[Bayou Gavotte 00.0] Back to Bite You

by Barbara Monajem

  Back to Bite You

  A Novella of Bayou

  Gavotte

  Barbara Monajem

  Copyright © 2014, Barbara Monajem

  Vampire: A human being with a genetic mutation characterized by, among other things, the appearance of fangs at puberty, an intense craving for human blood, and an irresistible magnetism for the opposite sex. Judging by legend, this particular mutation has existed for millennia but is still sufficiently rare that most people don’t believe such beings exist.

  D. Tull, Society for the Protection of Not-So-Mythical Beings

  “You dragged me back from Mongolia for nothing.” Gerry Kingsley managed to stop himself from glaring at his exasperating aunts. The two sat side by side on their pink velvet sofa, April as stiff, severe, and determined as June was loopy and sincere. Gerry was a peace-loving man, and glaring would get him nowhere. If he remained calm and rational, he might make the next flight back to the Far East.

  “Your grandfather died!” Auntie June’s voice trembled. It always trembled, though, so he remained unmoved. “We needed you here!”

  Gerry crossed his arms. “After you had buried him?”

  “We tried to reach you earlier.” Aunt April gave a disapproving sniff. “Sit down, Gerry. It’s not our fault you were in the middle of nowhere. If you must build yurts, I don’t see why you can’t do it closer to home.”

  He could, but Mongolia was far more pleasant in the summer than New Orleans—and delightfully distant from April and June. “Maybe, but you could have told me he’d died a week earlier and was already in the ground. Once I’d missed the funeral, there was no hurry for me to return.”

  “Oh, but there was!” Auntie June’s voice throbbed, and her knitting needles clicked feverishly. She was making yet another of her horrendous tea cozies. “We were so distressed. Although now that you’re here, I’m afraid we’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  “Don’t be foolish, June,” April snapped. “Gerry isn’t soft in the head like Daddy.”

  Gerry suppressed the urge to protest. He’d given up arguing with his aunts about their father . . . oh, maybe twenty years earlier. Don’t waste your energy defending me, Grandpa Arthur had told him. They’ll never change.

  “Can we get to the point?” he asked.

  April said, “Sit down! You’re here now, and the sooner you deal with this catastrophe, the better.” She leaned forward, clasping her bony, gnarled hands together. “There’s a problem with Daddy’s will.”

  Sighing, Gerry sat on one of the spindly chairs across from his aunts. “If he willed the damned food fight club to anyone but me, it’s not a problem. I don’t want it.”

  “Mind your language!” April said.

  “He loved you very much,” June said reproachfully. “Of course you got the Pie Club, as he promised.”

  This was exactly what Gerry had expected. Grandpa Arthur had been determined to give him the Bayou Gavotte Pie Club, as it was formally called. Gerry had never understood why, since he’d always found the whole food fight concept not only ludicrous but messy as hell. “It’s hardly a catastrophe. Grandpa had competent management, so selling it can wait until I get back from Mongolia in the fall.” He slapped his thighs. “I’ll be off, then.”

  “The house,” April said ominously, “was supposed to come to us.”

  Ah. He blew out a long breath and waited.

  “He left it to his girlfriend!” June cried. “Mirabel Lane.”

  “Never heard of her.” Arthur had always had one girlfriend or another—pleasant, older women by and large.

  “They’d known each other for less than a month,” April hissed. “Until a week before his death, it was bequeathed to us. She seduced him into changing his will.”

  June’s horrified shudder might have been appropriate if Grandpa had been attacked by a succubus and hauled off to a party in Hell.

  Gerry tried reason. “Aunties, look on the bright side. You don’t want that ramshackle old house. It’s been falling apart for years, and he refused to spend a penny fixing it up. He wouldn’t even let me do it for free.”

  “It was supposed to be ours,” April snarled.

  “Ours!” June moaned. “He said so. He always said so.” Tears glistened in her red-rimmed eyes. “But he didn’t love us the way he loved you.”

