Digging a Hole

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  “I can’t wait to meet Mr. Rook,” said the redhead. “I hear he’s the most delicious thing on the island.”

  “My sister only saw him once because he didn’t mingle much with the guests,” said the blonde lady.

  “Well,” said the redhead with a sassy voice, “if he’s as good looking as my friends say, I’m changing my fantasy to a night with him.”

  In the back of my mind, I tried to understand how these women could actually pay money to come all the way here and sleep with strange men in a weeklong, role-playing, fantasy vacation. It felt so strange to me.

  “What’s your fantasy this week, sweetheart?” the redhead asked, staring at me with her mascara-caked eyes.

  “Who, me?” I pointed to my chest.

  “Yeah. You gonna do some pirate fantasy? Oh wait. I know. You look like the superhero kind.” She snapped her fingers. “Thor. You went for the Thor fantasy, didn’t ya? I heard he has the biggest hammer in the world.” She winked.

  Nice. Real nice. And why had she made that assessment about me? My look didn’t scream cosplay-lover. It didn’t scream anything, really. Most men—my exes—would describe me as having classic beauty. I would describe myself as average. Average-length brown hair with average waves. Average brown eyes. Average five foot four height. Average ten pounds overweight. Average intelligence.

  My special feature was my tenacity. Once I set out to do something, I achieved my goal no matter how difficult. For example, when I was eight and Cici was fourteen, I decided that our yard needed a treehouse. My father said he was too busy, so I put up a lemonade stand every weekend for five months until I raised enough money to hire a handyman. I got my damned treehouse.

  I smiled politely at the redhead and mousy blonde who waited for my reply. “I, uh, really just want flowers, a candlelit dinner on a yacht, and cuddling by the fire—your basic romance,” I lied.

  They looked at me like I was out of my soft skull for choosing something so tame. But I wasn’t here for wild. I was here to find Cici.

  “Well, that’s cute,” said the redhead.

  “I’m doing Tarzan,” said the blonde, staring at the floor.

  I tried to keep a straight face. I couldn’t picture this shy little thing swinging through the trees in a suede bikini.

  “Sounds…” I swallowed, “dangerous.”

  “I knooow.” Her brown eyes lit with joy.

  The line began to clear out of the cabin, so I grabbed my backpack and purse and faced forward.

  “Well, enjoy your romantic candles…?” Redhead wanted to know my name.

  I glanced over my shoulder. “Stephanie.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Meg,” she said and then jerked her head toward the blonde, “and she’s Emily.”

  “Nice meeting you, too,” I replied politely.

  “We’ll see you at the welcome dinner tonight!” Meg said. “I hear the dancers are amazing—ripped from head to toe and almost naked in those Hawaiian grass skirt things.”

  “Mmmm. Can’t wait.” I didn’t give a crap about dancers or dinners. I wanted to find this Mr. Rook and start asking about Cici. I was ready to put a goddamned knife to his throat if that was what it took.

  “Right this way, ladies!” said the overly peppy air stewardess.

  One by one, we filed down the rollaway staircase. I immediately noticed the tropical summer heat, the never-ending stretch of lush green jungle, and the musty smell of moist dirt mixed with salty air.

  My mind immediately jumped to my sister—her bright smile and big brown eyes. She had been right here on this island, on this very fucking staircase. What did they do to her?

  My heart bubbled with rage. Stay in character, Steph. You’re a happy guest, like everyone else. The last thing I wanted was to go ballistic and get kicked off the island before I got what I needed—the truth for myself and information for “my boss,” Warner Price. I used the term loosely because Warner and I had more of an arrangement rather than an employer-employee situation. Either way, I couldn’t and wouldn’t go home until I had what I needed.

  Wearing black leather sandals and a long blue cotton dress, I carefully descended the narrow staircase, feeling my anxiety well inside my shaky knees.

  “Welcome, Miss…?” Holding out his hand, next to the bottom step, stood a huge tree trunk of a man wearing a blue-and-white Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. He had to be at least seven feet tall, his brown skin covered in Samoan tattoos. Even his neck and the back of his shaved head were inked.

