Adventures of a Vegan Vamp: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery (9 page)

He parked the Jeep in a spot near the elevator. I never got a good spot in this parking lot, and that was twice now that he’d scored a close spot. Which irritated me even more.

“Who were they?”

Alex took the keys out of the ignition and handed them to me. “Who?”

“The other victims.” I didn’t even try to keep the sharpness out of my voice.

“We know of three. All women, all in their mid-thirties to early forties, dark-haired, successful. And again, they all died at night, alone in their homes. You’re the fourth, and fit that description, so we think it’s a pattern.”

And now I
felt
weak. I’d been targeted, attacked, changed—because this nut job had a thing for my type. No one had before, and it just figured that when someone did, it would be all about pervy needs and murder.

“Except I didn’t die.”

He was completely still in the driver’s seat. You don’t notice the small movements people make, until they freeze completely. Then the motionlessness is eerie and the lack of movement noticeable. Finally, he said, “No. You didn’t die.”

It had been freeing to be rid of the anxieties that, in retrospect, I’d clearly been living with for a long time. But that freedom, the joy of it, was fading. There was a killer out there. He’d violated me. Killed me—my human self, anyway. Completely ended the lives of at least three other women. And he was footloose and fancy-free.

“Your eyes are glowing.”

I whipped my head around and stared at him. “Yeah? Is that a problem?”

Alex sighed. “Get it under control before you run into anyone. Hang on.” He got out of my car, pulled out his own keys, and unlocked a Honda Accord parked a few spots away. He rummaged around in the center console and emerged with a pair of sunglasses. “Here.”

I’d followed him to his car, and now took the tinted glasses. I put them on without a word, and turned on my heel. I had things to do—like catch a killer.

Then I spoiled my fabulous exit, because I realized that I needed those names. I stopped, turned, and said, “Text me their names.”

He didn’t ask who; he just nodded.

And then I turned on my heel for the second time and marched away.

F
ired up and on a mission
, I didn’t notice all of the noise when I first got off the elevator on the fourth floor. But I could hardly miss the hubbub once I turned the corner. I backed away, hoping no one had seen me. As quickly as I could, I tucked away the sunglasses Alex had loaned me and pulled out my compact. My eyes looked just fine. A little more bloodshot than usual, maybe, but the pupils were a normal size and the irises the same shade of blue they’d always been.

I took a breath to steady my nerves and turned the corner again.

Sally, whose last name I’d never known and who lived a few doors down, was in the hall talking to old Mr. Simms. And the shut-in from the end of the hall whose first name I couldn’t recall at the moment was standing a few feet away from the other two, listening and looking forlorn.

Another group had formed, but they were all from the other side of the floor—so I really didn’t know them at all.

Where was the perpetually nosy Mrs. A? Her absence was the equivalent of the news failing to report a presidential election’s results—or roughly that. She was
the
floor busybody.

I approached Sally, Mr. Simms, and unknown shut-in guy. “Where is Mrs. A?”

But I knew as soon as the words left my lips—this hallway gathering, this hubbub, it was about her.

Sally looked at me like I was an alien from another planet, but Mr. Simms replied. “Hi, Mallory. There’s some bad news. Mrs. A was found a little earlier in her apartment. It looks like maybe a suicide.”

“No. That’s not right. Mrs. A would never do that.” And I knew I was right. Like I knew that I wanted that Grand Cherokee, and I knew I wanted to live in a place like that quiet south Austin neighborhood. No way did Mrs. A kill herself. The woman was vibrant. She embraced every day, was mindful of her health, ate well, exercised. No way.

“I know it’s shocking, but that’s the way it’s looking. Pills…” Mr. Simms cast his eyes downward. He lived alone—most of us on this floor did because they were all one-bedrooms—but he didn’t get out a lot. Mrs. A, with her busybody ways, was probably one of his few social outlets.

I hugged him.

What could I say? The guy looked like he needed a hug. And he hugged me back, so I was probably right.

“Who are you?” Sally asked.

“Mallory Andrews.” I let go of Mr. Simms and pointed to my apartment door. We’d definitely been introduced at least three times. And had run into each other innumerable times in the hallway and elevator.

