by Hughes, Mary
She sucked in a breath and strode to intercept. “Listen, Rocky. Thanks for this lead. I’ll check around and—”
“Crap.” I pulled out the bench and gently lifted the violin from where it had been wedged between the bench legs and the bottom panel. “Look at this. It’s wet. Must have been lying in this puddle of goo since last night.” I plucked a string; it clacked like a rubber band on plywood. A coppery odor wafted out. “Aw. It’s ruined.”
“Rocky, stop. Don’t touch anywhere else.” She pulled a rubber glove out of a pocket and snapped it on.
I held the violin to the light. The fine wood was a soaked red.
Elena swore. She grabbed the violin from me, sniffed its F-hole, and swore again. “You can’t tell anyone about this.”
Red…coppery scent… I tried to swallow; my Adam’s apple was a cube of ice. “Is…is it blood?” But of course it was. I bent slightly, not feeling so good. The stained carpet below me—it outlined a man’s chest. My vision flipped as I swayed.
“Fuck. You’re sheet white.” She grabbed me with a hand and hustled me to a rickety chair. Thank goodness it took my weight because I fell into it. She pressed my head between my knees.
“The red is Dr. Vilyn’s blood.” I rarely confronted my friends about their big secret, but this was the murder of a man I knew and respected. “He had a throat wound, didn’t he? A throat wound which killed him.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Don’t lie to me, Elena.” My heart thudded angrily in my ears. “That was Luke’s pink scarf, wasn’t it? Those red splotches weren’t flowers. Why did Luke wrap a bloody scarf around Dr. Vilyn’s neck? What really happened to him?”
She heaved a sigh and lowered herself onto the chair next to me. “I’ll tell you, but you’ll have to talk to my friend after.”
More Mr. Elias. “Fine. Spill.”
“Vilyn’s carotid was punctured. The body was bloodless, and the only way to extract blood after the heart stops pumping is to let gravity do the work.” She nodded at the steps.
The body had been head down. She was implying Dr. Vilyn had been positioned so the rest of the blood drained out. Implying instead of saying, like she was sparing me the gross details, but I knew better. “Except if gravity drained him, why no pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs? Know what I think? I think the blood was sucked out.”
“Shit. All right, yes.” She dug a hand into her curls. “Don’t freak, but we think a vampire killed him. And Zajicek is a vampire, which is why we don’t like your hanging out with him. If he killed Vilyn—”
“Dragan Zajicek would never do something like that. He’s too well-known and liked. Loved, even. Why risk his career draining random musicians when he can eat a little here, a little there?”
She grimaced. “It’s not eating.”
“What?”
“They don’t drink blood for food. They need it for their veins. You won’t remember this, but I couldn’t let you think they’re all monsters.”
“Transfusions by mouth?” I filed that little fact away. “Would a vampire have left blood on Dr. Vilyn’s chest and by the piano?”
“It’s unusual. But Vilyn had puncture marks on his neck, vampire wounds. Big. Evidence pointing to an older vamp, like Zajicek.”
“Would Luke have fangs that size?”
“How did you…never mind. No, Luke isn’t old enough. Julian is but neither of them would ever kill a human. They’re Alliance, and the head of the Alliance would bend over any vampire who did that and skewer him with a hot garlic poker.”
“Tusk-like fangs, draining a human…what would convince you it’s not Dragan?”
She looked back at the piano and made a sour face. “Frankly, that pool of blood’s a good opening argument. A vampire who tries to drink more than his body will hold regurgitates it. Zajicek would’ve known better. Whoever killed Vilyn drank every drop and bloated fat as a tick. Then he expelled it onto Vilyn’s dead body there.” She pointed at the piano.
“And carried the body to where we found it?” Gingerly I straightened and considered the streak on the banner. “Or maybe, enraged at being sick, he threw it.”
“The banner caught the body and slid it onto the chancel steps?” Her eyes narrowed in thought. “I like. That theory fits all the facts. You’d make a good detective. Too bad you have to talk to my friend. Speaking of, we’d better get this call over with.” She took out her cell phone.
