“So?”
He shrugged despite the handcuffs. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
And then I got it. He’d planned to sneak Crystal into my room. With the nonne in the house.
I slammed the door. “Nonna, will you please take the ladies inside? I need a word with the officers.”
She screwed her mouth into a scowl and shook the rolling pin at her grandson. Then she and the other nonne headed into the house.
“I’m sorry you had to come out for a false alarm, Officers.” I lanced my brother with a cutting glare. “It won’t happen again.”
Honoré tugged at his belt. “Actually, ma’am, we weren’t responding to a call. We came by because Detective Wesley Sullivan sent us.”
His words hit me like a blow. Had someone else been killed? “What happened? I’m Franki Amato, a friend of the detective’s.”
The pair exchanged a lascivious look that said they not only knew my name, but also my infamous striptease.
I felt as naked as Glenda, and I crossed my arms against my nightgown. “What’s going on?”
Gentilly gave a flat smile. “We can’t go into specifics, but this evening Sullivan came by some disturbing information.”
“While he was at the frat house?”
“That’s privileged,” Honoré said, “being that it’s part of an investigation.”
I had a bad feeling about where this was going. “Can you at least tell me why the information is disturbing? I’m assuming it’s about the same case I’m working.”
He glanced at his partner. “The detective believes you could be the next victim.”
Fear punched my heart, knocking it to my gut.
A bell rang, and my eyelids fluttered open.
There was a high ceiling above me, so I wasn’t in my bedroom.
A priest collar came into my line of vision.
My fingers grasped at cold, slick wood, and fear pierced my soul. Was I in a coffin receiving last rites?
The collar lowered, and Father John’s face appeared.
“You’re in Our Lady of Guadalupe Church,” he replied as though he were omniscient. “It’s seven thirty Saturday morning. You fell asleep in a pew.”
“Bless me father for I have sinned.” I blurted the line whenever I saw a priest, normally over guilt for lapsed attendance at church. But in this case I said it because the father was so devilishly sexy that I felt unclean.
His sensuous lips spread into a smile. “Your nonna told me you’d be coming by, but I would’ve recognized you from that spontaneous confession.”
Embarrassed, I looked down and caught sight of my phone. The bell I’d heard was a text from Chandra, demanding I drop by with a class update. Before I left the church, I planned to pray she went away.
He slid into the pew. “So, how long has it been since you were last here?”
Guilt inflamed my skin like a bad rash. “Uh, not that long, really.” I sat up and scratched my neck. “I was working a case that involved voodoo. This time I came to ask you about vampires.”
His blue eyes twinkled. “Usually people come to ask me about God. But I love a good vampire flick.”
He also loved James Bond and could have played the Pierce Brosnan version in a film. I mentally crossed myself for that last thought and cleared my throat. “I’m sure my nonna told you all about my investigation.”
“She did, and the whole city is on alert after the murders. But how can I help?”
“I was wondering if you knew of an offering or potion made with human blood?”
“Not personally, but I’d be willing to bet there is one. I’m sure you’ve heard the story of Madame LaLaurie, the local nineteenth-century socialite who was so obsessed with staying young that she bathed in human blood to get the proper nutrients for her skin.”
I had, and I’d hoped I wouldn’t hear it again. “Yeah, but this involves drinking blood, not bathing in it. And it’s urgent because we’re in a blood moon, and I think the killer is still hunting victims.” I stopped short of mentioning that I was on the kill list. “If you can think of anything that might point me in a direction, I would be grateful.”
“Well, vampires play no official part in Catholic dogma or doctrine, but I’m sure you’ve seen Van Helsing in Dracula hold up a cross to invoke God’s protection.”
“Last night, in fact.” I shot a pleading look at the Virgin above the altar, imploring her to stop the nonne’s research. “But this isn’t about the supernatural vampires from books or movies. It’s about real ones here in the city.”
“Ah. The Twilight phenomenon.”
“What’s that?”
