Vampire for Hire: First Eight Short Stories (Plus Samantha Moon's Blog and Bonus Scenes) Page 2

  “Are you a...” But I could not speak my question. Not now, at least.

  “I am many things,” he said. “And so are you.”

  The End

  Return to the Table of Contents

  Vampire Blues

  One

  On the way to Kingsley’s, just as I passed under a massive billboard of Judge Judy smiling down warmly—yet judgmentally—my cell phone rang. I glanced at the faceplate. Caller unknown.

  I clicked on my Bluetooth. “Moon Investigations.”

  “Hi,” said the voice of an elderly lady. “I’ve never, you know, called a private investigator before. I’m a little nervous.”

  “We’re just like other people,” I said. “Just a lot cooler.”

  “Oh, ha-ha.” She laughed good-naturedly. “Yes, I’m sure you are.”

  I headed up Bastanchury Avenue, which would soon loop me around to the foothills above Yorba Linda. “How can I help you?”

  “Well, I need some help,” she said, pausing. A pregnant pause. I knew pregnant pauses. She had a cheating husband on her hands.

  “You think your husband’s cheating on you,” I said, gunning the minivan and just making it through a yellow light.

  “How-how did you know?”

  “Call it a hunch,” I said. Actually, these days I didn’t know what to call it. My old hunches and my powerful new sixth sense had fused into one. Hunch or not, I wasn’t in the mood for another cheating spouse case. In fact, I could barely stomach them these days. I said, “I’m sorry to hear about your husband, but I’m a little booked right now. I know of a great detective out of Huntington Beach. Actually, don’t let him know that I said that, since he’s already got a big head—”

  “No. Please. Please, I want a woman to help me. Only a woman.” She took in a lot of air while I came to a stop at a red light. I was the only one sitting at the intersection. So, who was I waiting for? She went on, “I’m kind of down on men right now, if you know what I mean.”

  Actually, I did. I had gone through a similar reaction with my ex-husband, Danny. In fact, I even recalled writing to Fang that I hated all men.

  I said, “I’m sure there are other female private investigators who would be more than happy—”

  “There aren’t. I’ve looked. You’re the only one in the Yellow Pages. At least, the only one with a woman’s name.”

  The light turned green. Kingsley was waiting for me with a chilled glass of the red stuff. I hadn’t eaten in two days. I was ravenous and I was cranky. I said, “Let me be blunt: My own husband cheated on me not long ago. The very thought of working on another cheating spouse case turns my stomach. I’m just not the right person for this.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I could almost see her frowning. Hell, maybe I could see her frowning. In fact, the woman in my thoughts had a thick head of curly red hair. She looked a bit like Lucille Ball in her dotage. Then again, that could have all just been my imagination. And I’d always loved Lucille Ball.

  “Well, thank you anyway,” she said. “I will keep looking.”

  The pain in her voice found its way straight to my heart. Normally, such pain didn’t register very deeply. After all, I spent half my time hearing heartbreaking stories. But this woman’s pain reached me somehow. Perhaps because I had seen her in my thoughts. Or perhaps because she reminded me of Lucille Ball. Either way, I couldn’t let her hang up just yet.

  “Wait,” I said. “Let me give you some advice. Ninety-five percent of the people who come to me with concerns of spousal misconduct are right.”

  “So, you’re saying that more than likely he is cheating?”

  “I’m saying that more than likely, your instincts are spot on.”

