by Cate Lawley
“You might be unique in that, Bradley. Most of us don’t follow the directions on the bottle. But I do think most people take pills with water or some kind of drink. Especially if you’re taking a lot of pills. Go check the kitchen for glass in the sink.”
I already knew from a quick visual inspection on entering that there wasn’t anything on the counters.
“That’s silly. She wouldn’t take the pills in the kitchen and then come back to the bathroom and spill more pills.”
“We absolutely agree on that.” I looked over my shoulder to give him an encouraging smile. “Go check real quick. I’ll see what it is that she supposedly took.”
After he left, I entered the bathroom, careful not to step on the handful of scattered pills. In the corner was a pill bottle. I’d have thought paramedics would have grabbed that for purposes of determining what she’d taken and treating the overdose. But if she’d been dead when they arrived…?
I grabbed a bit of tissue and used it to turn the bottle so I could read the name: hydrocodone. And the prescription was for Mrs. A. An older one, but it was hers. Then I put the bottle back as it had been.
I stepped out of the bathroom to find Bradley waiting.
“No glass in the sink, and the dishwasher was empty. Mrs. Arbuthnot was always tidy. And she was a lady—she wouldn’t drink straight from the tap or out of her hand.”
“Agreed.” I checked my phone for overdose with hydrocodone. I scanned the contents. Then turned the screen so Bradley could read it. “I don’t know. Seems like you’d go lie down, right? Slowed breathing, low blood pressure, drowsiness. If she did this to herself—” I held up my hand when Bradley started to protest. “I don’t think she did. I’m just hypothesizing. If she did, she’d go lie down in her bedroom.”
We shared a glance and then Bradley took off at a trot for her bedroom.
I arrived just a few seconds after him. He was staring at the tidily made bed, shaking his head. “This is all wrong. Why would someone hurt her?”
“Because people suck.” I walked closer to the bed and squatted so I was at eye level. Not a dimple in the thin coverlet. No one had lain on this bed since it had been made.
Bradley looked lost, and he kept saying, “It’s all wrong. Just wrong.”
I wasn’t sure what I’d do if the guy started crying. I wasn’t really equipped to deal with awkward, introverted, crying people.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here. We’ve seen what we need to see.” When Bradley hesitated, I said, “How about a cup of tea?”
He eyed me speculatively. “Okay, but at my place. I don’t know about your tea.”
I tried not to laugh, because laughter would be beyond inappropriate in the situation. But his suspicion of my tea products was just a little bit funny. I was a vampire. And I wanted to laugh. I really didn’t want to cry. If I even could cry.
I looked around one last time, and then turned to Bradley and said, “Deal. Besides, my place is a bit of a mess right now. I’m thinking about moving, so I’m packing.”
“Don’t normal people find a place first and then pack?”
And then I did let myself smile. “You’re assuming I’m normal. I don’t think I am.”
I pulled out my phone and looked for the series of missed calls from the morning. Bingo. I had Alex’s number. I knew it; his personal cell was different from the emergency response number I’d dialed the day before.
Once we were out in the hall, I locked up and returned the key to Bradley. Then I texted Alex: Neighbor likely witness. Found dead, 911 suspect suicide. I think murdered.
After I hit send, I followed Bradley down the hall to his place. I had a thought: maybe it was Bradley? And he was luring me into his den to finish me off.
Cue the creepy music now.
No. No way. No way in this lifetime or the next five lifetimes.
First, that was crazy.
Second, Bradley had lived in the building for eight years, per him. But I knew for sure it was at least five years, because he’d been here when I bought my place. Which made me cringe that I couldn’t remember the guy’s name earlier.
And second, just no way.
And third, he really seemed to care about Mrs. A.
So I trotted—hopped?—behind him like the naïve bunny Wembley had claimed I was, and I didn’t worry about him turning ninja killer on me.
