Fangs in Fondant

by Melissa Monroe

  “It’s after dark. Why don’t I just call Maddison?”

  “I don’t think that’s wise. Olivia isn’t happy with me right now.”

  Anna leaned across the island, getting flour all over her apron. “I say this because I love you, Priscilla. You need to kiss and make up. Olivia does have a point, you know. It wouldn’t kill you to share the limelight.”

  Priscilla bristled, lips pulling back from her teeth in a half snarl that exposed her fangs. It was a defensive gesture as old as time. Back away, it said, I’m dangerous.

  “I don’t like the attention, Anna.”

  “Don’t you?” Anna asked, tilting her head to the side like a curious bird, observing her. “I mean, I understand why. You had to hide out for the better part of 300 years. I’d be lonely too, if it were me.”

  “I am not lonely,” Priscilla snapped. “And I don’t like your assertion, Miss Sharp.”

  Anna raised her flour-covered hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. But consider this, Priscilla. When exactly did your friendship with Olivia start falling apart?”

  Priscilla glared out the window. She could see the headlights of Jack’s squad car through the glaze of frost on her front window. She had the cookies. She could just leave. She didn’t have to entertain this foolishness any longer.

  “Well?” Anna asked.

  “Three years ago,” Priscilla said.

  “When Olivia quit her job and decided to become self-employed.”

  “That had nothing to do with it,” Priscilla said.

  “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that your friendship broke down as soon as Olivia set up shop as a caterer.”

  “What’s your point, Anna?” Priscilla asked.

  “That you’re scared. You’ve lived in anonymity for so long, you’re terrified of losing this. It’s the only way you’ve ever made lasting friends. People respect you. They regard you as an equal, not the monster next door. But letting Olivia have a little attention doesn’t change any of that, Priscilla. It doesn’t change the amazing things you do here.”

  Priscilla’s eyes pricked. She sniffed and looked down at her boots, Anna’s words striking too close to home for her comfort.

  “I’m going to call Maddison,” Anna continued. “After you get done helping my dad, I think you should talk to Olivia.”

  Priscilla didn’t answer. She picked up the Tupperware container and rounded the corner in silence. The sound of the bell tinkling as she left the shop was too cheerful a sound in her current frame of mind. She didn’t glance back to see what Anna might have made of her reaction.

  Jack was fiddling with his radio when she climbed back into the car. He finally settled on a country station. She didn’t particularly care for the style, which made it all too easy to ignore. How could Anna think that she was doing any of this intentionally? She’d grown her business, invested time and money into it, and deserved every contract that came her way. She’d worked hard for everything she had.

  “You’re unusually quiet,” Jack commented as they drove down the road out of town. The Brown’s Bed and Breakfast was settled on two acres of scenic farmland and almost didn’t qualify as a part of Bellmare. Their house sat just on one side of the city limits, and most of their farmland was in the neighboring county.

  “I’m just thinking,” Priscilla said.

  “A dangerous pastime,” Jack said with a chuckle. “About what, exactly?”

  She didn’t feel like unpacking what Anna had said, so instead chose a topic of lesser concern. “Why didn’t you want Jamie to drive me? He really is harmless. He is a professional, under all the silliness.”

  “I wasn’t worried about him groping you, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Jack said. “It’s more for his safety than yours. The chief is furious with him, and in the mood he’s been in the last few days, I think it’s safer for him to remain out of sight.”

  “What did he do?” she asked, more than a little alarmed. Arthur wasn’t a particularly angry man, most days. Priscilla seemed to have a gift for getting under his skin, but she’d never actually seen him snap at anyone but her.

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Something Jamie knew would get him on the chief’s hit list. He took Anna out for drinks and a night of clubbing in Wakefield a week ago.”

  Priscilla’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline, and she knew her mouth was hanging slightly. “Why? Anna’s so much younger than he is!”

  “She turned 22 not that long ago,” Jack said with a shake of his head. “It’s only five years, Priscilla. In the grand scheme, how important is five years?”