“That was sort of rhetorical.” Sally eyed me from head to toe. “You look different, dress different, and act different. It’s that new guy you’re dating, isn’t it?”

Was she channeling my mother?

Then I remembered. “Ah, you chatted with Mrs. A. I think she misunderstood…” But I realized suddenly that Mrs. A might have misunderstood, but it didn’t matter. Not at all. Because Mrs. A was dead. My breath caught in my chest.

“She told me all about the man you came home with the other night.” Sally spoke in low tones, giving Mrs. A some deference—but Sally was all about the gossip. Which actually made it easier to breathe. Mrs. A had been all about the gossip, too.

Mr. Simms shook his head and walked away. I liked to think it was Sally’s poor taste and not the false information about me bringing a man home that had him on the run.

But then shut-in guy stepped up. “Bradley,” he said.

From that awkward interjection, I gathered that was both his name and an attempt to introduce himself.

I held out my hand. “Hello, Bradley. I’m—”

“Mallory Andrews. I know.” He seemed to give the decision as to whether to shake my hand or not serious consideration, then grabbed it, pumped it once, and let go.

Awkward pretty much summed him up.

“Did you know Mrs. A?” I asked.

“Arbuthnot. Mrs. Arbuthnot liked it that I called her by her real last name and not Mrs. A. She said you brought a date home on Tuesday night, and that he was ‘good-looking enough for that type.’ But she didn’t say what type, and I don’t know what that means, really. But she seemed happy for you.”

My eyes teared up. Or they tried to. They ended up kinda burning and itching more than anything. I knew she didn’t approve of my single state. And that she could be judgmental about certain other things—my weight, for one—but she’d been a kind woman. And she had been nosy because she cared about her neighbors. Why did she have to care about me and then go and die?

I rubbed my eyes, but that only made them burn more.

Sally looked at me uncertainly. “Do you need a hanky or something?”

I was about to decline, but a nasty thought occurred. “Wait a minute. I really don’t have a boyfriend.” I turned to Bradley. “Are you sure she said Tuesday?”

Bradley nodded. “I’m good with the little things. Mrs. Arbuthnot liked that. I remembered her birthday and that she liked irises. They’re a showy flower, but she liked them all the same. That’s what she used to say. So I bought her irises for her birthday every year.”

I looked at Bradley with new eyes. “How long have you lived here, Bradley?”

“Eight years, just like Mrs. Arbuthnot. She moved in when her husband passed, because what better way to stay young than to live in the center of all the excitement. She used to say that.”

“I’d forgotten that.” Sally smiled sadly. “I heard her say that.”

I felt a burn again, but this time it was in my gut—and for the first time since my change, it wasn’t hunger. “No way she killed herself.”

I couldn’t say anything to these completely non-paranormal or occult-involved people, but I’d bet Mrs. A saw the vile thing who’d bit me. And he was apparently “good-looking enough for that type.” My scalp crawled.

“I think you’re right.” Bradley pulled a key out of his pocket. “I have a key to her apartment, and she said I could use it if ever there was an emergency. This is an emergency.” Bradley blinked owlishly at me.

“Bradley, I’d hug you, but I don’t think you’d like it much, would you?”

“No. Thank you.” He shifted from foot to foot. “So you’ll help look inside her apartment? To see why the paramedics think she hurt herself? Because that’s not right. Mrs. Arbuthnot wouldn’t do that. She promised to bring me chicken soup tomorrow.”

“Whoa. Stop now,” Sally said. “I’m on the homeowners’ association board, so I’m just going to disappear and pretend I didn’t hear any of that.” She reached out and squeezed Bradley’s shoulder. “But good luck.” Then she vanished in a cloud of expensive perfume.

“I like Sally. She always smells nice.”

“Yeah, Bradley, I guess she does.” I glanced down the hall to see if the other group had dispersed, and it looked like they were making motions in that direction. Just another minute or two.

“You were a little mean before. You’re nicer now.”

I turned back to look at him. I didn’t remember ever actually speaking to him. “I’m really sorry about that.”

“That’s okay. If you can fix this, I forgive you.”

