“Any messages?”
“The Amway guy called again, and somebody from the newspaper wanting to know if we’re running an ad in the local. Nina One called twice.”
Already? I glanced at the clock. It was barely sunset. Two phone calls in the fifteen minutes she’d been awake didn’t translate into good. Unless she was simply excited because she’d realized that Rob was The One and she was ready to pledge her undying love for the rest of eternity.
I smiled and made a mental note to punch in her digits as soon as I hung up.
“Mandy also called,” Evie went on. “Your mother invited her for cocktails and she wanted you to join them at Crazy Jimmy’s.”
Crazy J’s was an exclusive specialty cocktail bar on the Upper West Side that catered to vampires. They featured over fifty different types of Bloody Marys, from the classic to the spicy Bloody Maria and the Sizzling Caesar. Their award-winning specialty? A Bloody Biker made with imported vodka and—you guessed it—a bloody biker. Since my ma had invited Mandy, I was banking they’d branched out and added a Yaztini to the menu.
“What time?”
“They’re meeting at eight.”
“Call Mandy back and tell her I’ll be there.”
“But you’re in Arizona.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“I didn’t actually talk to her. She left a message while I was interviewing the thrifty client.”
“Great. Call her and tell her I’ll be there, but I’m in the mood for something different. Tell her we’re meeting at Pollo Loco instead.”
“Should I call your mom and inform her about the change?”
“No. Let her go to Crazy Jimmy’s.” It was a lame trick, and a long shot, but it was all I had at the moment.
“I don’t understand,” Evie told me.
“Two words. My. Mother.”
“Pollo Loco it is.”
While Evie had missed the memo that named Jacqueline Marchette BV of the year, she’d obviously gotten all the others that had spelled out what an overbearing, self-centered, controlling fruitcake my ma could be.
I told Evie thanks, promised I’d bring her plenty of notes from the conference and hit the OFF button.
Punching in Nina One’s number, I listened as Jesse McCartney sang an a cappella version of “Leavin’.”
Ouch.
Not that it meant anything. She’d probably changed her mind, realized her love and simply hadn’t had the time to change the ringtone.
“It’s Lil,” I told her when her voice mail finally kicked in. “Just returning your call. I’m on my cell.”
I pulled out my laptop and spent the next few minutes checking email before I headed for the shower. Then I did hair and makeup, and tried to pump myself up about finding Mordred.
Because I could do this. I would do it.
I’d spend the next few hours searching, find Esther, kick some sorcerer ass and be back in the city by this time tomorrow night. I’d boot Rob out on his BV butt, confront Ty about his commitment issues, land a millionaire client who wanted me to match up every employee in his multi-billion-dollar corporation (complete with a big fat bonus for every couple that actually tied the knot) and all would be right with my world.
I didn’t do anything half-ass. Even optimism.
After sliding on a pair of Rock & Republic jeans, a gold BCBG tank and a pair of ultra-cool pink suede strappy sandals, I left the motel room and made a quick stop in the lobby to pick up a diet soda. Elmer was nowhere in sight, but there was a small sign on the front desk that read Back in Half an Hour. The evening news drifted from the small room behind the desk and I heard the steady crrrunch crrrunch of pork skins.
And I thought scarfing a pint of blood was icky?
I walked outside, spooked another calf and turned left at the end of the drive. A block down, I hooked a right onto Main Street.
Lonely Fork was the quintessential small town. City Hall, a historic-looking building that dated back to the 1800s, sat at the very heart of the town, next to a small, shrub-lined square with several statues paying tribute to the town’s founder—Ulysses Gunther Fork.
The primary retail action was located on the main thoroughfare. A variety of businesses lined the two-lane street, everything from the Happy Cow Diner to LuLu’s Tanning and Nails. There was a feed store, a children’s boutique, a resale shop, a small grocery and even a five & dime.
An early sunset and an extremely overcast sky put me out and about by five-forty—barely twenty minutes before the entire place rolled up the sidewalks.
