her neighbor. “I’m going to give them a toaster.”

  “Are they registered at Gradski’s hardware store?” the neighbor asked.

  I turned my head away not wanting to hear the response. I wanted to return to Miami on the next plane out.

  Squirl’s wedding cake sat on a separate table that bent under the weight of her biscuit baking techniques.

  Bram appeared more nervous than Roger. He fiddled with an official looking page I assumed was the Vulgarian wedding license. He lay the paper down and then picked it up again as if unsure what to do with it. He stuffed it inside his jacket and the pulled it out. I could just make out the “V” in black and red ink at the top of the page. If this was about passports and ID, I had mine. I was pretty sure Roger had his.

  Separating myself from the wash of back noise and the jittery cleric, I focused only on Roger. I came to his side as the sun began to set. We stood in front of his long lost brother and began to join our lives as one.

  I looked lovingly into his dark eyes and could see our future. I knew Little Roger would be the spitting image of his daddy. Oh the adventures the three of us would have.

  The sound of a yip and the wheeze of a toy jet drew my gaze from my groom. Vlad swooped from the sky buzzing the crowd. The idiot mattress salesman was doggedly screwing up his own plans. His faux-vampireness would add to the mayor’s campaign to burn down the monastery. Those torches the Louts were carrying weren’t for lighting candles on the wedding cake. It would be easy for mob rule to take over.

  Vlad flipped boot-side up struggling with what looked like a scuba tank strapped to his back. Head down, the faux-vampire flew over the food tables with a sputter, his Kodak Brownie camera around his neck. He buzzed the villagers shrieking, “I’m a vampire! Be afraid!”

  In what must have been an ill-planned attempt to appear villainous, he lifted Squirl’s lovely wedding cake clearly not expecting it to weigh as much as it did. The weight of the cake caused him to sputter as he shot upward. He dropped from the sky. His jetpack died just as he swung out over the cliff bearing the three-layer cake.

  “Help me!” he said plunging from sight like Wile E Coyote clutching an anvil.

  Roger stared at the space that had been Vlad. “Was that vampire wearing a scuba tank?”

  “That’s no vampire, that was an Oyster Pedic mattress salesman with dreams of grandeur,” I said.

  I stepped off the pavilion my feet wobbling in the red bow shoes. Roger and I held hands and followed Bram to the edge of the cliff. We peered down at the raging Black Sea.

  Waves crashed onto the rocks far below. I couldn’t make out any movement aside from the water. No one could have survived that fall. The setting sun reflected off a tiny spot of luminous white. The wedding cake remained intact, a Day-Glo blot on the shore. I hoped that was a good omen for our wedding, because it sure hadn’t worked for Vlad.

  Roger pointed to a figure moving on an outcropping about fifty-feet below us.

  I squinted against the setting sun. It was Vlad looking like a sorry old crow.

  “Can we help him?” I asked feeling sorry for the putz.

  “He’s going to have to wait until the Vaticopter arrives. We have no way of reaching him,” Bram said.

  “He’s not really a vampire you know.”

  Bram nodded. “The jetpack gave him away. Let’s get you two married before there are any more interruptions.” Bram’s hands were shaking. I wondered if we might be his first wedding.

  Kit, Squirl, and most of the village followed us to the brink of Vlad’s disaster.

  Cushion was at our side. “Fake, huh? Where are the monks? Shouldn’t they be in attendance? Are you hiding them?”

  I wanted t
o bite his head off. “They are cloistered and not permitted to socialize.” Besides they were zombies.

  “So what was with the parade earlier?”

  “Here have a pancake.” I grabbed one from a Lout and stuffed it into Cushion’s mouth.

  “Can we get on with this, please?” If I still possessed a sense of humor at this point our wedding would make The Best of Saturday Night Live.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  We reassembled on the pavilion. Mayor Cushion was hanging close. Now what could he possibly object to?

  “Wendy, I am so sorry to do this,” Bram said, “but according to the laws of Vulgaria the bride must promise to be subservient to the wishes of her husband at all times.”

  I thought I’d heard him wrong. “What did you just say?”

  Bram’s face turned the color of a ripe tomato and his breathing switched to near anaphylactic shock level. “I’ve only just met you and yet I know how you’re going to take this.”

  He shuffled the papers as if the letters might rub off and the words vanish.

  “In order to be legally married in Vulgaria, the wife has to agree to be subservient to her husband.”

  “That is preposterous. What is this, the Dark Ages? Get me back to Miami…now!”

  Roger looked stunned. He knew if I backed out now he might never get me to the altar again.

  “Is there any way around this archaic red tape? I can’t ask Wendy to…” He shot his hand in the air. “It ain’t going to happen.”

  “I would have warned you had I known, Bram said.”

  Cushion was pushing his lemon yellow face in my space. “Tell her about the toilet seat.”

  My jaws clenched like a pit bull sending the biscuit tooth flying, it ricocheted off Cushion’s cheek. I looked at Bram wondering if I fallen down some perverted rabbit hole.

  “It’s here in small print.” Bram waved the “V” document at me as he quoted from it. “The wife must always return the toilet seat to the up position.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  “It’s a tradition that goes back to our founding fathers,” Cushion said.