How had it gotten under her clothes? Wasn’t that what clothes were for, to keep things off her vital bits? She squeezed a liberal amount of gently scented body wash into her hand and began to scrub herself down. Even more filth came off, and finally she could see the natural ivory shade of her skin beneath it.
She stayed in the shower until the water ran cold and she could no longer feel the skin of her back. Only then did she step out, wrap a fluffy towel around herself, and examine her reflection again.
Priscilla looked paler than ever, a fact that worried her. She’d need to feed more this week than she had in the last two. Maybe she’d chug a blood bag before she went to bed for the day. She selected the first things her hands came into contact with and threw on ill-fitting culottes which she’d purchased at a thrift store three years ago, and a hot pink shirt that was clearly a donation from Anna. Priscilla wrapped her hair in a towel and trooped downstairs, feeling, for lack of a better term, more human than she had since arriving at Tobias’ shop.
Maddison was doling out soup to customers when she entered the kitchen. Olivia was busy concocting a new soup on her stove, and Anna was leaning against the counter, waiting for the latest batch of cupcakes to come out of the oven. Priscilla had to hand it to the girl. She was going above and beyond the call of duty for an employee who’d been strictly hired for her taste buds.
“Oh, look everyone, Priscilla’s back,” Anna piped up. “Hey Priscilla, did you know the Swamp Thing came marching through here earlier, looking for you?”
“Not funny,” Priscilla said, trying to hide a grin.
“So, what’s on the menu, boss? All the usual stuff has been baked and you don’t need to start in on the Halloween cake until next week.”
“Bread,” Priscilla said. She hadn’t made a loaf of homemade bread since she was human and she’d left her father’s home. It was a simple recipe, but a familiar, comforting one. “I think it will pair well with soup, don’t you?”
She was nearing the end of the night when Jack Riggs darkened her doorstep. She was packing things away for the night and saying goodbye to her co-workers when he stepped in, trying to look unobtrusive. Tall, broad, and still in uniform, he might as well have been wearing a sign that said “look at me” in flashing gold letters.
“Hey, Jack,” Anna said, throwing her arms around the older man with a grin. “Did Dad send you to take me home? It’s not that far. I can walk, you know.”
“I know, kid, but no, I’m not here for you.”
His gaze slid to Priscilla, who took a step back. “No, no. My good deeds are done for the day, Jack. I’ve been through enough.”
“I know,” Jack said, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. “I tried to tell him that, but he’s pretty insistent. Says we’ve got a couple hours until dawn and we can put the heat on Brown until then.”
“Why me?” Priscilla asked. “I’m not police, Jack. Arthur has been very clear on that point. Even you don’t think it’s a good idea to drag me into this. And after seeing what that mob was ready to do to Tobias? I can’t blame you. If those vagabonds get wind that it might have been Noah Brown, they’ll burn the bed and breakfast down. I’m not making the same mistake twice.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll go myself. It’s my job, not yours.” He wriggled out of Anna’s grasp and turned back to leave the way he’d come.
“Wait,” Priscilla called after him. She couldn’t shake the fear that if he went alone, he might be killed. She knew better than to think of humans as weaklings. They were beings capable of great violence, especially when armed. But she couldn’t help but think that there should be a more durable body between Jack Riggs and a potential killer.
“Wait here. I need to get my coat.”
Chapter Twelve
Priscilla could feel dawn approaching, even as they drove. Jack had promised the trip would be quick, just a question and answer session with the Brown family. The receipt the department had fished out of the ruins of the apothecary didn’t prove that Noah Brown was guilty of murder, nor did it disprove Matthew Porter’s guilt. It did raise questions though, questions that the rest of the department was too busy to seek an answer to for the time being.
Daisy Farrington, Kierra’s maid of honor, along with the rest of her cohorts in the wedding party, was being processed at the station. Each of them had called a parent or friend and lawyered up as soon as they’d realized the trouble they’d gotten themselves into. Their parents might be able to get them out of jail time, but nothing was going to stop this from going on public record.