Not that I knew this initially, of course. I’m from the city that never sleeps. If you need a latte at three in the morning, no sweat. There were twenty-four-hour fitness clubs, delis and dry cleaners. All night dance clubs filled Times Square and even some of the trendiest boutiques stayed open until ten. It was a vamp’s wet dream.
Lonely Fork, on the other hand, fell more into the nightmare category.
I found out this little tidbit when I ducked into the nail shop en route to my first stop—the pharmacy—for a quick cosmetics fix. They had my favorite nail polish on sale. Two for four bucks.
Come on. We’re talking four bucks. I could barely buy an energy drink for that in the city, much less a bottle of Cocoa Crème and Pink Passion.
“That’ll be forty dollars and thirteen cents,” a woman named Dora Lee Strunk told me.
Okay, so I might have kinda sorta gone for more than two shades. It was a sale, after all.
I handed over my Visa Gold (technically Max’s plastic, but I fully intended to pay him back just as soon as I saved Esther, pulled my business out of the financial hole and got back on my Jimmy Choos), tamped down on my guilt and shifted my attention to Dora.
Mid-fifties. Divorced three times. She had three grown sons who were all still single and playing the field. Thankfully. She didn’t want her boys to make the same mistakes she’d made, and marriage had been the biggest. She’d stopped believing in love after husband number three, but she was still a die-hard believer in lust and so she kept herself up. She touched up her roots once a month and did an oatmeal and honey facial mask each Friday and went to happy hour at the local honky tonk every afternoon.
“You must be that matchmaker,” Dora Lee told me as she slid my card through her machine and punched in the amount. “Folks really pay you to help them find someone?”
“The right someone.”
“There ain’t no such thing.”
That’s what you think. I sent the silent thought. Unfortunately, she was as straight as my flatironed hair and she simply stared blankly at me.
“We all hook up with duds every now and then,” I went on. “That shouldn’t scare you off all men.”
“Oh, I ain’t scared of men, sugar. I like men. I just don’t love any of ’em. Not enough to pick up after ’em or scrub their floors or cook their food every night, when they don’t appreciate any of it. I did that for my first husband and he never even said thank you. No, he just ran off with this cocktail waitress from the One-Eyed Bunny. It’s this bar out on the interstate. I should have learned then, but I went on to marry two more losers who did pretty much the same thing. No more. I’d rather have fun than a wedding ring. But then you probably don’t want to hear that on account of it’s your business and all. Say, I bet you’re here for old Rawley Pickens,” she added. “If ever someone needed a matchmaker, it’s that one.”
My hookup radar kicked on and I couldn’t resist an excited, “Really? What makes you say that?”
“That man don’t stand a chance of finding a woman on his own. Been widowed forty-eight years now, living at that big old spread outside of town all by his lonesome.” She arched one of her perfectly penciled-in brows. “Is that why you’re here? Did he hire you?”
I shook my head. “My client is from New York. She lived here at one point a long time ago and met this man with whom she fell madly in love. It didn’t work out. He went his way and she went hers. He passe
d on, but his son is still alive. She wants to connect with him and give him back an old family heirloom his father gave her back when they were high school sweethearts. My sources say he still lives around here. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Mordred Lucius.” I said the name and stared intently for any sign of recognition.
She mentally rifled through her brain before shaking her head. “Can’t say that I have.”
“If you remember anything, would you mind giving me a call? You can reach me on my cell.” I slid her a DED card and a silent They’re not all two-timing losers.
Futile, I know, but you can’t blame a vamp for trying.
“Will do, honey.” She handed over my polish and followed me to the door.
“Great customer service,” I told her when she opened the door for me.
“Oh, I ain’t here to help you out. I’m locking up. It’s closing time.” She glanced at the clock, which read five forty-five. “Or it will be soon enough. I’m bringing the cheese and crackers to Bunko tonight, so’s I need to get to the Cash-n-Carry before it closes.” She motioned to the grocer across the street. The Open sign had already been turned off and I could see a man pulling plastic sheets down over the produce out front. “Sam ain’t too fond of last minute customers. Never misses Wheel of Fortune, so he shuts down at six sharp, like everybody else on this street.”