  “You two have plenty of money, and that house is nothing but a nuisance. You should be glad he changed his mind. I feel sorry for the poor woman saddled with the place.” And relieved that I won’t have to be the one to repair it, he thought to himself.

  “Ah!” April jabbed a finger in his direction. “That’s exactly the point. She’s not poor at all. She’s a gold digger.”

  Gerry managed not to roll his eyes. According to April, all Arthur’s girlfriends had been gold diggers, and he knew better than to waste his breath protesting. And what if she was? Gerry didn’t much like the idea of Grandpa succumbing to the wiles of a scheming woman, but a gold digger would find this particular inheritance more trouble than it was worth.

  “That’s possible,” he conceded, “but Grandpa had the right to will his house to whomever he chose. I’m sorry if you’re upset, but there’s nothing to be done.” He stood. “I have a plane to catch.”

  “Sit down! Something must be done. We believe she killed him.”

  “What?”

  “Murdered him!” cried June. “Oh, April, we shouldn’t have made Gerry come home.”

  “We had no choice.” April pursed her lips. “When the lawyer called and told us the news, I suspected foul play immediately. When he refused to contact the Bayou Gavotte police, I knew it.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. Gerry subsided into his chair again. “Let’s start from the beginning. You said he died of heart failure.”

  “That’s what we were told,” June said darkly, the agitated clicking of knitting needles underscoring her unease. But then, she was always uneasy.

  “Was he seen by a doctor?” he said. “There must have been a death certificate.”

  April flicked an irritated hand. “They say he collapsed just after leaving that ridiculous club of his. The question is, why?”

  Christ. “Because he was ninety years old?”

  “He was cavorting!” June bleated. “With that woman!”

  “I called the police myself, and they were extremely uncooperative,” April said. “Not that I’m surprised. The cops are in cahoots with the underworld there.”

  Gerry sighed. Bayou Gavotte, a small town not far from New Orleans, was known for its many fetish clubs, ranging from the relatively innocent to definitely dangerous, and he didn’t doubt that the underworld and the police cooperated when necessary, but they wouldn’t cover up the murder of a prominent citizen and club owner like Grandpa Arthur.

  Aunt June gnawed on her lip. “I have a very bad feeling about this woman.”

  “You and your feelings,” April said. “She may have gotten away with the others, but she won’t get away with this one.”

  Gerry frowned. “What others?”

  “She inherited a house in the Quarter from one of her former boyfriends and a substantial annuity from another. Both of them died violently, but of course no blame was attached to her.”

  Reluctantly, Gerry found himself paying attention. “Who told you this?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” April said, which meant she’d contacted some of their less-respectable relatives. April and June’s mother—Gerry’s grandmother—had come from a well-established New Orleans family with connections to organized crime. April kept in touch with them—she was too nosy and controlling not to—but she would never admit to it.

  Gerry frown
ed. “You’re saying these boyfriends were criminals?” Both his aunts nodded. “And that Mirabel Lane contracted to have them killed?”

  “Or did it herself,” June said in a sepulchral voice.

  Gerry started to get annoyed. “What exactly did your informants say?”

  “They’re not informants,” April said. “I would never associate with that sort of person. All I’m saying is that given the circumstances, Daddy’s death is extremely suspicious.”

  Reluctantly, Gerry supposed this might actually be the case.

  “Everybody loves Mirabel Lane,” April said bitterly. “Fortunately, you’ve shown yourself to be discriminating where women are concerned. We can count on you to uncover the truth.”

  “But, April, this is different.” June twisted the partly completed tea cozy between her hands. “What if—”

  “Shut up, June. We can trust Gerry.” April wagged a finger at him. “Mirabel Lane killed Daddy. You’re going to Bayou Gavotte to prove it.”

  * * *

  He needed a cat to save.

  The following morning, Gerry Kingsley drove slowly down the street toward his grandfather’s house for the third time. The girl on the roof of the sunroom that was attached to one side of the house glanced out from under her hat before bending to her work again, just as she had when he’d driven by fifteen minutes before and a half hour before that.