But no one could fix this. Mrs. A was dead, probably murdered by the crazy man who’d bitten me.

“I’ll do whatever I can, Bradley. You have my word.”

And I would—even if that involved breaking and entering.

I
took
the key Bradley had given me and opened Mrs. A’s door. Bradley followed close behind and quietly pulled the door shut.

I’d been in her condo several times. She liked to stay involved with the condo community, and as a result, she hosted the occasional floor social and a monthly bridge night—but that was more appealing to the older crowd and a few couples in their twenties. But I was one of the few who received private invitations. She’d sometimes have me over for a glass of wine and a chat.

Her condo looked as it always did, with one notable exception: the bathroom. Pills were scattered on the tile floor and one towel was askew on the rack, with the other piled on the floor. It looked like she might have grabbed at the towels or the bar where they hung as she’d fallen.

Bradley came up behind me and looked over my shoulder into the bathroom.

“Who takes a bunch of pills and stands around waiting for them to take effect?” I asked.

“Who takes pills without a drink?” Bradley replied. “I always drink a full glass of water.”

“You might be unique in that, Bradley. Most of us don’t follow the directions on the bottle. But I do think most people take pills with water or some kind of drink. Especially if you’re taking a lot of pills. Go check the kitchen for glass in the sink.”

I already knew from a quick visual inspection on entering that there wasn’t anything on the counters.

“That’s silly. She wouldn’t take the pills in the kitchen and then come back to the bathroom and spill more pills.”

“We absolutely agree on that.” I looked over my shoulder to give him an encouraging smile. “Go check real quick. I’ll see what it is that she supposedly took.”

After he left, I entered the bathroom, careful not to step on the handful of scattered pills. In the corner was a pill bottle. I’d have thought paramedics would have grabbed that for purposes of determining what she’d taken and treating the overdose. But if she’d been dead when they arrived…?

I grabbed a bit of tissue and used it to turn the bottle so I could read the name: hydrocodone. And the prescription was for Mrs. A. An older one, but it was hers. Then I put the bottle back as it had been.

I stepped out of the bathroom to find Bradley waiting.

“No glass in the sink, and the dishwasher was empty. Mrs. Arbuthnot was always tidy. And she was a lady—she wouldn’t drink straight from the tap or out of her hand.”

“Agreed.” I checked my phone for overdose with hydrocodone. I scanned the contents. Then turned the screen so Bradley could read it. “I don’t know. Seems like you’d go lie down, right? Slowed breathing, low blood pressure, drowsiness. If she did this to herself—” I held up my hand when Bradley started to protest. “I don’t think she did. I’m just hypothesizing. If she did, she’d go lie down in her bedroom.”

We shared a glance and then Bradley took off at a trot for her bedroom.

I arrived just a few seconds after him. He was staring at the tidily made bed, shaking his head. “This is all wrong. Why would someone hurt her?”

“Because people suck.” I walked closer to the bed and squatted so I was at eye level. Not a dimple in the thin coverlet. No one had lain on this bed since it had been made.

Bradley looked lost, and he kept saying, “It’s all wrong. Just wrong.”

I wasn’t sure what I’d do if the guy started crying. I wasn’t really equipped to deal with awkward, introverted, crying people.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here. We’ve seen what we need to see.” When Bradley hesitated, I said, “How about a cup of tea?”

He eyed me speculatively. “Okay, but at my place. I don’t know about your tea.”

I tried not to laugh, because laughter would be beyond inappropriate in the situation. But his suspicion of my tea products was just a little bit funny. I was a
vampire
. And I wanted to laugh. I really didn’t want to cry. If I even
could
cry.

I looked around one last time, and then turned to Bradley and said, “Deal. Besides, my place is a bit of a mess right now. I’m thinking about moving, so I’m packing.”

“Don’t normal people find a place first and then pack?”

And then I did let myself smile. “You’re assuming I’m normal. I don’t think I am.”

I pulled out my phone and looked for the series of missed calls from the morning. Bingo. I had Alex’s number. I knew it; his personal cell was different from the emergency response number I’d dialed the day before.

