Chapter 1
“That vampire is staring at me.” I clenched my jaw and tipped my head at a fanged female standing among parade-goers at the gates of Jackson Square.
Veronica Maggio stood on tiptoes and gazed over the crowd. “The one with the curls and blue dress?”
“Uh-huh.” I pulled up the collar of my peacoat. “Every time I look at her, she’s ogling my throat.”
She gave a get-a-grip gasp. “Franki, she’s barely twelve years old.”
No matter how hard I tried, I could never convince my best friend and employer that danger was a daily concern. Sometimes it seemed like she clung to her perky-positive Elle Woods worldview to spite me, and the proof was in her Legally Blonde-inspired pink Playboy Bunny costume. “Go ahead—scoff. But she reminds me of Claudia, the blood-thirsty kid Kirsten Dunst played in Interview with a Vampire.”
“Well, this little vampirette isn’t going to bite you, especially not at a Halloween parade.”
I looked to the voodoo doll beside me for support, but she looked away. “How does that make any sense?”
Veronica shot me the side-eye. “You’re one to talk about making sense. I don’t know why you’re always so suspicious of people.”
“Uh…” I blinked, incredulous. “Because we’re private investigators, and we’re in New Orleans?”
“We both know vampires aren’t real.” She turned toward Decatur Street, resuming her wait for the first float. “And no one comes to the Krewe of BOO! parade to bite anyone. They’re here to have fun.”
Judging from the way the buzzed Betelgeuse to my right had been baring his teeth at me, I wasn’t so sure about the biting part. “Maybe, but as soon as Glenda gets here, I’m heading home.”
She glanced at her phone. “It’s six-thirty, so I’m expecting them any minute.”
If I hadn’t been sufficiently spooked by the vexing vampiress, the realization that my sixty-something ex-stripper landlady was bringing a companion did the trick. “Them? I thought it was her.”
“Carnie’s coming too.”
Dread filled my veins like a bad transfusion. As her stage name implied, Carnie Vaul was a carnival-clown-turned-drag-queen friend of Glenda’s who once hired me to investigate a homicide involving her priceless amber necklace. And even though I technically worked for Veronica’s PI firm, Private Chicks, Inc., Carnie had thrown her weight around—all three hundred fifty pounds of it. The worst part was that I’d solved the case six months before, but she was still hanging around like an albatross from my neck—or a big boobie-bib. “I would’ve appreciated a heads-up.”
“You just got one.” She stood on her tiptoes and scoured the crowd. “Try not to pick a fight with her, okay?”
“Me?” I said, shocked. “That devious diva has targeted me from day one.”
“She’s difficult, I know. But you played right into her hand.”
I snorted. “Maybe it’s because her hands are so huge.”
The crowd gave a collective gasp followed by cheers, and Veronica and I strained to see the float.
“Oh.” She covered her mouth. “It’s Count Dracula.”
The old phrase, “I vant to suck your blood,” came to mind. With a grimace, I turned to eye my toothy little friend but came face-to-face with Glenda.
“How do you like me, ladies?” She struck a pose in a floor-length black feather dress and matching cabaret shoulder collar. “Miss Carnie and I decided to go as each other this Halloween season.”
“Local celebrities trade places,” Veronica said as Carnie waddled into view. “What a cute idea.”
“Creepy” was a better term. Glenda looked like an old crow with clown hair, and Carnie, in a white, plus-sized halter-top and boy shorts, bore an unsettling resemblance to the New Orleans Pelicans’ King Cake Baby mascot in his giant bib and diaper—except for the platinum wig and cigarette holder.
“You know me.” Glenda flapped her two-inch purple feather lashes. “I love an excuse to dress in costume.”
I suppressed a smirk. Glenda O’Brien, in art Lorraine Lamour, had worn a stripper costume every day since she’d started dancing some fifty years before. And everyone in The Crescent City was acutely aware of it.
“Franki likes costumes too,” Carnie said in a fierce falsetto. “And hers is so realistic—a worn-out working girl who’s given up on her looks and her life.”
A float of Chucky and his axe-wielding bride came into view, which was appropriate since I was feeling stabby.
“I’m not wearing a costume because I was working.” I straightened my coat. “I had to finish my notes for an employee theft case.”
Carnie’s eyes lit up like a jack-o’-lantern. “What did he steal? Your femininity?”
That burned, especially coming from a queen.
Glenda gave a raucous laugh. “If you need a costume, Miss Franki, you know I’ll do you right.”
Wrong. Glenda was an avid stripper costume collector who’d provided me with outfits for a couple of cases. And thanks to her creations, I’d had wardrobe malfunctions that made Janet Jackson’s Super Bowl nip slip seem demure. “I don’t need a costume, thanks.” I hit Carnie with a direct stare. “But now I need a drink.”
