The Real Werewives of Vampire County (23 page)

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Authors: Jess Tami; Haines Angie; Dane Alexandra; Fox Ivy

BOOK: The Real Werewives of Vampire County
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I needed to find out who else might have been close enough to Michelle to be invited inside the house. I was missing something. Something big. The puzzle pieces just weren’t fitting. Who would kill Michelle Stewart? And why?
The more I learned, the more I needed to know.
CHAPTER 7
T
here was a dead cat on the front porch. Make that, a
mangled
dead cat. Creepy eyes wide open. Mouth agape in an eternal hiss, teeth bared. It was dead for sure. I’d nudged it with a toe. It was stiff.
I slammed the door and locked it.
Jon, why aren’t you home yet?
I checked the clock. It was after midnight. I’d been so sure the sound I’d heard outside was him, I hadn’t thought twice about throwing the door open to greet him. But instead of getting a nice, warm hug, I’d received the shock of the night.
This whole dead animal thing was getting much too common.
Inching open the door, I checked to see if it was still there.
Yep.
Damn.
I went to the girl-cave and retrieved the shoe box that had originally been intended for Skippy. Then I collected a pair of thick rubber gloves and a set of salad tongs. There was no way in hell I was touching that ... thing. Out I went, back onto the porch, yellow gloves gleaming, metal tongs reflecting the overhead porch light. I gingerly grabbed a leg with the tongs, lifted. The foot slipped loose, and the animal hit the porch with a stomach-turning smack. Swallowing bile, I made a second attempt, this time grabbing the base of the tail.
Success. I slammed the box top on and, leaving my tool on the porch, hurried the makeshift coffin into the attached garage, trying hard not to inhale through my nose. As disgusting as the animal had looked, I was sure it smelled even worse. Into a black trash bag it went. And the bag—tied, knotted, triple-knotted—went into a trash can. Lid on. Hopefully the garage wouldn’t stink like dead cat by tomorrow.
That unpleasant task completed, I spun around.
“Gak!” I screamed as I smacked right into a man’s wide chest. I jerked my head back and let out an audible exhale. “Ohmygod, you scared me. I didn’t hear you.”
Jon was holding the tongs. He gave my rubber-covered hands a pointed look. “What are you doing?”
“Um.” I snatched the tongs out of his hand and threw them into the nearest garbage can. “We can’t use those anymore. They’re dirty.”
“We can wash them.”
A very reasonable suggestion. Unfortunately, in this case, it wouldn’t work. Those tongs could be sterilized, sanitized, boiled in bleach, and I wasn’t going to touch them. “Sure. But they have dead cat germs on them.”
His eyebrows scrunched together. “Huh?”
“There was a dead cat on our porch. I didn’t want to touch it.”
“I see. Where’d you put the cat?”
I pointed at the can. “It’s boxed, bagged, and tied.” I snapped off the rubber gloves and they joined the tongs. “It’s not going anywhere.”
“Hmmm. I guess I’ll dispose of it tomorrow.” He looped an arm around my waist, leading me back into the house. “Anything else exciting happen today?”
“Well, let’s see,” I said, walking arm-in-arm with Jon up the stairs. “This morning, Lindsay forced me to take her ex-boyfriend’s stuff because she’s mad at him. And Mrs. Wahlen is suing me for killing her dog, Skippy. By the way, I’m still unclear whether I need to go get a rabies shot since she wouldn’t tell me if Skippy was up-to-date on his shots. Oh, and Skippy was eaten by some big animal last night. At least, I think he was. I saw something. Some eyes. Big, glowing eyes. And then Samantha came over to talk about ... to visit. And Josh had a half day at school. He took off with his friends for a few hours then came home and went straight to his room. Didn’t say a word to me. And finally, well, I already told you about the dead cat.”
“Sounds like you had an interesting day.”
“A strange, bizarre day is more like it. And here I thought living in the ’burbs would be boring.”
He stripped off his shirt and gave me a hungry man leer, and I knew my day was going to end on a much higher note. He pulled down his pants, and all thoughts of dead cats and ex-boyfriends flew from my mind. “Come here.” He took my hands and led me to the bed. “Let me show you why living in the ’burbs will never be boring.”