“Everybody?”
“All except for the Dairy Freeze, but they’re out near the city limits on account of the kids hang around and make too much noise.”
A bolt of panic went through me and I blurted a quick, “Thanks.” I left the shop, took a sharp look to the left, then the right (just to make sure no one was watching) and then did the vamp version of some serious power walking.
A few seconds later, I pushed through the door of Abel’s Pharmacy.
Ya gotta love the whole preternatural speed thing.
The pharmacy was a throwback to the golden oldies. A fifties-style soda fountain lined the right side of the store. There were small round tables with old-fashioned silver napkin holders and red vinyl stools. Two ancient-looking men sat at the far end, nursing cups of coffee and reading the newspaper. The rest of the store housed several shelves, filled with everything from notebook paper to Metamucil. A small glass window at the rear served as the prescription pickup and drop-off. The sweet sugary scent of fresh-baked ice-cream cones filled the air.
I felt a moment of nostalgia—I’d done my fair share of jitterbugging when Elvis had been king and poodle skirts all the rage.
I let loose a sigh and headed for the fountain.
“What can I do you for?” asked the man who stood behind the counter. He had a dark brown comb-over and caramel-colored eyes. A white apron covered a short-sleeved white button-up and black slacks. “The drug counter’s closed, but we’re still serving sodas. Can I interest you in a root beer float?”
“I don’t do dairy very well.” Or any other food group. “How about just the root beer?”
“Coming right up.”
His name was Ronnie Abel. Wanda’s first cousin and the proud father of three college-aged girls. He’d been married thirty years to a local elementary school teacher named Joyce. He’d been married to the pharmacy even longer. His father had suffered a heart attack at a young age and Ronnie had taken over right out of high school. He ran a one man show—from making a mean banana split to dispensing a bottle of Prozac. And he knew everybody in town.
“Genevieve Cranberry,” Ronnie declared as he set the root beer in front of me.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s who you’re here working for, at least that’s where I’m putting my money. If anybody needs a professional matchmaker, it’s old Genevieve. The woman’s got plenty of money on account of Monty—that’s her late husband—had one hell of an insurance policy. Since his death was accidental—fell off his tractor during harvest season and ended up getting processed with a batch of corn—old Genevieve got double the money. Had more than enough to pay for her new boobies and a plasma TV. She always thought Monty was too working class for her, so it makes sense that she’d hire some highfalutin’ New Yorker to find her a husband.”
“I’m not here to match up Genevieve.” I gave him the spiel about an old woman longing to meet the son of her very first love. “Maybe you’ve seen him.” I described the man I’d met at the meet and greet. “His name is Mordred Lucius.”
He thought for a second before shaking his head. “There’s nobody by that name around here.” He grabbed a rag and started wiping down the Formica.
“I knew a Lucius fella once,” came the old, scratchy voice from the corner.
My gaze swiveled to the two old men. Darwin Jenkins and Ben Richter. Darwin kept sipping his coffee, his gaze trained on the obituaries, while Ben folded his paper and eyed me.
Ben was eighty-seven and he lived for dominoes. He’d been the state champion twice until his eyesight worsened and he started playing double sixes on the tail end of a three. Lost his title and his wife (ovarian cancer) all in the same year. He’d been spending his days at Abel’s ever since.
“Knew him when I was a young gun. He used to live at the Bigby spread way back when. Don’t know much about his family, but I’m thinking they had money, on account of he never worked. Just showed up one day and leased the house. Stuck-up fella, if I remember correctly. Waltzed around here like he owned the whole town. Even dated the Homecoming Queen. Caused a pretty big stink, too, on account of it was Pastor Hanover’s daughter and nobody dated one of the pastor’s girls. Caused a beauty of a scandal. Enough to run Lucius out of town. Moved out in the middle of the night and ain’t been back since.”
