Zombies in the Delta (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 1)

by M. L. Hamilton

  Her hand faltered.

  A shot glass lay in the bottom of the sink.

  After they’d sampled all of the wedding fare, Abe had washed everything and put it away. She reached for the shot glass and turned it in the light. An oily brown sheen coated the sides. This couldn’t have been from last night. Her fingers tightened on it and she fought down the worry.

  “Okay, sweetheart,” she heard Marco call from the bedroom. “Let’s get this day started.”

  She placed the glass back in the sink and grabbed the lunch bag and their travel mugs, rounding the counter. She knew she should say something to him about it, but she wanted to spend the day with him having a good time and forgetting their troubles, like it had been on the island.

  Handing him the travel mug, she moved into his arms and hugged him tightly. “Do you know how much I love you?” she said, kissing the side of his throat.

  He frowned at her. “Okay.”

  Leaning back, she smiled at him. “I just want to establish that because we’re taking the Prius, not the Charger today.”

  He groaned and closed his eyes. “No morning sex and now this. Shesh, Brooks, are you punishing me?”

  She laughed and grabbed his hand, tugging him toward the door.

  * * *

  The sun shown down as it had the day before. Peyton pulled the Prius into a public parking lot along the edge of Locke and they climbed out. The parking lot was filled with vintage cars, shiny and perfectly maintained. A group of older folks stood around, talking. They were discussing the headlight covers on a vintage Rolls Royce. The little car was bright yellow and the vinyl covers sported two round eyes with eyelashes across the top. One of the men motioned at Marco as he moved around the back of the Prius.

  “What’da ya think, young fella? Don’t the covers ruin the look?”

  “I don’t want to break a headlight,” said the owner, pleading his case.

  “Well, it ruins the car. Doesn’t it?” said the first guy.

  Peyton thought the eyes were cute, but she didn’t know crap about vintage cars.

  Marco gave the car a critical stare. “I’d lose the covers.”

  The men laughed and the owner walked over to the car, pulling them off.

  Hooking Pickles to his leash, Peyton and Marco began the short trek down the main street. As she had on her first trip here, she marveled at the buildings, some listing precariously in different directions. A few shops and a bar, Al the Wop’s, were open. A number of motorcycles were lined up outside the bar and the front window sported a sign asking the patrons to keep down the RPMs. Raucous laughter slipped out of the open doorway as they passed. A number of motorcycle enthusiasts were gathered inside.

  “What do you think?” asked Peyton, motioning to the street.

  “It’s like stepping back in time.”

  She nodded. They found the alley where the zombie body had been discovered and Peyton pointed it out. Marco made a face and they moved on. Angling down a side street, they found an art gallery, but the sign read Gone Fishing, Might Be Back at 2:00.

  Marco wryly shook his head. “Must be nice.”

  “The fishing or the fact that you can make your own hours?” she teased.

  “Oh, definitely the fishing. If I can’t gut something once a day, I just feel out of sorts.”

  She hooked her arm through his and they angled back toward the main street. Across from Al, The Wop’s, they found an open gallery. Peyton scooped Pickles up and hovered in the doorway until a woman motioned her inside.

  “Bring the little fella in.” She and a number of other people reclined on a red, velvet couch. They were all sipping coffee, dressed in shorts and tank tops.

  Around the perimeter of the room were easels set up with paintings on them. They seemed to be grouped in sections, indicating a collection of work from a particular artist. A number of these groupings also had stands that displayed sculptures.

  Peyton meandered beside Marco for a bit, looking at the paintings, but he could spend a lot more time looking at splashes of color than she could. A display in back showed a number of photo books, so Peyton moved toward those. She had a greater tolerance for photography, than modern art.

  She leafed through a coffee table book filled with black and white pictures of the Delta, reading the anecdotes written next to them, but she was distracted when a young woman with bleached white hair approached Marco. She wore a torn t-shirt that showed a lot of cleavage and Doc Marten boots over jeans that had the knees ripped out of them. The entire lower part of her hair was dyed black. A number of piercings protruded from her ears and nose.

