“You look fine,” Anna assured her. “You look good in orange.”
Anna was busy stretching. Unlike Priscilla, she actually did look good in her suit, despite the hideous color. She sported a neon green suit with white stripes down the pant legs and somehow managed to make even the construction hat perched on top of her head adorable. When Anna was satisfied that she was limbered up for the coming exercise, she stood and flicked her headlamp on. A bright light speared the darkness ahead of them.
“Now all I need are light-up sneakers,” Anna pronounced. “Then I’m officially a walking rave.”
“Why am I doing this?” Priscilla asked for the umpteenth time.
“Because Daddy and I can’t,” Anna explained patiently. “He’s not supposed to run on his bad leg.”
“Yes, but why me? Shouldn’t Jack or Jamie do this? After all, they’re the investigating officers.”
“Jamie hasn’t run a full mile since graduating high school, and besides, I do this all the time. I don’t look out of place. What are you worrying about, Priscilla? You’re faster than I am, and Daddy will only ever be a few minutes away.”
“Fine, you’ve made your point,” Priscilla said. “And when we’re finished?”
“We cross-reference the names of the people with sheds or greenhouses with the list Olivia gave us. I’d still bet a million bucks that the killer poisoned the mints.”
Priscilla took off before Anna could finish, gaining several yards before the young woman even knew she’d been had. Anna spluttered indignantly behind her and soon Priscilla heard her sneakers slapping the pavement behind her. Childish, yes, but very satisfying. Priscilla had always been competitive. She let Anna struggle for several minutes before she slowed her pace to come level with her.
“That was cheating,” Anna panted.
“All’s fair,” Priscilla said with a smirk.
“It is completely unfair,” Anna griped. “You’re not even trying. How fast can you go, really?”
“Fast enough that I’d be speeding in a school zone,” she said, and couldn’t quite keep the smugness out of her voice.
“Show-off,” Anna said.
Anna stuffed an earbud into one ear and did her best to focus on the task at hand. Priscilla could just make out the beat of a pop song over the wind. Unlike Anna, she didn’t need the bobbing light. There was a bright harvest moon in the sky tonight, and that was enough light to illuminate what she needed to see.
She started a mental tally of the houses she knew, and consulted Anna on the ones she didn’t. Jones, Davis, Wilson, Stout, Clark, Hayes, Peckman, Johnson, and over a dozen more. She hadn’t realized just how many people had gardens, greenhouses, or sheds in their backyards until she’d had cause to look.
They rounded the city twice, just to be sure they’d missed no houses. In the end, Anna was flushed with cold and exertion, and even Priscilla was feeling the strain. She was expending too much energy between feedings. Anna doubled over in the church parking lot, their agreed upon meeting spot, putting her head between her knees.
Arthur raised an eyebrow at them. “Are you two going to be all right?”
“We’ll be fine,” Priscilla said. “We’ve got about thirty names. Do you have the list?”
Arthur nodded. “Hit me.”
She began to list the names, with Anna chiming in every now and then to remind her of ones she’d forgotten. Every so often Arthur would grunt and check a name on the list.
“So, how much overlap do we have?” Priscilla asked.
“Four names,” Arthur said. “Good work, ladies. If you’re right, it narrows the pool considerably.”
“What are the names?” Anna asked wearily.
“Davis, Johnson, Hayes, and Stout.”
“And which ones do we get to interview?” Anna asked.
“You are going home,” Arthur said sternly. “And Priscilla will talk to Mrs. Stout.”
She and Anna began to speak at the same time in similar tones of outrage.
“But, Daddy, I can help—”
“Mrs. Stout? The fussy home economics teacher? You’ve got to be kidding me, Arthur. She’s harmless.”
“That’s enough!” Arthur shouted, cutting across them both. Anna looked mutinous, and Priscilla was ready to back her. “You’re both civilians and you’ve both tampered in this investigation quite enough. If the press gets wind of the fact that I’ve relied on my daughter and the local baker to solve this crime for me, I’ll be laughed right out of town.”