“A couple of years ago the Vatican warned of a surge in demonic possession and blood consumption because of the Twilight movies and True Blood, the TV show filmed here. The vampires have been glamorized, and the ones in Twilight sparkle.”
I thought it was Anne Rice’s doing, but now that he mentioned it, sparkly vampires were preferable to creepy Claudia. “What’s the Vatican’s stance on this?”
“That the Church’s role depends on the cause of the vampirism. If an evil spirit has possessed the body, an exorcism is performed. But the Church gives precedence to medicine because it’s often a sign of mental illness.”
Or fibromyalgia.
“But whatever its cause, we must heed the words of Matthew 7:1.”
“Always.”
“Shall we recite the verse together?”
My face burned like a votive candle. “How about a word or two to get me started?”
His brow lowered. “Judge not, that you be not judged?”
“Father,” I said with the patience of Job, “if you saw the people in my life, you’d know I’m the living embodiment of that concept.”
“Good, good. As members of the Lord’s flock, we must have mercy on those who have fallen and raise them up.”
“Definitely.” But if someone tries to drain my blood, that sucker’s going down.
I heard a noise and looked over my shoulder.
Near the entrance, a woman placed an offering of cake below a statue of a Roman centurion holding a cross and stepping on a crow. Locally, he was known as Saint Expedite, but the Church didn’t recognize him because he represented the commingling of voodoo and Catholicism.
The unofficial saint reminded me of Cecilia, the patron of music, and the cemetery where Gregg had been killed. And I got an idea. “Father, are any saints associated with vampires?”
“There’s Saint Marcellus of Paris, the patron saint of Vampire Hunters. In the fifth century he destroyed a vampire in a cemetery outside the city. His feast day is coming up on November first, All Saints’ Day.”
Also The Day of the Dead. “I’m surprised the Church recognizes an incident like that. Do you think people lived as vampires back then?”
“Possibly. But my guess is that it was one of those cases of a sick person coming back from death’s door.”
“I don’t understand.”
“In those days, little was known about medicine and disease was rampant. There were cases of people being presumed dead who were probably in a coma. When they woke up, the assumption was that they’d died and turned into vampires. That’s why the tradition began of holding vigil over the dead until they were buried. We saw it in the 1800s when yellow fever struck the city. I’m not sure whether you know this, but Our Lady of Guadalupe was built as a mortuary chapel for the victims.”
I did, and it was one of the reasons I’d been reluctant to come. “Any others?”
“Yes, the Polish invoked Rocha against vampire attacks. We know him as Saint Roch, the patron saint of miraculous cures.”
I dropped to the kneeler attached to the pew. St. Roch was the name of a neighborhood near the French Quarter.
It was also a cemetery.
And somehow in that moment, I knew it would be relevant.
When I turned my Mustang onto Frenchmen Street at eight a.m., I spotted Chandra and Lou’s yellow n
eon sign glowing on a shotgun-style building.
“Crescent City Plumbing & Palmistry.” I shook my head. “What a concept.”
I parked, shut off the engine, and reached for my bag. I noticed a group practicing Tai Chi in Washington Square Park and envied them, not because they were exercising, naturally, but because they got to be outside instead of trapped in a psychic plumbing house.
I turned to exit the car and let out a scream.
Chandra stared killer-Kewpie-doll style in my window, and in the morning sun her accidental bleach job radiated yellow like her sign.
She yanked open my door. “I sent Lou to pick up breakfast, so you don’t have much time to catch me up on his case.”
I climbed from the driver’s seat and surveyed her outfit from feet to torso, red platform heels, a black leather miniskirt, and a white T-shirt with a red barbell and the phrase Training To Survive The Blood Moon. But I was too tired to worry about the ominous implication. “I see he let you keep the crescent theme for your joint venture.”
“Well, my brand is the Crescent City Medium, and he uses a crescent wrench in his work. So it makes perfect sense.”
