“I’ll go,” Maddison said, after a moment of protracted silence. “Mom’s probably going to be back in a little while anyway, and I really should be tending the Big Bowl—”
“Stay,” Priscilla pleaded. “Just a little while. I don’t want to be alone.”
She flipped her sign to closed, turned her lights off, and sank back into the chair. The only light in the shop was that which diffused through her front window, casting eerie shadows all over her shop. That was fine. Her vision was acute enough that she could work in the dark and the gloom carried the added benefit of making it seem as though no one was home. She’d need that after everyone caught wind of what had happened at the benefit dinner tonight.
She’d stumbled upon a dead body. Again. Once, and it could be considered an accident. Twice, it could be considered coincidence. Three times? That was a pattern. Martino’s words had burrowed into her brain like a worm into meal. There was someone out there who’d succeeded in ending two innocent lives, right under her nose. And Martino knew who he was, even if he himself wasn’t responsible. How was she supposed to get him to reveal who it was without being party to a murderous gang of psychopaths herself?
“Are you going to be all right?” Maddison asked.
“No,” Priscilla said. “I doubt I will be. I’m off the case for now.”
“What happened?” Maddison circled the counter to come stand beside her. Priscilla felt out of place in her own shop. This was not a place to be wearing an evening gown. After a moment of hesitation, Maddison took her hand.
Priscilla shook her head. “That’s just the thing. I have no idea. I can buy that the killer was in the building, but how did he make it to her before me? I was running at my top speed.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t someone with Clarissa?”
“She left with a few friends, but they seemed too rattled to be the killers. And besides, where would they have hidden a gun? Which of them had the know-how to create an improvised weapon in the first place? One of them could barely string a sentence together.”
Maddison’s frowned seemed more severe in the darkness. “What do you want to do about it, then?”
Priscilla threw her hands up in frustration. “That’s just it! I don’t know what I can do. My only lead just walked out the door, hand in hand with the one person I was sure could help me. But that’s obviously a bust.”
“Have you tracked the bullets down?” Maddison asked.
“They found the one in Benedict’s skull,” Priscilla said dully. “The one used to shoot Clarissa will probably be harder to find. It was a through and through, and severed the carotid. She bled out in minutes.”
“Ew. But that’s not what I meant. Do they know where this guy bought his bullets?”
“Bought them?” Priscilla repeated. “Why would he buy them? He probably owned them.”
Maddison shook her head. “I doubt it. Or if he owns bullets, he didn’t bring them with him. Anna told me he went to the trouble of constructing an improvised weapon at the scene last time. Maybe he’s still carrying it. I don’t know. But if he is, he had to at least have bought the powder and a mechanism, or his gun would be about as effective as the marshmallow gun that Olivia’s sister bought her three-year-old. Which is very annoying, by the way. The marshmallow gun, not the kid.”
“He still could have brought it into town,” Priscilla said slowly. “Guns are rather ubiquitous in America.”
Maddison shrugged. “I don’t know about you, but if I were a professional killer with ties to the mob, traveling across the country to commit a murder, I wouldn’t bring any incriminating evidence with me, in case I got pulled over.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I’ve only got a half hour left until I close the Big Bowl for the night, and there are pawnshops in the next town over which are open until midnight. Go upstairs, eat, and then we can drive over there and ask them some questions.”
“With what authority, Maddison?” Priscilla asked wearily. “I’m not even officially a paid police consultant. We can’t make them tell us anything.”
“As concerned American citizens,” Maddison said solemnly. “Just a mother and daughter doing their civic duty, right, Priscilla?”
Before Priscilla could think of a retort, Maddison had seized her jacket from the counter and flounced toward the back.
“Eat, Priscilla, and meet me in front of your van in thirty minutes. We have a murder to solve.”
“Don’t you think we should use a less conspicuous vehicle?” Priscilla asked.
