Vulgarian Vamp (A Wendy Darlin Comedy Mystery Book 5)

by Barbara Silkstone

  Before I could sit, Mina flitted toward me, grabbed my chair and placed it in the center of the room on a threadbare carpet. She guided me to the chair and placed her cold hand on my shoulder as if to keep me in place. This can’t be good.

  The first few bars of Satisfaction cut the air, the Rolling Stones thrumming their sexy tune through the celibate sanctuary. I patted my tummy. “It’s okay son. It’s not always like this,” I fibbed to my unborn child.

  The doors kicked open and in walked an old-fashioned theater usher in a deep purple jacket with dangly gold epaulets, or it might have been Michael Jackson back for an encore.

  It took a minute for my pregnant mind to deduce the dude was trying to pass himself off for a Loutish cop. He wore large mirrored sunglasses, his policeman’s cap sat low over his face. Handcuffs dangled from his belt.

  A friggin’ male stripper. Which one of these dames set this up? If the stripper tried to pretend-arrest me, I’d gut him. I did not want my son seeing a male stripper even if it was from a womb-side seat.

  Squirl hugged herself and giggled. Now I knew the culprit.

  Be a good sport, I told myself.

  Kit looked mortified. He knew how much I hated these stunts. The guy appeared to be all of one hundred pounds, soaking wet. Vulgaria’s finest?

  Mick Jagger wailed from a boom box on the floor by the door. The fake cop launched into a spastic, dry heave dance, tugging at the buttons on his jacket, which refused to give. He tore the coat open, only to get his arms stuck in the sleeves. He wrestled with the jacket, pulling the lining back out of the casings, his arms trapped in the sleeves. He was now pinned with his hands behind his back and his chest exposed.

  His body resembled a dried squid left in a tanning bed for a year. Maybe he was homeless and Squirl paid him for a pity strip? Maybe he suffered from Stripper-Tourette’s? Either way his gyrations were making me nauseous.

  The scrawny guy began his finale. I prayed he wasn’t going to show me his goodies and shut down my sex drive forever. The stripper’s cap fell to the ground exposing the bridge of his nose. Oh no! It couldn’t be. Despite the sunglasses I’d know that schnoz anywhere.

  It was my dead ex-husband, the Croc.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Son of a Monkey’s Uncle!” I steadied myself with my hand on the chair back and my brain in stasis. The words weren’t coming fast enough. The last time I saw the idiot he was afloat in the Caribbean covered in lethal Polonium 210, squashed next to the notorious Ponzi crook, Charlie Hook.

  Thud! I turned to see Kit passed out cold. He’d been another witness to Croc’s death at sea. To say it was shocking to bump into the Gumby goon bumping and grinding was an understatement. My ex had more lives than a kennel of cats.

  “Surprised?” he said, finishing his battle with his sleeves.

  “You’re dead.”

  “Am not!”

  Stubborn fool couldn’t even admit when he was dead. Always had to get the last word.

  “How long have you been following me?”

  He smirked.

  I hated that smirk. Pissed, I frisked myself for a tracking device but unless he planted it deep in my ear I was clean.

  “I just missed you in London but I was on you in Egypt. I watched your every move in Miami. Now cut the crap, where’d you hide Hook’s treasure?”

  He had to be the dumbest dude on five continents. “Get it through your thick skull; I have no treasure by Hook or by crook. Roger received a fee for recovering the Lost Boys. Ba-da-bing! That’s it!”

  “You’re holding out on my share of our marital goodies.”

  “Listen bright boy, our marriage held no goodies. You are dead and divorced. And if you haven’t noticed, I’m pregnant. Babies are expensive. This kid’s going to college.”

  Croc’s face melted. “I’m gonna be a daddy?”

  I smacked my forehead. “Do the math, idiot. The last time we had sex…ugh… was four years ago.” I flashed on the ugly memory and shivered.

  I placed my arms across my chest in a defensive move. “Roger and I are expecting a son.”

  He appeared crestfallen, if he ever had a crest.

  Kit shook himself and rose to his feet, his eyeballs popping from his head, a slice of a frown cutting through his brow like an axe mark.