“Everyone?” Priscilla asked.
“Everyone,” Jack said, shaking his head. “There was property damage, theft, a call to violence. We could bring them up on any number of charges, and they’d stick. It’s been a logistical nightmare though.”
“How so?”
“We’re not a big city, Priscilla. Even in the olden days when people were punished more, we didn’t have a lot of room to house them. All we’re equipped to deal with here is the occasional robbery or drunk driver. We haven’t seen a crime like this since the last murders at the Findlay house.”
The Findlay house was considered one of the most haunted houses in Bellmare, which was quite a feat. Over the course of centuries, it had seen more than fifty murders. In an effort to stop the ritualistic killings, the house had ceased to be rented out to new owners in 1868. However, a group of teenagers had still managed to find their way inside in 1962. No one knew who or what had killed them that night. Like all the others, it remained a cold case that no one could solve.
Today, the Findlay house was one of the most popular destinations for television crews or ghost-happy tourists. Bellmare didn’t have to worry about any murders there for a while—the killings only took place in the sixties of any given generation—but Priscilla was sure that when the decade rolled around again, the local authorities would put a kibosh on the tourist industry until it was safe again.
“Not enough officers?”
“That, and there really isn’t enough space to house all of them either. We’ve had to send the worst offenders to Wakefield, even though it’s not really our jurisdiction. We can’t exactly keep the prisoners in the roundhouse the way they used to. Their lawyers will have a field day.”
She nodded. She supposed it made sense. “And the media?”
Jack snorted and clutched the steering wheel harder out of reflex. “Freaking vultures, all of them. They’ve been badgering us all day for an interview with the maid of honor, Daisy Farrington. There was a small piece on the case in that rag they sell, saying that the cause of death was yet undetermined. Now the headlines are blaring murder, and it’s become a witch hunt. They want a name, and they want one now.”
“Please tell me that you kept Tobias’ name out of the press.”
“We kept him from getting negative press, but after that stunt, there’s no way he’s staying out of the news. No, all the blame is falling on us for now,” Jack finished, scowling at the road.
She could only imagine how it must have irritated Arthur. Perhaps that was why he wanted her along on this. She’d dragged Tobias into their sights, and now she was paying for it. The Brown’s Bed and Breakfast was a dot on the horizon when he spoke again.
“I need to poke around the house to see if there are any more clues that point toward Matthew’s guilt. I’ll leave the questions to you.”
“What do you want me to ask?”
Jack filled her in as the shape resolved itself into the familiar house. The sky was lightening to gray, and Priscilla’s stomach clenched uneasily. She didn’t like the thought of getting sick on the way home again. Perhaps if the interview stretched too long, she’d pay for the pleasure of occupying one of the Brown’s bedrooms for the day.
Jack pulled up the long drive and parked next to the Brown’s van. It looked like it had taken damage during the rioting yesterday. Somehow, Priscilla doubted that Daisy Farrington or her ilk w
ere going to fork over the cash to remove the dents. Jack caught her looking.
“Noah Brown has plenty of reasons to be angry with the wedding party, doesn’t he?” Jack asked. Priscilla didn’t think that he was actually seeking an answer, and didn’t reply.
The cold spell seemed to have lifted sometime during the day before because the snow was beginning to melt around the brown house. Water dripped from the eves as they mounted the steps up to the front door. Jack shielded her from the worst of it as they passed beneath. When she reached the front door, she rapped firmly on the weathered wood.
Priscilla wasn’t sure anyone would be awake at this early hour and was surprised when a bleary-eyed Noah Brown stumbled to the door. He was only half-dressed, and Priscilla averted her eyes politely. Jack wasn’t so considerate.
He snorted. “Nice boxers, Brown. I had no idea you liked Thomas the Tank Engine.”