  “Ms. Brenna,” I lied, and shook his large hand. “Let me guess. You must be Tattoo and you tell everyone when the plane arrives?” This place is a fucking joke.

  He smiled and flashed a set of bright white teeth. “My name is Gerry, ma’am, and our control tower texts the employees to alert us when the guests arrive. May I help you with your things?”

  “No.” I smiled politely, smoothing down the front of my wrinkled dress, trying my best not to show him the hate inside me. Because for all I knew, he’d had something to do with Cici’s death.

  No. Don’t think that. She’s not dead. Sadly, however, my heart knew she would not leave us. Not like that. Which naturally led to one conclusion: She never made it off this island alive.

  I held back a snarl and substituted it with a grin. “I can carry my own things, but thanks.”

  “Very good, Ms. Brenna.” Tattoo—I mean Gerry—dipped his shaved head. “Please follow the red carpet to the gravel path. The signs will direct you to the reception building, where our staff will check you in.”

  “Thanks.”

  Gerry turned his attention to the next guest behind me—Meg—and I continued on the red carpet, squinting from the hot summer sun beating down on the top of my head.

  My first impression of the place was that everything felt too perfect, like a movie set or theme park. Yes, the tall trees were real, and the birds of paradise sprouting from beds of bright red and yellow flowers were real, too, but even the gravel path I followed through the dense jungle didn’t have a single pebble out of place.

  As I walked, the muted giggles and laughter of the ladies behind me echoed through the trees. All I felt was my skin crawling and those eyes—from the shadow—still watching me.

  Stop it, I told myself. You’re letting your imagination get to you.

  I slid my cell from my purse to check for texts or messages from my dad. Crap. No bars? Not even one little flicker? I guess I wasn’t surprised. This island couldn’t stay a secret if people were posting their location on Facebook along with vacation pics.

  After a very short walk, the shaded path ended at a large, two-story house with an enormous porch and hanging flowers of every color imaginable. It reminded me of those old coffee plantation homes with whitewash paint and pillars.

  I walked up the steps to the porch, my body already dripping with sweat. “Jesus, this place is like living inside a wet volcano,” I muttered. I couldn’t say I was a fan of humidity before this and now I absolutely loathed it.

  I stepped inside the house, where a gentle breeze from the ceiling fans drifted against my hot skin, giving some relief. The white wood-paneled room had fresh flowers atop two white desks, where two pleasant-looking women awaited us. Oh, look. We’re being checked in to heaven. Every perfect detail of this shitty place pissed me off.

  The guests formed a line and then gave their names to the women in blue-and-white blouses behind the desks. After that, another woman, different every time, quickly whisked them off down a hallway.

  My turn. I stepped up, feeling nervous as hell. I wasn’t great at lying, but there was no other way. I’m a guest. A happy guest.

  “Hi. I’m Stephanie Brenna.”

  The young woman with cocoa skin and her black hair pulled into a neat ponytail smiled and then checked my name off her list. “There you are, Ms. Brenna. Julie will be checking you in and going over the island’s amenities and rules during your stay.”

  Julie, a brunette wearing
white shorts and the standard Hawaiian blouse, appeared with a bright smile. “Ms. Brenna, hello. Please come right this way.”

  “What is this?” The whole whisking people away and separating the guests made me uneasy.

  The receptionist continued smiling like she was high on life or had just gotten her wings. “Ah, yes. Well, our check-in process is a little different than your standard resort.” She leaned into her desk and whispered, “Because of the unique nature of our services.” She winked.

  “So you mean there’s sex paperwork,” I said.

  She pointed her pencil at me. “You got it. And a safety orientation.”

  “And Mr. Rook? When do I get to meet him?” I asked.

  The smiles on the women’s faces melted so fast, one might have assumed I’d just told them I’d like to eat their livers.

  “What?” I asked. “This is his island, isn’t it?”

