Blood in the Batter

by Melissa Monroe

  “Oh fine. What’s the favor?” Avalon asked impatiently.

  Priscilla told her.

  “Oh goodie,” Avalon said. “A chance to dress up. What time do I need to meet you?”

  “Bright and early, I’m afraid,” she said grimly. “I have a morning appointment with Simon Grant at Bellmare Dentistry.”

  Chapter Five

  Bellmare Dentistry wasn’t technically situated within the city limits, and so shouldn’t have been able to claim the town name. No one really cared that much for technicalities, except for the stuffy old ladies of the Bellmare Historical Society, so no one had contested the use of the name.

  Simon Grant’s place of business was a converted two-story home. The siding was off-white and reflected the sun back at them as they drove up the winding drive to the small gravel parking lot. There was only one other car in the lot, but because of the influx of light in Priscilla’s overstimulated eyes, she couldn’t tell what make or model it was. She couldn’t even reliably tell what color it was, just that it was dark in contrast to the white siding of the building.

  “I don’t see why you insisted on getting up this early,” Avalon said. “You know the office is open until six. You could have been doing this closer to dark.”

  Priscilla knew that. She also knew that people were more likely to expect her after dark. People tended to be less guarded in the morning, and she was hoping that the strain of losing an employee would make the dentist’s tongue looser than it might otherwise be. If he had all day to anticipate her arrival, then he might have a script prepared when she arrived.

  Avalon hopped out of the silver rental car and came around to Priscilla’s side to open the door. She gave her godmother a nod of thanks and clambered out, swaying slightly. Contrary to myth, vampires didn’t burn in the sun. They could go out in daylight, but that didn’t mean there were no ill-effects from doing so.

  Vampires were nocturnal predators, their eyes designed to filter more light in order to see well in the dark. All senses were heightened for pursuit of very canny prey. Humans didn’t want to be eaten any more than any other creatures, and unlike some, they could fight back using deadly force. So vampires had to be stealthy and well-equipped.

  Due to thousands of years of evolution—or perhaps a cruel joke on God’s part, if you wanted to explain it using religion—going out in the daytime left a vampire practically blind. The blindness in turn heightened a vampire’s other senses even further so sound and smell were particularly potent. The gravel crunching beneath their feet sounded like a miniature rock slide to Priscilla’s ears.

  Things improved marginally when they crossed the threshold. Once upon a time, Priscilla might have had to ask the owner for permission to enter. Human homes had a barrier that kept supernatural folk out. But because Bellmare Dentistry was a business, its threshold was now weak or completely nonexistent.

  Bellmare Dentistry had a unique odor that seemed to cling only to dentists’ offices. It was slightly off-putting even to human senses, she’d been told. The strong chemical smell burned Priscilla’s nose on the best of days. Today it was practically intolerable.

  Avalon sat herself primly in a chair next to the reception area while Priscilla rung the bell. Today’s outfit was skimpy, even for her flashy godmother. That was by design, of course. While Avalon looked like an inhumanly attractive young woman, she was in reality well over eight centuries old. It had given her godmother enough time to style herself provocatively for every century. Priscilla was certain that Avalon owned more clothing than a department store.

  Avalon’s shapely legs were on display, covered by the smallest of mini-skirts. Her tank top was an almost sheer violet and she’d put her hair up in pigtails, emphasizing the impression of youth.

  “You look like someone’s stabbing you, Priscilla,” Avalon said.

  “The smell is giving me a headache.”

  “Well of course it is. It’s teeth, dear,” Avalon said.

  “What?”

  “Part of the odor in a dentist’s office is tooth particulates in the air. When a dentist drills or grinds into someone’s tooth, it has to go somewhere. The rest of it is formocresol, cresatin, clove oil, and acrylic.”

  Priscilla lowered her shades a fraction to stare at her godmother. “How do you know that?”

  “I was around for the founding of orthodontia, you know. I also keep in contact with the tooth faerie. You wouldn’t believe how many people try to swap fake teeth for a dollar. Bah.”

