Beach Blanket Bloodbath (Amanda Feral Book 4) (18 page)

I climbed from my perch and tiptoed
through the gore. “Mrs. Swinton. If we’d done that, the police would suspect
you. Only a lunatic would set up a destructive event inside her own store. Look
at this mess!”

Mrs. Swinton’s lip curled into a hideous snarl,
as though I hadn’t done her a favor. “I might have to kill you.”

“Oh no,” I shook my head. “That’s
uncalled for. After all, I did provide you with your daughter’s killer. Maybe.
Plus, you’ve had the best revenge ever. I mean, shark attack right in front of
your eyes, that’s fucking amazing. Unforgettable.” The woman was clearly
horrified.

Wendy chimed in, “Just desserts I say. I
mean, except for the not being able to walk part. That’s pretty fucked up.” Her
gaze descended on me. Judging. So much judgin.

Swinton hissed in Wendy’s direction.

Abuelita heaved the contents of her
stomach into the store waste bin.

“Nice,” I said. “If you’re going to be an
enforcer, you’re going to have to get used to this kind of shit, Jan from
Bakersfield!”

I felt a tapping on my shoulder, and
glancing back found Gil struggling to get my attention. Shrugging him off, I
continued. “As far as I’m concerned. I’ve done you the greatest of kindnesses.
And these books, the blood will wipe right off. So easy you’ll be kicking
yourself that you ever worried.”

At that very moment, a drizzle of blood decorated
Mrs. Swinton’s cheek like a bon bon. Reaching up to smear it, it became clear
she wasn’t satisfied. She lunged at me, clawed fingers extended. Luckily, I’d
never given her a single guarantee, not in writing anyway and had a decent
enough defense in the form of a ratcheting jaw. Swinton took a few steps back
to admire it…orr recoil from it, possibly.

“Amanda!” Gil snapped. “You need to shut
your yapper and see this.”

“Jesus,” I turned only to be confronted
with an author photo on the back of a book.

“Look familiar?”

I snatched the book out of his hand. The
face was Mrs. Winterford’s but the life living beneath the skin was someone
else entirely. This one had a spark of ambition that our Mrs. Winterford couldn’t
ever.

And wouldn’t ever have.

I flipped the book over and read it
aloud. “The Las Felicitas Murders by Gloria Winterford—bestselling author
of the Lunchbox Lynchings. Charming.”

I scanned the first few pages, catching glimpses
of actual talent in the prose and a New York publisher on the spine. Our
hostess’s books had a suspiciously homemade ink stamp on the front page. But
the titles at least were reminiscent of the book Mrs. Winterford had sold me at
check-in. Death on the Dunes.

“Twins?” The question was directed to Gil
and Mrs. Swinton. “Both authors?”

The bookseller’s mouth curled up like an
old shoe as if Gil had produced nothing of consequence. He lifted a whole box
of the books to show us. Various titles indicating local ties all by Gloria
Winterford.

The Long Beach Lolita.

Avarice in Aberdeen.

The reigning Miss Sandflea had said that
Mrs. Winterford had written such books. She had meant
this
Mrs. Winterford in the picture, not the one reduced to a
dripping spinal cord in the wreckage of an electric wheelchair.

“Was the other sister…handicapped, too?”

Mrs. Swinton shook her head somberly.

That was a key piece of information, I
had to admit. Damn Millenials you can’t trust them to offer anything beyond the
simplest response.

I threw the book into the box with the
rest. “This doesn’t lessen the damning secret admirer letter with its floating ‘s’
as evidence to our Mrs. Winterford’s handi-complicity in the crime.” I left out
the part about having to overlook her twin sister lurking around the scene of
the crime and the missing typewriter.

“Well fuck.” I tossed my hands in the
air. “Then it’s the sister.”

“Obviously!” Mrs. Swinton pouted.

I didn’t appreciate her trying to make me
feel bad, bookseller or not. I glanced around the store and couldn’t even lie
to myself. The store was screwed. Even if the life insurance policy on the girl
was huge, it wouldn’t bring this place back from the brink. It was over.

“So, you set up a completely innocent
handicapped woman and had her executed via wereshark and I’m supposed to just
ignore that and go after the real killer on my own.”

“Yes,” Wendy said. “Because we gotta
motor.”

I nodded my agreement. Gil didn’t, he was
already at the door. “Let’s go.”

Shrugging, I twisted about to follow him
and then stopped dead, a realization popping into my head like the proverbial
light bulb.

Mrs. Swinton was behaving in a very
unusual way, for a human. But not for a supernatural. Throughout the entire
melee, she had been horrified, certainly, but only in regards to the state of
her store. She hadn’t even made mention of the fact that men and women had
turned into sharks right in front of her. Odd since humans don’t typically know
about us, ever. In fact, the sight of us can trigger particularly savvy reapers
to pop in and clean up the mess. So far, no sign of the little bitches.

“Wait a minute. Wait one damn minute.”

“What?” Swinton snapped, her hands
clamped firmly to her hips.

“You didn’t seem at all shocked that
shapeshifters were flouncing around your store, being generally, to a human…” I
emphasized this point. “Terrifying.”

“What are you getting at?” Wendy asked,
eyes narrowed shrewdly.

“She’s one of us.”

“A zombie?” Gil asked and then lit up,
moving swiftly past us and into the back of the store like he’d forgotten
something.

“No clue,” I called after him. “But she’s
something. What are you doing?”

“Just checking something!”

The woman clammed up, looking around
nervously. Spritzing cleanser and wiping down her countertops. “I’m sure I
don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Where are the reapers?” Wendy rushed
toward the front window of the store, smearing a clear spot in the blood
spatter. “Even if this bitch is a supe,
those two old bats saw the whole thing."