  Julie, my check-in hostess, swallowed something in her throat. “I’m afraid that Mr. Rook doesn’t manage the day-to-day operations of the island—he’s a very busy man. However, if you have any concerns or needs—anything at all—I will be your personal concierge for the week.” Her fake smile reappeared. “And if there’s anything I can’t manage, the island’s executive manager, Mrs. Day, can see to it.”

  “So I won’t get to meet the famous Mr. Rook?” I asked.

  They smiled politely, but didn’t speak. I got the distinct impression that they were not allowed to say no to a guest.

  “All right. Is he even on the island?” I prodded.

  The receptionist offered me a bone. “Mr. Rook does have a personal residence here, but we are not kept informed of his schedule or whereabouts. Is there anything we can address? Any concerns?”

  The two women eyed the line of rowdy drunk guests behind me. Apparently, one of them had to pee, a fact she happily shared with us all.

  Okay, well, if Mr. Rook didn’t run things on a daily basis, then he wasn’t the only person with answers. Of course, the big boss would have to know if a guest went missing, so I would still need to meet him.

  “No.” I flashed a smile to make nice. “No concerns at this time.”

  “Then follow me!” Julie turned for the hallway. “In a few short minutes, I’ll have you on your way to a week of pure pampering and relaxation.”

  “Fabulous.” I followed behind her.

  “Unless your version of relaxation requires something more vigorous.” She glanced over her shoulder and winked.

  What’s with the damned winking? This entire place gave me the heebie-jeebies. “Can’t wait.”

  FOR MORE:

  www.mimijean.net/rooksisland.html

  LIKE MYSTERIES AND LAUGHS?

  Check Out This Horribly Sunny Mystery, The Librarian’s Vampire Assistant.

  NOBODY MESSES WITH HIS LIBRARIAN. . .

  Who killed Michael Vanderhorst’s maker? It’s a darn good question. But when the trail brings Michael to hellishly sunny Phoenix, Arizona, his biggest problem soon becomes a cute little librarian he can’t seem to stay away from. He’s never met a bigger danger magnet! Even her book cart has it out for her. And is that the drug cartel following her around, too? “Dear God, woman! What have you gotten yourself into?”

  Things go from bad to worse when local vampires won’t play nice.

  Can this four-hundred-year-old vampire keep his librarian safe and himself out of hot water? Can he bring his maker’s killer to justice? Yesterday, he would’ve said yes. But yesterday, he didn’t have a strange connection with a librarian. Yesterday, people weren’t trying to kill her.

  FOR MORE, GO TO:

  www.mimijean.net/the-librarians-vampire-assistant.html

  or continue reading for an excerpt.

  EXCERPT THE LIBRARIAN’S VAMPIRE ASSISTANT

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Oh! I’m so sorry!” says a blonde at the front of the coffee line, forcing my attention away from the phone in my hand. She’s wearing a rather unattractive red coat and has apparently rammed into a UPS guy carrying a hot cup of tea.

  “Serves him right. Only weak men drink tea,” I growl under my breath and return to my screen.

  My name is Michael Vanderhorst, and I am not usually this grouchy or this close to doing something terribly unwise—throats torn, heads lopped, appendages removed. Unwise. However, today is quite possibly the worst day of my life, and a silent rage is brewing inside me.

  But let us not start off on the wrong foot. I am actually a nice guy. Some might say I’m a classic gentleman, and they don’t mean I know which fork to use, though I do. They mean gentleman in the true, old-fashioned sense. I open doors for ladies and stand when they rise from the table. I keep my word, pay my debts, and believe in being polite to others, even when they don’t deserve it.

  Do not get the wrong impression. I am no pushover either. I get my hands dirty when the situation warrants, but generally I am an agreeable man.

  Or I used to be.

  A man.

  Now I’m a vampire, and like most of my kind, the journey hasn’t been an easy one.

  No, this is not the reason I’m in a foul mood. Neither is the fact that I’ve been in line for over ten minutes, waiting to order coffee.

  Oh, yes—pause of deep appreciation—coffee.

  “Oh, dear me! I’m so sorry!” I look up again, and the same blonde woman, who I see only from the back, has just knocked over a towering pile of coffee cup lids onto the floor.

