Vulgarian Vamp (A Wendy Darlin Comedy Mystery Book 5) (2 page)

Miami would be perfect this time of year. I could treat myself to a deluxe pedicure at Kit’s salon. Ever since we confirmed I was preggers, my best friend, nail tech, and the hottest drag queen on Miami Beach had been treating me like a princess.

Kit warned me not to risk this trip, but Roger needed me. Roger always needs me. When will I learn to do the opposite of whatever my gut tells me?

Roger and a naval dude eased me out of the basket and onto the metal floor of the chopper. I looked down the way I’d come and the world spun. The last thing I remember seeing were the sharks tearing at the limp rubber boat as the weight of the motor dragged it beneath the sea. I passed out.

A week had gone by since our rescue at sea but it seemed like an eternity. When you’re pregnant, time has a way of expanding like a cheap telescope. Roger returned Nefertiti’s head and collected his fee. We were on our way to our destination wedding in romantic Vulgaria.

I snuggled in the business-class sleep chair on Vulgar Airlines ready to snooze through the entire flight. Roger was prattling on about the ceremony. You’d think he was getting married or something. My nerves weren’t the best, but it was more about doubts than guests and flowers. I’d been married once before, Vegas style. What happens there should never have started.

Our combo maid-of-honor and best man, Kit Kennedy, would be waiting at the Vulgar Airlines baggage claim. I couldn’t wait to see him.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Roger said.

“Surprise me,” I mumbled.

“You should know
this
,” he persisted.

“Later…” I stroked my small belly thinking of my empire-style pure white layered chiffon and lace wedding dress and red ribbon shoes. The dress was floor-length with a mini-train. Kit found it in a vintage clothing store in Downtown Miami. Gay guys make the best personal shoppers.

Kit’s assistant, Michael, made the shoes. He was studying footwear design at the University of Miami and would probably be the next Manolo Blahnik. Each shoe had five kicky red bows marching from my toes to my ankles.

I decided to forgo the veil. Kit and I would pick some wild flowers to fashion a wreath for my hair and create my bouquet. Vulgarian flowers … I wondered what they looked like.

Kit’s dress was a soft shade of blue that matched his eyes and complimented his tan. He’d found a stunning
Downton Abbey
hat in tones of blue and lavender with a floppy brim. That was the maid-of-honor half of him. I wasn’t sure what part he’d designated for his best man half. I just knew he’d do us proud.

The groom’s attire was to be a surprise. One thing for sure, Roger would be wearing brown wingtips. His mother must have been put under a spell by a guy in wingtips when she was expecting him.

Roger rubbed my arm. “There’s still time. You sure you don’t want any one else at the wedding? Fiona and Petri? Family?”

I wished he’d back off on the friends and family. We were both pretty much orphans. I was an only child, parents killed in a plane crash when I was two. Roger’s parents were gone. His only sibling, a baby brother, was kidnapped when Roger was nine. We were all the family we had, not counting my real estate agents, a loyal bunch when business was good, but lately a bunch of wilted pansies.

Roger’s excitement was beginning to wear on me.
Hormones can be hell.
I never realized he had so many irritating habits. I don’t remember his breathing being so loud.

“How about Treanna?” he asked.

I ground my teeth and shook my head. I loved my seven-year-old ward, but the thought of babysitting her on our honeymoon rattled my nerves. This might be the last private time Roger and I had for eighteen years. I wondered if I’d still feel like jumping his bones after we sent our son off to college. Probably.

No. This would a three-person destination wedding. I didn’t have to worry about occupying Kit. With the monastery nearby, he would be a kid in a candy store even if the candy had taken a vow of chastity
and
silence. He could look but not touch.

Roger fidgeted with his checklist. “I haven’t been able to rouse a priest in Loutish to perform the marriage. Seems they’re all on retreat or something. Maybe the concierge at the Van Helsing will have a notary on call.”

I pulled the airline blanket up under my chin and adjusted the sleep mask. “Somewhere in Vulgaria they’ll be a priest or a rabbi or a town clerk. These things always work out.” I drifted off. That was one thing about being preggers. I got so darn sleepy. I dozed dreaming of a little blonde flower girl drifting rose petals on my cheek.

