Dead and Dateless Read online

  My ears prickled and my mother’s voice carried from somewhere inside the house.

  “Can you believe he’s doing this to me?”

  “It’s just an invitation to tea, dear,” I heard my father tell her. The rich scent of mint chocolate chip joined the cherries jubilee.

  “We’re vampires. We don’t drink tea.”

  “Jack’s intended doesn’t know we’re vampires. Neither do her parents. So tea makes sense.”

  “Don’t call her that. She isn’t his ‘intended.’ She’s his flavor of the week. You know how Jack is. He changes his mind faster than Lilliana changes her clothes. And speaking of my darling daughter, I’ve called the office twice and she isn’t answering.”

  Number two: Go back to office ASAP and turn on machine.

  I wasn’t sure how I was going to pull this off, but I knew it was of monumental importance. I’d scraped and clawed and killed myself over the past few months to make a name in the matchmaking business and I was right there. On the cusp of greatness.

  Or at least making the rent.

  I couldn’t fall into poor business practices, i.e., not turning on the answering machine, just because I was wanted for murder.

  That or I could contact Evie and make sure that she turned the answering machine on. I wasn’t sure how to do this, either (no cell, no money, no dice), but I intended to figure something out.

  “She never answers your calls,” my father pointed out.

  “True, but that receptionist of hers or the answering machine always pick up at the office. I’m not getting either. I think something is…” Her words trailed off.

  “What is it?” my father asked her.

  “I…nothing. It’s just, for a second there, I could have sworn I smelled cotton candy.”

  So much for being downwind.

  “You’re worrying too much, dear.”

  “Of course I’m worrying. I’m her mother.”

  Aka the CEO of Guilt, Inc.

  “I’m sure Lil is fine. And if she weren’t, someone would have called us by now. The boys keep tabs on her.”

  “Jack doesn’t. He’s too busy committing us to social events with every human in New York.”

  “It’s two, dear. Three counting the girl herself.”

  “Three too many. I swear,” she huffed, “my children are going to be the death of me.”

  “You’re immortal, dear.”

  “With a weakness for stakes and sunlight. Both of which seem preferable to having tea with that woman and her family. Are you sure she’s not a witch?”

  “Jack said she’s a doctor.”

  “There you go. A voodoo witch doctor. She’s probably cast some sort of spell over him and that’s why he’s come to us with this silly request.”

  “Not that kind of a doctor, dear,” my father said. “At least I don’t think. Then again, that would explain why the boy came up with this cockamamie plan. Jack would never cook up something like this by himself.”

  I have three older brothers. Jack, the youngest, is the do-no-wrong brother.

  As for the other two…Max is the hunky one. Okay, so they are all three hunky (we’re talking male vamps, here), but Max is the oldest and so he has hunk seniority. While Rob is the smart brother. Okay, okay, so they are all smart (another vamp given), but Rob is the only one who managed to fly below my parents’ radar. He showed up for Sunday hunts, but otherwise he stayed in Hoboken where he managed the Jersey locations of Midnight Moe’s. And—and this was the biggie—he kept his women to himself.

  I was trying to do the same—fly below the radar, that is—but it wasn’t working as well on account of my being female and the survival of my species—not to mention the family bloodline—depended completely on me and how quickly I could find a suitable vamp and procreate.

  Or so my mother thought.

  “I’m just going to call and tell them no. They’re human.”

  In vamp terms, human meant dinner.

  “Perhaps if we go,” my father pointed out, “Jack will change his mind about this human. Especially when he sees us all together. He can’t ignore how different we are if it’s right in front of him.”

  Vamp definition for different? Better.

  “So you think we should cancel the Sunday hunt and go?” my mother wanted to know.

  I sat up straight. Cancel the Sunday hunt? Would they? Could they?

  “I don’t see how we can do anything else. We have to let him see for himself how silly it is for him to be involved with someone like that.”

  Yessssssssss!

  “It’s done, then,” Mom declared. “We’ll cancel Sunday and move the hunt to Saturday.”

  I glanced around the veranda for the nearest sharp object. Other than the heel from my Sergio Rossi, there wasn’t even anything close.

  Number three: Buy wooden stake.

  I tuned out my parents and pushed to my feet. Moonlight reflected off the water as I rounded the pool and limped toward the pool house.

  Remember, we’re talking a vamp pool house. Nix the usual umbrellas or beach towels or anything to help shield a body from the glowing ball of fire scheduled to light up the sky in exactly six hours and thirty-six minutes. I did find a few floats, however, several lounge chairs and a mini fridge with two bottles of AB-positive leftover from my parents’ last party.

  The small clock on the fridge indicated that it was barely eleven o’clock. Eleven?