  He was acting like an idiot. How difficult could this be?

  He would knock on the door, introduce himself to Mirabel Lane, and decide for himself whether she was a murderer. He was pretty sure she wasn’t. Regardless of her questionable associates, he couldn’t imagine anyone committing murder to inherit Grandpa’s ramshackle old place. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to completely dismiss his aunts’ concerns.

  But gold digger, murderer, or innocent girlfriend, Mirabel wouldn’t want to see anyone from Grandpa’s family. Once he’d escaped his aunts, Gerry had called Arthur’s lawyer and heard the appalling news that his aunts had boycotted the funeral. Mirabel probably assumed Gerry was just as bad. She wouldn’t know he’d been in Mongolia, out of touch and happily unaware.

  He needed to get this over with as soon as possible so he could go back to building yurts. To do that, he had to get on Mirabel’s good side.

  Assuming she had one.

  Hence the cat, but saving a puppy would do just as well. Anything to establish up front that he was a good guy.

  But there were no imperiled dogs or cats, only a girl on the roof and a thunderstorm about to break.

  Duh.

  He pulled sharply into the curb.

  * * *

  Not again.

  Bayou Gavotte was populated with smart-ass guys. They all stopped, they all grinned up at Mirabel, and they all drawled something aggravating.

  What’s a pretty girl like you doing up on the roof?

  Honey, aren’t you scared way up there?

  Better hurry, sweetheart! It’s gonna rain.

  And no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t risk flirting with a single one of them! Being a hereditary vampire had its advantages—such as being sexually irresistible—but not when a girl had no choice but to be celibate for a while.

  Maybe if she didn’t look at the man who’d just pulled up in his contractor’s truck—after driving by twice earlier this morning—he would go away and leave her alone. Mirabel kept her fangs securely within her gums, clamped her vampire allure tight around herself, and pounded in another nail.

  “Looks like we’re in for a storm,” said a cheerful male voice.

  No duh. Since the only other words that came to mind were obscenities, Mirabel grabbed another roofing nail and poised it over the shingle.

  The voice came closer. “In about fifteen minutes.”

  She pushed back her sunhat to glance at the sky. It didn’t look bad—not clear, but the fluffy clouds hiding the sun made working on the roof bearable even in this heat, and . . .

  “Behind you, coming in from the west.” The man was nearby now, below the edge of the roof and out of view.

  “It wasn’t supposed to rain until this afternoon,” Mirabel griped. “I’ll have to get the tarp.” She laid the hammer on the roof and moved toward the edge, but before she got there, the ladder started to shake. A few seconds later, a man’s head and shoulders appeared: a tanned, somewhat careworn face; long, dirty-blond hair in a ponytail; and a tentative, lopsided smile.

  Oh, she thought, oh, yes, and for a long moment she could do nothing but stare.

  His smile widened. “Nah,” he said, casting an expert eye over her pile of both full and trimmed shingles. “You just need a little help.”

  Damn it all, had she let some allure escape? She’d gotten good at holding it in, or so she thought. But he didn’t look dazzled, merely friendly.

  She was the dazzled one, which was totally bizarre. Not only did he smell deliciously male, but he seemed so nice, and she positively yearned for nice, and—

  Her heart plummeted. The last thing she needed right now was to get involved with a nice guy.

  “Luckily for you, I’m in the construction business,” he said. “I’ll hook up my nail gun, and we’ll be done in two shakes.”

  With difficulty, she refrained from smiling back. If she did, he really would be dazzled. She’d finally broken up with Sergio, but she couldn’t risk a new man yet.

  On the other hand, if she didn’t get the shingles onto this section of the roof, the sunroom would be a lake in another half hour. She’d totally run out of buckets, and the towels were all in the wash. She’d never heard of a nail gun before, but it sure sounded good.

  He was halfway down the ladder before she thought to thank him.