Noah seemed to realize what he’d done and at this close proximity, Priscilla could feel the heat radiating off his face. “It’s my house and it’s five in the morning, Riggs. What on earth are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry about the early hour, but we need to poke around your house for a bit. There are bags to be gathered, and we really need to shore up the case against Matthew Porter. Do you mind if I take a look?”
Noah stepped aside to let them pass and Priscilla tried hard not to notice that his tube socks were patterned similarly to his boxers. “I still don’t see why you needed to knock on my door before the crack of dawn.”
Jack jerked a thumb at her. “Priscilla wanted to tag along. She’s not really a morning person.”
Noah turned to regard her intently. “And what exactly do you need from me, Miss Pratt?”
“In all the commotion, I forgot my container in your kitchen. Do you mind if I retrieve it?” she asked sweetly.
In truth, she had dozens more just like it. She’d bought several sets during the Tupperware parties she’d been invited to cater. She did it both as a thank you, and for the more practical reason that she’d eventually need them all at some time or another. She couldn’t exactly stuff leftover fondant into one of her official company boxes. She wouldn’t miss the container if Rebecca Brown decided to keep it, though.
Noah shrugged. “I suppose not. I hope you don’t mind if I skip the tour. I need to put on a pair of pants.”
“Not at all,” she said a little too quickly, keeping her gaze locked on his carpet. It was ivory. She hadn’t noticed that the night before. Perhaps it was a bit judgmental, but she thought it was a poor choice. With young children prone to spills and stains of all colors, she was surprised that it didn’t look like tie-dye by now.
Noah moved away from her, and Jack followed. “I moved the bags into Rebecca’s craft room after I heard what happened at the apothecary. There’s no way they’ll convince me to let them back under this roof after what they’ve done.”
“Which way’s that?” Jack asked.
“Just down the hall to your left. There’s no door on it, so the kids can go in and out while Rebecca works. Feel free to grab them.”
Noah’s footsteps disappeared up the stairs, and only then did Priscilla feel it safe to look up. She found Jack grinning at her.
“What’s wrong, Pratt? You look a little flustered,” he said with a knowing twinkle in his eye.
She scowled at him. “You know perfectly well what’s wrong.”
“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’ve never seen a man half-dressed before? You’ve been alive for over three centuries. I didn’t think you’d still be this much of a prude.”
“It’s about context,” she sniffed. “I was in a committed relationship. This is like peeking unbidden into someone’s boudoir.”
Jack snickered. “When was the last time you dated, Pratt? That was hardly an indecent amount of man-flesh.”
It was a little depressing that she had to do math to answer that question. “My last relationship started in 1661 and ended in 1666 so ... over 300 years?”
Jack’s eyes bugged. “Erm, well, that’s impressive, I suppose. It does explain a lot though.”
“Explain what?” Priscilla asked, bristling a little.
“Why you’re so ... I don’t know ... naive? I suppose I thought you were single by choice. World- weary and jaded by men, or something like that. I had no idea you could be so innocent after all of that.”
“I am not an innocent,” she snapped. “I assure you, I’m quite aware what goes on between men and women.”
Jack held up his hands in surrender. “That’s not what I mean, Priscilla. But this is a conversation for another time, I think. I’m going to take these bags to the car and poke around the outside of the house for a little while, okay? Can you keep our host busy until I signal you?”
Her brow furrowed. Signal her? She felt like they were in a bad spy movie and he was about to mimic the eastern whippoorwill or teach her how to read smoke signals. Instead, he pulled out a small silver cell phone and offered it to her.
“You’ve been working pretty closely with us of late, and the boss thought it was high time you had a more dependable form of communication. This is a Trac phone. It has prepaid minutes and it’s pretty simple to use. The chief and I have the number programmed into our phones so we’ll know when you’re calling. Do you think you can use it?”
She wasn’t certain. The last time she’d tried to use a cell phone, she’d chucked it across the bakery in frustration. It had met death by dough, sinking into a pastry mix that had been rising. The rotary phone was older and stationary, but at least she knew how to work it.