  In my mind, I could almost see her closing her eyes and nodding, her red, curly hair bouncing. “I see. Well, that’s not good enough for me, Miss Moon. I need to know. I need to know for sure.” There was a long pause and I could tell she was crying. “I won’t trouble you any—”

  “Wait,” I said again, truly hating myself for what I was about to say next. I had a big case I was unofficially working with Detective Sherbet of the Fullerton P.D. and it was getting dangerous. I had stumbled across another victim of the “Orange County Stalker” that was only minutes old—the body still warm with blood pooling under the corpse. I had to stop myself from having a taste and leaving behind my DNA for the coroner’s office. Self-discipline was a bitch, but far be it from me to taint a crime scene with my own genetic evidence. In the last hour, I had disentangled myself from giving my official statement to the FPD and a copy of my notes on the Orange County Stalker habits—I had worked up a decent profile on her. Yes, I said her. Sherbet was going to try to pay me for my work from some grant money for crime tippers which was way cool in my book since my kids both had dental appointments coming up. My sister, Mary Lou, had the kids at her house tonight and I planned to see Kingsley for some growly R&R and a much-needed feeding. I didn’t have time for cheating spouses. I didn’t want to deal with cheating spouses. I hated cheating spouses. But despite all of that, and my growling stomach, I heard myself say: “I’ll help you. Tomorrow. The investigation on your husband should be a quick one.”

  She thanked me profusely, and when she was done, I asked why she thought her husband was cheating. As I wound my way to Kingsley’s massive estate, she told me the usual story. Husband was staying out later than normal. Showering immediately when he came home. His excuses were never very good and she knew in her heart that he was lying. Her husband, apparently, had never been very good at lying.

  Mostly, though, she was confused and lost. Her husband had been such a good man for so many years. A great provider. A great friend. Always there for her, even as she now battled cancer. Hell, even more so. Every day, he told her how much he loved her. Every day, he made her feel like a princess. She asked me why would he do this to her and I didn’t have an answer, except to say that men were pigs. I immediately hated this one.

  I gave her a checklist of information that I would need, including her hubby’s personal and professional info and up to five recent pictures. I gave her my email address and she said she would get right on it. Whoopee.

  She hung up, but before she did, she thanked me again. As I clicked off and pulled up to Kingsley’s gaudy estate, I recognized the painful irony of the situation: She was thanking me to confirm her worst fears.

  I had a helluva job.

  Two

  The next day, I had thirty minutes to kill before my appointment with Jacky, my boxing trainer.

  Sitting in my minivan in the blessed shade of a pathetic magnolia tree, I went through my emails on the iPhone and found an attachment from one Gertrude Shine. The old lady from yesterday, I was sure of it. Sighing, I opened it and found five pictures of an aged man with a thick mustache. Included with the pictures was the man’s personal information, and I was struck again by the intrusive nature of my job. The man in the photo was a complete stranger. But pretty soon, he would be all too familiar, so familiar that I would be instrumental in the destruction of his marriage.

  No. He was instrumental in the destruction of the marriage. I was just reporting the facts.

  I closed my eyes, rubbed them. I didn’t have to take the job. I didn’t have to take any job. Except Danny had yet to pony up any child support, let alone alimony, despite making five times what I made.

  Despite openly cheating on me.

  I studied the son of a bitch in the photos. Two of the photos depicted him standing with a large woman with red hair—the same woman, I wasn’t too shocked to see, that I had seen in my thoughts.

  I’m getting stronger, I thought. Indeed, my psychic powers now seemed to be increasing daily.

  Anyway, the couple did not seem very happy, and I didn’t think that was a psychic hit. Anyone looking at the pictures could see that. They weren’t holding hands; in fact, they weren’t really standing close to each
other. The man was dumpy, but looked strong. Probably in his youth he had been an athlete but had let himself go to hell. He had broad shoulders that were mostly fat now. His mustache seemed to change from picture to picture, growing thicker and longer in some. I had asked for recent pictures, but these were clearly separated by months or even years.

  I was parked on the street outside the gym, on a sweltering day in Southern California, where even in the shade the temperature was probably in the high eighties. I probably should have been sticky with sweat, but I wasn’t. In fact, I was cold. So damn cold. Vampire cold.

  Her husband’s name was CS Shine, and according to Gertrude’s email, that’s all her husband went by: CS.

  Seriously? What kind of pompous ass goes by initials these days? I never understood it and probably never would. Initials did not a name make.