  “No problem,” he said. “Do you have a key to the house? I need to plug the compressor in.”

  “Of course I have a key. I own the place.”

  He did a double take, stumbling a bit as he hit the ground. “You do?”

  “I inherited it a few weeks ago.” She clambered down after him to open the door. He looked so damn good, and judging by his aroma, his blood would be sweet, sweet, but—

  No, even if her fangs—and other parts of her anatomy—were in the mood, she couldn’t indulge herself with some guy she’d just met. No risks, Mirabel, not with the lives and safety of other men. If Sergio found out where she was, it didn’t matter. She could handle him, and he would think twice before harassing her in Bayou Gavotte, with the underworld here so vigilant and all. That’s why she had come here two months ago to wait out his separation angst. The town might be full of sex and fetish clubs, but it was also extremely safe.

  However, if Sergio found out she had a new man, he would lose what little cool he possessed. Besides, what was she thinking? She didn’t need someone else fixating on her, and she didn’t even know this guy’s name.

  Sweetheart would suit him, she thought. Honey bunch. Yeah, that was a bit much, but it felt right. Even better: forever lover.

  She caught herself. This was beyond weird. She couldn’t have fallen in love just like that!

  Just as he’d said, behind the house the sky glowered heavy and gray. By the time she got the door open, the man was striding up the walk with an air compressor in one hand and what must be the nail gun in the other. He set the compressor on the porch, handed her the power cord, attached the compressor hose to the gun, and ran up the ladder. “After you plug it in, flip the switch and then cut enough shingles to complete the last three or four rows.”

  Yes, sir. She plugged in the compressor and turned it on. It chugged into cacophonous life, and by the time she’d gotten situated with the ruler and X-acto knife, the steady whap of the gun shooting nails into the roof sounded from above.

  It took more like twenty minutes. The rain held off for nineteen minutes and thirty seconds. They scrambled down the ladder, already soaked, while the heavens broke above them.

  “Woo-hoo!” said her rescuer when they reached the shelter of the
porch, raising a hand to high-five her. “Well done, team!”

  Oh God, he had a gorgeous smile.

  Unfortunately, her answering grin was not only gorgeous but irresistible as well.

  * * *

  Her smile made Gerry dizzy.

  A gold digger, huh?

  Hell, he thought, I’d tunnel into her gold mine any day. And stay there forever, his dazed mind went on. And ever.

  Whoa, he told himself. He’d just met her. This reaction was crazy—and probably stupid, too. He was still getting over the revelation that this knockout twenty-something chick was Grandpa Arthur’s girlfriend. The others had all been attractive but middle-aged at the youngest.

  With a muttered curse, Mirabel Lane took off her sunhat and shook out the drips, revealing dark hair coiled on top of her head, with tendrils plastered on her neck and in front of her ears. She smelled of sweat and woman. She’d lost the smile and said, “I really appreciate the help. How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing at all. My pleasure.” He ducked his head to detach the hose and let the air out of the compressor. She didn’t need to see thoughts of other pleasures revealed all too clearly in his eyes.

  Aunt April’s voice piped up inside his head: She seduced him into changing his will. He’d never really been on April’s side, but now he was one hundred percent on old Arthur’s. Good for him for having a bit of fun at the end.

  “Do nail guns cost a lot?” the girl asked with a rueful hint of that astonishing smile.

  I’ll nail you with my gun. Anytime. Totally free. Forever.

  He tried to tear his eyes away. What the hell had gotten into him?

  The quirk in her mouth was gone now, her lush lips pressed firmly together. Either she read minds, or, more likely, guys were totally predictable where she was concerned. Ah, well. He wasn’t looking for a woman, and she would dislike him anyway, once he introduced himself.

  Oh, and she might be a murderer. Better not forget that.

  He coiled the compressor hose. “This is a roofing nailer. It’s about two-fifty new. A lot cheaper at a pawn shop. Some places have them for rent.” He shot a glance at her, trying to figure out exactly why he was so blown away.