Campari Crimson

by Traci Andrighetti

  “Wow. What about how it’s made?”

  “They steep the dry ingredients in vats of water for a couple of weeks before adding a sweetening syrup and the red bug juice.”

  She grimaced and reached for an eyeliner pencil. “You’re not going to like this, but it reminds me of a voodoo potion.”

  I shook my wig, wigging out. “I’ve already gone there, and I don’t want to go again. A voodoo vampire investigation is too over the top, even for New Orleans.”

  Hercules stood and shook his cream-colored fur.

  “See? Even Hercules says it’s too much.”

  Veronica shook her head and draped a silver chain around my neck that had a cross and some sort of ornate tube.

  I looked down. “What’s this round thing?”

  “A vampire whistle.”

  “I had no idea there was such a thing. But then again, I didn’t know that real vampires existed, either.”

  My ringtone sounded, and I reached for the phone. “Maybe it’s Sullivan.”

  Her eyebrow went on the offensive. “What about Bradley?”

  The question rattled my brain, and my bones. Why had I thought about Sullivan first? “It’s Linda West’s friend. I need to get this.” I answered on speaker, avoiding her eyes. And her energy-sucking tendril. “Hey, Belinda. Thanks for returning my call.”

  “Sorry I’m just getting back to you.” Her voice had a warm, close-friend quality. “I’ve been doing double duty at my job answering phones, so I can barely bring myself to call anyone when I get home.”

  “I understand, so I’ll make this quick.” I gestured for Veronica to continue with the makeup. “Linda mentioned that you decided not to go on the tour because you got scared. Was that because of the theme, or was it one of the other guests?”

  “Honestly, I was just tired, but I didn’t tell Linda that. She dragged me all over the city that day, and then she made me work out with her on her cable machine before the tour.”

  Despite the size of my thighs, I gave Veronica a don’t-get-any-ideas glare as she lined my eyes.

  “When we got to the convent, we had to wait for the other people to show up. And by the time they did, I was falling asleep on my feet.”

  “Did you interact with any of them?”

  “No, but I could smell alcohol on the breath of that poor guy who died, and I was standing two feet away from him.”

  So Gregg had been drinking. “Did you notice anything unusual about him or anyone else?”

  “Uh, besides that vampire chick?” She laughed. “If anything was unusual, it was that she acted completely normal, while another guy on the tour stared at my neck. Or maybe it was my boa. I don’t know, and I don’t want to.”

  Veronica straightened, and we shared a look.

  “Did this guy have dirty blonde hair and pale skin?”

  “That’s the one. I tell you, it’s hard to tell the crazy people from the sane ones anymore.”

  Especially in The Crescent City on the eve of a blood moon.

  “Other than that, there’s really nothing I can tell you except be careful out there.”

  “Thanks, Belinda. You do the same.” I hung up and absentmindedly tapped the phone on my leg.

  Veronica opened a tube of mascara. “What are you thinking?”

  “Thomas keeps coming up, doesn’t he?”

  “I’ve noticed that too. We need to send an undercover PI inside the retirement home, but it has to be someone he wouldn’t recognize. David’s too inexperienced, so I’ll start thinking about who we could hire.”

  I gripped the cross. Instead of being relieved that I didn’t have to go back to Belleville, I was apprehensive. Veronica was right. We had to send someone inside. But somehow I knew I would live to regret that plan in ways I couldn’t yet fathom.

  “The idea was to turn the Frat Castle into Dracula’s Castle.” Andrew Maloney’s voice boomed above the strains of fratmusic.com as he plowed through the partiers in his Pittsburgh Pirates uniform. “We wanted a totally frightening fratmosphere.”

  The castle was frightening but not for the reason the DUDs had intended. Apart from The Munster Mansion–type candelabras and cobwebs, the interior of the Garden District estate was a dilapidated version of the ramshackle fraternity in Animal House. Even more terrifying, it stunk of stale beer, dirty socks, and, thanks to the sorority girls in attendance, Viva La Juicy perfume.