  Not very, she supposed. She’d seen larger age gaps in her long life. Still, she couldn’t picture Anna doing something so reckless. “Please tell me he was sober when he drove home.”

  “They stayed the night at a motel in Wakefield,” Jack rolled his eyes. “He claims nothing happened, but you know how it is. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, quacks like a duck …”

  “It’s a duck,” Priscilla finished glumly. Poor Anna. She had probably gotten a healthy dose of her father’s anger as well. She felt a twinge of guilt for reacting so badly in the shop. Anna had been trying to help.

  They spent the rest of the drive in relative silence. Priscilla was having second thoughts about delivering the bad news to Arthur. It sounded like he’d already be in a foul mood when she arrived. Did she really want to add to it by telling him he had even more work to do?

  By the time she was reaching the conclusion that she ought to have taken Anna’s advice and spent the time apologizing to Olivia, it was already too late. Jack pulled into the long dirt drive that led up to the bed and breakfast and cut the engine.

  “Here we are,” Jack announced unnecessarily.

  The Brown’s Bed and Breakfast looked like it had been transplanted directly from the tale of Hansel and Gretel. The two-story home had been a deep red, once upon a time, but had softened to an orange-brown over time. Rebecca Brown had added many little touches that hadn’t been present in the original home, including large blue shutters and thin, gossamer curtains. The large patio had not been present hundreds of years ago, nor had the swing set in the backyard. Currently, all of it was covered in a layer of snow so thick it looked like the place had been coated in icing.

  The lights were on in every room but one, which she suspected housed the Brown’s three children, Damon, Tate, and Lily. Arthur’s squad car was parked parallel to the Brown’s town and country near the porch. Parked beside it was a flashy red Ferrari that made the van look like a homely waste of metal. An only slightly less impressive blue Volvo had wedged itself in the remaining space.

  “Do you really think that one of the wedding party did it?” Priscilla asked, stalling for time.

  Jack shrugged. “It’s possible, but my gut says no. None of them seemed particularly bright to me.”

  “Have you met any of them before this?”

  He nodded. “Kierra and her fiancé came in a day or two before she died, complaining about you. Said your practices were discriminatory. I had to spend an hour explaining that as a private business owner you can deny her just about anything and it’s legal.”

  “And that’s why Arthur immediately jumped on my back when she was found dead,” Priscilla said, mouth twisting bitterly.

  “It’s part of it, yeah. I think that he’s looking for anyone to blame for it at this point. He’s tired of being called an incompetent, his leg’s been killing him, and this thing with Anna is just the cherry on top of a crappy sundae for him.”

  She climbed out of the car, clutching the Tupperware container of cookies close to her chest. Jack followed suit a moment later and offered her his arm. She hid a smile behind her scarf and took it graciously. Apparently, chivalry wasn’t dead after all.

  Jack let her go when they reached the front porch and the danger of falling on their faces had passed. He rang the doorbell once, and stepped back to wait.

  Priscilla half-expected Arthur to storm
up to the front door and demand to know what she was doing there. To her relief, it was Noah Brown, the owner, who opened the door instead and peered out at them.

  Noah was a man of about average height, neither thin nor overweight, with sleepy eyes and a seemingly perpetual case of bedhead. He looked even more tired than usual standing in the doorway in nothing but his pajama bottoms and an overlarge T-shirt.

  “Oh, hey, Jack,” Noah said. His voice was as soft and non-threatening as the rest of him. His dark eyes flicked to her and his brow furrowed. “Miss Pratt? What are you doing here?”

  She lifted the container up to eye level so he could see it. “I brought a peace offering for Matthew. It’s inexcusably rude that I haven’t come to speak to him before now.”

  “Ah ... all right, I guess. You’ll have to wait a few minutes, I think. Police Chief Sharp is with them now.”

  He stepped aside so they could enter. Jack stepped through without thinking and stomped his feet on the welcome mat. Priscilla stayed where she was, staring sheepishly at Noah, who was looking at her expectantly.