  Priscilla sat down next to her godmother, trying not to think about the microscopic pieces of teeth that might be floating around in the air. It was a good thing that she didn’t technically have to breathe in. Did it count as cannibalism if she inhaled bits of someone else’s body?

  They didn’t have to wait long. There was a commotion further inside the office. Priscilla strained her ears to hear what was being said while Ava flipped halfheartedly through a magazine.

  “I can pay, Mr. Grant,” a woman pleaded. “Please. He needs the tooth looked at, and I can’t afford the gas money to get to Westwend for another week. I’m good for it. Just—”

  Simon Grant’s unpleasantly reedy voice cut the woman off. “It says in my literature that I only accept personal checks or cash, Ms. Sheppard. IOUs are not a valid form of currency. If I gave a handout to everyone who asked for it, I’d be out of business. Now get out. I have a paying client in five minutes.”

  A woman rounded the corner, backing away from an irate-looking Simon Grant. Priscilla didn’t know the woman personally. Even though Bellmare was a small town, she didn’t know all three thousand residents personally.

  She appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties, and in good shape. Priscilla recognized the gray track suit she wore from the day before. She’d run after the parade floats as a part of the zombie horde. In her arms she toted a little boy of around six. He had inherited his mother’s sandy blonde hair, though his appeared to have streaks of red in it from what Priscilla could tell. He clutched at his jaw and looked minutes away from crying. Priscilla couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity. The woman looked haggard and ready to cry herself. It wasn’t as if she could help when her son had a dental issue. Sometimes expenses came at the most inconvenient of times.

  The woman marched off, and Priscilla only caught a brief flash of tear-filled blue eyes before Simon Grant called her name. His eyes swept the office, lingering too long on Avalon’s legs for Priscilla’s liking. Apparently Olivia had the measure of the man better than she did. How had she failed to spot how slimy he was?

  Perhaps it was because she only saw him once a year. That was why this came as a surprise. It shouldn’t have, all things considered. Simon Grant looked like the kind of man who’d have a fetish for underage girls. He was short, sallow, and had a bushy handlebar mustache that clashed terribly with the obvious toupee he wore to cover a giant bald patch. His wire-rimmed spectacles were so thick that it looked like he was wearing goggles half of the time.

  “Ah, Miss Pratt. How nice to see you again,” he enthused. Ugh. Even his voice oozed with false, unpleasant politeness. “Who’s this? Your daughter, perhaps?”

  His gaze swept over Avalon once more, and he smiled. Priscilla thought he meant to look paternal, but it just looked perverted.

  “My godmother, actually,” Priscilla said. “Ava is eight-hundred years old.”

  “Eight hundred and eighty-one, darling,” Ava corrected. “Don’t knock almost a century off. It isn’t polite.”

  Simon blinked in surprise and examined Avalon again. Most fae were better preserved even than the oldest vampire. Lack of food could affect a vampire’s looks and coloring. Fae were personifications of nature for the most part. Avalon had probably sprung into existence looking as beautiful as she did now. She’d look the same in another eight hundred years, while time or lack of food could have killed Priscilla off by then.

  Simon finally made a noncommittal noise and escorted Priscilla back in
to the office. The lights were brighter here, despite the lack of windows, and Priscilla was forced to squint to see anything clearly. The walls were beige, and the office was almost completely empty as far as she could tell.

  “Sorry about the delay, Miss Pratt,” Simon said. “Staff is so hard to find and keep. My assistant recently quit, and I’m sure you’ve heard about Mr. Burke’s unfortunate passing.”

  By now the whole town was buzzing. There’d been another murder in Bellmare, and of course, it had had happened somewhere in the vicinity of Priscilla Pratt. If she hadn’t known better, Priscilla might have bought into the rumors that there was a conspiracy going on. This was the fourth body to turn up in as many months, and it was beginning to stretch credibility that she had managed to stumble upon every single one. True, she did catering for most of the major events in Bellmare, but honestly, how many bodies could there possibly be?