  “Drinks are here.” Andrew stopped at a table with more bottles of booze than a French Quarter bar. “And check out the ice chest I made.” He shot me a proud smile and pointed to a coffin full of oversized syringes filled with red Jell-O shots.

  “Fratastic,” I said in keeping with the Greek speak. I gestured to a fountain of blood-colored queso. “Did you do that too?”

  “Queso is Craig’s thing. He eats it at every meal.”

  That explained a lot about his disposition. “Where is he, anyway?”

  “Something came up, and he had to go see his grandma. I don’t think he’s back yet.”

  Since I’d seen him at Harry’s Corner, I wondered whether he’d fabricated the grandma story to cover his meeting with Thomas. “What about Dom?”

  He swung his baseball bat toward the ice luge. “He’s the luchador.”

  Domenic sported a mint-green mask with a matching Mohawk. But from the way his head hung, he was in no shape to wrestle.

  A fratdaddy swaddled in a toga marched up to Andrew. “Yo, NIB. We’re here to party, not practice our swing. We need frat water on the fratio, stat.”

  “Sorry about that, man.” Andrew removed his cap and rubbed his shaved scalp as he turned to me. “I’ve got to restock the beer.” He put his cap back on and pulled the bill low. “The room you’re looking for,” he said from the side of his mouth, “is at the end of that hall by Gregg’s couch.”

  “On it.” I spun around and started.

  The vassal stood beside me in a black leather jacket reminiscent of James Dean’s bad-boy look. Perhaps more rebellious, he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

  “So, uh…” I pursed to block a smile. “What’s a NIB?”

  “A Newly Initiated Brother, or Bro, depending upon your preferences.”

  “Ah.” I looked at his motorcycle boots. “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?”

  “I’m Angel.” His eyes grew to their lens-enhanced size. “Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s lover.”

  I cocked my wig in alarm. Apparently, the vassal hadn’t invited me to the party solely for business purposes. “Well, I’ve got to get to work, so you and I need to split up.” I let the double entendre sink in. “Find David and tell him to keep an eye out for Craig. And you stick close to Dom. Text if you have any problems.”

  Without waiting for his reply, I battened down my blonde wig and headed for the hallway. As I passed the ice luge, a frat boy in a sorority girl costume poured red liquid down the chute and into the mouth of a waiting Baywatch babe.

  She spat the liquor onto the floor. “Hey! That wasn’t Fireball.”

  “Because it was Campari.”

  I stopped so abruptly I feared my wig would keep walking. “Why’d you pick that?”

  He looked me up but not down. “It looks like blood. Why else?”

  “Do you guys drink Campari often?”

  “For Halloween.” His close-set eyes narrowed to a semi-cross. “What’s it to ya?”

  Domenic’s head popped up Chucky style. “Watch the frattitude, bro.” He engaged the gaze of his fellow fratter in a staredown. “She’s no ordinary sorostitute.”

  I didn’t appreciate the backhanded compliment. Since becoming a fake blonde, I’d bonded with my sorority non-sisters. Also, I wasn’t sure whether Domenic had defended me because he knew who I was or because he’d taken a liking to me. Either way, I didn’t wait to find out. I fled to the entryway, and when I was certain I hadn’t been followed, I speed-walked past Gregg’s couch to the end of the hall.

  There were two doors, so I picked one and peek
ed inside.

  At the head of the room stood an altar, but it wasn’t the church variety. The Delta Upsilon Delta seal hung on the wall, and below it was a formidable paddle.

  The hazement.

  Marveling at the brazenness of the suspended DUDs, I pulled the door closed and practically jumped from my wig.

  None other than my brother strutted up with a Madonna in tow—not the Virgin Mary, but the singer of the “Like a Virgin” era. Although, based on the bump on the woman’s belly, she was decidedly unlike a virgin.

  “What are you doing here?” I huffed.

  “Celebratin’. I got the job.” He pulled the Madonna close. “This fine filly is Crystal. She’s a cocktail waitress at Madame Moiselle’s.”