He rounded on his daughter, giving her a hard look. “I know you are a capable young woman, Anna, but I am tracking down a murderer here.”
“But you’re sending Priscilla—”
“Priscilla can’t be killed by conventional means. You can. I’m not letting you get anywhere near these houses. If you’re not home in the next twenty minutes, I’ll send Bert Holder out to drag you to the station. Lights, sirens, fingerprinting, mugshots, the works. Do you understand me?”
Anna grumbled something that was impossible to make out and pushed to her feet, not looking at either of them. Apparently being allowed to stay on as an investigator was enough to warrant a cold shoulder from Anna. She didn’t even say goodbye.
Arthur turned to face her, face stony. “I suppose you want to question my decisions too?”
“No, sir,” Priscilla said. “I’ll go question the dowdy old lady.”
“Good,” Arthur said with a grunt. “Get in the car. I’ll drive you.”
“I can walk, Arthur. You said it yourself, nothing out here is going to kill me.”
“Maybe not,” Arthur said, a sly grin crossing his face unexpectedly. “But it is almost Halloween. I’d hate for the headless horseman to carry you off by mistake.”
He eyed her bright orange tracksuit with undisguised amusement. She marched away from him, stiff-backed and furious. His guffaw followed her all the way to the end of the block.
Tobias Kennedy’s Pumpkin Cider
After much demand, I’ve been asked to provide the recipe for the beverage served at the Cunningham wake. Tobias Kennedy thoughtfully provided his homemade pumpkin cider for a fee. Though he insists the recipe is better with liquor, rum, or hard apple cider specifically, it is apparently good without it. I wouldn’t know as it all tastes dreadful to me.
—Priscilla Pratt
Ingredients
2 cups pumpkin puree
5 cups apple cider
3 tsp pumpkin pie spice
1 cinnamon stick
2/3 cup spiced rum (optional)
Directions
Combine all the ingredients except the rum into a large pot and bring it to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer for about 15 minutes. Keep stirring to ensure the ingredients are combined well. You are welcome to add more cider if the drink is too thick.
Once the cider has cooked for 15 minutes, strain it to remove any clumps. If you are using rum, this is when you will stir it into the cider. Pour into champagne flutes and serve.
Yields 4 cups.
Chapter Fifteen
Martha Stout lived in one of the oldest houses in Bellmare.
It had been new in 1690 when Priscilla had made the decision to move here. There hadn’t been a boarding house in Bellmare for another century, so she’d been forced to be creative when it came to lodging. Until the mid-18th century, she’d made her living as a live-in servant to the wealthier families in and around Bellmare. It was part of why she’d never lost her flair for cooking, as so many vampires had in the intervening centuries.
She remembered this place. She’d served its owners, the Gosnells, for two generations before moving on. The home had been beautifully restored. Martha Stout would stand for nothing less. As a member of the Bellmare Historical Society, and an archaeology enthusiast, Martha Stout was always on the front line of any preservation or restoration project. When the historical society had been unable to prevent a company from buying the rights to demolish the house, Martha had used her
savings and entire retirement fund to buy it out from under the businessman.
She’d originally been a history teacher at Bellmare High and had had to take on additional jobs to make ends meet. She also taught home economics and coached the girl’s track team. Anna had fond memories of the old woman, and spoke of her often.
Priscilla approached the house slowly, more concerned with the state of the apothecary next door than the woman she’d been sent to interview. The building was the worse for wear after the riot that Daisy Farrington had assembled. Siding had been stripped off the front, a window had been smashed to pieces, someone had graffitied his front door, and one portion of his eaves was hanging low. The latter might have been her fault from when she’d scaled the side of the building to rescue him. Still, she felt bad for causing the damage.