  “That’s mine,” she said to him, nodding at the painting he was admiring.

  He gave a brief nod. “Interesting.”

  “I call it Rape of the World. Global warming, fracking, consumption of cattle – we’re committing suicide.”

  Marco nodded again. “Yep.”

  Peyton squinted at the painting. She saw a lot of black swirls over a blue/green canvas.

  Marco pointed at a blue marble affixed to a metal rod sitting on a block of wood. A papier-mâché hand was reaching down as if it was about to grasp the marble.

  “Hand of God?” he asked the girl.

  She raked her eyes up and down his body. “Nice. He’s about to crush the earth.”

  “He sure is.”

  Her gaze focused on the cane. “I dig the accessory.”

  “Yeah? It’s a little much for me.”

  “No, man, it’s cool. Decoration or necessity?”

  “Necessity.”

  “Cool.”

  “Yeah, not so much. So, are you studying art in high school?”

  She gave a laugh. “Really? I’m in college, man.”

  “Right. Sorry. Are you an art major?”

  Peyton pretended to turn a page, smiling. Wherever Marco went, he attracted female attention, but she hadn’t seen him show much interest in it lately.

  “You could invite me for a drink and we can discuss it,” the girl said.

  He gave a laugh. “It’s not even noon and…” He tilted his chin toward Peyton. “My fiancée’s armed.”

  She glanced at Peyton and Peyton lifted a hand in greeting. She took a step away from Marco. “Maybe another time.”

  He smiled and moved toward Peyton.

  “Did you like her stuff?” Peyton asked when he walked over to her.

  “It’s interesting, but a little bleak for the house, don’t you think?”

  “Did you enjoy the flirting?”

  He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her against him. “If it made you jealous, I did.”

  “Terribly,” she said, lifting on her tiptoes to kiss him. Pickles beat her to it.

  He grimaced and pulled back. “So, what are we going to see next?”

  “I just read about the Ryde Hotel in this book. Let’s go there.”

  “Sounds good.”

  * * *

  The Ryde Hotel was a stunning three story pink building with a water tower behind it. Built during prohibition, it functioned as a jazz bar and a speakeasy, where politicians and movie stars congregated to drink bootleg whiskey and dance the night away. Rumor also pegged it as a bordello.

  One legend claimed there was a trapdoor in the floor of the speakeasy that led to a tunnel, which ran under the road and to the river. After its notorious past, it became a boarding house for the men who built the levees along the Sacramento River. In modern times, it had been converted into a hotel again, paying homage to its 1920’s art deco heritage, and the speakeasy had been transformed into a ballroom for weddings.

  Marco and Peyton wandered through the glass front doors. The friendly proprietor welcomed them in and showed them to a back room that functioned as a wedding planning space and an art gallery.

  The paintings on display here were of 1920’s jazz musicians, the colors bold and stunning, the shapes geometric. These paintings suited Peyton’s style and Marco felt they would be better displ
ayed in their house.

  Together they selected one of a jazz combo – saxophone, piano and drum – and the proprietor offered to wrap it up for transportation. While they waited, he encouraged them to explore the rest of the hotel, in particular the speakeasy.

  The stairs down to the lower floor were narrow and steep. Once they reached the bottom, Peyton could see the lines of pain on Marco’s face and his limp was more pronounced, but he seemed to recover as they looked over the cavernous room with its dressed tables, wooden dance floor, 1920’s art deco booths, and black lacquered bar. A disco ball hung from the middle of the ceiling, twinkling prisms of light onto the dance floor. Peyton settled Pickles on a booth seat and wandered around the room, taking it all in. French doors led out onto a patio that was also covered in tables and chairs.

  “We could get married here,” she teased.

  Marco smiled at her. “Works for me.”

  “Can you imagine what Abe could do with this place?”

  “A disco ball and Abe seem like a perfect combination.”

