A few of the floats were already in motion, puttering down the road. Tradition said they were to be given a ten-minute head start. They didn’t travel fast, and the zombies almost always caught up before the end of the race. Once a float had been boarded, it was considered “infested” and all of its members were turned into zombies. The more zombies that finished the race, the more money that was raised.
Priscilla smiled grimly to herself. She wondered if the town would really have been so eager to play out the farce if they knew the origin of the zombie hoards that were so prevalent in film and fiction. The zombie, at its earliest incarnation, had originated in Africa as a result of voodoo. Only magic could reanimate the dead, and the zombie was a slave to the will of its summoner. The cases were rare, and didn’t really eat flesh.
Priscilla still wasn’t sure what poor soul had had the misfortune to find out that vampires could also create zombies. She imagined it was the result of a failed turning. If the person had failed to give their childe enough blood, or had fed it to them too close to the point of death … Well, it didn’t matter who had discovered it. The end result was disastrous.
Vampires had only to dribble their blood into the mouth of a corpse to reanimate it. Immortal despots had found that they could create armies that were incapable of feeling pain, driven only by the desire to feed. The modern zombie was much closer to a walker, or an illegal vampire creation, than it was to the zombies of African myth. Swathes of the living dead had eaten their way across Siberia before Parliament could deal with the fallout. It had taken years to send word all around the world not to intentionally create zombies, and by that time, thousands had died.
No, she’d keep that grim little factoid to herself.
She managed to wade through the crowd and make it onto the courthouse lawn. The grass beneath her feet was an ugly shade of brown and crunched audibly as she made her way toward the still-functional gallows. The auctioneer’s booth had been set up on the gallows themselves, in front of rows of metal folding chairs. Priscilla personally thought metal chairs were a poor choice in this cold, but it wasn’t her backside at stake, so she said nothing.
Desmond Chase looked like a scarecrow come to life. He was tall, spindly, and had a lean face. The wisps of blond hair sticking out from beneath his wide-brimmed cowboy hat only added to that impression. He surveyed her for a moment before he gave her a thin-lipped grin.
“Ah Priscilla, I’ve been waitin’ for you,” he drawled.
She wasn’t sure if the Texas drawl was real or affected. Chase wasn’t a native of Bellmare, or Massachusetts state for that matter. All she knew about him was that he’d been called in as a favor by one of the ladies of the Bellmare Historical Society. She tried not to hold that fact against him too much.
The ladies of the Bellmare Historical society had been promoting an unofficial boycott on her store for close to seven months now, and many of their friends in Bellmare’s upper echelons had decided to join in. Priscilla thought it was very petty, considering the member she’d helped get kicked off of their board had killed a young bride.
“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Chase. Business hasn’t slowed since I woke up.”
“Ain’t nothin’ to apologize for, darlin’,” he said, and his smile revealed a few teeth this time. “The race is about to start, and we’ve got some time before people filter in for the auction. How have you been?”
Truthfully, she was exhausted already. She wanted nothing more than to climb back into her bed in the attic, draw her blackout curtains tight, and go to sleep until dusk the next night. But that would be foolish in the extreme. She forced a smile.
“I suppose I’m doing all right. You?”
“Fine and dandy.” He leaned against the staircase that led up to the gallows. “I tell ya, I haven’t seen a crowd like this in ages. Wish I’d been working this crowd for years.”
Priscilla could have told him that their usual auctioneer, Mrs. Jameson, the usually soft-spoken preacher’s wife, had died recently of cancer, leaving the space open just before the town’s most well-attended event. But she didn’t. There was no point injecting morbidity where it wasn’t required.
“I’m sure you’ll be invited back next year, Mr. Chase,” she said pleasantly. “You said you wanted me to dictate something for you?”
“Yes, yes.” He clapped his long-fingered hands together in excitement. “I’ve been told this is for charity. I wanted you to say a few words about what it’s for.”
