Campari Crimson

by Traci Andrighetti

  I grasped the conference room door handle, and lightning flashed, and the rain intensified.

  The weather had to be some kind of cosmic joke.

  Steeling myself for whatever was to come, I opened the door. When I caught sight of the twenty-something male at the head of the table, I understood why the vassal had stumbled on the word “man.” With his thick brown hair and facial fur, Josh Santo looked part human and part werewolf. And his torn plaid shirt didn’t help.

  Veronica smiled, but it was strained. “Josh Santo, this is Franki Amato.”

  “Excuse my appearance.” He stood and extended a veiny hand. “I’ve been at the police station since eight p.m. yesterday.”

  Before going in for the shake, I checked his fingertips for claws. Then I took his hand. It was cold and damp, and I wondered whether it was from the rain or from guilt. Not everyone who sought our services was innocent. “Did the police do that to your shirt?”

  Josh grimaced, embarrassed. “These are my work clothes.” He returned to his seat. “I was sanding a fireplace in my bedroom when the police showed up.”

  “Mr. Santo was questioned in a homicide that took place on Saturday night,” Veronica said as I sat across from her. “Apparently, Wesley Sullivan is in charge of the investigation.”

  My pulse picked up, probably because my blood was trying to make a break for it. That was the same night Sullivan had given the news conference, and I had a sick feeling the case was related. “Why are you a suspect?”

  Josh looked at the table and laughed. “You’re not going to believe this.”

  I didn’t reply. By then, I was willing to believe anything.

  His gaze sought mine, and his ice blue eyes seemed to glow from their dark-circled sockets. “It’s because the guy’s blood was drained.”

  My six beignets almost came up, and Veronica seemed shocked. Chandra’s psychic surmises didn’t seem so suspect anymore.

  “Why”—I stopped to catch my breath—“why would the police connect a crime like that with you?”

  He pressed his knuckle to his lips. “This is where it gets funny.”

  Neither Veronica nor I came close to cracking a smile.

  “A few months ago,” he said, clasping his hands on the table, “I bought the Compte de Saint Germain’s old house at the corner of Royal and Ursuline. And now the police think I’m trying to be him.”

  I had no idea who this count was or why anyone would try to emulate him, but I scooted my chair away from Josh nevertheless. “Why? Who is this guy?”

  He grinned, revealing a mouthful of wine-stained Osmond teeth. “An eighteenth-century vampire.”

  His words hit me like a stake through the heart.

  4

  “Is there any chance you said eighteenth-century umpire?” I knew he hadn’t, but I’d been dreading this moment for three days, and now that it had happened I was going to do my darnedest to undo it. “Or maybe empire?”

  Josh glanced from me to Veronica, who was still speechless. “I get that this sounds incredible, but Jacques de Saint Germain was definitely a vampire.”

  I sunk low in my seat. Since moving to New Orleans, my creepiest cases had involved freaky figures with French names—like legendary voodoo queen Marie Laveau and the voodoo loa of the dead, Baron Samedi. “I take it de Saint Germain was from France?”

  “Well, the count was vague about where he was from and how he got his money, and the history books aren’t much help.” He leaned back in his chair. “What we know for sure is that he worked in London as an opera composer in 1745, and after being accused of espionage he showed up in France in the court of King Louis XV. Toward the end of his life, though, he started telling people he was the son of Francis Racoczi II, a Transylvanian prince.”

  And I’d been worried he was French.

  Veronica’s wide-eyed surprise had been replaced with narrow-eyed skepticism. “Why do people think he was a vampire?”

  Incredulous, I looked at her like she’d lost it. “Does Transylvania mean nothing to you?”

  Her narrow-eyed skepticism slid into slit-eyed sarcasm.

  “All right, so vampirism isn’t an ethnicity.” I straightened in my seat. “But it is suspicious that this guy initially covered up being from Transylvania. And let’s not forget that he was a count, like Dracula.”

  Veronica swallowed a sigh. “Please continue, Mr. Santo.”

  “Call me Josh.” He flashed a too-toothy grin.