“Hmmm,” I said, as I slid between the sheets and into his arms. “I like the sound of that.”
 
“I’m having a dinner party and you’re invited. Six o’clock. Tonight.”
That was the greeting I received when I answered the front door the next morning. The party holder was Erica. She was dressed for work, knotted up in a chic black suit and a killer pair of Manolos. Someday I would just love to raid her closet. “Thanks for the invite. Shall I bring something?”
“Maybe a notebook. Something small that you can conceal easily.”
“Wouldn’t a casserole be more appropriate?”
“Not in this case. I’ve invited everyone I could think of who knew Michelle.” Her purse started buzzing. She dug inside, checked her phone, then hit a button, ending the noise. “I’d like you to come over at five. I’ve asked Lindsay and Samantha to come early, too, so we can make plans.”
“Plans for what?”
She shrugged. I’ve never seen a more elegant shrug in my life. “Our interrogations.”
“Interesting.”
Erica’s purse buzzed again. Scowling, she checked her phone. “Dammit.” Hit the button. “Gotta go. See you at five.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and if you happen to see a cat running around, please let me know. Ramzes got out last night and he hasn’t come back. The kids are a mess.”
“Cat?” I echoed.
“Yes, he’s rare breed, Ural Rex. It was a nightmare getting him into the States. We bought him from a breeder in Russia during a family vacation. I’d hate to think I might have to go to all that trouble again. At any rate. He’s brown with a wavy coat and a mostly black head.”
And he’s now an occupant of our garbage can.
I forced a smile. “I’ll let you know if I see him.”
“Great. Thanks.” When her purse buzzed yet again, she sighed and hurried toward the door, throwing a wave over her shoulder. “Work calls. See you at five.”
“See you then.”
Ural Rex. From Russia. Great.
I closed the door and headed upstairs to wake Josh. He didn’t have a lot of time to get ready for school. Only about twenty minutes. His door was open. I could see some hair poking out from under the covers. I flipped on the light. “Rise and shine. The bus’ll be here in twenty.” Stepmotherly duty done, I trotted back downstairs to start the coffee. Josh came dragging down just as the first drops were hitting the carafe. His eyes were bloodshot, deep black smudges staining the skin under them. His clothes were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them—he probably had. And his unzipped, bulging-with-books backpack was dragging on the floor behind him. But more importantly, he was sporting the worst bed head I’d ever seen. He substituted an empty mug for the glass coffeepot for a few seconds, replacing it when his cup was full.
“I’ve heard caffeine stunts your growth,” I told him.
“Uhn,” was his response. He blinked slowly.
I pointed at his head. “Hair.”
He grabbed a baseball cap off a nearby table and smacked it on his head. After downing a few gulps of coffee, he lumbered toward the front door.
“Have a nice day,” I called, exaggerating the cheerfulness in my voice. Smiling at his back, I said to myself, “I think I could get used to this. If the whole dead animal thing would just stop.”
I headed into the shower, spying a sleeping Jon as I tiptoed through our bedroom and into the attached bath. I was tempted to crawl back under the covers and snuggle up to him, but I resisted the temptation and went for a shower instead. When I came back out, he was gone. And I was home alone, again.
After dressing, I killed some time down in the girl-cave, working on some sketches and scouring the web for inspiration. At noon, I headed out to check the mailbox. Thing One and Thing Two were racing tricycles down the sidewalk. Thing Two clipped the back of my leg with a pedal as she was roaring by.
Samantha, whom I hadn’t realized was sitting on the front porch, called out an apology. Finding the mailbox empty, I cut across our yards, joining her on her porch.
She was dumping a few pills out of a prescription bottle as I climbed the steps. Recognizing the fact that I’d seen her, she lifted the bottle, saying, “Anxiety,” before tossing the tablets into her mouth. She washed them down with a gulp of vitamin water. “What do you think about Erica’s dinner party. Brilliant, isn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Do you really think the killer will slip up and say something self-incriminating—assuming, that is, the killer is one of the guests?”
“Well ... I have a little secret weapon... .” Samantha waved me into the house. She dug a small bottle of pills out of her handbag, sitting on the console table just inside the door.
