Fangs in Fondant

by Melissa Monroe

  Tobias had his back turned toward the door when she entered. He kept the jars on the shelves neatly organized. Some were completely ornamental, while others contained household essentials like rice, beans, and coffee grounds.

  In the few seconds it took Tobias to turn around, Priscilla’s eyes skimmed the shelves that lined the walls of his shop. He had a habit of keeping every jar three-fourths of the way full. In her day, he would have been thought a bit touched. Nowadays, she knew it for what it was. OCD, and the nervous straightening, compulsory cleaning, and need to count everything was well understood, if not inconvenient or troublesome for the afflicted individual.

  All but one canister was full. Tobias’ untidy scrawl identified it as the receptacle for castor beans. Priscilla’s mouth tightened for a moment before she could school it into a more pleasant expression.

  “Thought you had to ask permission to enter,” Tobias grunted, brusque as usual.

  “Technically, you’re on shaky ground. Your business also doubles as a home. Because it’s open to the public, your threshold may be weak enough for me to pass.”

  Not that she wanted to test the theory. Passing a threshold was a tricky business for supernatural creatures. They were a natural barrier that protected homes from attack. It was a spiritual energy that no one quite understood, and unlike faith, which only applied if you put stock in religion, it applied to all vampires. She could not pass a threshold into a home without permission. She could, in theory, pass into Tobias’ shop without such an invitation. But it could result in discomfort or even pain, if she wasn’t careful.

  “So why’d you ask that first time?” he asked.

  “To be polite?”

  Tobias grunted again and crossed the room in a few long strides, rounding the counter to stand behind the register. “Browse away, Pratt, but don’t dawdle. I’m closing early today.”

  She frowned. It was only seven o’clock. Tobias usually kept his store open until ten. What was so important that he was willing to miss out on three hours of business? Nighttime could be the busiest time for this place. So many idiotic stunts were performed at night, and the first-aid supplies were cheaper at Kennedy’s than at Landry’s.

  “If you need someone to watch the store, I could send Anna over,” Priscilla suggested. “I’m having a slow work night.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’ll be right here. I’m supposed to meet with somebody tonight.”

  “Is it the same person who bought out your entire supply of castor beans?”

  Priscilla tried to sound conversational but failed miserably if the look on Tobias’ face was any indication. He stiffened, the hand on the counter tightening until the wood creaked. His face flushed red, and she could see the pulse that thudded unevenly in his jugular.

  “What is it to you? And what makes you think it’s all gone?”

  Priscilla jerked her head toward the empty jar. “If you had any in stock, you’d have filled it to match the others.”

  A muscle in Tobias’ jaw twitched. “I think you should get out.”

  Priscilla raised an eyebrow. “Why? It’s just a question.”

  “We all know you’re looking for someone to blame for that girl’s death. I ain’t taking the fall for it,” he snarled.

  “I didn’t come here to make any accusations,” Priscilla said, raising her hands in a pacifying gesture. “I just need to know who bought those castor beans. I know you didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Is that right, now?” Tobias’ face twisted into an ugly sneer. “’Cause I know people are whispering. After what happened a few years back? People think I did this. Well, you can tell the police chief where he can stick his suspicions.”

  “I just need a copy of the receipt,” Priscilla said weakly. “Then I’ll leave you in peace.”

  “You’ll leave. Now.” Tobias jabbed a finger at the door. The order clamped on her like a vise. With the invitation rescinded directly, she couldn’t argue with him. Her feet began to move of their own accord, turning her back toward the door. She didn’t fight it. It would be unpleasant for everyone involved.

  “Arthur will probably subpoena your records,” she informed him. “It really would be in your best interest to talk to me. I’ll be in my shop in an hour if you reconsider.”

  “In an hour?” he called after her as she moved to close the door. “What are you up to till then, Pratt?”

  “I’ve got a few errands to run,” she said offhandedly. She didn’t think he’d react well to the news that she was walking to the police station to report her discovery. “And you’ll need to invite me in if you want my patronage again, I’m afraid. Good day, Tobias.”