  The second he said it, I realized that “Josh” was similar to “Jacques” and that “Santo” was Italian for “Saint.” I tried to scan his neck for bite scars, but his collar was suspiciously buttoned.

  “Josh it is,” Veronica obliged.

  He took a deep breath. “So, people think de Saint Germain was a vampire for a lot of reasons. For one thing, he had amazing talents. Famous people like Marie Antoinette, Voltaire, and Casanova were blown away by his skills. I mean, the guy spoke twelve languages, played the violin like a virtuoso, and painted like a master. And supposedly, he could turn metal into gold.”

  “So he was a prodigy,” I said, holding out hope the man was merely a misunderstood mortal. “That happens.”

  His furry brows furrowed. “Yeah, but he never seemed to age past forty. And when people asked him how he stayed so young looking, he told them he knew the secret to eternal life.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe he had good genes.”

  Josh laughed like I had to be joking. “Good genes wouldn’t explain how he managed to show up in New Orleans in 1903 when he was born in 1690.”

  That little detail was disturbing, but I was determined to veto the man’s vampirism. “Whoever showed up in NOLA was an imposter, like that woman who claimed to be Anastasia.”

  He flashed an I-wouldn’t-be-so-sure smile. “The locals were convinced it was the count because he had a lot of habits consistent with vampire legend. Like, he loved to go to the city’s best restaurants, but no one ever saw him eat. He just drank red wine.”

  Refusing to eat at restaurants was a red flag, and not pairing wine with cheese was all but hard evidence he was inhuman.

  Veronica chewed her cheek, unconvinced. “What happened when he came to New Orleans?”

  “This is where it gets good.” Josh’s eyes were eerily aglow. “He got a reputation around town as a ladies’ man. Then one night passersby heard a scream and saw a woman jump from his second-floor balcony. She died at the hospital, but she managed to tell police that she’d been having a drink with the count when he suddenly rushed across his living room with super-human speed and tried to rip open her jugular vein with his teeth.”

  My hand went to my all-too-exposed neck. That did it for me—the dude was undead.

  “Was the count arrested?” Veronica asked.

  Josh gave a slow shake of his head. “By the time the police showed up at his place, he was long gone. But they reported that the house reeked of death, and there were bloodstains on the floor that were too old to be from the woman.” He pressed his palms on the table. “Not only that, there was no furniture or food, only wine bottles filled with human blood.”

  I swallowed hard, but the spit lodged in my throat like a lump.

  After a sickening silence, Josh began to cough.

  Veronica touched his back. “Could I get you some water or a soda?”

  “I saw a restaurant downstairs.” His voice was husky. “Any chance I could get a Bloody Mary?”

  My arm hair stood at attention. Given the circumstances, it was a peculiar choice of beverage.

  “Certainly.” She rose from her seat. “I’ll run down to Nizza.”

  “So will I.” I flew to my feet. I wanted to get out of that room—and into a bar.

  Veronica opened the door, and David and the vassal fell backwards. They lay frozen with their hands pressed to the floor. But it wasn’t a ruthless vampire they feared—rather a wrathful Veronica.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into all of you,” she whisper-
shouted after closing the door behind us, “but I’m over it.” She turned to me. “You need to go back in there. And you two”—she glowered at David and the vassal—“get up and go back to your desks this instant.”

  “Stay where you are.” I pointed at the petrified pair. “I’m not going in there by myself, especially not in this red V-neck sweater. The name alone is an open invitation for a vampire bite.”

  Veronica balled her fists. “Franki, this nonsense has gone too far. Josh is a harmless young man who needs our help.”

  “And who’s been accused of imitating a vicious vampire,” I said, balling my fists right back. “So on the off chance he gets the urge to tear open my throat with his teeth, I’m taking the guys with me.”

  David’s jaw went slack to match the vassal’s.

  “Fine,” she huffed. “But don’t keep him waiting any longer. We don’t want to lose his business.” She flipped her hair and headed down the stairs.

  I grasped the door handle and turned to David and the vassal. “You two can stop holding down the floor now.”