  Well, she certainly couldn’t strip in her condition. Then again, this was New Orleans, so she could. “Anthony, you have to leave. You know I’m not here to party.”

  “Not dressed like that you ain’t.” He yukked and angled a glance at his date, who was tucking a boob into her bustier. Taking advantage of her distraction, he leaned in. “Yo, you think your pants’d fit me?”

  If I could have pulled a Buffy and slayed him, I would have. My mom was going to hear from me in the morning, that is, if she could work me into her social calendar.

  “I’m bored, Ant’ny,” Crystal Madonna whined. “Let’s find another room.”

  As if she needed one.

  “Later, sis.” He winked. “You and Nonna don’t wait up.”

  “When I get home, that gutter had better be hung up.”

  He raised his free hand and waved goodbye, without turning around.

  Clenching my teeth, I grabbed the other door handle and yanked. It was locked.

  The Dungeon.

  I removed a bobby pin from my wig and took out my fraternal frustrations on the lock. Within a few minutes, the handle turned, and I slipped inside. Rather than turn on the light, I used the one on my phone.

  The room had no windows, and three of the walls were black. The fourth was covered in a rough substance similar to volcanic rock.

  My chest constricted at the sight of a coffin, but I told myself it was probably a party decoration that hadn’t been put to use. Beside it was a blue tarp draped over an object that was maybe six feet wide and five feet high.

  Slowly, I removed the cover.

  And my eyes went vassal wide.

  Before me were two hospital beds complete with IV stands. And plastic packages that appeared to contain blood bags.

  I tapped my phone’s video feature to record the discovery for the police.

  The wood floor creaked.

  And I was glued to it.

  A hand gripped my mouth, and another twisted my arm. My phone fell to the floor as my shoulder wrenched, sending a searing sensation through my body that was part pain and part fear. I thrashed from side to side desperate to save myself from a fate involving those blood bags. And that coffin.

  But I couldn’t break free.

  I kicked behind me.

  My attacker shoved me face first into the coffin, seizing upon my unbalanced stance.

  “Help.” My cry came out a statement, stifled by a gasp as I crashed into the pinewood.

  The coffin slammed shut.

  And my world went as black as the walls.

  12

  Fear penetrated my skin like a poison.

  And squeezed oxygen from my lungs.

  Breathe. I needed to breathe.

  I flipped onto my back and rammed the coffin lid with my shoulder.

  Locked.

  Had I been the target of a fraternity prank? Or the victim of a more frightening plot?

  Domenic had probably recognized me and followed me into The Dungeon. Or Craig might have come back and caught me in the room. Thomas too. He could have been at the party in costume, stalking me the entire time. And when I gave him an opportunity, he shoved me into the coffin.

  But why?

  Was the plan to leave me to suffocate? Or siphon my blood on one of those beds?

  Fear paralyzed my muscles.

  I had to think. React.

  David and the vassal knew where I was. They would look for me if I didn’t turn up.

  But when?

  I had one-to-two hours of air, and then I was out. In more ways than one.

  Fear permeated my veins.

  Waiting to be rescued wasn’t an option. I had to free myself.

  But how?

  Yelling would consume too much oxygen, and I wouldn’t be able to out-shout the music. I couldn’t out-wait it either. It was only around ten p.m., which meant the frat party was just getting going.

  Fear pierced my heart.

  Stay calm, Franki.

  I inhaled.

  Pine. I smelled pine. A soft wood with some give.

  Using my hands, I pushed the lid. The wood yielded, which meant there was a chance it would crack. I pumped until my arms were too weak and switched to my knees. And when my knees began to throb, I switched to my feet. But there wasn’t enough space to get my heels on the lid, so I kicked with my toes.

  If I made it out of the coffin alive, I would kiss Veronica for making me wear the Buffy boots. After that I would kick the last breath out of whoever had locked me inside.

  Seconds ticked away.

  Minutes.

  An hour?

  My limbs had given out, but the lid hadn’t. I lay soaked in sweat. The air was stifling, and I wasn’t sure how much of it was left.