  She shut the door behind her gently and stared out at the snow-covered street. It was going to be a cold winter, if the weather was starting this early in the year. She spared a moment to worry that the mountain could become impassable during the winter months. That would effectively put a kibosh on her business until the snow could be cleared. It hadn’t happened in about six years, but it was bound to happen again sometime soon.

  Her boots crunched in the snow as she trudged forward, pausing at the end of the street to let a puttering jalopy pass. She was afraid the poor old thing wouldn’t start up again if it stopped for pedestrians in the crosswalk. She wrapped the scarf more firmly around her face in the meantime, bracing herself against the frigid wind that was blowing off the mountains. The snow was working itself up to a proper blizzard. She didn’t like the thought of being trapped in an isolated mountain town with a murderer either. It could play out like a horror movie, with people dying right and left.

  Priscilla tried to dispel that grisly notion as soon as it popped into her head. Not only because it was unlike her to entertain such dark thoughts, but also because the likelihood of such a thing was incredibly remote. The murderer had not struck at a fellow townsperson, who they would have had easy access to and motive to kill. No, they’d killed an outsider, one of the many tourists that frequented the town. Someone they should have had little to no enmity with.

  Priscilla considered for just a moment that the killer might not be one of her fellow residents, but another outsider. Kierra Cunningham was the daughter of a wealthy businessman. Perhaps it had been an attempted kidnapping gone wrong? No, she wouldn’t have been poisoned. Shot, stabbed, or thrown over the balcony, but not poisoned.

  Her father had once called poison the coward’s weapon. It took little effort on the part of the murderer to slip something into someone’s food or drink. Her father, somewhat of an oddball himself within Puritan society, had thought that if the awful deed must occur, it should be done to the person’s face. That way they’d know who was doing it, if not why.

  Of course, that had been before the era of GHB and Rohypnol, when the most nefarious thing someone could slip into your drink would have merely killed you. Young women in modern society were trained to watch their drinks and eye anything given to them by a stranger with wariness. Priscilla had observed Anna do it often. It was instinctual in this day and age. How would a would-be kidnapper or assassin have dosed Kierra Cunningham with no one being the wiser?

  She could come to only one conclusion, and she didn’t like it one bit. It was something she’d known from the beginning, somehow. It hadn’t been a shadowy, menacing figure that had cut Kierra’s life short. No, it had been someone who lived in Bellmare. Someone she knew and probably liked. Priscilla scowled at the stop sign as she once again paused to let a car pass. The thought made her even colder than the arctic wind.

  In a time where food came mass-marketed and pre-packaged, people rarely suspected tampering. People trusted manufacturers so completely that some didn’t even check expiration dates. Kierra Cunningham wouldn’t have questioned the safety of buttercream mints, a treat she’d probably eaten at a dozen weddings before her own. That trust had killed her.

  Priscilla was going to find the citizen who’d peddled death to Kierra and she was going to bring the
m in. With or without Arthur’s support.

  Chapter Seven

  Bellmare PD had less than a dozen officers on the force, many of them overdue for retirement. Priscilla knew most of them personally, having catered the force’s events more than once. Not all of them trusted her, taking the same tack as their leader. The oldest of the group eyed her with wary suspicion and only grudgingly ate her food. The younger men on the force had grown up in a society that touted more progressive values and therefore were more open to the idea of a vampire in their midst.

  Bert Holder, a 60-year old man who’d known her as Patty Parker during his time as chief, was snoozing at the desk when she arrived at the station. She knew Bert and the other veteran officers were only staying on until Bellmare hired younger men and women to take their place.

  She opened and closed the glass door quietly, then wiped her feet on the mat and, rather than ring the bell and wake him, peered around the desk to see who else was in the building.

  She spotted five officers present, other than Bert. It was more than half the force, which caught her off guard. Arthur must be taking Mr. Cunningham’s threats very seriously if he’d committed so many men to the case. She assumed the other three must be patrolling the streets in and out of town, business as usual.