  The room snapped with extra-marital tension. I married Croc after downing an entire bottle of champagne in Vegas and divorced him two years later. Was I destined to pay for that one boozy night for the rest of my life? I swung my fist at him and missed.

  Mina had tears in her eyes. “If this is what a party is, I don’t think I like parties.”

  “I thought American ladies loved men who stripped. He left his card at the Van Helsing. I am so sorry!” Squirl handed me Croc’s business card.

  The paper was flimsy and the ink was still damp.

  Weddings ~ Bat Mitzvahs ~ Funerals ~ Bachelorette Parties

  We Strip.

  You pay.

  Reasonable Rates

  I yanked Croc by his usher buttons and lifted him off the floor. I always could whip his butt. “You are to stay a mile away from me or I will get a Vulgarian restraining order.”

  “Unhand me!”

  “I would but they don’t look like they come off.”

  He wriggled free.

  I felt the blood rush to the top of my head as the room began to spin. Kit caught me before I tumbled.

  Mina grabbed Croc by the scruff of his skinny neck and flung him through a window. The glass shattered in a rain of shards. Croc yowled like a wounded coyote and disappeared into the night.

  Roger poked his head in the door.

  “You girls having a good time?”

  I strutted toward Mister Destination Wedding Planner, “You remember my ex-husband?”

  “The moron in the wetsuit who went to sea in a rubber boat with that Ponzi schemer? That ex-husband?”

  I punched him in the shoulder. “How’d that feel? Was that good for you? Cause it sure was good for me.”

  I spun on my flats and lunged out the door.

  Men! Little Roger was going to learn how to treat a lady. He was also going to master Krav Maga just in case he met a girl like his mother.

  ***

  It was after two in the morning when Roger guided me to our guestroom with Squirl skipping alongside. Kit brought up the rear as usual.

  Surely I was missing something. There had to be a way of putting off the Louts until the Vatican Vampire Investigators arrived. The monks were safely barreled, but with no solid plan, we had no way to defend the monastery from torching and no way of calling for help.

  It occurred to me that idiot Croc must have a cell phone. Dang! I should have frisked him. Aaacck! The thought of touching my ex gave me a shot of the willies.

  Roger sat on the edge of our bed, his right foot tapping as if it were possessed. I lay on the bed fully clothed. I was finding it easier to deal with vampire raids in maternity slacks rather than flimsy nighties. And tonight had the feeling of a long night and not one in bed.

  Squirl excused herself and took to her tiny cubicle next to the guestroom. Her cell contained a single twin bed, a nightstand, and an oil lamp. The only thing missing was an orange jumpsuit.

  Kit tossed and turned on the chaise lounge like a hound dog trying to get comfortable. I punched the mattress into submission but it rose again in angry lumps.

  Bram and Mina headed for the church to pray and catch up on old times. The little vamp had latched onto the priest. I wondered if a person could become a vampire and remain a priest.

  I would be willing to bet my red-bow wedding shoes Renfield and his Marty Feldman eyes were hiding in the confessional booth. Would he jump out to defend his daughter’s honor? She sure didn’t appear to want any interference. Whatever love she’d been carrying unused she was determined to give it to Bram.

  Would Bram be willing to accept it?

  I wondered how he felt being shuffled off to Rome as a chi
ld. Did he truly have a priestly calling or was it expedient for the monks? And when was I going to learn to mind my own business?

  I lay my head on the pillow with one more worry to sort. What would the Louts do when they found the empty graves? Would they come after us with their beheading axes?

  My brain churned like Univac, grinding ideas and swallowing them whole. When life gives you lemons you make lemonade. I repeated the old saying twice and it hit me. I tapped Roger on the arm.

  “I suggest we run with lemonade.”

  “Lemonade?”

  “The villagers are determined to find vampires. Let’s give them a vampire red herring. We’ll hand them Croc on a plate.” I was ready to make the ultimate sacrifice and unload 170 pounds of ugly gristle. Not very nice of me, but…

  A shrill scream interrupted my lemonade theory. “That was Squirl!”

