The crowd erupted into outraged murmurs. Gabriel pushed to his feet and strode forward, shrugging off the garbage sack as he went. It fluttered to the ground, sticking to the browning grass. Bits and pieces of the pie had made it through the holes in his plastic covering. There was a particularly long streak of cream down one pant leg. He didn’t seem to care.
He reached calmly into his coat pocket and withdrew a pair of handcuffs. Amos Buckley wasn’t paying any attention to the approaching vampire, all of his fury focused on Willis Perry instead. So it must have come as a shock when the metal cuff locked around his wrist.
He spun round, or at least tried. Gabriel’s grip on his arm was firm and implacable. Amos only managed to turn his torso slightly to look back at his captor.
“Unhand me, scum!”
“I’m afraid not,” Gabriel said. “You see, you just committed assault by spitting on Mr. Perry here. And as the only member of a law enforcement agency on hand, I’m afraid I’m going to have to bring you in to the authorities.”
There were noises of outrage from the remaining Sons. Gabriel turned a fierce glare on them. “And if the rest of you want to remain out of jail, I suggest you leave. You don’t have a permit to protest.”
Amos squirmed like a fish on a line but couldn’t escape Gabriel.
“I think you might want to make that call to Arthur now,” Gabriel called over to Priscilla. The Sons were not budging. In fact, a few of them were reaching into their dresses or trouser pockets. They weren’t armed with anything dangerous, to her relief. It would definitely get them put on a watch list, and they knew it. Their weapons of choice were mostly variants on silly string, with a few of them sporting spray paint.
At least they weren’t carrying something lethal, she told herself as she withdrew her phone from her bag. Her fingers were shaking nonetheless. She’d been counting on the Sons’ dislike of bad press to keep things from turning violent, but this was still bad.
“Hurry,” Gabriel urged. “I think things are about to get messy.”
Coconut Cream Pie Recipe
Most of my cream pies don’t actually make it into people’s mouths, unfortunately. Due to Three-Stooges-era comedy and other various forms of slapstick, people tend to enjoy smearing these confections into other’s faces more than they do eating them. This recipe is perfect for an early afternoon treat with friends, or to smear into the face of a loved one if so desired. The choice is all yours.
—Priscilla Pratt
Ingredients
Coconut Cream:
2/3 cup sugar
1/4 cup cornstarch
2 2/3 cups milk
1 egg
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 1/3 cups coconut flakes
Topping:
1 cup heavy cream
1 tbsp sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1 cup coconut flakes (optional)
Directions
Prepare the crust of your choice. Set this aside and combine the egg and milk, then add in the sugar and cornstarch. Simmer over medium heat until thickened, continually whisking so it doesn’t stick. Remove from heat and stir in the vanilla and coconut flakes. Pour this mixture into the crust and refrigerate for 1.5 to 2 hours, until chilled.
For the whipped topping, whisk together the first three topping ingredients until the mixture becomes light and fluffy. Then spread on top of the chilled pie. If you’d like, sprinkle the remaining coconut flakes on top and serve!
Chapter Twelve
“At least you got your warrant to search the compound,” Priscilla said defensively.
It had been a couple hours since things at the field had died down. The chaos had now moved to the precinct’s holding area. This was the third time in a month that she’d seen the inside of a jail cell, and the second time she’d been inside one. They’d been rounded up with every other member of the crowd that had been participating in the fighting. All except Gabriel, of course. He had used his badge to get out of spending time in a cell. Dean and Garrett were in with her this time, both looking inordinately pleased with themselves.
“Best aunt ever,” Dean said, crossing his arms behind his head. He had his eyes closed, a smirk on his face, and a mess of green silly string caught in his hair.
The function had devolved into petty—and frankly silly—violence after Amos had been cuffed. Those with any sense had run or hidden inside their booths. Unfortunately, that still left a lot of people still on the field.
The cells around them were full to bursting. Every man or woman with a grudge against the Sons had seized the opportunity to get even. Silly string had flown, aerosol cans had been emptied, and the remaining pies had been thrown with uncanny accuracy by Garrett. Priscilla had melting ice in her bra from a snow cone. The vendor selling them had been a little too eager to arm his customers with the cold, syrupy confections, and she’d been caught in the crossfire.
Most people had gotten away with little to no injury, but everyone looked a fright. Someone had begun to throw the hay bales that made up the seating area for the animal show. Most of the Sons looked like they’d been tarred and feathered as a result. Someone had also thrown snap bangs, causing minor burns to feet and the soles of shoes.
The worst injury had been Perry’s. In all the confusion, he’d been bitten by the spider monkey on his shoulder. He was currently at the hospital being treated and screened for rabies.
Arthur’s glare didn’t waver. He’d been standing in front of their cell for almost five minutes, and the intensity of his anger hadn’t faded. “And you gave me an entirely new mess to clean up. Don’t think I’m going to let you get away with this Scot-free, Priscilla.”
“The event was set to happen anyway,” she reasoned. “We just moved up the schedule a little bit.”
“This whole thing could have been prevented from becoming a riot if there had been a greater police presence there. You are incredibly lucky that there were no major injuries or deaths. It’s easy to be trampled in a stampeding crowd.”