A lump formed in Priscilla’s throat. She couldn’t physically cry unless she had recently consumed a glut of human blood fresh from the vein. Instead, she could get all the physical trappings of grief without the cathartic payoff of tears. She cleared her throat.
“It’s called the Montgomery Fund,” she said, and her voice sounded strained, even to her own ears. “It’s a local fund, set up for the victims of the murders that have recently taken place in Bellmare. Anyone affected by the violent death of a loved one can apply to receive help.”
Mr. Chase’s eyes shot up. “Is murder a common part of life in Bellmare, Miss Priscilla?”
“It didn’t used to be,” Priscilla said, eyes falling to her shoes. She wondered how exactly things could return to the relatively peaceful state Bellmare had existed in before the recent string of murders.
Mr. Chase let that go without further comment, moving on to the next item in his checklist. “Are there any current beneficiaries of the fund?”
“As of now, there’s only one,” she said. “And I hope it stays that way.”
Mr. Chase pulled a notepad from his breast pocket and jotted down what she’d said. “All right then, Miss Pratt. That’s all I need from you. You have a nice evening now, ya hear?”
She gave him a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”
She turned away from the auctioneer, scrubbing at her eyes to dispel the itching sensation that came with her lack of tears. Priscilla had donated all the money she’d earned as a consultant with the Bellmare Police Department to a charity of her choice, just as she’d said she would. Not until the murderer had been brought to justice had she known exactly how she wanted to contribute to the good of her community.
Currently, the only beneficiary of the fund was Benjamin Montgomery, the uncle of the latest victims. Benjamin and Clarissa’s uncle was the black sheep in a wealthy family, and one of the only decent members to boot. His help with the murder investigation had cost him his job at Bellmare High, and the fund was the only thing that had kept him from going completely bankrupt.
Priscilla knew that one day there would be a family who was not as wealthy as the Montgomery family who would need the assistance. She’d keep donating what she could, in case that day ever came.
The crack of the starting pistol signaled the beginning of the race. So much for her plans to get back to the shop quickly. She’d need to wait for the crowd of zombie runners, and especially lazy walkers, to clear out before she could cross the street and walk back to her shop. She settled against a tree to wait
And then it began to rain kettle corn onto her head.
Priscilla spluttered and looked up. Past the hail of popcorn and kernels she spotted a familiar face sitting in the branches of a large oak.
“Avalon!” she hissed. “What the hell are you doing up there?”
Her faerie godmother at least had the decency to look sheepish. “Oops. I didn’t mean to hit you, Priscilla.”
“What are you doing up there in the first place?” she asked, brushing popcorn off of her coat. She had to remove her scarf to shake all the debris loose.
“I’m trying to spot Arthur,” Avalon said cheerfully. “He’s sure to look handsome in the tracksuit everyone is wearing. Did he choose gray or green, do you know?”
“Gray,” Priscilla muttered. “And you should really leave him alone, Godmother. I think this officially qualifies as sexual harassment at this point.”
Avalon looked like the picture of childish innocence. Her platinum bl
onde hair was arranged in pigtails today, tucked beneath a woolen cap. Her lower lip jutted out in a practiced pout.
“If he didn’t want me, why did he invite me to stay at his home, Priscilla?”
“He was being nice,” Priscilla explained for the umpteenth time. “After you dumped your boyfriend and lost your only ride out of Bellmare, we offered to take you back to LA. When you refused, we had to find someplace for you to stay long term. How’s the new house, by the way?”
Avalon’s lips pursed. “It’s shabby and dull, thank you very much,” she sniffed.
Priscilla couldn’t help but smile a little. Her godmother was used to living in luxury. From what she’d been able to gather, Avalon had attached herself to the arm of any well-to-do man she could find for the last few centuries and sponged off his wealth until she found someone more entertaining.