Stunned, I asked, “You’re going to dose everyone?”
“Sure. This stuff won’t hurt anyone.”
“What is it?”
“Just sleeping pills. I have insomnia.” She dropped the bottle back in her bag. “I read online that they work like truth serum.”
“But sleeping pills will just put people to sleep.”
“Not if I only give them a light dose.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“Wouldn’t you like to find out what really happened to your fiancé’s first wife?”
“Sure, but giving innocent people drugs is taking things too far.”
Samantha sighed. “Okay. You’re right.” She headed back outside.
Following her, I said, “I’m glad you think so. I mean, if someone had a reaction, you could put someone in the hospital. Or worse.”
“Yes. That would be terrible.” She returned to her chair.
I leaned against one of the vertical porch posts. “We can get people talking other ways. Less dangerous ways.”
She shrugged. “Sure.”
“Like a strong punch. Alcohol makes people talk more, be more impulsive, more honest.”
“Absolutely. I can whip up a killer punch—no pun intended.” She waved at Things One and Two. “Time for lunch, kids.”
I straightened up, prepared to scamper down off the porch before the two wild things came up. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yes, later.”
I wondered if I’d talked her out of spiking the punch. As much as I hoped I had, I figured it was maybe fifty-fifty I hadn’t.
CHAPTER 8
A
t exactly five fifty-nine the last guest arrived at Erica’s dinner party. All totaled, including Erica, Lindsay, Lindsay’s “date,” Nicole, Samantha, and me, there were ten people at the party. None of them were kids. Erica had shipped hers off with her husband before I’d arrived, and Lindsay and Samantha had opted to leave theirs at home, too.
Upon the arrival of the last person—a nurse working with Michelle’s former OB/GYN—the girls set their plans into motion. The first goal was to serve light hors d’oeuvres so that the effects of the punch would be exaggerated. Dinner would be served later.
Within a half hour, it was obvious their scheme had worked.
“That dress is butt ugly,” one guest said, her perky little nose scrunched up in disgust. Pointing at another guest, she said, much too loudly, “I would never, ever put that shape of skirt on a curvy client.”
“At least my dress fits,” the recipient of her verbal assault tossed back. “Yours is so tight, I can see every lump of cottage cheese on your thighs. I’m guessing you spent a hell of a lot of money on your nose, your lips, and your boobs. Why wouldn’t you get lipo?”
“My husband’s leaving me for another man,” the third guest sobbed.
“I hate my job. My boss is an ass,” said another.
“I paid ten grand for new boobs and they are hideous,” wailed the first. “And that bitch is so right. I should’ve gotten the lipo. What the hell was I thinking?”
“This punch is delicious,” said the woman with the cheating husband as she poured herself another glass.
We exchanged grins. Samantha shrugged. “I told you, I have a killer punch recipe.”
If nothing else, this was going to be one very interesting evening.
“Just tell me there’s nothing but alcohol in it,” I said, watching as things started heating up.
Samantha nodded. “I promise, I didn’t even bring the pills.”
We huddled in the kitchen, planning our strategy. Erica gave us a rundown of each guest, why they were invited, and why they were suspects. The fashion critic, Rachel, was Michelle’s former personal shopper. She regularly spent hours in the Stewart home, helping Michelle plan outfits for the many charity events she attended. There was a rumor that she was in debt and desperate for cash. The fashion victim, Theresa, was the nurse at Michelle’s former OB. She wasn’t a suspect per se, but Erica had hoped to get some information about Michelle’s alleged fertility problems. The dumped wife, Kelly, was the mother of one of Joshua’s friends. She visited Michelle occasionally, enough that Michelle would have let her into the house without thinking about it. And even two years ago, there’d been rumors about her marriage being on the rocks. There’d also been rumors that Kelly had a thing for Jon. The last guest was Heather, also someone who’d met Michelle through Josh. Michelle had told Erica only a few days before she’d died that she’d had a huge blow-up-drag-down fight with Heather over something that happened between her son and Josh.