“Those old gargoyles?” Mrs.
Swinton rolled her eyes. “They could smell the blood on this scene from a mile
away. They just pretend to be human, it's an act. Las Felicitas is an enclave
of retired supernaturals....and what’s worse? They’re as cheap as the day is
long.”

“Duh!” Wendy cried, slapping
her thigh. “Of course, Amanda. Do you remember what they were doing during the
melee?”

“I was kind of busy.”

“They were
rolling in the guts. Playing in it.” She skipped around in a circle, pretending
to toss the gore into the air like confetti. “It was so gross.”

“And
utterly inhuman,” Mrs. Swinton added.

Gil returned, fangs twinkling out of a
proud smile. He snapped a fresh piece of paper out before him. “Mrs. Swinton
had a typewriter in the back.”

I snatched it from his hand. Two words were
printed dead center:

^S
hit
^S
how.

I gulped.

Gil continued, “She had it stashed in a
closet next to several empty buckets of chum.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “You people and
your chum. It’s like the fucking truffle oil of Las Felicitas. Drizzle it on a
crostini or your worst enemy.”

“Or your own daughter,” Gil pointed out
the elephant in the room.

We all turned to Mrs. Swinton, her eyes
downcast and rightly so. “She was adopted.”

“Oh, well then, perfectly understandable.”

Mrs. Swinton nodded, but it wasn’t shame
that kept her eyes from mine. The woman was slyly reaching behind the counter.
Wendy snatched the murdering mom’s hand, breaking it at the wrist followed by a
loud thunk as something hit the floor. She screamed and cradled it in her other
arm, whimpering.

Wendy crouched to retrieve a black
pistol, which she brandished in the direction of the bookseller.

“Listen, Swinton,” I said. “You’ve about
stretched the limit of my fleeting empathy. There’s very little stopping us
from devouring you, beyond that leathery flesh you’ve cultivated. I normally
avoid the chewy, but I could be pressed to make an exception.”

The woman nodded feebly. “I’ll come
clean. I’m of the sea, as well.”

“How poetic.”

“I’m a mako. Distant relative to those
lunkheads that ruined the shop. The bookstore has been struggling for years and
so I concocted this scheme to adopt and then dispose of some retched human
teenagers. The insurance money is fantastic.”

“Better than internet porn money?” I
whispered to Gil.

He shook his head, no.

“How many have there been?” Wendy
wondered aloud.

Mrs. Swinton fluttered her hand about
nonchalantly. “Three? Four? At this location.”

“Well,” I sighed. “That settles it.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Swinton nodded, solemnly.
“I’ll not say a word to the police.”

“Especially since we know your secret.
Thad Chumley is not at all happy about being used as your pawn.”

“You wouldn’t tell him, would you?”

I shrieked with laughter. “Yeah. Yeah I
would. I mean, I won’t, but you better find a way to make it up to him. Or I’ll
send him back over here and it’ll be shark thunderdome.”

“I will.” She nodded, clutching her palms
together. “I promise I will.”

“Whatever,” Wendy said. “Let’s roll!”

Wendy and Gil darted from the store,
leaving me to take in the aftermath of my decisions. All in all, it felt like a
successful conclusion to the case. An old lady died, sure, but that was going
to happen no matter what and her prose was terribly purple so I’d rid the world
of that blight. Mrs. Swinton was free to continue perpetrating insurance fraud,
a risky business but certainly no more morally suspect than feeding on the
homeless.

Who was I to judge?

In the end, I had to admit, it was kind
of fun getting my head back in the game.

***

We
drove in silence past the city limits, back fender thudding periodically
against the tire, the shattered window making night driving slightly difficult.
The graffitied car drew more than a little attention when we passed under the
columns of street lights, but luckily the Pacific Coast Highway wasn’t all that
well lit in the middle of nowhere.

Wendy reached over and patted me on my
thigh. “I’ll give you this, Amanda. That shit was fun.”

I smiled. “Did it take your mind off your
troubles? I hope.”

She nodded. “I don’t care what people say
about you, Amanda. You’re kind and generous. And a pretty decent detective.”

“Yeah,” Gil agreed. “You’re the tits.”

“Aw.” I lit up a cigarette. “You two have
always been really stupid. Thanks.”

“Would you actually call the wereshark
and tell him?”

“Uh…duh. Totally. If for no other reason
than to keep that door open.”

Nods all around. We were in agreement.
Hot boys ranked over desperate daughter-killers.

And for a little while, Ethel Ellen
Frazier’s words quieted in my memory. My mother was wrong, at least today. We
were the best of friends again. Laughing. Reminiscing. Leaving a trail of blood
and carnage in our wake.

Best friends.

Except for the secrets, a stolen shipment
of drugs, and the looming threat of hot pants-clad tea-bagging strippers. But
whatevs. A tiger can’t change its stripes without a qualude and a patient
colorist .

Gird your loins!

Amanda and the gang will be back on the
road to catch that cruise in…

A NIGHT TO DISMEMBER

(Coming August 2014)

GUTS’ Totally Fucking Hipster DJ Set

*****

Other
People
• Beach House

Good
Mistake
• Mr. Little
Jeans

Cupid’s
Head
• The Field

Our
Deal
• Best Coast

Gun
• Chvrches

The
Red Wing
• Fuck Buttons

Excavation
Pt. 2
• The Haxan Cloak

The
Keepers
• Santigold

Fear
of Love
• Noosa

*****

Note:
The Haxan Cloak, Ricardo? Really? I could have thrown a wrench down the stairs
if that was the sound you were looking for. Additionally, the intestinal tract
doesn’t have many hard surfaces that clink, so I just don’t get it. At. All.