Mr. Elias time. “First let me get Dr. Vilyn’s music packed up.” Before she could stop me I stood and trotted to the music stand. “Hey, how did you hide the vampire bite marks in the autopsy?”
“I have measures in place to adjust the paperwork when the case is out of my jurisdiction.”
As she talked I kept eye contact. But my hands were working. I gently slid Vilyn’s pencil from the stand’s tray and surreptitiously scribbled on the music. “V drain blood.”
And then I was on the phone with a cave-deep voice.
Though Saturday was filled with lessons and laundry, looming over me like a dark horizon was Sunday dinner.
Sunday morning I put on my church clothes, a white V-neck cotton knit top with three-quarter sleeves, the black polyester slacks I wear to casual concerts, and my good leather shoes with chunky heels, bought second hand at a thrift shop—good quality at my prices. For jewelry I wore a silver flute charm on a thin chain around my neck, a present from a student. Underwear was my usual utilitarian multi-pack whites. Why get fancy with underclothes nobody ever saw but me?
Does Fate clap her hands and chortle gleefully at the prospect of proving us wrong?
After church I had time to kill. I didn’t want to go home to contemplate the horrors that would play out that evening, so I went to see the free matinee at the MC movie theater. Three times.
On the way home I stopped at Emersons to borrow some place settings. My plates were mismatched rummage sale and Mom’s were melamine scavenged from ancient microwave dinners; they had warm memories for me, but for everyone else were just old and stained. Nixie’s idea of chic was black on black, but Julian had exquisite taste. They loaned me a box of lovely bone china.
And then there were no more excuses not to go home. I walked with arms tight around the box, going slower and slower. My experience with Todd taught me how wrong these things could go.
It’s rarely what you fear that comes to pass. It’s usually worse.
I opened my front door. The dinner table was set, the leaves in. The good news was Mom hadn’t used the microwave melamine plates. The bad news was she’d heard round plates were passé and bought new, definitely-not-round ones from the local party store.
She’d set the table with plastic firetrucks.
They were actually rather clever, like coloring-book drawings made 3D with the body hollowed out for the entree, a three-rung ladder above it for chips and sides and the cab for dessert. A Dalmatian sat on the back, space between his paws to stick a paper napkin.
I rested my forehead against my palm. Because we were so poor, anything store-bought was automatically accorded high status. The firetruck plates were her being a hostess with the mostest. She’d further blown her entertainment budget buying matching paper cups and red plastic utensils. It was funny, heartbreaking and endearing. I loved her, and I didn’t know what to do with her.
The centerpiece was an original Hrbek, a candle holder with four angels facing out, a fat vanilla candle held between their wings. Mom made it three years ago and for some reason she’d molded, not the regular joyous angels, but weeping angels covering their eyes. I cringed every time I saw them, hoping they wouldn’t steal my life force if I but blinked.
The surest sign that Fate had decided I needed my ass handed to me? Gliding lugubriously through my ear canals like diseased honey was classical music as destroyed by 1001 strings.
International sophisticate Dragan Zajicek coming into this? He’d be appalled. He’d be disgusted.
He’d spin on
his heel and walk out of my life forever. As much as the man and his kisses terrified me, that thought filled my stomach with lead and dropped it out my legs.
Did I still have time to put it right?
I glanced at Mom’s Buddha-belly clock atop my old tube television. Damn, it was already six-thirty. I slid the box with Emersons’ place settings onto a chair and tore it open. I had ten minutes to fix the table and change the CD to something not designed to pulverize a musician’s brain to goo.
I know, dinner at seven, I should have had half an hour, right? Or more, since most people arrive late to a party.
Most people don’t live in Meiers Corners. There’s this phenomenon in the Corners where the eleventh commandment is Thou Shalt Not Be Late. Even showing up on time is tantamount to pantsing Miss Manners. In the Corners, it’s twenty minutes early for everything. While Nixie knew the worst the Hrbek household could dish out, cosmopolitan Dragan…
Was on international time. My shoulders relaxed. He wouldn’t be here until seven thirty or later. I began to smile—just as Mom came out of the kitchen.
Accompanied by Dragan.