Now she was living in Larsonburg, a low-income neighborhood in Bellmare filled with cookie-cutter housing built by Frederick Larson in 1901. Avalon had lived with Arthur and Anna for almost two weeks, following her breakup with Martino Romano, and had been dismayed to find that she wasn’t being waited on hand and foot. Not long after, she’d been given the boot by Arthur when she’d kept the police line busy for an hour trying to talk to him.
It wasn’t often that Priscilla enjoyed some good old schadenfreude, but this situation certainly qualified. Because her godmother had so few marketable skills in the real world, she’d been forced to work through a temp agency for the last month and already had a bad reputation among local employers. It was a little gratifying to see Avalon suffering the consequences of indulging in a parasitic lifestyle for so long.
Avalon squinted into the crowd of marathoners. “There are a few people missing,” she noted.
“How can you tell?” Priscilla asked. She had superior vision to most creatures at night, and even she couldn’t tell one runner from the other. All she knew was that there were about five hundred people running, and she still wouldn’t have known if just one runner was missing.
Avalon shrugged. “We fae have a penchant for counting things. I heard there were supposed to be five hundred and thirteen runners. I only counted five hundred and ten.”
Priscilla frowned. “I’m sure a few people dropped out.”
“Pansies,” Avalon scoffed. “This weather isn’t even cold.”
Priscilla disagreed with her godmother’s assessment, even if the cold didn’t affect her personally. If it was cold enough for every human’s breath to be visible, it was cold enough that she could understand why people would drop out of a race.
The horde moaned and shuffled forward, or sprinted in some cases, chasing after the floats that were small specks of color and light in the distance. It took several minutes for the crowd to clear and leave the street bare enough to cross safely. The square had been cordoned off with police tape, so she didn’t have to worry about vehicles speeding past for at least another hour or two.
“Goodbye, Godmother,” Priscilla said hastily, and set off before Avalon could really get going. Once her godmother got started, it could take a long time to pry yourself loose from the conversation.
Once she cleared the rows of folding chairs that occupied the sidewalks it was an easy matter to sprint across the brick road that made up the main drag in Bellmare and arrive minutes later at her front door. The sign was still flipped to read “Closed,” and her lobby looked rather bare. Good. Everything was as she’d left it. Priscilla tugged the front door open and was immediately assaulted by a familiar, tantalizing smell.
The coppery tang of blood hung heavy in the air, as sweet to her senses as the smell of cinnamon or sugar. While a small, animalistic part of her brain basked in the glorious scent, her rational brain sent adrenaline spiking through her veins. The smell didn’t saturate the air like this when someone got a papercut. Someone had lost blood, and a lot of it. Unease slithered like a snake in her gut. It wasn’t the first time she’d smelled this amount of blood in recent months. It never meant anything good.
Priscilla crossed the tile floor in three short strides, bumped the divider, and found herself staring at a gruesome sight.
Maddison was crouching over a man’s chest, her hands wrapped around his throat. For a bewildered second, Priscilla thought that the girl was trying to strangle him. Then things came into focus and she saw the situation for what it was.
The man bucked weakly, as Maddison tried desperately to stanch the flow of blood from his throat. There was blood everywhere. It smeared Maddison’s front and had soaked into her jeans where she knelt over the man’s body. Arterial spray had splattered Priscilla’s white cabinets, spread across her tile floor, and had even splashed into the large bowl of chocolate chunk cookie dough batter nearby.
“Call for help,” Maddison begged. “I don’t think he can survive much longer.”
Priscilla pulled out the TracFone Arthur had given her for emergencies. She wouldn’t be able to get ahold of him with it anytime soon. He and most of the other police officers were taking part in the race outside. She dialed a number with shaking fingers and waited.
The operator picked up promptly after one ring. “911. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“A man’s throat has been cut,” Priscilla said. She could hear the tremor in her voice. “I don’t think he’s going to make it. Please send help immediately.”