Veronica pulled some cash from her bunny suit. “I’ll buy us a round.”
Before I could refuse, she took me by the arm and led me across the street. We walked along the gutter to bypass the partiers, and the Chucky float pulled up beside us.
Glenda looked at its krewe. “Throw me something, Monster,” she shouted, using the Halloween variant of the Mardi Gras cry, Throw me something, Mister.
A zombie chucked a painted oyster shell, but it sailed over Glenda and conked me in the head.
“Ow!”
The zombie looked dispirited. “Sorry, lady!”
Carnie cackled as I checked for blood—and did a quick scan for the canined kid. Once I’d located her, I turned to take on the float. “You guys should stick to soft throws like Aunt Sally’s Pralinettes.”
“Let’s get you to safety.” Veronica ushered me into Big Easy Daiquiris, and maybe it was the possible concussion, but I could have sworn I saw her smiling.
Despite the crowd outside, there were only a handful of people in the shotgun-style establishment.
“You have a seat,” Veronica said as she, Glenda, and Carnie approached the bartender.
Following her advice, I sat at the bar and glanced at the TV hanging in the corner of the room. There was a Breaking News banner at the bottom of the screen, and it was clear from the gold New Orleans PD shield behind the empty podium that the police were about to hold a news conference.
Glenda pulled out the barstool beside me and hiked her dress to her thighs before sitting down. “You going to meet your banker beau tonight, sugar?”
The mention of my boyfriend, Bradley Hartmann, made my lips pucker—and not for a kiss. The day before he’d surprised me with the news that he was going on a two-week trip to New York for Pontchartrain Bank. The trip had been a surprise to him too, so I didn’t blame him for the late notice. What I did blame him for was not inviting me to come with him, not even for the weekend. “He’s wrapping up some things at the office.”
She patted my knee. “I used to be like him, you know.”
I couldn’t wait to hear how.
“Hustling twelve-hour days, seven days a week.”
“It must be tough being a stripper,” I said to commiserate. “And a bank president.”
She gave a grave nod. “One day I realized that all of this”—she pointed to her body—“was no good to my clients if I wasn’t good with myself. So I made time to live a little.”
Based on the stories she’d told me about her stripping days, she’d lived a little a lot. “Bradley can’t always control his own schedule. He just found out that he has to leave town tomorrow for work.”
“And he’s not making time for you before he goes?” Carnie put a hand to her bogus bosom. “How telling.”
I hit her with a don’t-go-there stare. “We’re meeting for brunch in the morning.”
“Sounds about as sexy as a date at a grocery store.” She flopped onto the stool next to Glenda.
Although I knew better than to fall victim to one of her jabs, it still hurt. I was sensitive enough about Bradley not inviting me to New York, so I didn’t need her picking apart our plans. “He has to be well rested for the trip.”
“Well, you can hardly expect him to catch up on his beauty rest during a three-hour flight, can you?” Carnie had raised her falsetto an octave to sound innocent.
I lowered my voice an octave to sound incensed—which I was. “He can’t sleep on the plane because his secretary’s going with him.”
Glenda and Carnie exchanged arched brows.
“It isn’t like that,” I protested. “Ruth Walker’s at least sixty years old.”
One of Glenda’s eyelash-wings lowered to mid-flap.
“I think someone’s throwing shade at mature women, Glenda,” Carnie said, using drag speak for insult.
“’Sixty’ and ‘sexy’ are practically the same word, Miss Franki. You’d do well to remember that.”
I gave a three-second sigh. With Glenda’s feathers all ruffled and Carnie’s boy shorts in a bunch, I would’ve been better off at the parade with the vampire. “I wasn’t ‘throwing shade’ at anyone. All I meant was, Bradley’s not into older women.”
Glenda flipped her Bozo hair, but it didn’t budge. “His loss, sugar.”
Veronica walked up behind me as the bartender delivered our drinks. I started to compliment his Captain Jack Sparrow costume, but then it occurred to me that it might be his normal look.
“Three Zombifieds and one Vampire Bite,” he announced, placing orange-colored drinks and a blood-red concoction on the bar.
I didn’t have to ask which one was mine. I frowned at Veronica, who raised her fleur-de-lis–shaped cup in a toast, and wished I’d gone home as planned.
“Look, Miss Carnie.” Glenda pointed at the TV. “It’s that handsome hunk of man meat, Detective Sullivan.”
Carnie licked her Lucille Ball lips. “Gurrrl, you know I’d like to take a bite of that beefsteak.”