Once we were out in the hall, I locked up and returned the key to Bradley. Then I texted Alex:
Neighbor likely witness. Found dead, 911 suspect suicide. I think murdered.

After I hit send, I followed Bradley down the hall to his place. I had a thought: maybe it was Bradley? And he was luring me into his den to finish me off.

Cue the creepy music now.

No. No way. No way in this lifetime or the next five lifetimes.

First, that was crazy.

Second, Bradley had lived in the building for eight years, per him. But I knew for sure it was at least five years, because he’d been here when I bought my place. Which made me cringe that I couldn’t remember the guy’s name earlier.

And second, just no way.

And third, he really seemed to care about Mrs. A.

So I trotted—hopped?—behind him like the naïve bunny Wembley had claimed I was, and I didn’t worry about him turning ninja killer on me.

When I walked into his condo, I did a double take. Pottery Barn? Not the look I would have guessed. I’d have thought IKEA meets Star Trek would have been closer.

Bradley gave me an impatient look. “The kitchen is this way.”

Which I knew, of course, because there were only a few one-bedroom floor plans.

“I was just admiring your living room.”

Bradley nodded. “Thank you. Mrs. Arbuthnot helped me decorate. She said that a comfortable home was important if I wanted to date.” He narrowed his eyes at me and said, “I don’t want to date.”

I swallowed a smile. Since the thought hadn’t—and never would—cross my mind, it was a little funny rather than offensive that Bradley felt the need to proactively ward off my advances. “I bet you never told her that.”

“No. She thought everyone should get married. I didn’t want to disappoint her.” Bradley looked around his apartment. “And I like this much better than before.”

“You were really close, weren’t you?” Mrs. A had touched a lot of lives. If I wasn’t careful, I’d get all almost-teary again.

Bradley nodded and then walked into the kitchen.

I looked around one more time, looking for some clue as to what exactly Bradley did in here all day, but it didn’t look like his living room was where he worked. When I walked into the kitchen, I remembered this particular plan had a small office that was an offshoot of the bedroom. That was likely where Bradley’s highly segmented work life lived. He seemed a guy for categories and tidiness of all varieties.

He’d already put a kettle on to boil when I joined him.

“I have that one; it sings.”

“I don’t like the loud noises the other kind make.”

I sat down at the kitchen table. “I don’t suppose you would. What kind of tea do you have?”

“I have chamomile, peppermint, and Scottish breakfast. The Scottish breakfast was for Mrs. Arbuthnot.”

“Ah. Would you like to drink that one in her honor? Or save it?”

Bradley seemed to give my question great consideration. Then he retrieved milk from the refrigerator. “Mrs. Arbuthnot drinks it…drank it with milk.”

“Well, that’s exactly how we’ll drink it, then, isn’t it?”

“Mrs. Arbuthnot has a fancy cream pitcher she’d put the milk in when I would have tea in her home. But this is what we did here.” He retrieved some very pretty teacups and saucers and placed them on the table. “Another important clue: Mrs. Arbuthnot didn’t like taking those pills. They were for her arthritis, but she said they made her head all foggy and made her want to sleep more.”

“Right. Mrs. A wouldn’t like anything that slowed her down. She swore that walking kept her arthritis in check.”

He nodded. “She took over-the-counter drugs, mostly.”

The kettle began to sing, and Bradley turned it off immediately. He poured loose tea in to a teapot that matched the delicate cups he’d placed on the table. Mrs. A really had influenced him. I couldn’t help wonder if she’d been his best friend. Maybe his only real friend.

“Bradley, can you tell more about the man who came home with me on Tuesday?”

He gave me an odd look. “He was with
you
. You know about him.”

“Just humor me.”

He placed the pot on the table. “We have to let it steep now. Does this have something to do with Mrs. Arbuthnot’s murder?”

“It might. That man who was with me—he was…” I hadn’t quite thought that through. “I didn’t invite him.”

He peered at me. “You can’t remember.”

I licked my lips, and realized I was quite thirsty. “No.”

“Did he hurt you?”

My brain was thinking “yes,” but my mouth said, “No.” He hadn’t actually hurt me—unless I died in the next few days from starvation, but that was looking less and less likely. “In the end, it turned out he didn’t hurt me, but he tried to.”