  “Anyone home?” she asked in a whisper that nonetheless carried. Jamie Emmerson, the youngest of the assembled police officers at 27, was the first to look up. His face split into a wide grin, giving her a glimpse at the heartthrob he’d once been in high school. Anna had been a little young to have experienced his charm as a student, but Priscilla knew that many women in town still pined after Jamie.

  “Hey, Priscilla,” he called, not bothering to keep his voice down. “What brings you in? No more vandalism, I hope. We’ve got enough to deal with without a hate crime.”

  A few years before, she’d had a group of teens tag the front of her shop. When they’d been caught, they’d been forced to scrub the paint off and help her in the bakery for two weeks as community service.

  “No, no, nothing like that,” she said, waving her hand as if to swat the idea away. “I was out and about and thought you boys might want something to eat.” She reached into the tote bag she carried and withdrew the macaroons she’d packed. She’d intended to use them to bribe Tobias in return for his help but hadn’t had the chance before she’d been ejected from the premises. She tossed the brown paper sack to Jamie, who caught it easily, grin widening.

  “You’re incredibly hot right now, you know that?” he said with an impish twinkle in his eye. “A total babe and you bring in free food.”

  If she’d been capable, she’d have blushed. She’d been told she was beautiful many, many years before, by her sire. She’d never felt beautiful, raised in a society where women were small, meek, and unassuming. None of them were traits she possessed in abundance. It had been an embarrassment to her mother that she’d remained unmarried at 22. Her mother had probably died of shame when she’d discovered her only daughter had eloped with a Frenchman.

  Jack Riggs, a middle-aged man whom Priscilla knew best from the Lion’s Club meetings she catered, smacked Jamie upside the head. One of the older men, who’d had his head down, completing paperwork, smirked slightly at the sound.

  “Did the sexual harassment videos not penetrate your thick skull, Emmerson? Shut your trap. That’s no way to talk to a lady.”

  “It’s all right, Jack,” Priscilla said, offering Jamie a tentative smile. “He’s harmless. Besides, I think you’re a little young for me, Mr. Emmerson.”

  It was Jamie’s turn to be embarrassed. He flushed an impressive shade of pink and ran a hand through his spiky blond hair, flustered. “Right. Sorry, Miss Pratt. Thank you for the cookies.”

  She leaned against the booth, surprised that all the commotion hadn’t woken Bert. “I’m afraid they’re not completely free. Could any of you tell me where the chief is? I need to speak to him.”

  Jamie had stuffed a macaroon into his mouth whole, as if to stop himself from saying anything too foolish in the next few minutes. So it was Jack who answered her.

  “He’s out at the Brown’s Bed and Breakfast, questioning the wedding party. They’ve been out there for the better part of a week.”

  Priscilla frowned. “I thought they were staying at the Robshaw Inn.”

  “Nope, only the happy couple was planning to rent it out. The wedding party was headed back to New York City after the reception.”

  It was the sort of extravagant waste that she’d come to expect from Kierra, unfortunately. But why the bed and breakfast? It would have been less crowded and more cost-effective to stay in a low-rent hotel outside of town. Of course, that assumed that Kierra cared about being frugal and not overstaying her welcome, concepts that she clearly hadn’t come to grasp in her short life.

  “Maybe you could leave a message,” Jamie mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs.

  Jack smacked him again. “How many times do I have to tell you? Keep your trap shut. Be a gentleman.”

  “I was hoping to see him, actually,” Priscilla hedged. She didn’t want to set the whole of the police department on Tobias Kennedy, no matter how rude he’d been. “It’s important.”

  Jack pursed his lips. “I suppose one of us could take you out there. Got any more of those cookies? They couldn’t hurt anything. Might set people at ease.”

  “I could swing by and grab a batch of chocolate chip. They should be out of the oven soon.” If Anna was keeping to the schedule she’d outlined, that was.

