Vampire Blues: Four Stories (Samantha Moon Case Files #1)

by J. R. Rain

  VAMPIRE BLUES

  SAMANTHA MOON CASE FILES #1

  Four Stories

  by

  J.R. RAIN

  Acclaim for the novels of J.R. Rain:

  “Be prepared to lose sleep!”

  —James Rollins, international bestselling author of The Devil Colony

  “I love this!”

  —Piers Anthony, bestselling author of Xanth

  “J.R. Rain delivers a blend of action and wit that always entertains. Quick with the one-liners, but his characters are fully fleshed out (even the undead ones) and you'll come back again and again.”

  —Scott Nicholson, bestselling author of The Red Church

  “Dark Horse is the best book I’ve read in a long time!”

  —Gemma Halliday, award-winning author of Spying in High Heels

  “Moon Dance is absolutely brilliant!”

  —Lisa Tenzin-Dolma, author of Understanding the Planetary Myths

  “Powerful stuff!”

  —Aiden James, bestselling author of Plague of Coins

  “Moon Dance is a must read. If you like Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum, bounty hunter, be prepared to love J.R. Rain’s Samantha Moon, vampire private investigator.”

  —Eve Paludan, author of Letters from David

  “Impossible to put down. J.R. Rain’s Moon Dance is a fabulous urban fantasy replete with multifarious and unusual characters, a perfectly synchronized plot, vibrant dialogue and sterling witticism all wrapped in a voice that is as beautiful as it is rich and vividly intense as it is relaxed.”

  —April Vine, author of The Midnight Rose

  OTHER BOOKS BY J.R. RAIN

  The Lost Ark

  The Body Departed

  VAMPIRE FOR HIRE SERIES

  Moon Dance

  Vampire Moon

  American Vampire

  Moon Child

  Vampire Dawn

  SAMANTHA MOON NOVELLAS

  Christmas Moon

  SAMANTHA MOON CASE FILES

  Vampire Blues: Four Stories

  Vampire Games: Four Stories (coming soon)

  THE JIM KNIGHTHORSE SERIES

  Dark Horse

  The Mummy Case

  Hail Mary

  ELVIS MYSTERY SERIES

  Elvis Has Not Left the Building

  You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog (coming soon)

  THE SPINOZA SERIES

  The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo

  The Vampire Who Played Dead

  The Vampire in the Iron Mask (coming soon)

  THE GRAIL QUEST TRILOGY

  Arthur

  Merlin (coming soon)

  WITH SCOTT NICHOLSON

  Cursed!

  Ghost College

  The Vampire Club

  WITH PIERS ANTHONY

  Aladdin Relighted

  Aladdin Sins Bad

  WITH SCOTT NICHOLSON AND H.T. NIGHT

  Bad Blood

  SHORT STORIES

  The Bleeder and Other Stories

  Teeth and Other Stories

  Vampire Nights and Other Stories

  Vampires Rain: Four Stories

  SCREENPLAYS

  Judas Silver

  Lost Eden

  SHORT STORY ANTHOLOGIES

  Vampires, Zombies and Ghosts, Oh My!

  NON-FICTION

  The Rain Interviews (2008-2011)

  Vampire Blues: Four Stories

  Published by J.R. Rain

  Copyright © 2011 by J.R. Rain

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your favorite ebookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Vampire Blues

  Nightmare

  Soul Train

  Dracula’s Guest

  Reading Samples

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Once again, to my sister Bekky. Thank you for all the love. You are easily in my top three sisters. Love you!

  Acknowledgments

  Once again, a big thank you to Eve Paludan and Sandy Johnston for all their wonderful help.

  Vampire Blues

  A Samantha Moon short story

  Chapter One

  On the way to Kingsley’s, just as I passed under a massive billboard of Judge Judy smiling down warmly—yet judgmentally—my cell phone rang. I glanced at the faceplate. Caller unknown.

  I clicked on my Bluetooth. “Moon Investigations.”

  “Hi,” said the voice of an elderly lady. “I’ve never, you know, called a private investigator before. I’m a little nervous.”

  “We’re just like other people,” I said. “Just a lot cooler.”

  “Oh, ha-ha.” She laughed good-naturedly. “Yes, I’m sure you are.”

  I headed up Bastanchury Avenue, which would soon loop me around to the foothills above Yorba Linda. “How can I help you?”

  “Well, I need some help,” she said, pausing. A pregnant pause. I know pregnant pauses. She had a cheating husband on her hands.

  “You think your husband’s cheating on you,” I said, gunning the minivan and just making it through a yellow light.

  “How-how did you know?”