“I can try,” she said, uncertainty clear in her voice. “And if I snap it into pieces when I get angry with it?”
“Then you’re buying the replacement,” he said with a laugh. “It’s easy, honest. Stuff it into your bag, Priscilla. Brown will be down soon.”
She did as she was told, sliding the little plastic phone into her bag, where it disappeared among the detritus at the bottom. She swung it up onto one shoulder as Jack disappeared down the opposite corridor.
The kitchen was quite a bit cleaner than it had been the last time she’d seen it. The stains and crumbs were cleared away, leaving the marble countertops shining under the fluorescent light. The card table and chairs had been folded up and propped against the wall. With their guests in jail, the Brown family could eat dinner at their dining room table again. The kitchen still smelled faintly of chicken soup, and she found that the scent calmed her frazzled nerves. It was such a warm, homey smell, and she couldn’t picture someone who prepared heart-healthy meals over a hot stove mixing up a poison for his guests.
Her Tupperware container was empty and placed neatly at the corner of one of the countertops. She suspected that the cookies had ended up in the stomachs of hungry children, rather than in the hands she’d originally intended them for.
She tucked the container under one arm and made her way back out to the living room. Noah was padding down the stairs again, thankfully clad in blue jeans and his large sleep shirt. He rubbed at his eyes wearily, and she felt like doing the same. She didn’t like being up so late, and she’d been making a habit of it for over a week now.
“Did he take all of it out already? There must have been at least 10 bags.”
“Jack’s a big guy,” Priscilla said. “I’m sure he can manage. Why don’t you sit down? I’ll make you a cup of my signature coffee.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
She set her bag and the container down next to one of the plush armchairs while Noah settled into the other. Rebecca’s organizational schema seemed easy enough to follow, so it didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. The coffee grounds and filters were in a cupboard above the machine, and a spice rack on the opposite counter contained everything else she needed.
In general, Priscilla preferred to grind her own coffee beans, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. She spooned severa
l spoonfuls into the filter to make the brew good and strong, then mixed cinnamon and sugar into the grounds. It made the coffee smell better while it percolated, and she’d been told it took the bitter bite out of the brew.
While she waited for the coffee to finish, she dug a mostly empty carton of heavy whipping cream from the back of the fridge. She poured it into a small mason jar and began to shake it. She’d spent many, many days in her childhood milking cows and churning cream to make butter. Fortunately, it was much faster with her vampire abilities. She had the consistency she wanted within five minutes of dedicated shaking.
Satisfied, she poured the coffee into an “I Love Daddy” mug, and let a stream of buttermilk dribble into the cup. To finish, she added just a dash of vanilla extract and stirred. The mixture smelled divine, but she knew it would taste like brackish water if she tried to drink it. She set the spoon in the sink and carried the cup out to Noah.
He glanced up from yesterday’s paper with a grateful smile. “That looks wonderful. Thank you, Priscilla.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, giving him a smile in return. “How are things?”
Noah took a sip of the coffee and let out a sound of appreciation. “Better with coffee in me, that’s for sure.”
“I’m sorry, again. We didn’t mean to wake you.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “No, it’s fine. I understand. You don’t want to go poof in the sunlight, right?”
Priscilla couldn’t help it. She laughed. “I don’t go poof in the sunlight, Mr. Brown. I get irritable, then I get sick, and if I stay up for too long, I throw up. I’m like a college freshman that way.”
Noah let out a rueful chuckle and shook his head. “Sorry. That must be pretty insulting, right? Everyone always assumes they know how you’re going to act because of pop culture.”
“I prefer Dracula to Buffy, because it’s closer to the truth, but to each their own. And no, it doesn’t insult me. Most vampire legends are rooted somewhere in fact. The further back you go, the less human we become. Ancient vampires could summon familiars and control the weather.”
Fangs in Fondant Page 13