  The three of us jumped to attention. Roger was first out the door. Kit wriggled his swollen feet into his heels and followed Roger. Working my way to a sitting position on the hard mattress, I pushed off and stood on uneasy legs, then ran barefooted across the rough stone floor and flopped against Squirl’s open cell door. My knees were dancing two distinctly different dances and banging into each other.

  The three of us popped through the door cop style with our index fingers pointed like guns. Amazing how brave you can feel if you believe in finger power.

  Inside the room, Edward held Squirl by her shoulders, blood dripped from two white fangs making him look like a vampire from central casting. He growled, and dropped his little victim. She hit the floor with a thud.

  That was suck number two. If my memory of the Dracula legend was right, it was three sucks you’re out. The little innkeeper’s life was at stake.

  Roger lunged at Edward but the caffeinated monk leaped four feet in the air. My guy clung to the vampire’s muddy shoes as Edward rocketed to the ceiling.

  The vampire glared down at the dangling archaeologist and cackled. “Once you taste Squirl, you can never go back! She’s mine! Mine! Mine!” He kicked his feet in an attempt to shake off Roger.

  “Drop him! Drop him! Drop him!” I parroted.

  I grabbed at the air trying to catch Roger’s trouser cuff. The vampire shook his leg with a sharp jerk and Roger fell loose. Airborne, Edward buzzed to the window flapping against the glass like a demented moth.

  “You pencil dick!” I yelled, then thought of my vulnerable belly and rephrased. “Hand me that pencil, Dick!” For all I knew Edward might suffer from penis envy and I was already on his bad list.

  A splash of water came out of nowhere and sprayed along the right side of the monk’s face cutting a gory swath of yellow goo. He shrieked, sounding like a gaggle of teenage girls at a concert. The monk went all goofy on us and took on the shape of a Halloween bat.

  The creature peeled off the window and came at my head baring chatter teeth. Don’t bats get tangled in your hair? Or was that a legend? Nuts! I covered my head and ducked behind Roger.

  Poof! The monk-bat was gone. He needed some new material.

  Kit held a small bottle in his hand. “Holy water,” he said grinning as if he’d won first place in the Miss USA Drag competition.

  Roger hugged Squirl despite the blood dripping from her neck. I was proud of him for overcoming his phobia. I just might let him stay in the birthing room when Little Roger was born.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You look fine,” I lied to Squirl as I blotted the last of the blood from her wound. She was in shock. “Look at me. You’re safe, now,” I said pinning her with my eyes.

  She sobered, her bottom lip trembling. “I don’t think I like him as much as I did the first time. He’s got awful breath.”

  “Did you drink any of his blood?”

  She smacked her lips, her tongue darting in and out of her mouth like a little pink lizard. “I bit his tongue. Real hard!”

  I turned to Roger. “Edward is going to try again. He’s got the hots for Squirl. I think she swallowed some of his blood. We’ve got to bring that horny monk down before he completes that blood transfer or Squirl will become a sucker, too.”

  Roger smacked one fist in the other and left the room, his wingtips squeaking on the carpeted floor.

  We tagged after him tripping over John and Paul who sat on the floor in the hallway, their backs against the wall, their long cassock-draped legs extending half-way across the corridor.

  Like ducklings after a daddy duck, we followed Roger into the guestroom. I sure hoped he had a plan. My pregnant brain was fresh out of brilliant ideas.

  He cleared his throat before he spoke. “We’re all at risk, especially outside. We can’t hold the wedding on the cliff unless we have a giant mosquito net. Our safest move is to hole up for a week and catch the next flight back to the States. We can have the ceremony in Atlantic City.”

  “You have got to be kidding. That’s pretty chicken shit!”

  He blushed crimson with touches of coral around his temples. I should have saved the verbal smack for alone time.

  “What about me?” Squirl asked.

  I slipped my arm around her. “Got a passport?”

  “What’s that?”

  Kit covered his neck with his hands; the frown mark between his brows was so deep he would need a hit of Botox when we got home. If.

  The more I thought about it the more I steamed. How often does a girl get married? Two, three times in her life?