The only concession Martha had made to historical accuracy was to allow the sidewalk to extend up to her front steps. It saved mess when the weather was poor as it was now and Priscilla was grateful for it as she approached Martha’s front door. The snow had melted during the day and what had once been solid footing had been replaced by sucking mud anywhere they strayed from the pavement. She’d nearly lost a shoe to a large mud puddle on the way over. The ends of the hideous orange pants were soaked and her socks squelched with every step. It made her all the more eager to get this interview over and done with.
No doubt Arthur would call within the hour, telling her to come back to the station. His decision to send her on a fool’s errand made her so angry she wanted to spit. She might have, if she weren’t in someone else’s yard. Instead, she channeled that frustration into her knock. The door trembled slightly beneath her fist and she knocked more softly the next time.
It took Martha Stout five minutes to come to her front door. Not altogether surprising. She was almost completely deaf in one ear, and hard of hearing in the other. If she’d been anywhere but in the front room, Priscilla didn’t think she’d have heard at all. The house was closer to a mansion, or the closest the Puritans had ever come to building such a thing. It was three-stories high and equipped with more guest rooms than the Brown’s Bed and Breakfast. Martha couldn’t keep up with the cleaning any longer, now that her arthritis had worsened. She’d nearly bitten Olivia’s head off when she’d suggested that she hire a maid to clean the place weekly.
When the door finally swung open, it revealed a short and rather plump woman with steely gray hair and the sharp-eyed gaze of a bird of prey. Her wire-rimmed glasses glinted in the street lights, compounding that impression. Martha didn’t even give her a chance to speak.
“Miss Pratt,” she said in a loud, reedy voice. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
She checked her watch out of habit, though she knew it was a rhetorical question. “It’s nine thirty, ma’am.”
“Exactly,” Martha said primly. “What gives you the right to be knocking on my door at this hour of night, Priscilla? Tomorrow is a school day, and I’ve still got lessons to plan.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Stout. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as possible. I just need to ask you a few questions. Do you mind if I come in?”
Martha looked as if she was seriously considering slamming the door in her face. In the end, she finally stepped back and said curtly, “Come in then.”
Priscilla let out a sigh of relief and stepped over the threshold. She noted with some surprise that Samuel Gosnell’s Bible was still lying on the antique wood table in the front hall, as it had been so many years ago. She had to avert her eyes from it quickly.
“Does it bother you?” Martha asked as they passed. “I thought you liked the Word.”
“I do,” Priscilla said. “That’s part of the problem, actually. Vampires are only affected by holy objects they place faith in. If someone waved a Star of David in my face, it would have little to no effect on me.”
“Hmm, interesting. It must have been difficult for you to live here for many years.”
“Easier than you’d think,” Priscilla said. “I married a Catholic, and I was shunned from good, God-fearing Protestant churches.”
Martha actually laughed at that. She led them into the sitting room, which was furnished with several high-backed chairs. “I’d love to hear your stories sometime, Priscilla. There is so much history you could illuminate for us.”
Priscilla wanted to squirm, even as she took the chair closest to the fire. She’d avoided women on the historical society for exactly this reason. Often the first thing people wanted to know when they discovered she was a vampire was what she could tell them about the past. For some reason, people seemed to think she’d witnessed every historically significant event in the last three centuries. She had seen a lot in her life, just in this small town, but didn’t feel like discussing it with anyone. There were some secrets better kept buried.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” Martha asked.
“No, thank you,” Priscilla said.
“Are you sure, dear? I do have blood.”
Priscilla couldn’t help but look up at that. “Why?”
“Oh, it isn’t human, dear. I have relatives coming over from Europe and they’re fond of blood sausage.”
Priscilla bit her lip. Animal blood didn’t satisfy the way human blood did. It was usually kept as a last resort. The blood tasted wrong, and it only took the edge off. But at this point, she’d take almost anything to calm the nagging hunger.
“All right, I suppose.”