  They pulled themselves to their feet and followed me into the conference room. “Josh, these are my associates—”

  “We met in the lobby.” His tone was friendly, as though we were there to hang out.

  “Super.” Skipping the introductions spared me from saying “Standish.” I took Veronica’s seat and tapped a key on her laptop to bring it back to life. “They’re joining us for, uh, training purposes.”

  David and the vassal slid as stiff as cadavers into their seats—at the far end of the table.

  “You mentioned that the police accused you of imitating Jacques de Saint Germain.” I stressed “Jacques” and “Saint” and paused to let that sink in. “What did you do to get on their radar?”

  “It has to do with my research,” he replied. “I’m writing a book about the count."

  Sensing a safe subject, the vassal’s chest swelled. “Biography or paranormal fiction?”

  Josh revealed impressive incisors. “Comedy.”

  The vassal seemed paralyzed, and David went pale.

  Stifling a shiver, I typed thinks bloodsuckers are funny. “How does one research a vampire, exactly?”

  “I walk the streets around my house at night, retracing the count’s steps.” He paused. “I’m not trying to be him. I just want to get a feel for what it was like to walk the Quarter hunting a victim”—his eyes widened—“for my book.”

  I scooted my chair back like I needed more room for my legs. And I did. In case I had to run from the room. “That reminds me, property in the Quarter is pretty pricey. Mind if I ask how you got the money to buy it?”

  “Some savings, stock investments.” He crossed his ankle over his knee. “You know.”

  No, I definitely didn’t. There were no stocks or savings in my portfolio, unless you counted my Leaning Tower of Pisa piggy bank, and that was never going to tip over at the rate I was filling it. “Not a lot of people your age have that kind of money. What do you do for a living?”

  “Programming, until the company I founded was bought out for fifty million. Now I’m retired.”

  Air escaped from the vassal’s open mouth, and his chest began to deflate. And David let out a high-pitched whine, probably pained by his decision to trade programming for PI work.

  Normally, I would’ve smiled, but I was a little shaken by that sum myself. “Are you from New Orleans?”

  “Nope.” Josh pulled a phone from his pants pocket and studied the screen.

  “O-kay.” I typed vague about where he’s from—like the count. “Going back to your research, did you do anything unusual? I ask because plenty of people walk the French Quarter at night, so that wouldn’t be suspicious from a police perspective.”

  He pocketed the phone and folded his arms. “Apparently, the problem is that I dress like the count when I go out. In a top hat, tails, and a cane.”

  The vassal snorted, proving his nose could work, and David turned a laugh into a cough, as though Josh was the nerd, not them. And I couldn’t argue with that. In comparison to the could-be count’s clothes, their sci-fi wear seemed like haute couture.

  But no matter what kind of clothes the kid wore, his story wasn’t adding up to a trip to the police station. “I don’t see how wearing an eccentric outfit in the Quarter, of all places, would qualify you as a murder suspect.”

  “Neither do I.” He looked thoughtful as he smoothed his mustache. “But the cops kept asking about my cape.”

  The room fell so silent that we could’ve heard a top hat pin drop.

  My mind replayed the video of the caped figure from the news conference, and I typed possible suspect in blood bank business. “Why do you think they focused on your cape? Was the murderer wearing one?”

  “They didn’t say because they were trying to keep details of the murder under wraps.” He looked at me from beneath long lashes and grinned. “Get it? Under wraps?”

  The vassal gave a laugh that sounded like a cross between a donkey bray and a clown horn, and Josh lit up, as though his career as a comedy vampire writer was clinched. When he saw that I wasn’t laughing, however, his smile faded.

  “Anyway,” he said, adjusting his collar, “I told the detective that I wore a cape for book research, and he seemed to believe me. But when I mentioned where I’d bought it everything changed.”

  I looked into his icy blue eyes. “Where did you buy it?”

  “Boutique du Vampyre,” he replied, like it was Macy’s or Sears.

  I casually pulled my V-neck closed, and with my free hand I typed he’s a cape-wearing vampire wannabe. “Do you shop there often?”

  “No, it was just the obvious place to get a cape.”