  The employees rush to pick up the mess, and when she bends over to help, she hits her forehead on the counter. “Ouch!”

  I am about to step forward to assist, but she seems all right, rubbing her head and apologizing to the entire world.

  I hope she doesn’t stab herself with a straw or spontaneously combust. Then I’ll never get my coffee. I cannot start my day without it.

  Do not be shocked. There are many things people don’t know about my kind. For example, we don’t live exclusively on blood. In fact, I prefer spicy vegan dishes. Indian food is delicious.

  Another myth? Vampires cannot go in the sun. Also untrue. We are merely averse to it. Right now, it’s a cool spring morning in downtown Phoenix, and while I am sweating through my Italian suit and can’t get home to Cincinnati fast enough, the sunny sky outside is merely an annoyance.

  So now you’re wondering just why I’m so angry. It is something so ghastly, I can hardly say the words. Two days ago, someone killed the most upstanding person ever to walk the planet. Clive was a give-you-the-shirt-off-his-back sort of man, which is the likely reason his detective agency wasn’t making money. I once worked for Clive—also a vampire—but his generosity toward his clients, giving away his services, got to a point where he could no longer employ me.

  So I went back to school, obtained yet another degree, and started my eighth profession, this time in biotech research. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you get bored. I find changing occupations every fifty years keeps a man on his toes, and if you’ve guessed that would make me over four hundred years old, you would be correct.

  “It’s your turn, dude,” says the pink-haired man behind me.

  “About time. Thank you.” I step up to the counter, where I order my usual—a nonfat latte with an extra shot of espresso. “No make that two extra shots,” I say to the barista and pop five dollars into the tip jar.

  “Coming right up.” The young redhead attending to me smiles, but it’s the sort of smile that says she wants to bed me. Little does she know that while I am a handsome man—six feet one, deep brown eyes, and a very charming smile—she can’t help herself. Yes, that myth is actually true. Humans find us irresistible.

  I offer the barista a polite nod and step aside to await my coffee, but something outside catches my eye through the plate-glass window. It’s that same blonde woman with a paper cup in her hand, playing Frogger with oncoming traffic.

  Oh! Watch out. Dear woman, what are you doing! She’s nearly run over by three separate cars.
I’m about to run after her, but she makes it across to the other side of the street.

  What the devil was she thinking?

  My cell vibrates in my hand, and I sigh with relief. “Finally.” It’s a text from the local society granting me a meeting at one o’clock. Society is the modern term for coven, which is made up of a collection of families. Each territory has a different society and, since vampires are very territorial, I cannot stay longer than a day without a visa—not that I plan to since I’m not permitted to have anything to do with investigating Clive’s death.

  Sadly, I am here to collect Clive’s ashes and take the good man home to his final resting place.

  Regardless, whoever hurt him must pay. Not death, but entombment, which is far worse and the only outcome I’m expecting to hear at today’s meeting with the society’s head. “We’ve caught the bastard. He’s been sentenced to life.” Anything shy of these exact words will cause trouble. From me.

  My order is called at the counter, and I grab my hot coffee, immediately going in for that first delicious sip. “Ow!” It burns my tongue. Why do I always do that? I’m far too eager when it comes to caffeine. Especially in the morning.

  I take a seat at the counter along the window that faces the street. Immediately, my reflection catches my eye. My brown hair is a mess, and I apparently forgot to shave this morning at the hotel. My tie is also crooked.

  I straighten myself out and glance at my watch, a fine antique Clive gave me on my birthday over a hundred years ago.

  Clive… I feel the red-hot rage build again. He was my best friend, my brother, my father, and my maker.

  Nobody touches my family, I snarl on the inside. My strong hand squeezes my coffee cup, threatening to send the piping hot liquid up in the air.

  Dammit all to hell. I need a distraction, something to keep me calm until one o’clock. Otherwise, I won’t stand a chance of keeping a level head when I walk in to meet whoever runs this sunny, pleasant dump of a town.