Martha gave her a warm smile and retreated further into the house to retrieve the blood. Priscilla used the time to look around the house. It looked almost as she remembered it, but for the additions of a modern ax leaning on the pile of kindling, a cordless phone hanging on one wall, and a pile of magazines on the end table. Most of the trappings of Puritan life had been left as they were, a bit dusty but still usable. The spinning wheel in the corner probably hadn’t been touched in years.
She was examining Samuel’s musket, still hung on the wall above the mantle, when Martha returned. It was more than a little amusing that she’d filled a plastic Barbie cup with blood. It was a little like trying to offer up a sacrifice to Satan while wearing a tutu; completely ludicrous juxtapositions. She took the still-warm cup with a nod of thanks and brought it to her lips.
The tang of blood flooded her mouth and she almost sagged in relief. The warm liquid was exactly what she needed to soothe the hunger that twisted at her belly. As she’d expected, the taste was slightly off, not quite what her body expected. There was a bitter aftertaste that made her lips twist at the end of each sip. When she’d finished half the cup, she set it down on a coaster and turned to face Martha again.
“Thank you, Mrs. Stout. That was very kind of you. May I ask what animal it was?”
“A sheep,” Martha replied.
“I’ve never had sheep,” Priscilla admitted. She’d had pig’s blood, cow’s blood, and on one memorable occasion, a rat’s blood, but she’d never eaten a sheep.
“I don’t recommend them,” Martha said. “Sheep are stupid animals.”
“Mrs. Stout,” Priscilla began, deciding a change of topic was in order. “I came here tonight to ask you a few questions on behalf of the Bellmare Police Department.”
“Yes, I’d heard you were assisting them,” Martha said dryly. “How’s that going so far?”
“Not well,” she admitted. “We have several suspects, but no clear motive.”
“I bet it was the husband,” Martha said. “In the shows it’s always the husband. Or the butler.”
“Kierra Cunningham didn’t have a butler with her, so he’s innocent, at least,” Priscilla said with a light laugh. “No, I came to talk to you about your greenhouse, Mrs. Stout.”
“My greenhouse?” Martha seemed caught off guard by the line of questioning. “What about it? It’s on my property, so I’m not violating any city ordinances by having one.”
“It’s nothing like that,” Priscilla assured her. “We’re looki
ng for someone who could have grown the poison used to kill Kierra Cunningham. Since they wouldn’t want it to be immediately obvious, we deduced that they’d be growing the plant in a greenhouse or a basement. Do you mind if I take a look at your greenhouse?”
“Not at all,” Martha said. “Feel free to take a look. I need to use the bathroom.”
Priscilla stood and after a moment of thought, finished the cup of blood. She made a face at the bitter taste that lingered at the bottom. Her stomach rolled rebelliously, threatening to bring the blood back up. She hurried through the doorway, hoping she could get onto hardwood or outside if she was going to throw up. The stains would never come out of the rugs Martha had laid on her floor. Only one part of her awareness tracked Martha puttering down the hallway toward her bathroom.
She made it to the kitchen sink before the blood came back up. It was not much more than a glorified basin, but at least Martha had installed running water. Priscilla scooped up a mouthful of the clear, cold stuff even though it held even less appeal to her than animal blood. She gargled for a few seconds and spit, sending the remnants of the sick down the drain. She splashed her face for good measure and finally straightened.
What had that been? She’d never gotten sick after a feeding, even when she’d been forced to drink animal blood. The only time she’d ever thrown up her meal was after she’d lingered too long in the sun as a young vampire. Clearly that wasn’t the case here. She had many hours until dawn.
Martha’s kitchen was covered in jars. Most of them looked like standard kitchen fare, the kind used to hold flour, sugar, and yeast. But there were more unorthodox looking containers as well. One appeared to hold blood. The stuff that she’d been offered, presumably. And beside her was a hunk of semi-cooked hamburger, swimming in red blood and fat. Had she caught Martha mid-meal preparation? She trailed her fingers absently along the counter and her hand came away covered in a grainy powder. Salt, maybe?
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