  “I’ll take her,” Jamie said, apparently over his brief bout of embarrassment.

  “You’re going to sit here and take a reaming for the team. You know Mr. Cunningham or his lawyer will be calling soon.”

  Jamie deflated, sliding down his chair in an exaggerated sulk. “Aww, come on! I did it last night. Can’t someone else take a turn?”

  “Believe me, you’re going to want to stay here,” Jack said with a knowing glance at Jamie.

  Jamie winced. Priscilla wasn’t sure what the exchange was about, and didn’t pry. Someone would tell her if she needed to know.

  “I’ll take you.” Jack stood to his full height, which was impressive. His head nearly brushed the low ceiling. Then he turned to Jamie. “You’re going to get Bert onto one of the cots in the back room. The poor guy has been going for 16 hours. Then you’re going to man the booth.”

  Jamie nodded, scrubbing his face wearily. “Yes, sir.”

  Priscilla waited for Jack to gather his things then followed him out the door. She almost told Jack to get in the car and let her clear the inches of snow off his windshield. But she knew that he wouldn’t accept the help. It didn’t matter to him that she was unable to get frostbite and wouldn’t be debilitated by the cold. He saw her as woman first, vampire second. So she got in the passenger side and let him play gallant gentleman for her.

  It was a short drive from the station to her bakery. Anna was about five minutes behind schedule because she’d had to take a call from Mrs. Brooks, who had requested a themed birthday cake for her son, as she did every year. Adam Brooks was unfortunate enough to have a birthday that fell precisely on Halloween, and it was a dual celebration every year. The poor boy always shared the day with bad costumes and a boozy party hosted by his parents.

  “You think she’d invite me one of these days,” Anna griped. “I mean, they are our next-door neighbors, and I am legal now. But, no, Dad busted them once on a noise complaint and I’m blacklisted forever.”

  “You can deliver the cake,” Priscilla promised.

  Anna perked up. “Really?”

  “Yes,” Priscilla said with a gentle smile. Anna was too easy to please sometimes.

  Priscilla didn’t have time to let the cookies cool after she pulled them from the oven. She piled them carefully into a large Tupperware container, trying not to stack them too much. They’d stick together as they cooled, and while still edible, they wouldn’t look as appetizin
g as usual.

  “You’re missing out on all the customers,” Anna commented as Priscilla snapped the lid on the container. “I thought you said business was supposed to be slow tonight.”

  “I thought it would be,” Priscilla said. “How many customers have you had?”

  “Fifteen in the last hour, which is unusual. You know that business drops off at around seven. Well, at least until the tokers arrive at midnight.”

  Priscilla grimaced. It was true that most of the traffic to her store happened between sundown and seven or eight. She woke early, at five or six most nights, and caught the rush back home. But most human life was winding down by the time she opened. She lost business by not remaining open during the day. It was a loyal customer base that ordered cakes, cookies, and catering for all occasions and kept her doors open.

  There was a group of young adults, some of them physically older than Priscilla herself, who frequented the store in the middle of the night. Many were graduates from Bellmare high school who’d had either no desire or no opportunity to leave. They were the source of petty vandalism, minor theft, and a great deal of drug use. She didn’t like it when they came into the store. It was torture on her nose, for one. But she didn’t report them anymore. Arthur said that unless they had some on their person, they couldn’t be arrested. So as long as they paid for the three dozen cookies they ordered, she didn’t do more than glare at them and refuse to breathe in the presence.

  “Did you get any indication as to why so many dropped in? I thought people were avoiding us due to bad press.”

  Anna shrugged. “No clue. Maybe they’re being nosy. Everyone knows you’re helping my dad now.”

  Priscilla pinched the bridge of her nose in sudden frustration but was not altogether surprised by the information. Small towns were notorious for gossip, and Priscilla had grown used to it over the years. The less she engaged it, the better.

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” she told Anna. “If you need help, call Mrs. Jameson.”