They were traveling out of town toward Westwend in Priscilla’s van, as she drained the last blood bag she’d had in her fridge. Normally, she wouldn’t have used the van for anything besides business-related ventures. As a Puritan, she’d been raised to be scrupulously honest, and years of living as a vampire had stolen that from her. Now that she’d integrated back into society as her true self, she wanted to keep that habit once more. It was already making her feel intensely guilty to lie to Arthur about the location of Joseph Reed. Did she need to lie to the IRS as well?
Maddison was at the wheel. She’d insisted. After passing her driver’s test, she’d been driving Olivia almost everywhere. It must be hard to pretend to be a girl for so many years, and still be treated as a child when everyone knew you weren’t. So Priscilla had surrendered her keys with grace, and let the younger vampire drive. After all, it was the least she could do, after all the help Maddison had been.
She still didn’t like it. Maddison went a little over the speed limit at the best of times, and it was spitting snow outside. If they got into a crash, she wasn’t sure the insurance would pay out much to replace her old, beat-up van.
“I had to leave the sedan for Mom, so she can get home. It’s not safe for humans to walk home in this weather. She might get sick. And it’s faster and less conspicuous than running, even at our speed.”
Priscilla couldn’t really argue that point. Most humans could only run a five-minute mile, if they were in shape. Most of the humans that Priscilla knew personally couldn’t even run that, partially due to her sugar-laden sweets. A vampire, depending on age and body type, could reach the same speed, or even exceed an Olympic runner. She’d never measured her own speed before, but she suspected she could run about twenty-eight miles an hour. It was less than the fifty miles per hour they were allowed to do on the highway.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Priscilla asked, twisting her purse strap around her fingers. “Arthur seemed pretty set on me staying away from the case.”
“We can always turn around. Just say the word.”
But she couldn’t. Because if Priscilla was truly honest with herself, she wanted to be doing something with her evening. She could bake all night and not appease the sick feeling she’d had since seeing the second body. The only way she was going to erase it would be to find the murderer, or put in work toward that end.
It was innocent enough, right? She was just going to ask a few questions. Any layperson could do it. Maddison glanced at her.
“So, are we turning back?”
“No,” Priscilla said after a moment of thought. “We’re not.”
Maddison’s smile was very white in the dark. Priscilla was surprised to see it. Maddison so rarely flashed her fangs, even in private.
“Let’s go catch this guy.”
It took another half hour to reach Westwend. Maddison slowed as they approached town and drove carefully to avoid hitting patches of ice, something that Priscilla appreciated a great deal. Her van may have been old and lacking in beauty, but it was still hers. She didn’t want to beat it up any more than was strictly necessary.
The parking lot of Fowler’s Pawn and Loan was deserted when they arrived. The building wasn’t altogether impressive. It was a squat, one-story place with bars over the wide shop windows. Neon signs on its front announced that the store sold firearms.
At nine, she’d expected the shop to at le
ast have one patron. After all, many humans didn’t crawl into their beds until closer to midnight. The only car she could see clearly belonged to the owner. He’d gone in for vanity plates, and hadn’t been exactly subtle about who the car belonged to, as it spelled out “Fowler” in big bold letters.
“Let me do the talking, at first. I think I can soften him up.” Maddison twisted the keys out of the ignition. “People never suspect kids.”
“You’re not a kid,” Priscilla said.
Maddison’s lips pursed into a thin line. “But I look like one, Priscilla. I always will, even if I live to be as old as you. Just let me get some use out of the dimples, okay? Every once in a while, it’s nice to feel like what happened was a blessing, not a curse.”
Priscilla wasn’t sure what to say to that. What could be said? She couldn’t reverse what had been done to Maddison. No one could, except for certain members of Parliament who were authorized to kill vampires to end suffering or exterminate criminals. Maddison didn’t meet the proper criteria, even if she wanted out of her un-life.
So Priscilla did the only thing she could, under the circumstances. She nodded.
“All right. Lead on, oh tiny one.”