I dosed myself with my drink and glowered at the screen. The superintendent of police and the chief were on either side of the podium, and Detective Wesley Sullivan was right where he liked to be—front and center. I knew because I’d made the mistake of getting in the way of his glory while working on Carnie’s case. And because his ego was as inflated as his biceps, he’d done everything he could to sideline me, starting with throwing me in jail.
I made eye contact with the bartender, who poured a daiquiri from one of the machines. “Could you turn up the sound, please?”
“F’sure.”
Veronica looked at the TV. “What’s going on?”
“I’ll bet it’s about the blood bank, Miss Ronnie.” Glenda held her straw like a cigarette holder.
The cold, red liquid I’d sipped took on a ghastly chill in my mouth. I held it there for a second and then swallowed, hard. “Blood bank?”
The bartender aimed a remote control at the TV, and the murmur of reporters chatting in the background became audible.
“As you may know,” Detective Sullivan said, quieting the crowd, “last night there was an attempt to break in to The Blood Center on Canal Street at eleven forty-five p.m. We believe the culprit or culprits were scared away by officers responding to an unrelated call near the scene.”
“Send those officers my way, Detective. I don’t scare easily.” Glenda arched her back to emphasize her sex, not her strength.
Detective Sullivan shot a somber look at the camera, matching my mood exactly. “The security camera outside the building was disabled. Fortunately, a security camera across the street captured an image of a suspect, who we’ll show to you now.”
Video footage of a caped figure aired.
“A cape?” I was dumbstruck—and disturbed. “A guy goes to steal blood from a blood bank and wears a cape?”
Veronica shrugged. “Who said it was a guy?”
“Um, the point is the cape?” I glanced around the bar, surprised that no one else was freaked out by the suspect’s choice of outerwear. “It’s awfully vampiric, don’t you think?”
Veronica bit her straw and turned away.
“It’s too much clothing.” Glenda scowled at the screen. “The public doesn’t want to see that.”
“And capes are out of style,” Carnie chimed. “They need to put the camera back on that delicious detective.”
Detective Sullivan reappeared, and Glenda and Carnie clinked cups.
“If you know this individual, or if you have any information about the break-in, you can call us at the number on the screen.” He read from a sheet of paper on the podium. “If you’d rather remain anonymous, you can call Crime Stoppers, send them a text, or leave a tip online.”
“What about your phone number, Detective?” Glenda cooed.
As Sullivan left the podium, a young male reporter appeared on screen. “Do you have any active leads?”
The detective looked annoyed. “We’re following up on some tips, but at this time we do not have a suspect.” He nodded at the gathering of reporters. “Yes, Bill.”
An older man stepped forward with a notebook. “Do you have any reason to believe this attempt is related to the break-in at the Metairie blood bank last month?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.” The detective pointed to someone off camera. “Ann?”
“Do you have any idea what the motive would be for stealing blood?” she asked.
The superintendent leaned into the microphone. “I’m afraid we’re out of time. This concludes the press conference.”
I glanced at Veronica. “The superintendant skirted that question, didn't he?”
“Yeah.” She sat on the stool next to me. “I wonder why.”
“I’m not sure I want to know.” I reached for my Vampire Bite but then decided to leave it be. “Had you heard about the break-in at the Metairie blood bank?”
“M-hm.” Her pretty pout thinned. “They wiped out their entire supply of B Positive.”
My blood type. I scratched my neck. “Bizarre.”
Glenda plucked a few feathers from her breast area. “Stranger things have happened in New Orleans, sugar.”
After a year and a half in the city, I knew that was true. “But why would anyone steal blood? And only one type?”
“I say it’s a fetish.” Glenda pulled a cigarette holder from the heel of her stripper shoe. “When I was dancing at Madame Moiselle’s back in the ‘90s, we had this VIP room regular we called The Podiatrist. He took pictures of our feet with a Polaroid.” She laughed and slapped my leg. “Then he rubbed the pictures between our toes before putting them in individually marked plastic baggies.”
I pulled Veronica’s drink from her grip and took a gulp.
Carnie, nonplussed by The Podiatrist, leaned back on her barstool. “Maybe it’s a wounded criminal in hiding.”
A mobster or a drug lord was a possibility—one I didn’t want to consider.
Veronica twisted her ring, staring into space. “Or maybe it’s for voodoo or witchcraft.”
That was my cue to leave, or rather, flee.
“Whatever the reason, I’m glad it’s Detective Sullivan’s problem and not mine.” I hopped from the barstool and, without thinking, chugged the rest of my Vampire Bite. And when I put the glass on the bar, I had a bitter taste in mouth, but not because it reminded me of blood.
It was because something told me that I’d jinxed myself and that the blood bank problem was about to be mine.
* * *
I awoke, shivering. The temperature in my bedroom had dropped at least ten degrees since I’d gone to bed. Too exhausted to open my eyes, I rolled onto my back and reached for the hot pink velvet duvet, pulling it over the sheets. Then I waited to drift back to sleep.