“Time to get to work.” Feeling like a football coach, I pointed at Erica. “Why don’t you start with the nurse? You know her best, since she works for your doctor.” Erica agreed with a nod. Next I pointed at Kelly. “Lindsay, why don’t you take the friend with the gay husband? She’s in I-hate-my-husband mode. You just broke up with a boyfriend—” Lindsay blanched then gave Nicole a guilty look. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up a touchy subject.”
“It’s okay. We’re on a mission. I get it.” To Nicole, Lindsay said, “Long story. I’ll tell you later.” Lindsay glanced over her shoulder, at her target. “If she knows anything about Michelle’s death, I’ll get it outta her.”
“Good!” I motioned to Samantha next. “Samantha, why don’t you take Heather the boss-hater? I’ll take the one that’s left, Rachel, the personal shopper.” I checked my watch. “How about we reconvene in a half hour and see what we need to do next? And let’s keep that punch flowing.”
Off we went, to question our so-called persons of interest.
I headed for my target, who was standing next to Heather, pointing out all the flaws in everyone’s fashion statement. According to Erica, Rachel worked as a personal shopper-slash-stylist and had reportedly made a lot of deliveries to the Stewart household in the past. Since fashion was my thing, I figured I stood as good a chance as any of getting her to talk.
“Hi there, I see you have an interest in fashion,” I said as I approached her with a full glass of punch. I motioned to her empty glass, trading it for the full one in my hand.
After nodding a thanks, she said, “I’m a stylist and personal shopper.” She gave me an up-and-down look. I was wearing one of my own dresses. “Who are you wearing?”
“Actually, it’s my own. I’m a designer.”
“Really?” She gave my dress a closer look. “Nice. Have you had samples made? I’d love to show this piece to a few of my clients.”
“Not yet. I’m working on it.”
She dug into her purse, produced a card. “When you do, I hope you’ll keep me in mind.”
“I will. Thanks. I understand you worked for Michelle Stewart.”
“Michelle was one of my best clients.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Rachel gave me a sad look. “Actually, she was my best client. My business has taken a nosedive since she died, and—don’t tell anybody—I had to take a part-time job, working at JCPenney to make ends meet. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Good. I’d hate for them to know.” She plucked a nonexistent piece of fuzz from her skirt. “My business is all about appearances, you know.”
“That, I know.”
She smoothed her sleeve. “I mean, who would want to pay top dollar to a part-time sales clerk to be their stylist?”
“I’m sorry your business has suffered. Has it been a long time since you’ve shopped for a client?”
She didn’t answer right away. “Yes, it has been a long time, since the week before Michelle died.”
“That long ago? That’s terrible.”
“I’d met with Michelle the week before she ... you know. She had a few events coming up, and she wanted me to come by. In fact, we had an appointment for that very day. But I didn’t get the chance. I was ... well, detained.” Her face turned red. “Parking tickets. I was in jail.”
“Oh.” I patted her shoulder. “Sorry for dredging up unhappy memories. Hopefully you’ll pick up some new clients soon. I’d better move on to the other guests.” Feeling a little guilty for pretty much dumping her after that confession, I explained, “I’m new in town. Would hate for anyone to feel slighted. Say, maybe you can come back another day, and I’ll take you down to my studio, let you get a firsthand glimpse of my collection.”
Her eyes actually sparkled. “I would love that.”
After making the rounds, filling punch glasses, I was the first to return to our predetermined meeting spot. The other ladies soon joined me. “I’m pretty sure we can cross Rachel off the list,” I said. “Her business has tanked since Michelle died. She has no motivation to kill her best client. She was anticipating more business from her in the upcoming weeks. So if her motivation was money, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Plus, she has an alibi that should be pretty easy to verify.” I glanced at the other ladies. “Anybody get something good?”
“Got nothing from Kelly,” Lindsay said, “other than she was very sad to learn about Michelle. Evidently, she called her often to talk about her troubles with her husband.”
“Heather seems to be a dead end, too,” Samantha said, frowning. “That big so-called fight was just about Joshua borrowing a pair of her son’s gym shoes. The shoes were ruined, and there’d been conflicting stories about who was responsible. I don’t know. Even if they were Alexander McQueens, a pair of shoes is hardly worth killing over.”
All of us shared a heavy sigh.