“I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.”

And then I really did cry. No one had said sorry. No one had expressed an iota of sympathy or regret on my behalf. Not my doctor, certainly not Anton, and Alex and Wembley, though somewhat more helpful, hadn’t ever extended any specific expressions of sympathy. The socially awkward shut-in was the first person to say the right thing. My throat closed with unshed tears.

My eyes were burning now, like they had before, but I could feel the moisture gathering in my eyes.

And then the first tear slipped down my face.

“Ow.” It stung. A lot. It was an itchy, burning sting. I hopped up, lifted a finger, grabbed my bag, and ran to the bathroom.

I splashed water on face several times, but after several attempts there was still a mild sting. It felt like the time I’d been out wade-fishing in the bay with my dad and the water had been filled with jellyfish. The water had been so full of them that it had carried a hint of the translucent spawn of Satan’s poison. And then one of them had wrapped its tentacled self around my bare calf. My scalp crawled thinking about it. I still hated those nasty see-through critters.

I flushed my eyes out some more and then alternated between flushing my eyes and splashing my face. When I’d done as much as I could, I grabbed a towel and patted my face dry.

Peering at the mirror, I was more than a little surprised to find faint burn marks running down my face. I’d just burned myself—with my own tears. Chalk that one up to weird vampire things no one thinks to tell you about.

With a sense of smug self-satisfaction, I took out my powder compact—the one that no vampire would need, per Wembley—and evened out my skin.

It didn’t take much to cover the marks, but if I’d come out of the bathroom with pink streaks down my face, even Bradley might have been suspicious.

When I joined Bradley at the kitchen table, he’d already poured tea for both of us. I sat down, apologizing.

“No problem. Milk, like Mrs. Arbuthnot?”

A nodded firmly. “Absolutely.” But I poured it myself and just barely added any. Milk was on my “do-not-consume” list.

We drank in silence for some time. I’d finished my cup and was well into my second when Bradley said, “She just said he was good-looking enough for that type.”

“Yes, you said that earlier. Do you know what type she meant?”

He shook his head. “She didn’t say.”

“And you didn’t see anything?”

“No, it was after dinner. I work after dinner.”

My ears perked up. “What do you do?”

“I build apps. I’m good with details.”

I supposed that made sense. Writing code—if that was in fact what he was doing—did require an eye for detail. “Do you remember anything else that Mrs. A said about the man?”

“He must have gone in with you and stayed a long time, because Mrs. Arbuthnot didn’t see him leave, and she stays up late. Insomnia.”

My skin crawled. What had he been doing in my apartment all that time?

Drinking my blood? Watching TV? Digging through my underwear drawer?

Ick. Ick, icky, ick.

Bradley poured more tea for both of us. “I’ll have to make another pot, if you want more.”

“No, thank you.” What I really needed was a gallon of water and some vegan nutrition supplement shakes.

My phone rang, cutting short my train of thought. Good thing. I didn’t need my fangs poking out inopportunely.

A local number came up on the caller ID. “Hello?”

“Where are you? I’m knocking on your door, and you’re not answering.” Alex sounded annoyed that his unexpected visit had been derailed.

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not in my condo. I’m down the hall; not that it’s any business of yours. I just texted. Proper etiquette is to text a reply.”

“You’re okay?”

“Perfectly safe, right down the hall.” I sighed. I did need his help. “Be right there.”

I finished my tea with one very unladylike gulp, and sent my apologies up to Mrs. A. She would not have approved.

“Thank you, Bradley. I’ve got someone waiting who can help with the case. Or at least will believe it wasn’t suicide or an accident.” I stood up, but then paused to add, “You’ll let me know if you think of anything to do with the man on Tuesday or Mrs. A’s death?”

“Yes.”

Then I remembered that I’d probably be moving soon. So I left him with my cell number, in case I wasn’t home or had started to move.

He walked with me to the door and opened it for me.

“Thank you,” I said. “Mrs. A was lucky to have you for friend.”

Bradley looked positively lost at my words. I kissed him on the cheek and booked it down the hallway before he could utter a word.