  She laughed, then moved back toward him, swaying to an invisible band, sashaying around him. He watched her, his blue eyes darkening.

  “Just imagine, everyone dancing, dressed in their finery. There’s a gazebo out back where we can have the ceremony.” She shimmied around in front of him, sliding along his body.

  He wrapped an arm around her waist, hauling her against him, his hand splayed on her belly. “All I’d see is you.” Lowering his head, he moved her hair aside and grazed his lips along her neck. She closed her eyes and leaned into him, swaying with him. “We’d probably have to rent the entire hotel out.”

  She turned in his arms, sliding her hands over his chest. “Or we could just keep it to our closest family and friends.”

  “Whatever you want, baby. I’m willing to elope if you’d rather do that.”

  “What would Mama D’Angelo say if we eloped?” she whispered against his mouth.

  He gave a groan and kissed her.

  “Okay, I have it all packaged up for you,” came a voice from the stairwell.

  Peyton moved away and went to gather Pickles. Marco released his breath, giving her a sultry look, then he turned with a smile for the proprietor.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Peyton glanced back at the tight stairwell. “Would it be all right if we left through those doors?” She pointed to the French doors. “The parking lot’s right there.”

  “No problem,” said the man. “Let me load it in your car.”

  Marco gave her a grateful look and she slipped her arm through his, following the proprietor across the ballroom floor.

  * * *

  They stopped in Walnut Grove for lunch, finding a small diner with an outdoor patio where Pickles was welcome to sit with them. The sun felt nice and Peyton enjoyed the way it caressed her bare arms.

  Walnut Grove boasted a permanent population of about 1,500. Established in 1850, it became one of the first settlements along the Sacramento River, owing its prosperity or lack thereof to agriculture, primarily walnuts and oak trees. Today, agriculture was still the biggest industry, but tourism ran a close second.

  A young man not much older than Peyton and Marco seated them and brought them menus. He wore ragged jeans and a black t-shirt that said Walnut Grove across the front of it. His brown hair was shaggy and fell down over one eye.

  “What can I get you folks to drink?”

  “Iced tea,” said Peyton.

  “Same,” answered Marco.

  He nodded and left, disappearing into the restaurant. Marco closed his menu and settled it on the table, folding his hands over it. “This was a good idea,” he said.

  She smiled, reaching to cover one of his hands with her own. “I thought it might be nice to get out of the City.”

  He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. “No matter what we do, I just like spending time with you. I miss not having you with me every day.”

  “I miss that too. I find myself looking for you sometimes.”

  He gave a laugh and nodded.

  The young man returned with their drinks and settled them on the table. “Are you ready to order?”

  “Sure,” said Peyton. “I’ll have the grilled cheese sandwich with a bowl of tomato soup.”

  He scribbled it on a pad. “And you?”

  “I’ll have the salad, Italian dressing.”

  “Want chicken with that?”

  “Nope. Thanks.”

  He nodded and wrote Marco’s order. “So, you folks aren’t from around here, are you?”

  Peyton shook her head. “No, we’re just visiting. How’d you know?”

  “Just a guess.”

  Peyton glanced around the streets. She figured she could guess how he knew. There weren’t any other mixed couples in the area. In fact, the racial mix seemed a little lopsided.

  “Where you from?”

  “San Francisco,” said Marco, stretching out his bad leg under the table.

  Peyton was distracted as he rubbed it with his knuckles.

  “Yeah, makes sense. So, you come because of our zombies?”

  Peyton’s eyes snapped to his face. “What?”

  “Yeah, we got a zombie killer out here.”

  “Doug!” came a sharp voice from the restaurant doorway. A young woman stood glaring at him. She also wore a black Walnut Grove t-shirt.

  He gave a sheepish look, then shuffled toward her, stepping inside the restaurant.

  Peyton and Marco exchanged a look.

  “Well, I guess your case isn’t a secret?” he said.

  “I guess not. I wonder if he knows something more.”

  Marco shrugged.