  Obvious if you’re into vampires. “What did Detective Sullivan say to that?”

  Josh stared into the distance and tugged at his beard. “He asked me if I’d tried to break in to the blood bank on Canal.”

  I’d suspected as much, but what I didn’t expect was his failure to deny the crime. “And did you?”

  He winced like he’d been bitten. “I never went anywhere near the blood bank.” He shot me a wounded look. “That hurt my feelings, by the way.”

  Not wanting to provoke the ire of a would-be vampire, I opted to change the subject. “Let’s move on to the murder. You mentioned that the police are trying to keep the details on the down low, but were you able to glean any specifics?”

  “A couple of things, yeah.” He rubbed his mouth. “A patrol car stopped me in the Quarter at around eleven last night. When I asked what I’d done, they said they wanted to talk to me about a murder that had happened the night before.”

  My blood chilled at the news that someone had been killed on Saturday night, because it begged an awful question—actually, two. After unsuccessfully trying to get a fix from the blood bank, had the caped figure preyed on a live victim? And, was the caped figure sitting at the table with me, trying to throw me off his scent?

  I swallowed, but the spit was still stuck. “Where’d they find the body?”

  “At Saint Cecilia Cemetery.” His tone had turned deathly quiet. “And from what I could tell, the crime scene was gruesome. The killer took all the blood from the guy’s body.”

  The door opened, and we jumped. But it was just Veronica with the Bloody Mary.

  At the sight of my best friend, I got a surge of courage, and I decided to go in for the kill. “Did you have anything to do with the murder?”

  “Gah! So distrustful.” He flailed an arm in my direction. “I’m not a blood-sucking killer, and if I was I wouldn’t drink a guy’s blood. That’s just wrong.”

  Instinctively, I held out my hands. “I’m sorry, but I had to ask.” And then I typed he’s a homophobic cape-wearing vampire wannabe. “Did you get the name of the victim?”

  His eyes bore into mine as he stroked his beard. “Gregg Charalambous.”

  “Whoa.” David’s frame went as slack as the vassal’s j
aw. “That’s the dude from DUD.”

  Josh’s lip curled at David like he was the weird one.

  “The victim was a member of David and Standish’s rival fraternity,” Veronica explained. “Delta Upsilon Delta.”

  “And he was last seen walking the Quarter.” I met Josh’s gaze—and held it. “During a vampire tour.”

  “Rest easy in The Big Easy.” My tone was decidedly uneasy as I stood on the damp sidewalk of Rampart Street, reading the Saint Cecilia sign.

  And it wasn’t only because the cemetery had a slogan.

  From what I could see, rest didn’t come at all easy at Saint Cecilia. Smack in the center of the graveyard was a giant skeleton sculpture crouched atop a crypt that beckoned with a bony hand. And if that wasn’t enough to scare the dead, the mausoleum wall that ran along the front of the cemetery was so deteriorated that rotting coffins—and their residents—were being evicted from final resting places.

  “This place must be a real scream on Halloween,” I said under my breath. Then I zipped my jacket and headed for the entrance.

  Cecilia was the patron saint of musicians and a fitting choice for a cemetery in Tremé, the historic African-American neighborhood credited with the invention of jazz. And as I pushed open the main gate, it groaned a quasi-musical tune. But it didn’t sound like any jazz I’d heard. It was more like a slasher soundtrack.

  “Nothing foreboding about that,” I lied and entered the maze of graves.

  The rain had stopped, but dark clouds hovered over the cemetery. And the grounds were dead silent, making me wonder whether whatever had happened to the victim had happened to the responding officers too. Picking up my pace, I skirted the skeleton and spotted crime scene tape wrapped around a columned, walk-in crypt and two statues, one of a winged woman and the other of a male with winged sandals, on either side of a Greek-key-adorned door.

  Although I was sure the body had already been taken to the morgue, I still needed to get a look inside the crypt. I glanced over my shoulder for cops, and crooks or creeps, and pulled my phone from my pocket. After I’d snapped a few photos of the exterior, I switched my phone to my left hand and rummaged in my jacket pocket for a hair tie and gloves.