When I walked into his condo, I did a double take. Pottery Barn? Not the look I would have guessed. I’d have thought IKEA meets Star Trek would have been closer.
Bradley gave me an impatient look. “The kitchen is this way.”
Which I knew, of course, because there were only a few one-bedroom floor plans.
“I was just admiring your living room.”
Bradley nodded. “Thank you. Mrs. Arbuthnot helped me decorate. She said that a comfortable home was important if I wanted to date.” He narrowed his eyes at me and said, “I don’t want to date.”
I swallowed a smile. Since the thought hadn’t—and never would—cross my mind, it was a little funny rather than offensive that Bradley felt the need to proactively ward off my advances. “I bet you never told her that.”
“No. She thought everyone should get married. I didn’t want to disappoint her.” Bradley looked around his apartment. “And I like this much better than before.”
“You were really close, weren’t you?” Mrs. A had touched a lot of lives. If I wasn’t careful, I’d get all almost-teary again.
Bradley nodded and then walked into the kitchen.
I looked around one more time, looking for some clue as to what exactly Bradley did in here all day, but it didn’t look like his living room was where he worked. When I walked into the kitchen, I remembered this particular plan had a small office that was an offshoot of the bedroom. That was likely where Bradley’s highly segmented work life lived. He seemed a guy for categories and tidiness of all varieties.
He’d already put a kettle on to boil when I joined him.
“I have that one; it sings.”
“I don’t like the loud noises the other kind make.”
I sat down at the kitchen table. “I don’t suppose you would. What kind of tea do you have?”
“I have chamomile, peppermint, and Scottish breakfast. The Scottish breakfast was for Mrs. Arbuthnot.”
“Ah. Would you like to drink that one in her honor? Or save it?”
Bradley seemed to give my question great consideration. Then he retrieved milk from the refrigerator. “Mrs. Arbuthnot drinks it…drank it with milk.”
“Well, that’s exactly how we’ll drink it, then, isn’t it?”
“Mrs. Arbuthnot has a fancy cream pitcher she’d put the milk in when I would have tea in her home. But this is what we did here.” He retrieved some very pretty teacups and saucers and placed them on the table. “Another important clue: Mrs. Arbuthnot didn’t like taking those pills. They were for her arthritis, but she said they made her head all foggy and made her want to sleep more.”
“Right. Mrs. A wouldn’t like anything that slowed her down. She swore that walking kept her arthritis in check.”
He nodded. “She took over-the-counter drugs, mostly.”
The kettle began to sing, and Bradley turned it off immediately. He poured loose tea in to a teapot that matched the delicate cups he’d placed on the table. Mrs. A really had influenced him. I couldn’t help wonder if she’d been his best friend. Maybe his only real friend.
“Bradley, can you tell more about the man who came home with me on Tuesday?”
He gave me an odd look. “He was with you. You know about him.”
“Just humor me.”
He placed the pot on the table. “We have to let it steep now. Does this have something to do with Mrs. Arbuthnot’s murder?”
“It might. That man who was with me—he was…” I hadn’t quite thought that through. “I didn’t invite him.”
He peered at me. “You can’t remember.”
I licked my lips, and realized I was quite thirsty. “No.”
“Did he hurt you?”
My brain was thinking “yes,” but my mouth said, “No.” He hadn’t actually hurt me—unless I died in the next few days from starvation, but that was looking less and less likely. “In the end, it turned out he didn’t hurt me, but he tried to.”
“I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.”
And then I really did cry. No one had said sorry. No one had expressed an iota of sympathy or regret on my behalf. Not my doctor, certainly not Anton, and Alex and Wembley, though somewhat more helpful, hadn’t ever extended any specific expressions of sympathy. The socially awkward shut-in was the first person to say the right thing. My throat closed with unshed tears.
My eyes were burning now, like they had before, but I could feel the moisture gathering in my eyes.
And then the first tear slipped down my face.