It didn’t, but I stayed silent as I followed her up the porch steps.
“We don’t open for business until nine, so let’s enjoy the parlor.” She led me to a room at the front of the house that looked like a hotrod showroom version of a plumbing supply store. There were bathroom fixtures tricked out in florescent paint and chrome, and along the wall was a row of toilets with wings and flames on the sides. And somehow, the place had a new car smell.
Chandra beamed like the moon. “Lou specializes in custom commodes.”
It seemed appropriate for a man who ate garbage. “But you’re only doing palmistry now?”
“Oh, I still read tarot and the crystal ball, but the palm-reading gets clients in the door.”
I’d already guessed that it wasn’t the dragster toilets.
She flopped onto a loveseat made from the back of an old Chevy and toilet pedestals and patted the space beside her, causing her charm bracelet to jingle.
I took a seat next to her, wondering if we were going on a car date or a girls’ bathroom trip. Either way, I hoped a spirit didn’t tag along.
Her upper lip twitched. “Lou tells me your alligator chili had quite a bite. Apparently, that roadkill gator wasn’t dead.”
“I was sabotaged by a wannabe Disney princess named Michele.” My tone was as bitter as the Peychaud’s she’d used.
“Did she sabotage your red beans and rice too? Because Lou said he had a bite of your bugs, and they started crawling in his belly.”
I turned and laid a look on her. “Um, I’m not in the competition, remember? I’m there to find out who’s sabotaging your husband?”
“And you’re not doing your job, are you? Because Lou told me someone named Sara won best roadkill recipe on Thursday night.”
“She’s from Italy, okay? Italians can make anything taste good.”
“Then what happened to you?”
I gasped at the attack. “Have you considered that Sara and Michele might be sabotaging me too?”
“Sounds like someone’s got a bug up their butt.” She giggled and pressed red-lacquered paddles to her lips. “Or in their gut.”
I channeled the Tai Chi group to keep cool. “I’m going to find out who’s sabotaging Lou. I’m leaning towards Michele, but I need more time.”
“And some sleep. You look like death warmed over.”
Under the circumstances her analogy, while clever, wasn’t cute. “Thanks to the frat boy case and my family, I haven’t been getting much sleep.”
She fluffed her voluminous bob. “Neither have I. Between those murders and the blood moon, I’ve been working overtime, and I’m ready to stop. I mean, I haven’t had a minute to get my hair re-dyed brown.”
Given that a vampire serial killer was after me and she’d taken potshots at my cooking, I had a hard time sympathizing. “I can’t help you with the blood moon, but I’m working on solving the murders.”
“Are you close?”
I didn’t want to talk shop with Chandra because I ran the risk of a spirit showing up. “Let’s just say that I have a number of suspects, but the picture’s fuzzy.”
“Maybe I can help you clear it up.” She scooted from the loveseat and pulled me to a long yellow hallway.
“Where are we going?”
“To my office. You said the picture was fuzzy, so I’m going to look in my crystal ball.” She opened the door to a blue room with plastic stars on the walls and a card table with folding chairs.
Apparently, they’d spent all their money on Lou’s plumbing parlor. “This really isn’t necessary.”
“It is too. My hair’s not going to dye itself, and I need a polish change on these nails.” She spritzed Chanel No. 5 in the air, took a seat, and folded her hands in her lap.
After a minute, I glanced from the crystal ball to her. “Are you warming up or something?”
“I’m waiting for you to pay me.”
“What? This was your idea.”
“This is your investigation. You’re being paid, so why shouldn’t I?”
If a vampire didn’t bleed me dry first, Chandra definitely would. I sighed and reached into my bag. “It’s twenty, right?”
“Thirty. My fee went up when we bought this space.”
I pulled out three tens and slammed them on the table. “For that amount, you’d better ID the killer.”
“Please.” She grabbed the cash. “I’m not an FBI profiler.”
I almost said you’re not a psychic, either. But I was so desperate for a break in the case that I wanted to hear her out.