  “I did hear about that,” she said mildly. “My business is closed for the time being because of it.”

  “I hope that the police clear out soon,” Simon said, oozing false sincerity. “Are you working elsewhere then?”

  “I’m helping Olivia Baker at the Big Bowl for the time being. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings, you know.”

  Simon didn’t even bother to have her don the lead apron and step in front of the x-ray machine. He’d treated enough vampire patients in his tenure to know that tooth decay was unlikely, especially from an immortal who was very serious about flossing. Instead, he plopped her down in the pleather chair and turned the bright lights on her right away.

  He fitted her with a bib, something that Priscilla found a little demeaning, even though she knew there was a likelihood of drool during the procedure. She didn’t like feeling like an infant, however briefly.

  “Now say ‘ah’,” Simon directed.

  Priscilla obliged, opening her mouth as far as she could so he could get at her teeth. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She couldn’t blot out the sounds or the smells, but at least she didn’t have to put up with all this light.

  She was unable to say or do much for the next twenty minutes while Simon Grant went about his business, cleaning any stains from her teeth. The beautiful thing about a mostly liquid diet was that the damage to her teeth was far less than what a human would normally have suffered. Blood was more of a basic substance than an acidic one and didn’t affect her teeth adversely.

  “All done,” Simon pronounced a while later. “I wish humans had such admirable oral hygiene, Miss Pratt. It would make my job so much easier.”

  “But you’d be paid less, I suppose,” Priscilla said. “After all, maladies of the mouth are your bread and butter.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” he said with a chuckle, stripping off his gloves. He tossed them into the trash and rolled up his sleeves to wash his hands.

  It was only then that she spotted a wound in his arm. It looked fairly fresh. The edges were still red and puckered, and the whole thing was being held together by a row of stitches. A bit of blood oozed from the wound. Priscilla tried to ignore the twist of her stomach. She’d fed this week. She didn’t need to go lusting after the blood of her dentist.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said, averting her eyes.

  Simon jumped and then brought the gash up to the light so he could examine it. “You’re right. Sorry about that.”

  He seized a tissue from a nearby box and mopped up the wound. Then he tossed the tissue toward the wastepaper basket without looking and missed by a mile.

  How had he gotten a cut so deep it required stitches? An answer came to her after a moment, and she was stunned that she hadn’t thought of it the moment he’d revealed the gash. Glass. Glass could easily rip human skin to shreds.

  Priscilla eyed him warily as he set about cleaning his workspace. He hummed tunelessly as he did so. Was this the man that had broken her upstairs window? He didn’t look terribly spry. It was a two-story drop from her window. If he’d leapt to the ground, he should have at least been limping from the impact. And he didn’t look athletic enough to have jumped from roof to roof until he got to lower ground.

  Then again, Priscilla had been deceived by appearances before. One of the first murders she’d helped Arthur solve had been an unlikely culprit. After all, no one had suspected the elderly home economics teacher to kill a young woman, or come after Priscilla with an ax, but it had still happened.

  She couldn’t rule out Simon Grant because he was short and middle-aged. Aaron had been one of his employees. If something had happened between the two, Simon would have had a reason to target the man.

  “There we are. All done,” Simon said cheerily, dropping the disposables into the trash. “Time to get you checked out. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m no good with these blasted computers. That was Aaron’s area of expertise, and I’m running a bit behind now that he’s gone.”

  Priscilla’s eyebrow ticked up a notch. He didn’t sound very upset about Aaron’s passing, except to note how it inconvenienced him.

  “Are you looking to hire another secretary?” Priscilla asked, keeping a careful eye on the fallen tissue. Maybe, if she could figure out how to slip it to Arthur, it could do some good. But how best to do that? He didn’t want to be within a block of her. Maybe if she slipped it into an envelope with a note …

  Simon’s voice startled her out of her train of thought. “I have been, but thus far no one’s interested in the position.”