“If I’d called you, you would have shut the event down.”
“Of course I would have!” Arthur exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air. “It was an insanely foolish thing to do. I can’t afford to divert police resources with a woman missing.”
“But—”
“She wasn’t in the compound, Priscilla,” Arthur said, cutting across her. “There was no evidence she’d ever been there. The dogs found nothing. No human bodies or contraband.”
Priscilla deflated, sinking onto the cot beneath her. “Did you find anything useful?”
Arthur scrubbed his face tiredly with the heels of his hands. “Enough to detain them all for now. Countless code violations, and something we think might be an animal graveyard. The coroner is inspecting them now for signs of torture or animal cruelty.”
“That’s a good thing, right?” she asked.
“Maybe, maybe not,” he said. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve got sixty-five people to process. We can’t hold that many. We only have four cells. Half of the people we’ve arrested are sitting in detention in Worcester. The brass over there is not happy.”
Priscilla sunk a little lower onto the cot. Somehow her best intentions never seemed to matter much. Things always went from bad to worse when she was involved.
“Oh, lay off,” Garrett rumbled, speaking up for the first time since Arthur had arrived. He was just as relaxed as Dean in the face of the chief’s rage. “You accomplished something because of her. It’s more than you can say about the last three days.”
Priscilla didn’t think that pointing out the lack of progress in either catching a murderer or a kidnapper was going to turn out well. Garrett plowed ahead without any consideration for how much his words would piss off Arthur.
“At least she was doing something, instead of wringing her hands,” Garrett continued. “And no one got hurt. Yes, it’s going to be a late night for you, but now you’ve got the Sons righ
t where you want them. You can keep them in custody until you find Tilly Hall.”
Arthur swelled indignantly, face purpling as he stared Garrett down. Garrett didn’t even blink. Dean, rather unhelpfully, mimed eating popcorn in the corner. Just when Priscilla thought that Arthur was going to burst an artery, he deflated. He blew out a long breath and followed it up by a few muttered curses.
“You may have a point,” he said grudgingly. “But none of you are going to get away with this. It was reckless. You’re doing community service, at least.”
“Sure, sure,” Garrett agreed easily, leaning back on his cot. He looked as contented as a dog who’d just had a merry chase and gotten the rabbit he sought. Priscilla marveled that she’d ever been afraid of him.
Yes, he was well over six feet tall and almost all of him was composed of corded muscle, but he was good-natured and kind. She didn’t think he’d ever be able to hurt someone who didn’t deserve it. Dean looked a little disappointed the two men hadn’t come to blows.
Arthur finally turned his attention back to her. “Would you like to join me then?”
“Join you where?” Priscilla asked.
“Westwend. We need to talk to Amos Buckley.”
Priscilla had never actually been inside Westwend PD. In fact, she hardly ever traveled to Westwend if she could help it.
Some vampires, like Gabriel, had adapted very well to new times and technologies. Priscilla was not one of those vampires. She loathed all things computerized. Her website was often behind, and only saw improvement at all because Anna insisted on revamping it once every four or five months.
At least during the previous century, things had moved at a decent pace. Advances happened a few times a decade, instead of overnight. It seemed as if the world had decided to lurch into overdrive as soon as the twenty-first century hit. By the time she could wrap her brain around something new, it was already well on its way to being obsolete.
She’d finally buckled to the necessity of a car sometime in the 1970s. She still wasn’t completely comfortable driving long distances, no matter how well she’d learned to drive. Automobiles just seemed like accidents waiting to happen. Carriages still seemed safer, even if they were slower.
That was why she was grateful Arthur was driving them. Her minimal confidence in her ability to drive evaporated when she was forced to operate her vehicle in a metropolitan area. Westwend was only a little less populous than Worcester, with 90,000 inhabitants.
Arthur regarded her with amusement when they finally pulled into the parking lot of the downtown precinct.
“I always thought Anna was exaggerating, but you really hate driving, don’t you?”
“I hate big city driving,” she said with a sniff. “There’s a difference.”
“Oh?”
“If I do something wrong in Bellmare, people are a lot less likely to be hurt. By the time I’m awake, traffic is usually dead.”
She glared out the window at the city, awash with light. She couldn’t say that it wasn’t pretty. Much like Bellmare, most of the buildings here still held onto their colonial roots. There were a lot of brick buildings, steeples, and cobblestone to be seen. But the city just never seemed to sleep at all. They’d gotten caught in traffic on the way up, and it was nearing midnight. Wasn’t traffic supposed to thin at some point?
Arthur chuckled, his previous anger apparently forgotten in light of her idiosyncrasies. “Just don’t let the sheriff see you jump like you were on the way up. He’ll think you’re up to something.”
They exited the police cruiser. Next to the shiny new models parked in lot, Arthur’s car looked a little shabby. When had Bellmare PD last purchased new equipment? Her companion didn’t seem to notice, and Priscilla hurried to catch up with him.
There were several people manning the front desk alone. Westwend was quite a change of pace. Bellmare’s pace seemed almost sleepy in comparison. Usually it was only poor old Bert Holder who manned the desk.