She shoved the bills into her bra, which was her cash register, and waved circles above the crystal ball.
“You see anything?” I asked, eyeing her charm bracelet.
“Boat shoes.”
My brow shot up. Frat boys wore boat shoes. In fact, Craig had been wearing a pair the day I met him. “Are they in a closet or on a person?”
Chandra gazed at the ball. “Someone’s wearing them, but I can only see from the ankles down. And it’s weird because the shoes aren’t touching the floor.”
“So, they have their feet up?”
“Wait, the picture flipped.” She tilted her head to the side, but her bob didn’t budge. “The shoes are upside down now.”
“Huh?”
“Whoa. It just zoomed out, but it’s really blurry.” She studied the ball. Then her red nails flew to her mouth, and her eyes assumed the shape of a full moon. “A young man with dark hair is hanging by his feet.”
I jerked forward. Craig had dark hair. “Where is he?”
She squinted. “In a tiny concrete room.”
My mind went blank. I couldn’t imagine a room like that in a house, not even a garage. Then I remembered the nickname for New Orleans cemeteries, cities of the dead.
And I remembered something else that made my stomach freefall.
Gregg had been hanging by his feet too.
In his tomb.
14
Glancing over my shoulder, I climbed the stairs to Private Chicks. Then I tapped the number of the Utah family that had gone on Gregg’s ill-fated vampire tour. Even though I was alone in the stairwell, I couldn’t shake a bad sensation that had followed me from Chandra’s, but that was probably because of her foreboding crystal ball vision. And those flaming toilets.
“You’ve reached the residence of Dale and Drea Bacigalupi,” the woman on the answering machine said. “Please leave a message.”
Frustrated, I tapped End and shoved the phone into my back jeans pocket. I’d already left several messages. And it was nine a.m. on a Saturday, so I had hoped to finally catch them at home. Either they were still on vacation, or they were avoiding my calls.
I reached the third floor and took one more look behind me before inserting the key into the lock.
The door opened.
But I hadn’t turned the handle.
Tensing, I crept inside.
And I discovered the cause of my bad sensation.
Anthony lay on his belly on a couch in a wife beater, boxers, and socks. His head was turned to one side and semi-hanging off the seat, and a dark substance rimmed his open mouth. His arm hung lifeless to the floor. Next to his hand, a spoon.
My heart beat so hard it throbbed in my head. Was this some kind of drug thing? And was that blood around his mouth?
I rushed to him and stumbled on a small object.
My office Nutella jar.
And it was empty.
He’s not dead. He’s in a chocolate hazelnut–induced coma.
“REDRUM,” I growled like that kid in The Shining. And it was a good thing I didn’t have his knife.
“Franki, what’s happening?” Veronica stared at me from the hallway with her hand on her heart.
“What’s Sleeping Ugly doing in the office?” I asked, not unlike Jack Nicholson when he said, “Heeere’s Johnny!”
Her eyes popped, and she took a step back. “He was asleep outside the door, and I invited him in. He told me what happened with the police last night and said he was afraid to go home because your nonna was waiting for him with her rolling pin.”
I whipped out my phone. “I should’ve let those cops cart him to jail.”
“You’re not calling the police, are you?”
“My parents.” I tapped their number.
“What for?”
“I’m going to tell on him.” I turned away from her grimace and listened to the phone ring.
“Joe Amato.” My father always answered as though all callers would be looking for him.
“Dad.”
“Franki! How’s my girl?”
There was a lightness to his tone that I hadn’t heard in…ever. It was probably from all the partying he’d been doing since my mom had unloaded my brother. “I’d say not great, but it’s more like despondent. I’m calling to talk to you about Anthony.”
“That’s your mother’s department.” The lightness had turned leaden. “Brenda!”
I rolled my eyes. For my Italian-American father, childrearing was the wife’s responsibility, especially when said rearing had failed.
Campari Crimson Page 16