  CS Shine. He sounded like a cruise ship.

  Anyway, CS Dumbass actually worked nearby—at a bakery of all places.

  So, I checked the time on my cell, saw that I had another twenty-five minutes before Jacky would start yelling at me to keep my boxing hands up, then started the minivan and headed east on Commonwealth.

  To the only bakery in town.

  And to CS Dipshit.

  Three

  I’d seen the bakery over the years, but had never made it inside. And since I doubted they served plasma-filled turnovers, these days, I had even less reason to go inside.

  For now, though, I parked across the street and took in the scene. We were still technically in downtown Fullerton, but we were pushing it. The buildings here were mostly part of newer chains, with hipster apartments above and clean sidewalks out front. Part of Fullerton’s attempt to commercialize its downtown. For the most part, the idea worked. The older stores had gotten a facelift, and now the whole area was buzzing with activity.

  The bakery had a decidedly Old World feel to it, as if it had been transplanted brick by brick from the back streets of Italy or France. It was tucked between some of the newer buildings, and I could just see the owner, CS Loser, indignantly holding his ground, progress be damned. No doubt, he had turned down large of sums of money to buy his bakery, thumbing his nose at the establishment.

  Of course, I could be wrong, but this was a borderline psychic hit. If so, you could take it to the bank.

  Anyway, the windows out front advertised cream puffs and fresh baked breads. There was a yellowed poster of an apple pie in the window. Another displayed a stack of what had once been a fresh-baked batch of cookies. Now they were so faded they could have been a pile of cow pies.

  Undeterred by the shabby window dressings, customers poured in and out of the bakery. Many held pink boxes or white bags. I was willing to bet that Detective Sherbet of the Fullerton P.D. frequented the place. Stereotypical, I knew, but the man had a huge sweet tooth. He also had a nice, round belly. The two were not mutually exclusive.

  Through the dusty glass, I could see a man working. An older man wearing an apron. There was also a much younger woman working there, too. A cute younger woman who smiled a lot through the window, and it was obvious that she made every customer feel welcome. I hated her immediately. Home-wrecking bitch.

  Easy, girl. You don’t know that.

  Girls who smiled at everyone made me nervous. Married men responded to those smiles. Married men thought those smiles were directed only at them. Married men acted on those smiles in stupid ways.

  Especially married bosses.

  I watched the scene for the next twenty minutes, absorbing the details of the girl, of the man, the way they seemed to work effortlessly in tandem. Sometimes, he appeared out front and graciously spoke to customers. Mostly, he worked in the back, no doubt making his pies and cakes and all the things that I couldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.

  By the time I left, I was certain the two were a little too chummy, a little too comfortable. Something was up. That much was certain, and Gertrude, I think, had every right to be suspicious.

  Now, she just needed proof, and that was the hard part.

  Four

  Mary Lou and I had just finished our weekly round of drinks at Hero’s. Yes, I still frequented Hero’s. Yes, I still IM’d Fang. Yes, I knew he was a killer.

  Aaron Parker, aka Fang, raised serious moral issues with me, moral issues that I often struggled with. That he was a head case, there was no doubt. Anyone who grew up in the environment in which he had grown up, in the circumstances in which he had grown up, would have had similar issues. Or not. Perhaps it was a perfect storm of craziness and circumstance.

  Either way, at age seventeen, a very delusional Aaron Parker had killed his girlfriend, sucking her dry. His story had been a sensational one. Even more sensational was that the young man had escaped a high-security psychiatry ward, killing two more men in the process.

  That had been almost two decades ago. Aaron Parker, of course, now went by an assumed name, and as far as I could tell, he had had some facial reconstruction surgery. He was still a wanted man, and he just so happened to be our bartender and my confidant.

  No, I hadn’t known about his past. I didn’t know who the hell he was, truth be known, until six months ago, when we had met for the first time. Or, rather, when he had re-introduced himself. Turned out that he had stalked me and found out who I was and where I lived.