“So you haven’t seen anyone who looks like him around here recently?”
He adjusted his bifocals. “Cain’t see much anymore, but I don’t think so.”
“How about the pastor’s daughter? You think she might have seen him?”
“I doubt it. She don’t live around these parts anymore. Ran away a few months after Mordred. Heard tell she settled up in Dallas, but I don’t know for sure.”
“I heard she joined a cult out in L.A.” Darwin glanced up from his paper. “A group of crazies who worship seashells and dance naked on the beach.”
“That’s just a lot of gossip,” Ben told him. “I knew Tara Hanover and she was a good girl. She wouldn’t dance naked on no beach. She wouldn’t even put a bikini on for Spring Break up at the lake. Wore this blue cover-everything-up one-piece that hung to her ankles.”
“That ain’t the way I remember it,” Darwin started in. “She wore a red one-piece …” The back and forth continued and I turned my attention back to Ronnie.
“If you see anyone who fits the description, I would appreciate it if you could give me a call.” I slipped him a DED card.
“Will do. And for the record, Tara Hanover ain’t dancing naked on some beach. She’s in a retirement home outside of Austin with her sister. Golden Acres, I think it is.”
“Thanks.” It wasn’t the address I’d been hoping for, but at least it was a lead. Maybe.
I fought down a wave of disappointment, gathered my determination, downed my soda and bought a new L’Oréal lip plumping gloss on my way out.
I needed a pick-me-up in the worst way.
I hit three more places—the diner, the bakery and the hardware store—before the town closed up shop. I talked to a total of twelve people, but no one had ever heard of Mordred Lucius or seen anyone that fit his description.
I spent the next thirty minutes parked at the Dairy Freeze while I checked out listings for retirement homes in Austin. It seems that Golden Acres wasn’t actually in the city. It was in a small suburb called Round Rock. They didn’t have a Tara Hanover registered but they did have a Tara McKenzie. I left a message asking her to call me—she was out bowling with the other retirees—and then polished off two diet sodas.
Hyped on caffeine, I decided to check out the old Bigby place and have a look around. I got directi
ons from the clerk at the local Quick Pick—he hadn’t seen or heard of Mordred, either, but he had bet twenty bucks that I was in town to hook up the new city councilman.
The Bigby place sat two miles (that would be a thirty second flight via the Batmobile) outside the city limits. I was hoping for a dark, abandoned shell out in the middle of nowhere. The perfect spot to slice and dice an innocent vampire.
Hopelessness washed through me as I stared at the bright yellow house with ivory trim. A swing set sat in the front yard. The smell of cherry pie drifted from the open kitchen window, along with laughter and the latest episode of Survivor.
I walked the perimeter of the house. The yard was well kept and the barn had a fresh coat of paint. No signs of a cellar or torture chamber. Rather, the place looked warm and lived in and—shit.
My eyes burned and I blinked frantically. Crying would ruin fifteen minutes of eye makeup and I was already having a bad enough night. Besides, I was a born vampire. I didn’t do tears.
Or fear.
An all-important BV fact that I tried my damnedest to remember a half hour later when I returned to the hotel, to find my door wide open.
I had brains. I had balls. I had fangs, for Damien’s sake.
Unfortunately, so did the born vampire sitting on the edge of my bed.
The sweet telltale scent of apple cake filled my nostrils a split second before the deep voice slid into my ears.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
My heart jumped into my throat and my stomach tied itself into a dozen different knots.
I know, right? I was a sexy, irresistible BV with totally fab hair, an impeccable fashion sense and an unbelievably high orgasm quotient. Finding a male BV on my bed shouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary.
It wasn’t.
It was finding a fully clothed male BV on my bed that had me wigged out.
He wore a blue and tan western shirt, Wrangler jeans starched within an inch of their life and a pair of Tony Lama brown snakeskin cowboy boots. A dark brown felt cowboy hat sat next to him on the bed.
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