A blast of hot air hit my neck.
And another.
In my semiconscious state, I realized the blasts were coming in rhythmic bursts.
Like breathing.
In a flash I was alert, frozen with fear. It was ludicrous to think of vampires and blood bank thieves, but I did.
As well as deranged drag queens.
I couldn’t get my gun, because it was in the nightstand. My only option for taking on the intruder was the self-defense training I’d received during my year on the Austin PD.
Corralling my courage, I opened my eyelids a crack. And the blood drained from my body.
A hairy face hovered at my throat.
Was it a big bat? A werewolf? An unshaven Carnie?
The creature’s mouth opened, as though in slow motion, revealing pointed teeth and emitting a putrid odor.
The smell of death.
I whimpered, and it…barked?
My body went limp.
The creature was my cairn terrier, Napoleon.
“Bad boy,” I shouted, supine. But I was madder at myself than at my dog. I didn’t know what had gotten into me—all I knew was that I wanted it to get out.
He barked again.
“Ugh.” I raised my head. “What do you want?”
In reply, he jumped off the bed and trotted to the doorway. Then he turned and looked over his shoulder.
“This had better be important business.” As soon as I’d said it, I thought of Bradley’s trip, and then I was doubly annoyed.
I dragged myself from the black bordello-style bed and grabbed my gut. I’d been in a bad state before hitting the sack, so I’d gone out with a bang—an alligator sausage Dat Dog and crawfish étouffée fries topped off with a quarter jar of Nutella. The problem was that the alligator and the crawfish sought revenge, swimming in the muddy swamp of my stomach.
Lumbering Bride-of-Frankenstein-style through the living room, I reached the front door and peered through the peephole. Satisfied it was safe, I opened the door. “Shake your tail fur.”
Napoleon darted into the yard, and I lost sight of him in the darkness. I wasn’t sure what time it was, but it was after two a.m. because the lights were off at Thibodeaux’s tavern across the street.
A cat howled from the cemetery next to the bar, and Napoleon growled.
“Stay,” I commanded, although I still couldn’t see him. “You go in there, and you’re on your own.”
The ghoulish graveyard had been the bane of my existence ever since Veronica had talked me into renting the apartment next door to hers on the first floor of Glenda’s fourplex. Because I lived in Austin at the time, my best friend had mailed me the lease. And she’d stayed as mum as a corpse about the macabre tombs, crypts, and mausoleums across the street. Otherwise, I would’ve run for my life. Even the locals knew how disturbing their aboveground cemeteries were, which is why they’d nicknamed them cities of the dead.
And, as far as I was concerned, there was nothing uplifting about living by the dead, especially in one of Glenda’s apartments. Veronica described the décor as bordello chic, which was fitting since Glenda had furnished the place from brothel fire sales, but it also had a disturbing funeral parlor feel. When the day came that I could afford to move out, I was going to write a book about the experience—The Little Whorehouse of Horrors.
The cat started caterwauling, and I heard my cairn “terror” tear across the grass to save the cemetery from the feline infiltrator.
“Damn dog never listens to a word I say,” I muttered, slipping on my soccer sandals.
The alligator and the crawfish switched from the freestyle to the butterfly the second I set off for the cemetery. When I got to the gate, I cursed whoever had left it open. The musty scent of decay assailed my nostrils, and I covered my nose and mouth. There was no way to know whether the odor was from the damp earth and thick carpet of dead leaves—or from something else.
“Napoleon! Come. Here. Right. Now.”
Nothing.
As I debated whether to enter, a gargoyle glared at me from atop a tomb. Gritting my teeth, I took a step forward and stopped.
The leaves were rustling—a lot.
“That’s a big cat,” I said to the gargoyle, shifting my weight to the other foot. “Like, lion-sized.”
A hiss sounded, and a yelping Napoleon dashed past me with his tail between his legs.
I cracked a smile at his cowardice and glanced in the area of the cat commotion.
And what I saw scared the smile from my face.
Moving among the mausoleums was a caped figure—like the one on the press conference video.
Following Napoleon’s lead, I turned tail and ran to the apartment in Olympic time.
After checking on Napoleon, who was holed up beneath the zebra-striped chaise lounge, I peeked through the gold fringe of my drapes.
There was no one in sight, but I wasn’t about to relax because I finally understood why I’d been so spooked. I’d lived in New Orleans long enough to know that people and things were connected in this city in ways they weren’t anywhere else. In unthinkable and unknowable ways.
The vampire, the press conference, the caped figure—the uneasy feelings they’d given me had been no accident. One way or another, they’d come back to haunt me during Halloween.
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