A Bite of Blueberry

by Melissa Monroe

  “Sorry, no can do. I can’t touch a saint and keep my hands intact.”

  Priscilla glanced surreptitiously at Ava. She was staring hard at a glass jar full of coffee beans and refused to look her in the eye. For some reason, it made her look very small. While it was true that Avalon was tiny by human standards, her attitude always added inches to her diminutive frame, and no one but Priscilla had ever dared called her small to her face.

  Something was very wrong here. What had Martino done to Avalon that made her so pliant? It wasn’t like her to be a doormat. Priscilla had been afraid that her godmother would give the entire game away and blurt out the truth to her boyfriend. After all, Avalon had met her at the height of the religious fervor in Salem. But instead of pointing out the contradiction held her tongue, which Priscilla was eternally grateful for.

  Martino sighed. “Fine. Use the king of hearts. Let’s get on with it.”

  Priscilla peeled the plastic off of the pack of cards, making a mental note to mail Tobias five dollars when she got the chance. She didn’t think that he’d begrudge her the pack of cards in any case, but still, she was about to make it unusable for anything but old maid. She flicked through the cards until she found the king of hearts near the middle. She pulled it out and handed it to him.

  “What now?”

  Martino withdrew yet another object from his coat pocket. Priscilla had never used one herself, but recognized it as a camcorder.

  “First, I get this set up. We’re gonna commemorate this night. For posterity’s sake, you know? You’re about to become family.”

  Priscilla forced a smile. “All right, then. I’ll wait.”

  Avalon turned slightly to face them, mouth opening as if she wanted to say something. A look from Priscilla was all it took. She fell silent again, and resumed her inspection of the coffee beans.

  Martino fiddled with the camcorder for several minutes before he managed to get it online. He set it on one of the shelves to record the whole conversation.

  “Now, let’s get started.” He selected the utility knife. “Give me your hand.”

  Priscilla had an inkling of what was coming next but offered her hand anyway. As she’d expected, he drew a thin line across one of her fingers. He placed the bleeding digit against the card and began to speak.

  “This blood means that we are family. You live by the gun and the knife and you die by the gun and the knife.”

  Not if I can help it, she thought. If all went well, she’d die at the ripe old age of a thousand, after getting bored of un-life and putting in a request to Parliament for termination. Extremely old vampires, vampires who were mentally disturbed, or unable to cope, sought recourse with the termination department, which specialized in killing vampires as painlessly as possible.

  “Avalon, come here,” Martino said. “I need your lighter.”

  Wordlessly, Avalon reached into the pocket of the white cashmere coat she’d donned and handed him the lighter. Priscilla sincerely hoped that her godmother hadn’t taken up smoking. It was a horrible habit, and she couldn’t stand the smell.

  Martino lit the card on fire and handed it to her. She promptly blew it out and discarded the smoldering remains in the wastepaper basket behind the counter.

  “I did it, though I’m still not sure why you wanted me to. Now talk,” she ordered, glaring at Martino.

  “Tradition is a powerful thing. Almost…religious, one might say,” Martino said with a chuckle. She glared at him until he held up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. What do you want to know, signorina?”

  “You said you knew the man who did this. Tell me about him, or I’m going to turn you over to Bellmare PD and let them sort you out.”

  “If you could have done that, you would have,” Martino said with a smirk. “I’m just a front man, Priscilla. I have no criminal record. Not even a speeding ticket. They can’t hold me without just cause. My family’s lawyers would slaughter them in court and demand hefty damages on my behalf.”

  Priscilla gritted her teeth. “Not germane to the topic, Romano. What can you tell me about our killer?”

  Martino lounged against the counter with the arrogant, satisfied demeanor of a cat at rest. “I don’t know him personally, signorina. He is not one of ours. He works for the Cosa Nostra.”

  “The what?”

  “The American mob, dear,” Avalon interjected quietly. “Have you watched a movie produced past the silent era?”

  Martino smirked. “You ought to have done your research before coming to me, signorina. Your man is a contact for the Altobelli family. They operate out of Chicago, mainly. He never took the omertà, but no one really cares. He’s too good at his job for anyone to cross him.”