  The ringtone of my phone sounded, and I could tell it was right outside the coffin where it had fallen when I was attacked. I was sure it was Bradley calling.

  His face materialized.

  And an ache ate at my gut. Was this the last time I would see him? As a mirage in my final resting place?

  The Cake song “Never There” blasted on the stereo, and the beat shook the coffin, mocking me and my relationship in my final moments.

  The ache turned to anger. I loved Bradley, but a relationship was hard when one of us was always at work. And if the New York trip had taught me anything, it was that he loved his career more than me.

  I shook my head, and Sullivan appeared.

  My anger dissipated. And my gut filled with regret. The detective had feelings for me, and I felt something for him as well. He’d been around when Bradley hadn’t, and I’d come to depend on that.

  Hang on.

  Sullivan. He would stop by the frat party as part of his investigation, and as soon as he spotted David and the vassal, he would ask where I was. Unless he avoided them because I’d rebuffed him in his office.

  My hope faded, and so did the detective.

  The coffin returned to black.

  And my panic escalated to terror.

  No one was going to save me.

  Phil popped in with a huge grin.

  Wait. The creepy cemetery caretaker?

  Horror dawned on me like a zombie apocalypse. Phil had come to put me in the crypt that was for sale. And probably to gloat because I didn’t have a coffin bell.

  What had he said about that thing? It was the origin of the phrase dead ringer.

  And saved by the bell.

  My hand went to my neck.

  The vampire whistle.

  I put the tube into my mouth and blew. The noise was so shrill it shook me from my semi-shock.

  And reminded me of my mother.

  I blew until my ears rung. But my lungs were winding down, and so was my oxygen.

  Was this it? My end?

  A door slammed, and I jumped.

  Heels clicked across the hardwood floor. But they stopped and started. Or maybe serpentined.

  I spit out the whistle and kicked and pounded and yelled. I didn’t give a damn if Domenic or Craig or Thomas had come to bleed me dry.

  I wanted out.

  I wanted air.

  I wanted life.

  A metal latch clanked. The coffin lid creaked open.

  Cool air blanketed my body and lin
ed my lungs.

  I shot to a sitting position, fists raised.

  Maybe Baby squinted at me with one eye and slurped from a straw in a half-empty hurricane glass. “What’s all the racket about?”

  I stared at her while I caught up on my breath. I knew she wasn’t the brightest sequin on the stripper costume, but that was dull even for her. And even for drunk her. “Uh, I needed to get out of the coffin?”

  “You don’t have to be snippy about it, sister.”

  Operating on the assumption that the “sister” was a sorority sister, I removed my blonde hair. “Maybe, it’s me. Franki. The PI?”

  She hiccupped. “Why are you wearing a wig?”

  “It’s a Halloween party?”

  She hiccupped. “That’s for the boys.”

  “Then why are you dressed like a French maid?”

  She hiccupped. “I’m not. I’m a nurse.” Her head lolled to one side. “Hey, so I can cure myself of these hives.”

  Florence Nightingale she was not. Nor was she Noam Chomsky.

  After another hiccup, Maybe pinched her nose and drained her hurricane. “You’d better get up ‘cause we’ve gotta beat it. I need another drink, and this place is off limits.”

  “Why? What’s it for?” I stepped from the coffin on loose legs and scooped up my phone.

  “Well, it ain’t finished, but it’s a play room for Craig and Dom.”

  She was taking the house mom job too far. “These guys are not little boys. For example, I’ve never seen a play room with…”

  My voice trailed off as I gestured at the far wall.

  The hospital beds and IV stands were gone.

  Alcohol was deadly, but a double shot of honey bourbon at Thibodeaux’s brought me back to life. Basking in the warmth of the buzz, I threw a twenty on the counter and exited the bar. Before crossing the street, I checked both ways. Not for cars, but for cape-wearing vampires and blood-draining frat boys.

  When I got to my lawn, I turned to the cemetery and pointed my index and pinky fingers downward in a scongiuri gesture to ward off bad luck—specifically, a return to a coffin while I was still alive.