A young officer escorted them back to meet with Sheriff Vance. He was an unusually short man but made up for the lack of height with personality. He moved fast, talked fast, and even breathed fast. His handlebar mustache quivered with the barely contained energy that radiated off of him.
“You ready to take any of these quacks off our hands, Sharp?” he asked as they walked briskly back to a holding area that looked like a small prison. The solemn faces of the Sons stared back at them from behind the bars.
“I’m afraid we’re still processing all our people. I’ll have them shipped down to Bellmare as soon as there’s room, I promise.”
Vance grunted once in acknowledgement. “You said you needed Buckley, right?”
“Yes,” Arthur said, frowning. “I thought we’d be in an interrogation room. Is there any reason why we’re back here?”
“Well, they’re all claiming to be Buckley, even the women.” Vance shrugged and glanced helplessly back at them. “I need somebody who knows this guy to ID him. None of them have IDs and only a few of them have prints in the system.”
“Of course,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes skyward. “Things can never be easy, right?”
Priscilla scanned the cages and found him almost at once, sulking in a back corner, not looking at anyone. If he was trying to look inconspicuous, it wasn’t going to work. He was too broad and unpleasant-looking to look like an innocent. She pointed.
“He’s there,” she said quietly.
“You’re sure?”
“I know what he looks like,” she said. “That’s the man we need to speak to.”
“I don’t have to speak to any of you,” Amos snapped. Priscilla wondered how much of his anger came from the fact he was being addressed directly by a vampire, and how much of it was the fact that he’d broken a decades-long streak of slippery legal action and landed his flock in jail.
“No, you don’t,” she agreed. “But you’re going to. Because it’s in your own best interest to cooperate.”
He bared his teeth in a snarl, revealing slightly yellowing teeth. Someone needed to see an orthodontist, stat.
“And why exactly would I do that?”
“Because I’ve got Judge MacDonald’s ear,” Arthur said. “And all of you are likely to end up doing community service for this. Now, I can arrange for you to have a nice sunny detail picking up trash along the side of the road …”
He leaned in, nearly pressing his face against the bars, glaring at Buckley with a singular dislike that he used to reserve only for vampires. “Or I can tell her that you all really need to join the nightshift with three vampires, a werewolf, and Willis Perry.”
Amos hissed like a cat. “You can’t.”
“I can and I will,” Arthur said in a tone of deadly calm. “Now are you going to answer my questions, or do I need to make that call to Judge MacDonald?”
Amos considered them both through narrowed eyes before he finally nodded. “I will speak.”
“You don’t have to do it, Amos,” a young woman said. She’d been kneeling at his feet, gazing up at the man with something akin to worship. Priscilla wanted to sneer. She’d never been that subservient or sycophantic and she’d been raised a Puritan woman.
He ruffled her hair with a fond smile. It was, frankly, a little disturbing to watch. He was at least twenty years older than the girl. She was unwashed, with hay sticking out of her mop of blonde hair in every direction. Priscilla dearly hoped she wasn’t his wife.
“Do not fret. God goes with me.”
Priscilla wasn’t sure if that was true, but she kept her distance from him anyway. Arthur and Vance stood rigidly, ready to push back on the crowd if they tried to escape. Thankfully, no one did. They parted at a simple word from Amos and let him pass through without incident.
Vance put a hand on Amos’ shoulder and led him out of the holding area and to an adjoining hall lined with doors and interspaced with windows. Priscilla had seen enough one-way glass to know where they were. She gave Arthur a questio
ning look when they reached the door.
“Do you want me in the room?”
“No,” Amos said at once.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
Arthur considered it for a moment. “It’s up to Vance. This is his place, after all. Are you comfortable with having my consultant sit in?”
Vance grunted and shouldered the door open. Then he used his grip on Buckley’s shoulder to muscle him into the room and the solitary chair on the opposite side of the table. He cuffed Amos firmly in place to the metal chair arm before answering.
“Fine with me so long as she doesn’t ask any stupid questions.”
It wasn’t a glowing commendation, but it would do. Priscilla leaned against the stone wall of the interrogation room and watched as Arthur and Vance took their seats opposite Amos. She couldn’t understand why he didn’t at least look nervous. She would have been, in his place.
“How exactly did you become leader of your flock, Mr. Buckley?” Arthur said, leaning his elbows on the table so he could peer more closely at Amos.
“I was voted in,” Amos said, and his spine stiffened. He apparently knew where this line of question was heading.
“Was that vote legitimate?” Arthur said in a tone of patently false tone of curiosity. This man could have declared himself a God of a new religion and Arthur wouldn’t have cared. His priority was the missing girl.
“I’d suggest you move on from this line of questioning,” Amos said. “I can still invoke my right to an attorney.”
The thin veneer of civility dropped away from Arthur’s face and he scowled. “And your attorney will have a hell of a job trying to explain away the property damage, multiple assaults, and possible trespassing charges. I can pin you and your band of freaks to the wall with very little effort, Buckley. Now you tell me what I want to know, or this is going to get ugly.”
Holy Crepes Page 13