  “And what job is that?” she pressed.

  Martino got a far-off and dreamy look in his eye. “Ah, anything. He’s a pro. But his specialty is carrying out hits. He’s expensive, so whoever hired him to whack those kids had serious cash.”

  “Can you give me a name?” she asked.

  “His Christian name is Leonardo DeLoreto, but most of us call him The Florist.”

  “And why is that?”

  It was certainly an odd name. Why name a mobster after a profession. It seemed like an easy way to get people mixed up. Something niggled at the back of her mind, trying to draw her attention. She ignored it. She couldn’t afford to miss a word of Martino’s testimony.

  “Because he delivers lilies of the valley to the loved ones of the victims. Every single time.”

  “How touching,” she drawled. “I’m sure he’s very remorseful.”

  Martino chuckled. “I never said he was nice, signorina. He got pinched for some minor crimes, but he’s never seen the inside of a jail cell for any of it. I’ll pray for you. You’ll need God’s mercy if you decide to get in his way.”

  “Is that all you can tell me?” Priscilla said, leaning across the counter. She couldn’t use compulsion, vampire mind trickery, to make him tell her the truth. It was a major breach of human rights, as set up by the Vampire Integration Act of 1998. But she could make him squirm a little bit.

  He blinked first. “Yes, signorina. That is all I can tell you. He’s a hitter from Chicago. No one he’s been contracted to kill has survived. He’s resourceful, tenacious, and he’s slippery. I doubt you’re going to get your hands on him.”

  “Why do you think he was tasked with killing the two Montgomery children?”

  Martino shrugged. “I’m sure I don’t know. I’m sure his contractor has their own reasons. I’m not sticking my nose into this business any further. I like it the shape it is.”

  “You said you’re sure he’s been arrested before? There should be a record of him in the criminal justice system somewhere, right?”

  “There should be, yes.”

  “Ah, good. That will make Arthur’s job easier,” she said.

  Martino blinked. “What?”

  “If he’s in the system, we have at least one piece of the puzzle. Now we just have to find out who hired DeLoreto.”

  His teeth ground audibly. “You took the omertà. You cannot talk to the authorities. Seek him out on your own, if you wish, and exact your vengeance, but leave the police out of this.”

  “Ah, no,” Priscilla said. “You see, if I had taken the omertà, you’d have a point. But I didn’t.”

  “You swore an oath—”

  Priscilla grinned. “On the king of hearts, I know. I was afraid you’d make me swear on a gun. That could have been binding.”

  Avalon finally looked up from her examination of Tobias’ shelves. Her eyes brightened with interest as she watched their exchange. Priscilla swore she saw something like … pride, in Avalon’s gaze.

  Martino mouthed wordlessly at her for a solid minute before he managed to gather himself. “You said it would burn your hands!”

  “Did I? You should have done your research on vampires before coming to meet me, Romano. Vampires are only affected by the religious s
ymbols of the belief system they follow. If you’d asked, Avalon would have told you I’m a Protestant.”

  To demonstrate, she picked up Saint Peter’s card and held it between two fingers for his inspection. It itched somewhat, but didn’t burn like a cross or a Bible would have. She flicked the card at him.

  “I still have you on tape. I’ll mail it to the police. You’ll be locked away.”

  “About that,” Priscilla said, and a smirk slid across her face for the first time in ages. “I doubt I’ll show up on your film either. Older models like the one you used often still have silver parts. Sorry, but I’ll be blurry at best.”

  He whipped his head back and forth violently. “You can’t do this. If the boss finds out I told you, he’ll whack us both.”

  “Then don’t tell him,” Priscilla said with a shrug. “It’s no skin off my teeth. Now I’ll have to ask you to leave, Mr. Romano. It’s after hours, and I promised Tobias I’d close up before ten.”

  Martino lunged forward, seizing the .38 pistol off of the counter. Ice water seemed to slosh through her veins as he brought it to bear.

  “You aren’t getting away with this,” he swore.