Double Chocolate Chunk Cookies
I, unfortunately, have never gotten to properly taste chocolate. The modern chocolate bars as we know them didn’t come out until well after I was turned. However, there’s no bakery that’s complete without a chocolate cookie. Instead of contrasting the cocoa with white chocolate, as is popular, I decided to double everyone else’s pleasure and make this recipe a chocolate explosion. I can’t enjoy, so please do so for me. A girl has to live vicariously, doesn’t she?
—Priscilla Pratt
Ingredients
1 1/2 cups flour
1 tsp baking soda
1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 cup butter (melted)
1/4 cup sugar
3/4 cup light brown sugar
1 tsp vanilla
1 egg
1 egg yolk
1 cup chocolate chunks
1/4 cup chocolate chips
Directions
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease cookie sheets.
Mix together the flour, baking soda, and cocoa powder. Cream together the butter and sugars until smooth and fluffy. Continue to mix as you add the vanilla, egg, and egg yolk until thoroughly combined. Slowly add in the dry ingredients until completely combined.
Fold in the chocolate chunks and chips. Once well combined, roll the dough into balls and place on cookie sheets. Bake in the oven for about 8-12 minutes, depending on the size of your cookie. You want the bottom to be lightly browned, and the tops to be slightly firm.
Allow to cool for about 2 minutes before serving.
Chapter Two
“You can’t keep her here, Arthur,” Priscilla said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You and I both know that Maddison had nothing to do with this.”
Arthur looked grumpier than usual. He still hadn’t had time to sponge off the zombie makeup or remove the sweaty tracksuit he wore. The Bellmare Police Department looked less than professional milling about the precinct out of uniform. The only one who’d remained on duty today and was thus properly attired was Jamie Emmerson, the youngest cop in the department at only 28. Priscilla belatedly realized it was his birthday today, and that she’d intended to make him a batch of his favorite frosted sugar cookies.
Those plans had been thoroughly scuppered. Her restaurant was now a crime scene, and there was no way she’d be able to get inside of it until the forensic teams were through doing their job photographing every inch.
That apparently included her upstairs as well. Unbeknownst to Priscilla, whoever had attacked the victim had fled upstairs after they heard Maddison coming i
n with a bag of flour and had burst out of one of Priscilla’s bedroom windows.
“We can’t eliminate her as a suspect at this point,” Arthur argued, mirroring her stance to a tee. She was sure she looked more dignified and rational than the chief at this point. At least she wasn’t running around looking like a B-movie extra.
“She was trying to save his life, Arthur. I saw that with my own eyes. She was being a Good Samaritan. Now let her go, or so help me I’m not getting in the way of the hell that Olivia will rain down on this place when she finds out you’ve detained her daughter.”
Arthur flinched. His face paint had cracked in several places and Priscilla had to fight the urge to scrape it all off.
The makeup had made it difficult for the first responders to identify the man who’d died on her floor. Once he’d been pronounced dead at the scene, they’d taken his body to the coroner’s office. After removing the makeup that had been artfully applied to his face, the man had been identified as Aaron Burke.
It was an odd feeling for Priscilla to be unfamiliar with the victim this time around. Before, when she’d helped Arthur on cases, she’d had some link to the victims. She didn’t feel as strongly for this young man’s plight, even though it had happened in her shop. Did that detachment make her a bad person, or was it her way of protecting herself from the horror that had taken place in her own home?
Arthur scrubbed at his face and the green paint came off in flakes. Whoever the desk he was standing by belonged to, Priscilla was sure they wouldn’t appreciate that. “I want to let her go, Priscilla. I really do. But we have to investigate every possible suspect.”
“She didn’t kill him,” Priscilla argued stubbornly. After a second she offered him a handkerchief. He took it grudgingly.
“I’m not saying she did.” Arthur paced away from her to the water fountain. He ran the handkerchief she’d offered him under the stream for a minute before wringing it out and mopping at his face, only succeeding in spreading the paint down his neck, up into his ears, and into his hairline.
Blood in the Batter Page 2