  And this was where I struggled. Fang had proven time and again, to have my best interests at heart. That he was obsessed with vampires was another thing entirely. Another thing that I chose to ignore. In fact, I chose to see only his good side, a side that had been touching and human and endlessly informative.

  Therein lay my quandary.

  I had grown close to him over the years—very close. It wasn’t until six years had passed that the truth came out. I should have been pissed. I should have felt violated. To be sure, I had flirted with both emotions. Mostly, in the end, I saw him as a deeply troubled man.

  Not to mention, we had a psychic connection that I couldn’t quite place my finger on. No doubt the connection was rooted in our close friendship. Indeed, the closer I got to people, the more I could read their minds. The interesting thing about Fang was this: he could also read my mind.

  I hadn’t been ready for that.

  He liked to remind me that we were both flawed. That we had both killed. That we were both victims of circumstance. He liked to remind me that he had never intended to kill his girlfriend. It had been an accident. Two people had gone too far in the throes of lovemaking. And one of them had ended up dead.

  Yes, Fang and I were friends. Yes, he had wanted much more, but I had questioned his motives. It seemed to me that he loved me for my gifts. Like a star-crossed fan. I questioned his motives, especially when he asked me to turn him into a vampire.

  No, I hadn’t turned him, but we remained friends, even while I continued to date Kingsley.

  So, when we left the bar on this quiet evening, with Fang and I having made small talk both audibly and inaudibly, I saw something that surprised the hell out of me. Something made me turn back and pause, and as I did so, I spotted CS Dipstick working his way through the bar. I stood there with my sister and tried not to stare as the older baker worked his way out of the bar, passed us, and headed outside. A strong plume of vaporous alcohol trailed behind him.

  The man certainly didn’t look like an adulterer. He looked tired, worn down, and at his wits’ end.

  Maybe because of all the extramarital sex, I thought. The thought really didn’t stick. Frowning after him, I excused myself from my sister and followed him out.

  Five

  CS Numbnuts was walking down a fairly busy sidewalk.

  I trailed behind him a dozen feet, keeping my head down and my hands in my pockets. I passed a half dozen well-dressed couples, ranging from old to young. Some of the younger couples veered off into Hero’s. I slid behind an older couple who were laughing and walking while holding hands. Little did they know they were being used as my cover. Or that an honest-to-
God vampire was just steps behind them.

  If so, I doubted the woman would have nonchalantly reached down and squeezed the older guy’s buns. Or what passed as buns, since there was nothing really there. Still, he laughed uproariously, and I was beginning to suspect that someone was going to pop a little blue pill tonight.

  The older couple moved at a much slower pace than I would have liked, especially now that the woman had found her man’s non-ass, and as they strolled and squeezed and laughed, the baker made a right turn through some buildings and disappeared into the shadows.

  Shadows weren’t a problem for me. Hell, I specialized in shadows. With my target out of sight, I quickly slipped past the horny old couple. But before I did, I squeezed the man’s ass to see what the fuss was all about. At least I think I squeezed it. I might have hit all bone. Either way, he yelped and jumped about two feet and the woman shot me a furious look.

  “Sorry,” I said, speaking over my shoulder. “I thought you were someone else.”

  Although technically a parking lot, this was really nothing more than a glorified alley, overflow for the bar. At the far end, a pair of brake lights flashed. I ducked between two cars and crouched, watching as a beat-up van backed out slowly and carefully. I caught the profile of the baker as he worked the gear shift in the darkened alley. His profile came sharply into view, alight with the glowing particles that someone like me could somehow see. He was an old, tired man. Too tired for an affair, if you asked me.

  So, what the hell was going on?

  Shortly, he must have found the drive gear, because now he was rolling forward and quickly picking up speed, moving opposite me to the far end of the alley. I briefly debated what to do, since he was now heading in the opposite direction of my parked minivan, which was in the bar’s main parking lot a half block away.

  I could run to my minivan, but I risked losing him.