  “Yes, she is,” Avalon’s voice was suddenly back to its normal pitch, a rather strident bell-tone.

  Martino swiveled to face her. “Stellina—”

  A sort of cold fury crossed Priscilla’s godmother’s face. “It’s over, Martino. You pull a gun on my goddaughter again, and I’ll turn you into an ant. Or, at least that’s what I’ll be going for.” She shrugged delicately. “You know how unpredictable my spells are. You might end up as a worm. Or a slug. I honestly wouldn’t care either way.”

  Martino swallowed convulsively. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I turned a man into a frog this week for trespassing. Believe me, I’ll do worse to you if you don’t lower that gun.”

  Martino’s hand lowered slowly but surely, until the gun pointed at the ground. It was still too much for Priscilla’s comfort. She would have preferred the gun to be out of his hand. Better yet, out of the shop, so this meeting didn’t become the OK Corral.

  “You heard my goddaughter,” Avalon said. “Leave.”

  In a rather impressive and accurate bit of magic, the door swung open on its own. Avalon crossed her arms over her chest.

  “And you can gather your things and go. I won’t be paying for another night at the bed and breakfast, Martino, and we both know you can’t afford to stay there on your own.”

  “What will I do?”

  “I don’t care. Just get out of my life. Call your father and beg for money again. But stay away from me.”

  Priscilla could see the gears turning in his head, and the exact moment when he gave up trying to win the fight. His shoulders slumped. He gathered his things, stuffed all of them back into his pocket, and slouched out of the store with the air of a disgruntled teenager who’d been denied his allowance.

  Avalon glared after him. “I don’t know what I saw in that man.”

  Priscilla didn’t comment. She wasn’t sure how to do it without offending her godmother.

  Avalon turned in her direction after a moment and her face brightened. “Now, onto a more important matter. That sweater is hideous. Let’s take you shopping.”

  Priscilla bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. She wouldn’t smile or laugh. “Do you really think that you have any room to advise me on relationships at the moment, godmother? You did just break things off with a violent mobster.”

  Avalon made a face. “Oh, fine. Be reasonable.”

  Priscilla’s lips quirked in spite of her silent edict. “Thank you, godmother. I appreciate your help.”

  “Well, don’t say I never did anything for you,” she huffed.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, godmother.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Arthur wasn’t much for conversation once he’d gotten a lead. Priscilla had arrived, sans Ava, an hour before and told him what she’d learned. Arthur had disappeared into his office the moment she had given him a name, leaving her, and a very weary Jamie Emmerson, as the only ones left in the precinct. She wasn’t sure where the rest of the men had gone. Home, to their wives? Or perhaps they were out on the street, giving the appearance of increased diligence, while she and Arthur had been dithering over how best to get the information?

  It didn’t matter, she supposed. They had a name. Now they had to track down DeLoreto’s contractor. His going rate was $25,000 a kill, so that significantly narrowed down the suspects in Bellmare. Most of the families with that kind of money didn’t actually live within the city limits full-time, and only owned properties in Bellmare as tax write-offs and vacation homes.

  “Do you need a ride home, Priscilla?” Jamie asked, looking up from a pile of paperwork.

  “I think you’re a little busy,” she said, lifting the first page to peer at it. She recognized the face of Bernard Wick. He’d been a part of the ceremony two nights before, escorting his daughters on stage to be presented. She didn’t remember their names, however.

  “Come on, Priscilla,” he begged. “Give me a break. I just want ten minutes away from this crap.”

  Priscilla bit her cheek to contain a smile. Poor Jamie. She didn’t think that Arthur would remain hostile to the young man forever, but he certainly wasn’t sparing him any grunt work in the meantime.

  “What are you working on? Maybe I can help.”

  Two people were supposed to man the desk in the precinct, one to answer phones and another to address any person coming in to report a crime. Bellmare PD was habitually underfunded by the county, despite its track record of solving crime effectively for the last three decades. So there was usually only one person on duty to answer both the phone and address the concerns of any walk-in. The poor soul manning the desk had probably been swamped for the last week.