Chapter Ten
My blood drained from my body, leaving my legs cooked pudding. I grabbed for the table, leaned heavily against it with my arms trembling and stared at him.
Dragan Zajicek was on Meiers Corners’s time. I was doomed.
Instead of the practical black-on-black shirt and slacks he’d worn to rehearsals, he’d donned flamboyant Bohemian casual. A funky burnt red jacket with satin lapels spanned his broad shoulders. Underneath he had a blue-and-white striped shirt open at the collar, navy jeans and a pair of low shoes in burnt red with blue stripes that matched the shirt. Somehow he managed to carry off the look with panache.
Mom held a tray of drinks and appetizers. She’d sprung for a jug of white wine and the FluffyBucket of chicken wings from McColonel’s. I could see how proud she was of that; a bucket of wings was the height of entertaining because take-out was like catering, right? I shut my eyes briefly.
A knock at the door kept me from banging my head against the wall to stop the hurting. When I answered it, Nixie, Julian and Luke stood on the stoop, each carrying a six-pack of designer beer. Nixie held hers high. “I thought we could use something potent.”
I grabbed her arm and dragged her in like a long-lost rich relative. “Thank you. Disaster’s struck. Dragan’s already here.”
“How? His car isn’t.”
Mom brightened as everyone crowded in. “Welcome! Nixie, Julian…and you must be Luke.” She spread the name out, Loooo-uke, like she was sliding naked down a water slide.
“So nice to meet you, Mrs. Hrbek.” He shook her hand briefly.
She hung on. “So what do you drive? Dragan has a Lambo but he didn’t bring it. I was hoping for a ride.” She simpered. I’d always wondered what that word meant, but seeing her expression, half Joker, half DMV photo, I finally got it.
“I came in the Emersons’ limo.”
“Pooh. I bet that won’t go much over 160.” She released his hand with a pat. “Wine, anyone?”
“I’ll just put the beer in the fridge.” I held out my hand for Nixie’s six-pack. She turned it over.
Julian handed me his. “Where’s your Lamborghini, Zajicek?”
Dragan shrugged. “I’m staying at Otto’s. It is easy walking distance.”
Luke held out his six-pack. I juggled my two to free up a hand when Dragan intercepted it. “I shall help you, Raquel.” His voice was that dark purr that sent frissons directly to my…my everywhere, really. I froze like a ninny and he slid a solicitous hand like an eagle’s wing across my shoulders and gently guided me into the kitchen.
I flipped on the kitchen light with an elbow and was confronted by a platoon of bunnies and gnomes. If Dragan had come out here to be alone, it had backfired. I headed for the refrigerator. Beady eyes seemed to follow me. Creepy. “Sorry about the decor. I’m sure you’re used to more…refinement.” Opening the refrigerator, I was confronted by a wall of food and art supplies. I started digging a hole in the bottom shelf.
“No apology is necessary. There is an underlying beauty to Trudi’s creations.”
I popped my head out of the refrigerator to stare at him. He was holding a freckle-faced gnomette, considering it with a small but warm smile. Wow. He really meant it, which surprised me. You had to be especially sensitive to get Mom’s art. Apparently Dragan was.
I returned to the fridge. I’d finally made enough room to fit the beer. I wedged in bottles, then turned back to ask for the final six-pack from Dragan.
He was standing right on top of me.
I shot to my feet. His body heat beat against me in waves, overwhelming the chill of the fridge. Toe-to-toe, he towered over me, his strong pecs pressing against his striped shirt like big bread rolls under fine linen begging to be stripped of their cloth and tasted.
My eyes popped wide. Where’d that hot image come from? Steamy hot, fresh and tasty…
His gaze darkened and he caught my chin in his long fingers. Raising my lips, he bent to claim them with his.
The kiss was stolen and brief. By the time the door whapped open seconds later to reveal Nixie, he’d already released me, curled my fingers around the final six-pack and zapped to the other side of the room, leaving me to stand in the open refrigerator like a stunned goober of a doorstop, albeit a doorstop with throbbing lips and the dark taste of desire in its mouth.
“Did I interrupt anything?” Nixie asked brightly.