  “Call it a hunch,” I said. Actually, these days I didn’t know what to call it. My old hunches and my powerful new sixth sense had fused into one. Hunch or not, I wasn’t in the mood for another cheating spouse case. In fact, I could barely stomach them these days. I said, “I’m sorry to hear about your husband, but I’m a little booked right now. I know of a great detective out of Huntington Beach. Actually, don’t let him know that I said that, since he’s already got a big head—”

  “No. Please. Please, I want a woman to help me. Only a woman.” She took in a lot of air while I came to a stop at a red light. I was the only one sitting at the intersection. So who was I waiting for? She went on, “I’m kind of down on men right now, if you know what I mean.”

  Actually, I did. I had gone through a similar reaction with my ex-husband, Danny. In fact, I even recalled writing to Fang that I hated all men.

  I said, “I’m sure there are other female private investigators who would be more than happy—”

  “There aren’t. I’ve looked. You’re the only one in the Yellow Pages. At least, the only one with a woman’s name.”

  The light turned green. Kingsley was waiting for me with a chilled glass of the red stuff. I hadn’t eaten in two days. I was ravenous and I was cranky. I said, “Let me be blunt: My own husband cheated on me not long ago. The very thought of working on another cheating spouse case turns my stomach. I’m just not the right person for this.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I could almost see her frowning. Hell, maybe I could see her frowning. In fact, the woman in my thoughts had a thick head of curly red hair. She looked a bit like Lucille Ball in her dotage. Then again, that could have all just been my imagination. And I’ve always loved Lucille Ball.

  “Well, thank you anyway,” she said. “I will keep looking.”

  The pain in her voice found its way straight to my heart. Normally, such pain didn’t register very deeply. After all, I spend half my time hearing heart-bre
aking stories. But this woman’s pain reached me somehow. Perhaps because I had seen her in my thoughts. Or perhaps because she reminded me of Lucille Ball. Either way, I couldn’t let her hang up just yet.

  “Wait,” I said. “Let me give you some advice. Ninety-five percent of the people who come to me with concerns of spousal misconduct are right.”

  “So, you’re saying that more than likely he is cheating?”

  “I’m saying that more than likely your instincts are spot on.”

  In my mind I could almost see her closing her eyes and nodding, her red, curly hair bouncing. “I see. Well, that’s not good enough for me, Miss Moon. I need to know. I need to know for sure.” There was a long pause and I could tell she was crying. “I won’t trouble you any—”

  “Wait,” I said again, truly hating myself for what I was about to say next. I had a big case I was unofficially working with Detective Sherbet of the Fullerton P.D. and it was getting dangerous. I had stumbled across another victim of the “Orange County Stalker” that was only minutes old—the body still warm with blood pooling under the corpse. I had to stop myself from having a taste and leaving behind my DNA for the coroner’s office. Self-discipline was a bitch, but far be it from me to taint a crime scene with my own genetic evidence. In the last hour, I had disentangled myself from giving my official statement to the FPD and a copy of my notes on the Orange County Stalker habits—I had worked up a decent profile on her. Yes, I said her. Sherbet was going to try to pay me for my work from some grant money for crime tippers which was way cool in my book since my kids both had dental appointments coming up. My sister, Mary Lou, had the kids at her house tonight and I planned to see Kingsley for some growly R&R and a much-needed feeding. I didn’t have time for cheating spouses. I didn’t want to deal with cheating spouses. I hated cheating spouses. But despite all of that, and my growling stomach, I heard myself say: “I’ll help you. Tomorrow. The investigation on your husband should be a quick one.”

  She thanked me profusely, and when she was done I asked why she thought her husband was cheating. As I wound my way to Kingsley’s massive estate, she told me the usual story. Husband was staying out later than normal. Showering immediately when he came home. His excuses were never very good and she knew in her heart that he was lying. Her husband, apparently, had never been very good at lying.

  Mostly, though, she was confused and lost. Her husband had been such a good man for so many years. A great provider. A great friend. Always there for her, even as she now battled cancer. Hell, even more so. Every day, he told her how much he loved her. Every day, he made her feel like a princess. She asked me why would he do this to her and I didn’t have an answer, except to say that men were pigs. I immediately hated this one.

  I gave her a checklist of information that I would need, including her hubby’s personal and professional info and up to five recent pictures. I gave her my email address and she said she would get right on it. Whoopee.

  She hung up, but before she did, she thanked me again. As I clicked off and pulled up to Kingsley’s gaudy estate, I recognized the painful irony of the situation: She was thanking me to confirm her worst fears.

  I had a helluva job.

  Chapter Two

  The next day, I had thirty minutes to kill before my appointment with Jacky, my boxing trainer.

  Sitting in my minivan in the blessed shade of a pathetic magnolia tree, I went through my emails on the iPhone and found an attachment from one Gertrude Shine. The old lady from yesterday, I was sure of it. Sighing, I opened it and found five pictures of an aged man with a thick mustache. Included with the pictures was the man’s personal information, and I was struck again by the intrusive nature of my job. The man in the photo was a complete stranger. But pretty soon he would be all too familiar, so familiar that I would be instrumental in the destruction of his marriage.