“But wait. All’s not lost,” Erica said. “I had Theresa, Dr. Orenstein’s nurse. I’m thinking we need to follow up on the doctor. Evidently, he had a secret thing for Michelle.”
“Thing?” I echoed.
“Obsession,” Erica clarified.
“A secret obsession,” Lindsay repeated. “That could be a motivation for murder.”
“Maybe,” I agreed.
Erica continued, leaning in, “Evidently, Jon’s story about her going to a fertility specialist was partially true. Michelle did ask for a referral. But Dr. O insisted she didn’t need one and persisted in treating her himself. It’s possible Michelle didn’t tell Jon the truth, letting him think she was going to someone else. Jon wasn’t fond of Dr. O and had told her to change doctors.”
Lindsay’s eyes widened. “Now, that is interesting—”
“You bitch!” someone shouted from the living room.
I jerked around, catching Heather tossing a glass of punch into Rachel’s face.
“How dare ...” Eyelashes dripping, mouth agape, Rachel grabbed the first thing she touched—a potted plant—and threw it. Heather ducked. The pot hit the wall and shattered. Dirt flew everywhere. The plant landed on Kelly’s head.
“What the hell?” Kelly screeched, untangling philodendron leaves from her hair. “I just paid two hundred dollars to get my hair done.”
“Uh-oh,” I mumbled, watching Kelly lurch to her feet. “This is getting ugly. Fast.”
“Ladies,” Erica shouted over the mounting wave of expletives filling the room. She waved her arms. The cuss words just kept flowing.
“If you paid that, you were robbed,” Rachel sneered. “I’ve seen better dye jobs walking out of Fantasic Sams.”
Kelly charged at Rachel like a bull, nostrils flaring, fury burning in her eyes. She tackled Rachel to the ground, and a catfight ensued. There was hair flying, clothes tearing, fingernails clawing. A couple of the other guests jumped into the fray before we could get it broken up, and before we knew it, we were ducked behind the kitchen island while things crashed and shattered all around us.
“Samantha, what the hell did you put in that punch?” Erica snapped.
Crack.
Samantha shrugged.
“Just alcohol,” I said. “Right, Samantha? You only put alcohol, like you said.”
“Well ...”
Crash.
“Dammit, I think that was the plasma TV.” Erica poked her head up. “Yes, that was the plasma.” She glared at Samantha.
“You’ll pay for that, whore!” Kelly screeched.
“What did you put in the punch?” I repeated.
“No drugs.” Samantha raised her hands. “I swear.”
“Then what is in that punch?” I eyeballed the bowl, not sure whether I should empty it to keep them all from drinking more or just put it away, in case someone had a bad reaction. “It can’t be just fruit juice and ginger ale.”
“No, it’s not.” Samantha sighed. “I got a truth potion from someone I know. She promised it was safe, made from all organic ingredients. I’ve used her potions before. Never had a problem.”
“A potion?” I echoed.
Ka-blam.
Erica sank to the floor. “Samantha, do you have a Valium on you?”
“Sure.” Samantha produced a bottle from her skirt pocket, dumped a handful out, and handed them to Erica. “Take a few.”
“Thanks.” Erica dry-swallowed half of them. “I can’t believe this.”
Smash.
“Hey,” Samantha said, sounding a touch defensive. “If it wasn’t for the punch, do you think we’d have what we do on Dr. O?”
Erica shrugged. And sighed. “Point taken.”
“Thank you.”
Crack.
Lindsay giggled.
We all looked at her. She was batting her eyelashes at her new
friend,
Nicole.
“Do you really think she’s turning lesbian?” I whispered to Erica.
“She’s no more a lesbian than I am. But I’m not going to tell her that. She’ll figure it out. But I will say one thing—she has great taste in women. Nicole’s very attractive.” That statement had me second-guessing both their sexual orientations. To Samantha, Erica said, “Okay, that’s enough. My living room is destroyed. My dining room table is covered with broken glass. I’d like to preserve at least some of my furniture. How about making it stop?”
“Very well.” After straightening her hair, Samantha stood up. “Excuse me, but ... dinner is served.”
Silence.
It was a freaking miracle.

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