I brushed the dream petals aside. They returned. I whacked them. It was Roger tickling my face with the corner of a paper napkin. The pilot was calling for seats up and tray tables returned. I turned and pushed the button to the sitting position, double-checked my seatbelt, and prepared to land in exotic Vulgaria.

The Internet offered no info on this tiny country perched on the edge of the Black Sea. I had no idea what to expect and but foolishly trusted Roger’s judgment. He knew what would make me happy at least pre-pregnancy. I had turned into a bit of a grump lately.

Kit wasn’t in the baggage claim area. At six-foot four-inches with bottle-blond hair, he stands out in any crowd. The general population of airport Vulgarians appeared munchkin size. I scanned the crowd yet again.

It might be time to start worrying. I warned Kit not to travel in drag. Not all countries welcomed queens. An image of Gulliver being tied to the ground by homophobic Lilliputians popped into my head.

A porter wheeled our baggage straight past customs without stopping for a passport check. With all the hyper-security in the world, Vulgarians were not only short, but also very trusting.

A familiar yelp sliced through the air.

“That’s Kit!” I said.

Roger dashed ahead of me. I stepped cautiously across the slippery polished stone floor. The concourse was fairly empty and I could see long legs and platform heels wind-milling from the floor in front of a Pizza and Pierogi stand. Something big, black, and hairy slid across the floor like a giant spider and came to rest at my feet. I stooped to grab it. I’d know it anywhere. Kit’s favorite wig, his Cher.

Roger dove into the pack of guards who were trying to pin down a tall woman in black Capri pants, a peach-colored tunic top, and short blond-streaked hair. The woman pulled back her fist and threw a haymaker punch that
thankfully
went wild. That was no lady—that was Kit. If he struck a guard, Kit might spend his golden years in a musty cell dining on stone soup and sipping water with floaties.

I had all I could do not to join the rescue, but I had to protect my baby bump. I stood on the sidelines, screaming. “He’s a famous celebrity in the United States! Let him go!”

Roger tugged an Elmer Fudd-like security dude by the collar and flung him to a standing position. Kit kneed a lanky sentinel. Stunned, the tall guy grabbed his crotch and tumbled over Roger, slamming his guard noggin on the floor.

Guys love a brawl and once started they battle to get the last punch. It had something to do with testosterone or too many video games. These dudes needed a reason to back off or they’d keep up the melee.

“That’s Brad Pitt!” I screamed. They cut me a look that would freeze milk inside a cow and then scrutinized Kit.

“You’re being filmed!” I pointed to a tourist granny with a camera around her neck. Pregnant ladies are allowed a smidge of fibbing.

The guards glanced around in panic. They hesitated long enough for Kit to stand back onto his size thirteen platforms. Roger stepped outside the fracas and huddled with a uniformed policeman. He slipped the officer a fistful of Vulgarian currency. Whatever the price, it was cheap enough to keep a drag queen’s tushie out of prison.

Kit clopped over to me, shame-faced. He took the wig and adjusted it on his head. He looked more like an airborne Witch of Eastwick than Cher.

“Don’t say you told me so,” he tugged his tunic and threw back his shoulders.

“I
did
tell you so.”

“These are my most comfortable travel clothes. And the wig—”

“Does
not
match your passport photo. Please change. We still have to get to the resort in one piece.”

“It’s too late for me to change.”

“That’s true.”

Roger held my arm as we exited toward Ground Transport, leaving the guards stomping and snorting in a Fudd-like cool down. I peered over my shoulder but they didn’t follow us.

A stagecoach bearing the sign of a smiling bat, the Van Helsing Resort logo, waited at the curb. Where was my limo? “I want a limo!”

Four inky black horses, harnessed to the coach, pawed the ground, their eyes a deep scarlet in sharp contrast to their humongous white teeth.

“It’s part of the ambience. Destination nineteenth century,” Roger said.

I rubbed my belly. “Not to worry, Little Roger. Mama’s got you.”

Roger helped me into the coach. Kit sprawled himself on the left side of the carriage. I was about to settle my butt on the old tapestry seat to the right when I eyed a tattered spot in the upholstery. On closer observation, it was a hole. Ick. I am a card-carrying hole-a-phobe.

“Up!” I motioned to Kit.

“A hole? Don’t make me sit on that side. I hate riding backwards,” he whimpered.