“Ow.” It stung. A lot. It was an itchy, burning sting. I hopped up, lifted a finger, grabbed my bag, and ran to the bathroom.
I splashed water on face several times, but after several attempts there was still a mild sting. It felt like the time I’d been out wade-fishing in the bay with my dad and the water had been filled with jellyfish. The water had been so full of them that it had carried a hint of the translucent spawn of Satan’s poison. And then one of them had wrapped its tentacled self around my bare calf. My scalp crawled thinking about it. I still hated those nasty see-through critters.
I flushed my eyes out some more and then alternated between flushing my eyes and splashing my face. When I’d done as much as I could, I grabbed a towel and patted my face dry.
Peering at the mirror, I was more than a little surprised to find faint burn marks running down my face. I’d just burned myself—with my own tears. Chalk that one up to weird vampire things no one thinks to tell you about.
With a sense of smug self-satisfaction, I took out my powder compact—the one that no vampire would need, per Wembley—and evened out my skin.
It didn’t take much to cover the marks, but if I’d come out of the bathroom with pink streaks down my face, even Bradley might have been suspicious.
When I joined Bradley at the kitchen table, he’d already poured tea for both of us. I sat down, apologizing.
“No problem. Milk, like Mrs. Arbuthnot?”
A nodded firmly. “Absolutely.” But I poured it myself and just barely added any. Milk was on my “do-not-consume” list.
We drank in silence for some time. I’d finished my cup and was well into my second when Bradley said, “She just said he was good-looking enough for that type.”
“Yes, you said that earlier. Do you know what type she meant?”
He shook his head. “She didn’t say.”
“And you didn’t see anything?”
“No, it was after dinner. I work after dinner.”
My ears perked up. “What do you do?”
“I build apps. I’m good with details.”
I supposed that made sense. Writing code—if that was in fact what he was doing—did require an eye for detail. “Do you remember anything else that Mrs. A said about the man?”
“He must have gone in with you and stayed a long time, because Mrs. Arbuthnot didn’t see him leave, and she stays up late. Insomnia.”
My skin crawled. What had he been doing in my apartment all that time?
Drinking my blood? Watching TV? Digging through my underwear drawer?
Ick. Ick, icky, ick.
Bradley poured more tea for both of us. “I’ll have to make another pot, if you want more.”
“No, thank you.” What I really needed was a gallon of water and some vegan nutrition supplement shakes.
My phone rang, cutting short my train of thought. Good thing. I didn’t need my fangs poking out inopportunely.
A local number came up on the caller ID. “Hello?”
“Where are you? I’m knocking on your door, and you’re not answering.” Alex sounded annoyed that his unexpected visit had been derailed.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not in my condo. I’m down the hall; not that it’s any business of yours. I just texted. Proper etiquette is to text a reply.”
“You’re okay?”
“Perfectly safe, right down the hall.” I sighed. I did need his help. “Be right there.”
I finished my tea with one very unladylike gulp, and sent my apologies up to Mrs. A. She would not have approved.
“Thank you, Bradley. I’ve got someone waiting who can help with the case. Or at least will believe it wasn’t suicide or an accident.” I stood up, but then paused to add, “You’ll let me know if you think of anything to do with the man on Tuesday or Mrs. A’s death?”
“Yes.”
Then I remembered that I’d probably be moving soon. So I left him with my cell number, in case I wasn’t home or had started to move.
He walked with me to the door and opened it for me.
“Thank you,” I said. “Mrs. A was lucky to have you for friend.”
Bradley looked positively lost at my words. I kissed him on the cheek and booked it down the hallway before he could utter a word.
12
VAMPIRE TEARS AND CROCODILE SMILES
Alex could make what he would of me running down the hallway like a crazy woman. His good opinion wasn’t high on my priority list. His help, however…
I put my hands on my hips. “Why didn’t you just let yourself in?”
He gave me a one-shouldered shrug. “I hear it’s in bad taste.”