For the first time in my life I resented her interruption. She was only trying to protect me from the horrors of drowning in misplaced attraction, but kissing Dragan? Oh, what a death.
“Ms. Emerson.” Dragan held out an amber bottle. “Would you care for a honey-wheat?”
I glanced down. Two bottles were missing from the cardboard carton in my hand.
“Sure.” She pointed at her chest. “I expressed before I came to this shindig.” She snatched the bottle, twisted off the top and chugged down half. “Ah. It’s been a while. I forgot how nasty-good beer is.”
Dragan removed his own cap and tossed it into my charity bottle cap collection. As I got my own brewsky, found shelf space for the other three, and shut the door, he held his bottle toward Nixie. They clinked necks. The clinking of glasses, or in this case beer bottles, was a nice touch of camaraderie and one of the few social conventions that I understood, because it crossed class boundaries.
Then he touched bottles with me. That didn’t feel like a simple gesture of friendship. It felt like clinking glasses at a wedding dinner. Like the chiming of bells, signaling a greater connection.
“Um, Mom’ll be waiting.” I slapped open the door into the living room. Nixie and Dragan followed.
Mom brightened when she saw me. “Now we can be seated. Julian, you’re at the head, Nixie, on his right. Luke, you sit next to Nixie, and I’ll take the foot of the table next to you—so I can change courses more easily, of course.”
She winked. He paled.
Well he might. As that great German philosopher Jane Austen said, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single gentleman in possession of a sizeable package must be in need of a grope”…or something like that.
I settled my hand on the chair at the foot of the table to rescue him. “You have to entertain our guests, Mom. I’ll be gofer.”
She beamed in a way I recognized; I’d walked into a trap. Though she pretends a certain innocence, Mom is crafty in all definitions of the word. “Thank you, Rocky. You and Dragan can clear and fetch courses. Bring out the salad, would you? Dragan, be a dear and get the dressing?”
I caught it the second time she said it. Courses, plural? Putting me and Dragan alone together in the kitchen, not once, but several times?
Unless Nixie interrupted us again. I wondered how many more beers she could possibly drink. Although, clearing and fetching only took a few minutes. He couldn’t do much more than kiss me in that
time, could he?
I’d conveniently forgotten the Minute Waltz.
I scurried to the kitchen and opened the fridge. The tossed salad sat in a hand-fired bowl on the middle shelf, a matching ceramic cruet of dressing beside it. I took the bowl out of the refrigerator and turned.
Dragan was right there again.
He took the bowl from my hands, setting it on the countertop nonchalantly, as if he weren’t beating waves of hot male heat against me like a vibrator set on orgasm. “You’re wearing these again.” He plucked my glasses from my face and glared at them in disgust before dropping them next to the salad.
Wrapping long fingers around my upper arms, he gazed deep into my naked eyes. “You don’t understand how the sway of your hips as you walk makes me long to trace the beauty of your derriere with my tongue. How each breath you take teases your breasts against your shirt so that I yearn to suckle their tips. Your delicious feminine scent, your honey-smooth voice, ah, they caress me until I’m desperate with wanting you. You don’t believe me when I tell you how lovely you are. So let me show you.”
Each word sank into the stew of my hormones and stirred until my very skin rose with the need to meld with him. Whether I believed him or not my body didn’t care. It wanted, with a fearful strength.
He yanked me flush and devoured me in a kiss.
Shock burst bright in my every cell. When his tongue thrust powerfully into my mouth, cells exploded. Heat rushed in; the dark taste of male and rough texture of his tongue filled me. His arms cinched me tighter until I felt every muscular bulge, rock-hard and blasting heat like a furnace. This wasn’t the elegant conductor coaxing a response; this was the masterful male demanding it.
I moaned softly, my fingers clutching blindly at his coat sleeves. My pounding heart hammered my ribcage as my legs melted. Before I could ooze down his body—and wouldn’t that have put my mouth interesting places—his hands slid onto my bottom and cupped me close. He ran his tongue along my lips and they started throbbing; he pressed a shocking thigh between my legs and I began to throb there too.