  They talked about work for a few minutes, until Doug returned with a pitcher of iced tea. “Sorry about that,” he apologized.

  Peyton leaned forward on the table. “No, don’t be. I’m intrigued. What’s this about zombies?”

  Doug’s eyes drifted to the windows as he poured. “Police found three bodies. Two on the Harwood farm and one in Locke, right in the street. Skulls bashed open, brains eaten.” He nodded vigorously, his eyes wide. “Sounds like zombies, don’t it?”

  “Yeah, do the police have any leads?”

  He glanced at the windows again. “Not that I know of, but people are real nervous.” He leaned close to them. “I’ll bet I know who it is.”

  Peyton started to ask him to elaborate, but he suddenly straightened and stepped away from the table. “Be right back,” he said, moving toward the restaurant again.

  Peyton reached for a sugar packet and emptied it into her tea. “Boy, Radar wouldn’t like rumors being spread around like this.”

  “What you gonna do? Think about it. It’s a great tourist draw.”

  “Yeah.” She lifted Pickles into her lap, smoothing his fur. “Still. People get nervous and guns start coming out.”

  Doug returned, settling their plates in front of them. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Can you tell us more about this zombie thing?”

  He hooked the chair behind him with a foot and drew it up to the table, turning it around backward and straddling it. “I’ve got my theories.” He tapped his index finger against his temple. “I think it’s Old Man Harwood.”

  “Old Man Harwood? The man who owns the farm in Locke?” asked Peyton.

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “We stopped in Locke before coming here. Some people in an art gallery were talking about the farm,” Peyton lied.

  Marco gave her an amused look.

  “Yeah. Let me tell you, he’s the perfect zombie.”

  “I thought he was dead.”

  “Yeah, undead!” said Doug, holding his hands out.

  Marco mimicked his motion, giving Peyton a wide-eyed stare.

  Peyton dropped her grilled cheese sandwich on her plate and leaned back. “Okay, come on, Doug. Undead?”

  “What do you think zombies are?”

 
She started to answer, then stopped. “Undead.”

  “Right.”

  “Why do you think it’s Harwood?”

  He glanced at the windows, then lowered his voice. “I was friends with his son, Roy, during high school.”

  “Okay?”

  “We used to get a six pack and go out under the old man’s cherry trees. He was always running us off with a shotgun.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want you drinking with his son,” offered Marco.

  Doug shook his head. “The old codger was a mean S.O.B., let me tell you. He was always taking a switch to Roy for some random thing or another. Wouldn’t let any friends in the house. All the time Roy and me were friend, I never once went in that house, but one time I heard him cussing out his wife. I got out of there fast. I didn’t want no part of that.”

  Peyton thought for a moment. Agnes Harwood had seemed so reverent of her dead husband, and she didn’t seem like the sort to put up with domestic violence.

  “They mentioned Roy was sick at the gallery.”

  “Yeah, cancer. He’s up in Stanford, getting treatment.”

  “You see him much when he’s home?”

  “Naw. He doesn’t have time. After his old man died, the running of the farm fell to him.”

  Peyton motioned to Doug’s pen. “Can I borrow that?”

  “Sure.” He passed it over.

  She wrote her number on a napkin and handed both to him. “Look, I’m actually a special agent with the FBI.”

  He leaned back, his eyes widening. “No shit!”

  “Yeah.”

  Marco gave an amused smile.

  “We’re investigating these murders.”

  “Really? You got a badge?”

  Peyton fished it out of her back jean’s pocket and flashed it at him. “Do you know someone named Li Wang?”

  “Oh, yeah. He’s a...whatcha call it...he manages the workers who pick the crops in the orchards.”

  “Right. You’ve met him?”

  “Yeah. He’s come in here once or twice.”

  “What’s he like?”

  Doug gave a lift of his shoulders. “I don’t know. Lotta people hire him. He does a good job. I never heard any complaints.”

  The girl stuck her head outside the glass door. “Doug!”