I pulled my keys from my purse and unlocked the door. Waving him inside, I said, “You’ve been inside already, haven’t you? Don’t answer that.” I walked into the kitchen, leaving him to follow or not. I needed some chow, and fast. My baby fangs were staying right where they belonged—hidden.
I popped the top on the shake I’d retrieved from the fridge.
“So exactly how good are you with security? Modern security?”
Alex strolled into the kitchen. “Why?”
“Our bad guy delivered me to the house and hung out in my condo for a few hours Tuesday evening. Mrs. A—” I had to stop and take a breath, because my eyes were burning suspiciously again. Once I was sure my face wasn’t in danger of scalding, I said, “Mrs. A was killed because she saw him—I’m sure of it. I wouldn’t have a clue, but she happens to be the floor’s managing Mary, so she told everyone I have a new man.”
“One presumes there is no man, so…”
“Right. So that’s the guy. She saw someone escort me home, come in with me, and not leave until after she’d gone to bed. She hinted at my having an overnight gentleman caller when I saw her…I think on Saturday?” All the days were running together. And with all of the blacking out and no work… “Nuts! I need to send my resignation email.”
“Now?”
Since I was opening up my laptop and sitting down at the kitchen table in front of it, it didn’t take a genius to see that I was doing it now. “Give me a break. It’ll take two seconds.”
In fact, it took about a minute and a half. It was shockingly easy to say: I quit, and put me in touch with HR so I can fill out the right paperwork. Boom. Done. Again, the feeling of a load lifting lightened me. If I got any lighter from all of my burden shedding, I’d be able to fly.
“Vampires can’t fly, can they?”
Alex looked at me like I’d grown five heads.
“I’ll take that as a no. Security—so you have wicked stealth skills, yes?”
Alex dropped down into a chair kitty-corner from me. “What’s Wembley been saying?”
“Not much at all. No, you seem to have a knack for evading security, and since there’s that whole thief/assassin connection, I thought you might have useful skills.”
“Just tell me already. What do you want?”
“I need the security video from the parking garage on Tuesday evening. And if there’s video in the elevator, that too.”
“Easy enough.”
“You can do it?” I almost clapped my hands, but I stopped myself just in time. All of this burden-lightening and happy-embracing was turning me into a giddy cheerleader.
“Easy enough to give you an answer. Most vamps can mask themselves on electronic recording devices.”
“For reals? That is handy.” I could venture forth in true anonymity. Simultaneously disturbing and liberating. “Wait, he’d have to know he was being recorded. We should check—can you get it?”
“I already have it, and I’ve already checked. There’s nothing useful for purposes of ID.”
I narrowed my eyes and gave him the third-degree look. “That sounded like legal speak. What is on that footage?”
“You. Looking drunk and coming home alone.”
“But that’s not right. There was a guy who brought me home on Tuesday—or at least to my door.”
“I’m sure there was.” He managed to sound mostly genuine and only a little condescending.
I’d finished my shake and could use another dozen or so. After I retrieved a six-pack, I sat back down. “Why are you here?”
“The murder of your neighbor was unexpected. It doesn’t fit the pattern. And…” A scowl fell over his face.
“You were worried about me.”
He met my gaze briefly. “You’re the first survivor. That we know of, anyway.”
“But I’m not a witness.”
“You’re certain of that?”
I ignored the question and popped open another shake. Straws; I needed to buy straws. Was I a witness? Ugh—I couldn’t even go there now. Surely I’d been unconscious. “Since I don’t do blood—and clearly I’ve never bitten anyone—what’s the procedure?”
“Fangs extend, puncture, drink, apply pressure, lick to seal, and done.”
“You’re telling me my spit seals wounds?”
“No. I’m telling you the saliva from a vamp who has just consumed blood heals small wounds. And leaves no scars, unless you pierce the same location over and over.”
“That is so disgusting.” But fascinating. And handy info to have. “So if I could eat blood, I could heal small wounds.”