  Roger hugged me to his chest. His racing heart told me he was trying to put up a brave front. I knew he didn’t believe in the supernatural. It had taken a lot for him to come around to accepting Mrs. MacGuffin and her afterlife contacts. It was only after she told us I was pregnant with his son that he bought into her psychic predictions.

  I plopped down on the bed. It was time to take inventory. What did I know about vampires? Garlic, crosses, sunlight, and holy water. But how do you stop a vampire in lust? The hottest movie vampire I ever saw was Frank Langella, and sunlight brought him down… or did it?

  Squirl bunched a coverlet on the floor at the foot of our bed. She curled into a ball, and within minutes her steady breathing indicated she was out like a light.

  Kit lolled on the chaise staring at me, willing me to come up with a plan.

  Once I make up my mind I don’t back down, even if it isn’t something I particularly want because then I want it even more than when I didn’t want it.

  “I’ll be damned-darned if I’m going to give up our wedding because of a vampire.”

  I had just said the “V” word when Mina and Bram wandered into the room hand in hand. Her little face melded into a pout. She must have heard me.

  “Sorry.” I crawled under the bedcovers and pulled the cream-colored spread over me. I peeked from the top of the fold choking on guilt from hurting the feelings of a vampire. Go figure.

  Mina left the room with a stomp of her feet. I wondered if all vampires were super sensitive. I mean they must know what they are. Do they honestly think they are normal with their super-human strength and chompy teeth?

  I was sick of trying to please everyone. Roger lay next to me, his head propped against the bleached pine headboard, his hand stroking my shoulder.

  “Forgive me?” he whispered.

  “Yeah.” But I still planned on getting even. I rolled on my right side facing away from him. He seemed to have a talent for pickles. This one was a beaut. When I requested a tasteful little ceremony I didn’t count on being on the menu.

  Bram and Mina spent the rest of the night together somewhere, not sure if it was in sin, but I couldn’t care less as, despite the adrenalin sprinting through my veins, I fell soundly asleep.

  I dreamed I was walking on the beach in Miami holding my little son’s hand as he carried a tiny blue pail filled with seashells. The steady swoosh of the ocean waves played in my imagination and kept out the night sounds of wolves howling and Roger snoring.

  I woke during the night to find what looked
like a hologram of Edward standing over me. Before I could call for help he gave me a red-eyed special, killing my will to fight back. I couldn’t move and couldn’t speak.

  His eyes were like rubies, his teeth were the fangs of a wolf, and his breath, well he could have used some Altoids. “You are wise for a woman who has not yet lived a single lifetime. Swear your loyalty to me and I will reward you with a long and fruitful life.”

  “I can take care of my own long and fruitful life. Now get your happy ass back to your grave!” I awoke from the sound of my own words.

  Was it a prenatal dream or was I now a target for Mr. Horny Pants? I can see why Buffy never got pregnant. This was grueling.

  The morning sun struggled through cracks in the dusty shuttered windows. It was the first day of the rest of my second marriage and I had more aches and pains than a television commercial. Vampires suck.

  Bram’s gentle voice cut through my haze. “Hey, brother and almost sister-in-law, look what we found in the kitchen. A stockpile of granola bars.” He stood in the doorway, a Jolley in a rumpled Italian suit, his arms loaded with little foil packages.

  Roger, Kit, and I lunged at the poor priest tearing the trail food from him like mad dogs.

  I grabbed two bars and shredded the red and white wrapper. They tasted like hay and honey. I hate honey.

  Roger made a second run for another stick o’ grain. I tripped him and snatched the remaining three bars from Bram’s hands. It’s amazing how being pregnant can turn even a nice dame like me into a dystopian food hoarder.

  We sat around the guestroom crunching rock-hard bars of seeds and passing glances between us like hot potatoes, each one of us frantically seeking a plan. No sense in telling them about Edward’s night visit. It might have been a Spam induced hallucination.

  Mina floated mid-room. She was getting on my nerves with her air pacing. I cut her a pleading glance and she lit on the fireplace mantel looking like a pixie. She’d probably be pissed if I told her.

  “Anybody seen Renfield?” I asked.