  Jamie shrugged and rolled his chair over so she could sit next to him in the unoccupied space. “We’re trying to narrow down who might have had the means and motive to hire this hit man. So far, it’s not going well.”

  “Why not?”

  He flicked through the pile again, and a barrage of faces flashed before her eyes, almost too quickly to process. “There’s means, but no motive.”

  “For any of them?”

  “Not that I can see. The Newmonts are, ironically, new money, and don’t rub elbows with anyone. There’s just no overlap to connect them to the Montgomery family. The Chudwells, Bronsons, and the Quentins all had very close relationships with the Montgomery family.”

  The last name tickled something inside of Priscilla’s brain. She hadn’t been thinking much about it, in the wake of everything she’d just learned, but now it came back in full force.

  “Shoot!”

  Jamie came off his seat in surprise. “What’s wrong?”

  Priscilla buried her face in her hands. “I completely forgot to go back and clean up! I wasn’t thinking about it after the murder, but those desserts have probably spoiled by now.”

  “Priscilla, what are you talking about?”

  “The Debutante ball,” she groaned. “I catered it. Arthur sent me home before the event was done. The desserts have been sitting there for two days!”

  Jamie looked faintly amused. “You’re getting this flustered over food? I bet somebody took it home, or, failing that, found a fridge to put it in.”

  “The Markinswell place doesn’t have a fridge. It doesn’t even have an icebox. The historical society wouldn’t let them install one after they purchased in in 1980.”

  “Those old broads own every landmark in this town, don’t they?”

  “Close enough,” Priscilla muttered. “How am I supposed to get in to clean up?”

  “I think that’s the least of our worries, Priscilla.”

  He was probably right. But she wanted to drive her trusty van all the way across town to fix the oversight anyway. It was not like her to leave messes. A sock or pantyhose on her bedroom floor
, certainly, but she didn’t let her professional work become untidy. She gave Jamie an imploring look.

  “Please?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck with a groan. “Don’t give me that look, Priscilla. I can’t take you in there. It’s a crime scene.”

  “But think of all the rotting food!” she exclaimed. “It’s going to attract bugs. Won’t that upset the crime scene too?”

  “You’re not going to let it go, are you?” Jamie said with a sigh, running a hand through his already tousled brown hair. It was beginning to resemble something close to a bird’s nest. She wondered how long he’d been running his hands through it in frustration.

  “No. If you take me, I promise I won’t touch anything else. I’m just going to clear away the food.”

  Jamie groaned. “I’m going to get in so much trouble for this.”

  He stood, bones popping after prolonged rest. “Five minutes, Priscilla. In and out. Promise me.”

  “I promise,” Priscilla said, standing herself. “Thanks. You’re a good kid, Jamie.”

  “You know I’m physically older than you, right?” he asked, grinning in spite of himself.

  She’d known it logically, of course, but it was still a little disconcerting to hear. Jamie was twenty-seven, soon to be twenty-eight, when Valentine’s Day rolled around. She was physically frozen at twenty-two. Priscilla had been seen as a woman in her day, but after the massive cultural shift in the twentieth century, she had become little more than a girl to many. She was now routinely carded when she went anywhere other than Landry’s for cooking sherry.

  “I know,” she said, and her voice sounded less cheerful than she would have liked. It was a stupid reaction to have. Of course he was physically older than her. Almost everyone was. The only people who’d never surpass her in age were those unfortunate enough to have died young, whether or not they remained dead.

  He paused, coat slung around his shoulders. “Are you all right?”

  She forced a smile. “I’ll be fine.”

  Jamie escorted her out of the building. The snow was falling in small spirals to the ground. Though Priscilla’s van was still parked outside the precinct, she let Jamie drive out to Markinswell Manor. Her reasons were twofold. One, she didn’t want to tote Jamie around like he was some kind of kid, and make him feel worse about the situation than he already did. Secondly, she didn’t think it was wise to antagonize the elites of Worcester County by returning to the scene of a murder. It would be only too easy for someone to see her and assume she’d come back to destroy evidence.