Maddison snorted in amusement and opened her door, hopping out onto the pavement. Priscilla followed suit, stepping out of the car as carefully as she could. She wobbled slightly on the high heels. After careful deliberation, Priscilla had decided that the dress would be more advantageous for their purposes than her usual wardrobe. For reasons she couldn’t fathom, some men found her tall, barely curvy body attractive.
Maddison held the door open for her as she approached. Priscilla wished she didn’t need the help. She’d largely managed to avoid wearing the torture devices known as heels for the last three decades, and wasn’t happy about wearing them now. Somehow, she tottered her way into the shop without falling on her face. Score one for the vampires.
She felt no resistance as she crossed the threshold. The owner clearly didn’t sleep here, or it could have technically been considered a residence. Businesses that were open to the public were safe to enter, unlike private residences. Another positive she could add to the evening. She hadn’t had to beg her way into the place.
The owner glanced up at them when they arrived. Cedric Fowler was an average-looking man. His skin was a little oily, his hair was an unremarkable mousy brown, and his brown eyes resembled the color of mud. What really caught her attention was Cedric’s apparent obsession with the undead.
There was vampire paraphernalia absolutely everywhere. Aside from the vampire rights flags and ribbons—in the usual red and black—which were fairly common, there were T-shirts featuring vampire celebrities, posters with witty slogans, and books about and by vampires Priscilla recognized. One of the books she’d actually been thinking of purchasing was the first on the shelves, Sebastian Blair’s His Story: The Life and Times of Sebastian Blair. Blair’s autobiography was being heralded as the most engaging look into vampire kind that the world had ever seen. Blair had had the uncanny knack for being in the right place at the right time to witness major historical events that had shaped the U.S as a whole. He was almost a century younger than Priscilla, but had done more in his life than she’d ever dream of doing.
That gave her a little hope that maybe Fowler would answer their questions with a little flirtation. But then again, Lee Khan’s How to get a Vampire in Sixty Days, a sickening title written by an even nastier pickup artist, which had topped the best-seller’s list for a number of months, was also on the shelves. So maybe Fowler was a creep after all.
That suspicion was confirmed when Priscilla caught him staring at Maddison. The lustful look he was giving her was more than a little sickening. So instead of starting her interrogation with a cheery hello or a coy smile, she snapped her fingers in front of the man’s face.
“Hey, buddy, knock it off. She’s fifteen.”
Cedric’s eyes refocused on her and dilated in apparent pleasure at the sight of her. Her stomach rolled and she fought not to bring up the blood she’d consumed an hour before. He leaned further back on his stool and propped his legs up on the counter. She was afraid he’d knock down one of the rifle displays on the wall behind him and accidentally shoot someone.
Cedric adopted a casual pose.
“I doubt she’s fifteen. You vamps are always older than you look,” he said with a slight smirk. He glanced at Maddison. “You legal, sugar? How old does your license say you are?”
“Too old for you,” Maddison said coolly. “Maybe we should leave, Priscilla. We’re not going to get anywhere with this guy.”
Cedric’s smile widened, showing teeth. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought he, himself, was a vampire. He’d had his eyeteeth filed down into fangs. But his heartbeat, and the smell of his perspiration, gave him away.
“You can go anywhere you want with me, ladies.”
Priscilla’s lips pulled away from her teeth, exposing her fangs. They were sharper than usual, after a feeding. “This isn’t a joke, Mr. Fowler. If we’re right, you may have sold the bullets that killed someone.”
The color abruptly drained from Cedric’s face and he removed his feet from the counter. “I didn’t do nothing like that.”
“No? Because you’re the closest pawnshop that sells guns and ammunition,” she said.
“Whatever people do with the stuff they buy from me is their business,” Cedric argued. “Look, I don’t care how pretty you are; you don’t get to come into my shop flashing your tits and accusing me of murder.”
Priscilla resented the accusation. The dress didn’t show that much. And even if it had, that had no bearing on her claim.