  “I can’t come in without an invitation,” she said.

  His eyes widened a fraction and he smacked his forehead. “Right. That’s a vampire thing, isn’t it? Come in, Priscilla, I’m sorry.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief and stepped through the doorway unimpeded. A family home like this was sure to have a strong threshold and would therefore be impassable. It wasn’t like Tobias’ shop, which doubled as a home and a business, with a clear divide between the two. This place was lived in, and served as a temporary home to many. She didn’t like the thought of being left in the snow until Arthur could turn her away.

  “It’s no trouble, Mr. Brown,” she said, removing her boots in the entryway. “It’s actually a compliment that so many people forget.”

  “You wait in the kitchen, if you like,” Noah said, holding a hand out for the container. “I’ve got a plate you can put them on so you don’t have to leave that here.”

  “Thank you,” Priscilla said, and followed him out of the entryway. She’d never actually stepped foot inside the house, though she’d seen it more than once on her way out of town. She found herself at the bottom of a wooden staircase that led up to the second floor. She barely had time to register that it led to a hallway, which forked off into two different directions. Noah slipped through the next door without hesitation, and she had to follow, lest she get lost.

  The dining room was quaint, if not historically accurate. It had been wallpapered with dumpy bluebirds in their nests. The room was dominated by a large table that looked like it could seat twelve easily. A china cabinet was pushed into one corner, and a guestbook into another. It looked like they’d been in the middle of dinner when Arthur had arrived. The knife was still wedged into the butter, and mashed potatoes were cooling on abandoned plates. The tureen of soup was missing its lid.

  “Chicken noodle?” Priscilla asked.

  “Good nose,” Noah said. “It’s Rebecca’s own recipe. Olivia Baker has been trying to wheedle it out of her for years. This way, please.”

  He led her through one final door and Priscilla found herself in a kitchen that rivaled her own in size. This room was the most modern yet, with many stainless steel appliances. Rebecca had not had time to clean up after dinner either, it seemed. The counters were littered with crumbs and soup stains. The bottom half of a plastic bag, perhaps filled with some sort of rice, hung out of a cabinet. The stove had been left on and was still emitting heat. Noah spun the dial to the off position with a sigh.

  “I keep telling her to turn this off,” he muttered. “Sorry about the mess, Miss Pratt. I’ll clean this up while you wait.”

  He set the container on the little card table that had been set up in the corner. Priscilla noted there were five plates still on it, and gathered that the family had been eating separately from their guests. Odd. She began to stack the plates absently, thinking about how she’d break the news to Arthur.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Noah said, frowning at the stack of dinnerware in her hands. “It’s my house, I can clean it up.”

  “But I’m intruding,” Priscilla said. “And I’m afraid I didn’t bring any cookies for you or your children.”

  “I insist,” Noah said, taking the dishes from her. “I don’t think it should be too long now. Why don’t you wait at the table?”

  Priscilla sat in one of the metal folding chairs that faced toward the door. If she strained her hearing, she could make out snippets of conversation happening in the next room.

  “I can’t believe this,” a shrill woman’s voice said. Priscilla vaguely recognized it as the maid of honor. “How can you think any of us did this? You really are an idiot.”

  Arthur’s tone bordered on furious when he spoke. “I think you should be careful, Miss Farrington. Strike me again, and I’ll consider it assault. I will have no choice but to bring you in.”

  “It was one of your people, not us.” A male voice spoke next. Priscilla hadn’t met any of the groomsmen during her brief contact with the Cunningham-Porter party. She assumed that Kierra had made most of the decisions for her fiancé and just required that he and the groomsmen to show up on time.

  “In cases like this one, the simplest explanation is usually the correct one,” Arthur paused, and Priscilla could picture the way his eyes would slide from one face to the other, finally landing on his intended target. “What’s the matter, Mr. Porter? Did you get cold feet? Decide that all the money wasn’t worth the hassle of living with her one more day?”