  Priscilla couldn’t blame them. Simon Grant was a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen. The only reason she could imagine he hadn’t been brought up on charges before now was the fact that Aaron Burke had not been a young, attractive female. Rather than voice those thoughts aloud, she forced a smile.

  “Avalon’s nearly at the end of her contract at the temp agency. Maybe she’d be willing to work for you until you can find a more permanent staff member.”

  Simon brightened at the suggestion. “That’s not a bad idea, Miss Pratt. Do you need help up? I can give you a hand.”

  She’d rather have touched a viper than let Simon Grant put his hands on her for anything other than professional reasons. The majority of her brain was still focused on formulating a plan. She shook her head. “No, I think I’ve got it, thanks.”

  Very carefully, so as not to break it, she let her TracFone fall to the ground. It bounced and skittered across the floor noisily, making Simon jump.

  “Oh dear. Let me—”

  Priscilla beat him to it, kneeling on the floor under the pretense of searching for her phone, which had slid beneath one of the shelves where he kept his supplies. “I’ve got it. You go on ahead. It will give you time to boot up those computers.”

  Simon looked torn. “Are you sure you can reach it?”

  She flashed him a wide smile. “I’m tall, Mr. Grant. I’m sure I can reach further. And besides, if worst comes to worst, I can lift the shelf without giving myself a hernia.”

  Simon flushed and muttered something incoherent, but eventually he shuffled out of the room. Priscilla gave herself sixty seconds just to be sure he wasn’t going to round the corner to check on her. Then she retrieved the phone. It hadn’t gotten very far beneath the shelf and was lying very close to her actual goal.

  There wasn’t very much blood on the tissue. Most of it was actually yellowish discharge. Simon Grant should talk to his doctor again, just in case he had an infection. Still, this had to be enough to get a DNA sample from, right? A single hair follicle was sometimes enough to identify a perp, according to Arthur. The killer had left his DNA on her upstairs window. If they could match Simon Grant’s blood to the traces left on her window pane, she could be back in business as early as next week. More importantly, it would clear Maddison’s name.

  Priscilla wished she had something sterile to put it in. She didn’t feel right stuffing the blood-stained tissue into her pocket or her purse. What if it became contaminated? So, on the spur of the moment, she took an unused bib from
Simon’s stash and placed the tissue inside it. Then she carefully folded the bib over the used tissue, clipping it in place when she was finished.

  The finished product was the best she could manage, and it was this that she stuffed into her purse. She’d figure out how to send it to Arthur later. She’d get it to him, even if she had to slip it under the precinct’s front door when no one was looking.

  Satisfied with her minor theft, she got to her feet and rushed back out to the waiting room, where Avalon was showing the doctor how to open up the payment program on the computer. Priscilla found it odd, especially with her own level of technical incompetence, that the 800-year-old faerie knew how to operate computers.

  “What can you tell me about Aaron Burke?” Priscilla asked, leaning against the counter.

  Simon shrugged. “He was a good man. He asked for too many days off, if you ask me, but, eh, that’s the problem with this generation.”

  Priscilla wanted to correct the man’s presumptuous notion. In Priscilla’s experience, no generation had been as fastidious as the Puritans. But that didn’t mean other generations were lazy. They just valued different things than the one before them. All generalizations were false, and she disliked this one most of all. The actions of an entitled few did not define a generation.

  “Did you two ever argue?” she asked. She knew as soon as the words slipped out of her mouth that they’d been a mistake.

  Simon’s gaze flicked up sharply to meet hers. Suspicion clouded his expression and he immediately closed down, assuming a closed-off, defensive posture. His mouth turned down in a scowl.

  “What I talk to my employees about isn’t your business, Miss Pratt. You’d be better off to keep your nose buried in a cookbook, where it belongs.”

  Priscilla’s spine stiffened in indignation. For the most part, she followed her own recipes. She was set to say so when Avalon seemed to make a breakthrough on the computer system.

  “Ah, here we go!” she chirped. “I see what your problem was. You should be able to make a transaction now.”