So I had a couple of minor hang-ups. Phobias. The biggie was holes in fabrics. Grossed me out. My friends knew better than to question me.

Hands on my hips, I stood my ground. “Which one of us is the pregnant lady with the hole-phobia?”

With a grimace, Kit traded sides. The left side was hole-free. I sat in the middle facing forward. Roger crossed in front of me and took a worn seat at my side but by the window. With a chorus of whinnies and a pounding of hooves, the four black horses cantered out of the parking lot, the carriage swaying side to side and taking us back in time.

The stagecoach clattered along the unpaved road kicking up a dust cloud that seeped into the carriage. Vulgarians looked away as we clattered past. I assumed not everyone was a fan of horses. Our team was a gang of noisy brutes, snorting and growling. Yes, these horses growled, I could hear them above the din of their hooves.

The scenery quickly changed from Prague-ish Old Town to a Hammer Films version of the Carpathian woods. I braced my hands on either side of the seat. The stagecoach hit every pothole in the mountain road as we made our way up to the Van Helsing Resort and Spa. Little Roger was going to be born early if this ride got any rougher.

I braced my feet against the floor, concentrating on my red Ferragamo flats.

Pregnancy was all about distracting yourself from being pregnant… unless you were wearing a particularly cute maternity outfit. Then it was okay to indulge.

Roger pressed his nose against the isinglass window; he appeared lost in a trance.

Kit and I exchanged glances and shrugged.

“Roger, sweetie, are you looking for something?”

Without turning from the window he spoke, “I used to spend my summers here as a child. I’m just dealing with the memories.”

I could read him like a favorite novel. His expression was not one of happy remembrances. I touched his arm. He reached back and placed his right hand on mine but never took his eyes off the scenery.

An eerie chill draped over me like a wet coat. Could it be Roger had taken this coach ride with his family, perhaps with his baby brother? If Vulgaria carried bad memories why did he chose it for our wedding? Nothing like getting off to a sucky start. Leave it to an archaeologist to plan a fun weekend. What was I thinking?

The coach, part of the mood of the Van Helsing, was a buckboard fit for a pioneer. No wonder Victorian women took to their beds in their last trimester. This was hell-on-square-wheels. “Sorry. Sorry.” I repeated a mantra to my belly.

I leaned on Roger’s shoulder and peeked out at the view he found so mesmerizing. A small medieval castle resembling a downsized Hogwarts sat halfway up the mountain. As we drew closer I could make out ragged red and green pennants. I was expecting a Disney castle not a Harry Potter citadel.

We clattered on, the vibrations sending worry waves through me. I should have asked Roger for the travel particulars. Foolish of me to think he’d know what a pregnant lady can and should endure. My wrists ached from holding myself half off the seat as each bump brought me closer to what I imagined birthing pains felt like. My back was aching. Was that a sign of early labor?

I could see a plot of barren land at the base of the fortress between the walls and the dark dense woods that spread over the mountain and threatened to gobble our carriage. No wonder there weren’t any photos of the resort on the Internet, it was downright spooky. Not yet Vulgarian lunchtime and a wolf howled. Children of the night, shut up.

“I thought this was a beach resort?” I poked Roger knocking him out of his trance.

Without taking his eyes off the window, he spoke. “Beach? What gave you that idea? This will be more like hiking through the Bavarian woods. You love hiking.”

“Yeah. Can’t get enough of it, from the goat farms of north Georgia to the Sahara. Have you forgotten I’m pregnant?”

He didn’t even so much as turn around.

Hmm. I wondered if I could file for divorce before marriage.

We took a sharp bend in the road, giving us a different perspective of the forest and an angle on the angry sea below. The sun slipped behind a mountain peak and then crept back to illuminate what could only be Carfax Abbey … the home of the silent monks. The Tim Burton-ish mission sat high atop the tallest peak with a steep drop to the Black Sea.

It looked to be quite a slog between the Van Helsing and the abbey. I should have packed cargo pants and hiking boots instead of a sexy maternity bikini.

The horses clip-clopped up the ridge, stones and gravel spinning from their hooves and tumbling into the forests below. Kit shot me the fisheye. Once again I’d sucked him into one of my escapades for better or worse, till death do us part. Actually, Roger was the suckee; Kit and I were the suckers.