  There were several gasps on the other side of the door and an outraged noise from the unknown man. Matthew let out a bellow and the next sound Priscilla heard was one of breaking china.

  “Chief!” Jack exclaimed, and heavy footfalls surged forward.

  “What was that?” Noah asked.

  They didn’t have to wait long for an answer.

  Matthew Porter burst through the kitchen door like a man possessed. His eyes spun wildly around the room, wide and bloodshot as though he’d been crying recently. They landed on Priscilla and for a split second, she thought he’d charge her. His face was pale and bloodless, like that of a corpse, and only the redness around his eyes showed that he was, in fact, human.

  “What the—” Noah exclaimed again, dropping the washcloth he’d been using on the counter.

  Matthew’s focus shifted off of her and onto their host. His face suddenly crumpled and he fled the room, wiping furiously at his eyes. A minute later she heard the door slam, and distantly, a car engine roared to life.

  Arthur came through the door next and his gaze fixed on her. His face was similarly outraged, though he contained it better than Mr. Porter had. There was a gash on his right cheek that was bleeding. Priscilla had to look away, lest it distract her. Still, she could smell it. The scent of his blood saturated the warm air of the kitchen and made it hard to think. Her stomach ached and she inched closer to him on reflex.

  “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” he asked, making each word separate and distinct.

  “I needed to speak with you,” she said, trying to keep her voice low. “I think I know where the killer found what he needed to make the …” she paused, glancing at Noah Brown, who was trying and failing to look uninterested. “Substance used on Miss Cunningham.”

  “It couldn’t have waited an hour?” he demanded. “And what’s that look on your face for, Pratt? You look like I’ve stabbed your cat.”

  “The blood, sir,” she said, gesturing broadly at him. She didn’t dare look up. The sight of the stuff would make her stomach growl audibly, and that was the last thing she wanted to do while he was in such a temper.

  He cursed and slapped a hand to his cheek, only succeeding in sending the stuff across the room. Droplets landed on the tile floor and one even landed on Priscilla’s foot. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore the warm bead of blood on her skin. She was not going to lick it away, no matter h
ow hungry she was. She had more decorum than that.

  “I’ll get you a bandage,” Noah said.

  “Don’t bother,” Arthur grunted. “The shard went in deep. It’s going to need stitches. I don’t suppose Rebecca would be willing to part with one of her dishtowels?”

  The drawer squealed stridently as it was pulled out, and Priscilla winced. Her senses were in hyper focus as her body zeroed in on that tantalizing smell. She clutched the underside of the chair to keep herself from moving forward again. The metal bent beneath her fingers.

  Noah must have handed Arthur a towel, because the scent was suddenly less potent. She let her breath out slowly and finally dared to look. Arthur had slapped a rag to his face and was staring at her with a mixture of annoyance and concern.

  “Whatever you wanted to tell me, you can tell Jack. He’s staying here to take you home. Deputy Ford will take me to the hospital.”

  “What about Mr. Porter?” Priscilla asked.

  “Jack has already called the department. They’ll track him down soon enough.” Arthur didn’t look happy about the development, but that wasn’t much of a change from his regular demeanor of late.

  “You’re bleeding through the towel, sir,” Deputy Ernest Ford said from the doorway. Due to the bloodlust, Priscilla hadn’t noticed him come in. It was an inconvenient weakness that plagued vampires. It had been a favorite trick of monster hunters back in the day to draw out and distract their quarry long enough to kill them.

  Arthur let out another muttered curse and rummaged in his pocket for the keys. He slapped them into the older man’s hand without ceremony.

  “I expect you out of here as soon as you’ve told Jack what you know,” Arthur said, fixing Priscilla with a glare. “We’ll be having a talk about this when I get back.”

  The smell of blood lingered even after he’d gone, but it was bearable. She drew in a shaky breath. Jack was observing her with a sympathetic expression on his face.

  “You’re starving,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

  “I’ve eaten this week,” she protested.

  “Not enough, I’d wager,” Jack said. He hesitated. “Do you need …”