  No. He was instrumental in the destruction of the marriage. I was just reporting the facts.

  I closed my eyes, rubbed them. I didn’t have to take the job. I didn’t have to take any job. Except Danny had yet to pony up any child support, let alone alimony, despite making five times what I make.

  Despite openly cheating on me.

  I studied the son of a bitch in the photos. Two of the photos depicted him standing with a large woman with red hair—the same woman, I wasn’t too shocked to see, that I had seen in my thoughts.

  I’m getting stronger, I thought. Indeed, my psychic powers now seemed to be increasing daily.

  Anyway, the couple did not seem very happy, and I didn’t think that was a psychic hit. Anyone looking at the pictures could see that. They weren’t holding hands; in fact, they weren’t really standing close to each other. The man was dumpy, but looked strong. Probably in his youth he had been an athlete but had let himself go to hell. He had broad shoulders that were mostly fat now. His mustache seemed to change from picture to picture, growing thicker and longer in some. I had asked for recent pictures, but these were clearly separated by months or even years.

  I was parked on the street outside the gym, on a sweltering day in southern California, where even in the shade the temperature was probably in the high eighties. I probably should have been sticky with sweat but I wasn’t. In fact, I was cold. So damn cold. Vampire cold.

  Her husband’s name was CS Shine, and according to Gertrude’s email that’s all her husband went by: CS.

  Seriously? What kind of pompous ass goes by initials these days? I never understood it and probably never would. Initials did not a name make.

  CS Shine. He sounded like a cruise ship.

  Anyway, CS Dumbass actually worked nearby—at a bakery of all places.

  So I checked the time on my cell, saw that I had another twenty-five minutes before Jacky would start yelling at me to keep my boxing hands up, then started the minivan and headed east on Commonwealth.

  To the only bakery in town.

  And to CS Dipshit.

  Chapter Three

  I’d seen the bakery over the years, but had never made it inside. And since I doubted they served plasma-filled turnovers, these days I had even less reason to go inside.

  For now, though, I parked across the street and took in the scene. We were still technically in downtown Fullerton, but we were pushing it. The buildings here were mostly part of newer chains, with hipster apartments above and clean sidewalks out front. Part of Fullerton’s attempt to commercialize its downtown. For the most part, the idea worked. The older stores had gotten a facelift, and now the whole area was buzzing with activity.

  The bakery had a decidedly old-world feel to it, as if it had been transplanted brick by brick from the back streets of Italy or France. It was tucked between some of the newer buildings, and I could just see the owner, CS Loser, indignantly holding his ground, progress be damned. No doubt he had turned down large of sums of money to buy his bakery, thumbing his nose at the establishment.

  Of course, I could be wrong, but this was a borderline psychic hit. If so, you could take it to the bank.

  Anyway, the windows out front advertised cream puffs and fresh baked breads. There was a yellowed poster of an apple pie in the window. Another displayed a stack of what had once been a fresh-baked batch of cookies. Now they were so faded they could have been a pile of cow pies.

  Undeterred by the shabby window dressings, customers poured in and out of the bakery. Many held pink boxes or white bags. I was willing to bet that Detective Sherbet of the Fullerton P.D. frequented the place. Stereotypical, I know, but the man had a huge sweet tooth. He also had a nice, round belly. The two were not mutually exclusive.

  Through the dusty glass, I could see a man working. An older man wearing an apron. There was also a much younger woman working there, too. A cute younger woman who smiled a lot through the window, and it was obvious that she made every customer feel welcome. I hated her immediately. Home-wrecking bitch.

  Easy, girl. You don’t know that.

  Girls who smiled at everyon
e made me nervous. Married men responded to those smiles. Married men thought those smiles were directed only at them. Married men acted on those smiles in stupid ways.

  Especially married bosses.

  I watched the scene for the next twenty minutes, absorbing the details of the girl, of the man, the way they seemed to work effortlessly in tandem. Sometimes he appeared out front and graciously spoke to customers. Mostly he worked in the back, no doubt making his pies and cakes and all the things that I couldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.

  By the time I left, I was certain the two were a little too chummy, a little too comfortable. Something was up. That much was certain, and Gertrude, I think, had every right to be suspicious.

  Now she just needed proof, and that was the hard part.

  Chapter Four

  Mary Lou and I had just finished our weekly round of drinks at Hero’s. Yes, I still frequented Hero’s. Yes, I still IM’d Fang. Yes, I knew he was a killer.

  Aaron Parker, aka Fang, raised serious moral issues with me, moral issues that I often struggled with. That he was a headcase, there was no doubt. Anyone who grew up in the environment in which he had grown up, in the circumstances in which he had grown up, would have had similar issues. Or not. Perhaps it was a perfect storm of craziness and circumstance.