“We just need to know if someone came in here recently and purchased .22 caliber bullets,” Maddison said soothingly, placing a hand over Cedric’s, playing good cop to Priscilla’s bad. “We know you’re not a bad guy, Cedric. Just help us find the guilty party.”
Cedric fidgeted behind the counter and withdrew his hand from Maddison’s after a moment. “The .22 is a very common bullet. I can name a dozen guys who rolled through recently to buy some. It’s a good choice for home defense.”
“This man would have also bought a mechanism, powder, and sundry supplies,” Priscilla said. “He would have had a better than average grasp of gun mechanics. I think he would have stood out.”
Cedric’s eyes darted between them for a few seconds before he sighed and sank lower in his chair. “I know the guy.”
“You do? What’s his name?”
“I mean I know of him,” Cedric said quickly. “I never got his name. Not a real one, anyway. He came in twice, and always knew what he was looking for. He always paid cash. I never even got a good look at his face. He came in wearing a blue hoodie every time. He drew the strings so I couldn’t see his face.”
Priscilla tapped her foot impatiently. It sounded more impressive in heels than it would have in her sneakers. “I was under the impression that legislation forbade the sale of guns without a background check.”
Cedric somehow managed to get paler. “I ... um …”
“You didn’t run one, did you?”
“I did!” Cedric shot to his feet. “The file I got back was a little weird, I grant you, but he seemed legit. I didn’t just hand a killer a gun.”
“Tell me whatever you can about this man, Mr. Fowler. It might help your case when the police investigate your business.”
Cedric gaped at her, apparently speechless for the moment. When he recovered himself, he began listing off features. Maddison dutifully took them down in a notebook.
“He wasn’t that tall,” Cedric recounted. “And I think he had dark hair. He was thin. Well, thinner than me, at least.”
“Is that all?”
“Look, lady, he didn’t exactly pose for a picture, okay? My CCTV has been offline since I met the guy. I think someone snipped the cables. So I don’t have a picture to give you. I just know what I saw.”
> “Did he have any tattoos?” Priscilla pressed. “Or an accent?”
The description sounded somewhat like Martino. The suspicion she’d all but buried in the last hour resurfaced. Perhaps it hadn’t been her godmother’s boyfriend that had committed the deed, but an associate of his in the Sicilian mob. Then again, it could just as easily have been someone else. Thin and dark-haired could be applied to her as well. It wasn’t much of a lead.
Cedric’s brow furrowed. “No. He didn’t have an accent at all. Very middle-American. He had a nice voice. Like a newscaster or a radio announcer.”
Well, that put a dent in her theory. It sounded like Martino had been in America for a while, and he still had an accent. It took time to train oneself out of having an accent. She knew. She might not have been born in Britain but her mother and grandmother had been. She’d adopted the accent from them, and still had a tendency to slip into it when stressed.
“I see. Is there anything else you can tell us?”
“He came in recently,” Cedric said, gaining enough confidence back to grin at them. “He wanted to buy more bullets. But I didn’t give him what he wanted.”
“He wanted the same caliber?” Priscilla asked.
“Yeah. He wanted .22s. But the type he wanted wasn’t in. I had to refer him to another shop.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s not like silver bullets are common, right? Not even law enforcement in big cities goes around with silver ammunition, even with the increased vampire population. A standard bullet will do, if you aim for the head. This guy must really want someone to be dead-dead, not undead.”
Priscilla exchanged a glance with Maddison, and her stomach sank. She had a feeling she knew exactly who the killer was aiming to shoot with the silver ammo.
“Thank you, Mr. Fowler. I think we have more than we need.” Priscilla stepped away from the counter. Her voice sounded hollow, even to her own ears, as she processed what this latest development meant.
“He probably doesn’t have them yet,” Cedric called after them as they made their way to the door. “My buddy in Salem says it takes a week to make and ship silver bullets. His next target is safe for now.”
A Bite of Blueberry Page 10
