Mina flitted off the ground, floated to his cheek, and gave him a peck. I wasn’t experienced with vampire facial expressions but I could have sworn she was jealous of Bram’s affection for his brother.
I turned away before she could see the confuzzlement on my face.
Bram appeared to possess a poetic and yet accessible manner. Roger shared the accessibility but the poetic gene was lost in his scientific mindset.
Kit hung our dresses in the wardrobe. The gowns were no worse for the schlep, the wrinkles falling out as he closeted them. Aside from the missing tooth and the haunted look in my eyes, I was going to be a stunning bride.
The Downton Abbey hat sat primly on the dresser. My red bow shoes were on a chair by the door.
Kit would sleep on the sofa; Roger and I would take the bed.
“I am really tired. I missed my pregnant lady nap and I’m starving. Let’s eat something, anything, then conduct a short rehearsal and call it a night.”
“I was going to save these for tomorrow, but under the circumstances …” Squirl opened her sack. It was loaded with her teeth-breaking biscuits. I shook my head frantically as Roger reached to grab one.
“We checked the abbey’s larder. There is a case of Spam in the cupboard,” Bram said, the faintest glimmer in his eyes. “The monks loved Spam. We ate it every Sunday. Not much else.”
A sigh of resignation escaped my lips, whistling through my tooth socket. I was glad we weren’t getting a wedding write-up in the New York Times.
Following an afternoon of corking dead monks, the wedding party dined on Spam and red wine.
The dining room was Danish Modern sleek. Not only had the monastery been hit by a blood-sucking comet, but it had evidently survived an attack by a low-budget Scandinavian interior decorator. Light oak tables staged in a U-shape provided room for at least fifty guests. Simple religious murals in shades of blue and gray depicted the lives of saints from floor to ceiling.
A small built-in food service window the size of a microwave wedged in the wall to the left of the tables. Mina explained that was how she sent food from the kitchen to the dining room. Women, even vampire women, were not allowed to enter a room where the cloistered monks gathered.
Roger and I sat at the head of the table. Bram and Mina sat to Roger’s right, Kit and Squirl to my left. Renfield sat by himself at the very end of the table, hermit-like. The postulants, John and Paul served the Spam.
I looked down at my plate with a single slice of Spam and got the giggles. I imagined Roger and me coming back for our fiftieth anniversary and reenacting this scene finishing the leftover Spam, which would still be eatable.
The wedding party drank red wine from the cellar. I sipped bottled water.
Squirl held a glass of wine, stood, and toasted us. “To the funnest bride and groom to ever honeymoon at the Van Helsing.”
“Have there been many weddings at the inn?” I asked.
“You are the first.” She raised her glass and downed it in one gulp.
I slugged the rest of my water and turned to Bram. “What will the Vatican do with the monastery buildings now that…”
He looked down at his plate as if the answer were in his Spam. Then he returned his gaze to meet my eyes. “My superiors will most likely sell the land and the buildings. Sadly, fewer young men are taking their vows. There may be no one to occupy the abbey. We’ve been losing monks in Loutish at a steady trickle for centuries. They just disappear as if bewitched.”
Squirl jumped onto the table and stood there grinning, her ponytail swaying, a slice of pink processed meat in her hand. “We have a surprise for the bride!” She winked at Mina. “A bachelorette party in the library in five minutes.”
I glared at Kit.
“Not my idea. Your newly acquired bridesmaids booked this one.”
Mina clapped her hands. “I’ve never been to a party before! I am so excited.”
How could I say no?
I pushed back from the table and excused myself for a potty break. No telling how long a bachelorette party with a drag queen, a slightly nutty innkeeper, and a vampire might last.
“Meet us in the library. It’s across the hall,” Squirl chirped.
Wobbling down the empty stone halls the thought occurred to me that I should have enlisted a potty-partner. I felt eyes watching me. Did I have a stalker or was I merely being paranoid?
Should I turn back or face my imaginary lurker? When I stepped in front of the archway I heard a foot-shuffle and a wheeze. Where did I leave my spatula?
I could sense the stalker hiding to my right just inside the archway. With a silent prayer I hauled back with my left fist and blindly clocked the wheezer right on what felt like a smushy face.
Bingo. I was on target. Renfield dropped to his knees and then rolled to the floor rubbing his right eye socket.
“Why’d you hit me?”
“Why were you watching me? You scared the bees out of me.”
“The American lady carries bees? I’m allergic!” he crabbed-crawled backwards.
I grabbed his grubby collar and pulled him up to meet my face. “Explain yourself or by George I will see to it that you are barreled along with the monks.”
“I am neither a servant nor a lackey and yet you treat me as such. It is time you knew who you are addressing! I was once the abbot of this most holy hermitage.”
He caught me off guard with that bit of info. The little frog was once the head honcho of the monastery? “Are you a religious now?”
He sighed and dropped his head. “I was lead astray by a woman,” he mumbled into his chest. “A very sexy woman.” When he looked up he broke into a brutally off-key rendition of an old rock ‘n’ roll song. “She was a gypsy woo-man…” he yowled. “All through the caravan she danced with all the men.” His rendition fell far short of the Impressions’ hit song.
“She came to my bed and enchanted me. Mina is the blessing from that one night.”
“You’re Mina’s father!” The little vamp was the end product of a one-night stand between a fallen abbot and a gypsy woman. I was impressed with her lineage.
The old gent clung to my arm as I steadied him. Curiouser and curiouser.
“Sorry about your eye. Put some Spam on it. It should take down the swelling.”
He seized my shoulders. “It’s not Mina’s fault she’s a vampire. She has a good heart and has never tasted so much as a drop of human blood since the day the comet dribbled her.”
“She really drinks only wine?”
“The monks wine possesses curative powers. I was able to convert Mina from blood to wine. She poses no threat to humans or animals. She is more a danger to herself.”
My bladder was bursting. I patted Renfield on the shoulder. “I’m headed to the toilet. Please stand outside the door just in case.”
“One more thing. Please do not tell Mina I am her dad. She does not know I was the abbot or her father. If she knew she was the product of my fall from grace it would surely damage her.”
“Deal.” I shook his grimy hand.
He toddled after me, his presence somewhat comforting. I creaked open the heavy door and left him standing arms crossed at the entrance.
Sweet! What a relief… one of the nicest parts of being preggers was the bladder-emptying. It was like swing dancing in a swishy dress. Very liberating.
The ancient toilet had no flusher. I scanned the tiny room. A chipped pitcher sat on the counter. I filled it with water from the sink and poured it down the bowl. I must have seen that on the Discovery Channel.
I reached in my pocket and pulled out my travel-sized non-alcoholic mouthwash and with a quick slug I cleaned the essence of Spam from my cheeks. I dabbed a teeny bit of tap water on my face, hoping it didn’t contain cooties.
Renfield fell in as I pulled open the door. He trotted after me as I headed to the library. “Please Miss Wendy, I wish for Mina to have a happy time with the ladies. She has never experienced a party and is very
much looking forward to your celebration.”
I shot him a feeble smile and ducked into the library.
An ancient gramophone played a warped recording of Elvis singing You’ll Never Walk Alone. The library was heavy with the smell of old books and ancient tufted furniture. I gave the room a quick skim and made my way to the only chair that appeared not to have holes in its upholstery.
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 t
o 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 child. 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.
Claws of Doom Page 28