  Which meant I had an entire night and day to get through undetected.

  No problemo. I could do this. I would hunker down and regroup. Come nightfall tomorrow, I would head back to the city and get to the bottom of the whole accused-of-murder business. And I would tend to my own Dead End Dating. I wasn’t exactly sure how I was going to accomplish the last part (I couldn’t just waltz into the office), but I figured that something brilliant would strike while I slept.

  First things first. I stacked several lounge chairs in front of the door (it didn’t have a lock) and spent the next half hour blowing up four of the massive floats and adding to my mental list of things to do tomorrow evening, like contacting Evie. I wasn’t sure how, but I wasn’t worried (see the brilliant comment above). I drank half a bottle of gourmet blood (chilled, but beggars couldn’t be choosers) and changed into my favorite J Lo sweatsuit—pink with white stripes—and did my best not to feel sorry for myself. Stacking three of the floats on top of one another, I stretched out and pulled the fourth full on top of me to act as a blanket/shield just in case someone opened the door and caught me cry—

  I shook away the thought before I could even finish, closed my eyes and gave in to the tears—er, sleep.

  And that’s how I stayed for the next few hours until the police showed up.

  I almost peed my pants when I heard the wail of the siren.

  Almost.

  Except that I’m—you guessed it—a vampere. While I have the same equipment as your average human, it doesn’t work exactly the same. Or, in this case, not at all (mucho thanks to the Big Vamp Upstairs for that).

  Plus, the sound only lasted for a few blaring seconds, and so the J Lo suit stayed in mint condition. I was left to wonder if my imagination had shifted into maximum overdrive. Loud, obnoxious siren? Or crazy, well-dressed, lunatic vampire?

  I went for number one (while I was well dressed, I wasn’t ready to check myself into Bellevue just yet) and crept to the door. My ears prickled and my nostrils flared and I tuned in to the world on the other side. The buzz of the crickets. The soft lapping of the pool water. The hum of the pump. The footsteps—

  Uh-oh.

  Man-made materials slapped up the walkway leading to my parents’ front door and my heart jumped into my throat. The noise paused and I heard the shuffling of feet and the clearing of throats.

  Breathe, I told myself. I sucked in air and tried to focus on the positive aspects of the situation. No guns were being drawn. No handcuffs were clacking. No one was whispering “You take the back” or “On my co
unt” or whatever cops said in situations like this. There were no men surrounding the house or helicopters lingering overhead.

  I sucked more air and tried to calm my pounding heart.

  “I’m really sorry, chief.” The woman’s apologetic voice slid past the thunder of my heart and echoed in my ears. “I thought the siren was standard procedure.”

  “In the apprehension of a criminal, Morris.” The man’s voice was deeper, more smooth and controlled. “This is a courtesy call on two valuable members of our community.”

  “Whose daughter is a murderer.”

  “Alleged murderer.”

  “But what if she’s here?”

  “She’s not.”

  “But what if she is? That would mean they’re aiding and abetting, which makes them criminals themselves, which means this isn’t just a courtesy—”

  “There’s been a mistake.”

  “But how can you be so—”

  “She’s not here,” the deep, smooth voice cut in again. “Now shut up and leave it alone.”

  Leave. It. Alone.

  The words echoed so strong and sure and forceful and realization hit.

  Remy Tremaine aka the Fairfield police force’s token vampire. His parents lived in a four-story colonial not too far away and were longtime friends of my folks. Our dads watched the Knicks together and golfed every Saturday night. Our mothers were both members of the Connecticut Huntress Club. Remy’s madre collected dues while mine served as vice president and my unofficial spokesperson.

  Meaning, she furnished my stats (height, weight, orgasm quotient) along with glasses of refreshment at every meeting.

  Meaning, I’d been set up with every eligible son, cousin, nephew, uncle, father, grandfather, and great grandfather (don’t ask).

  All born vampires, of course, who met my mother’s standard requirements for a son-in-law. Good looking. Fantastique fertility rating. And filthy rich. While police chiefs didn’t rake in the mega bucks, Remy’s private security service—which provided personal bodyguards to the wealthy, as well as an impressive list of celebrities and politicians—did.

  I’d been paired up with Remy on at least a dozen occasions. Not that I’d fallen for him, mind you. Yummy looks aside, we’re talking man-made soles.

  On top of that, while Remy looked good enough to eat, he didn’t smell good enough to eat. Because of his line of work, he took a special pill developed by a top-secret agency that provided tactical weapons for the armed forces. (I told you I’d spent many an evening with him.) The pill inhibited his natural scent and allowed him to mix, undetected, with the criminal element (some of them born vamps). Since the scent was a crucial mating element, I’d never been remotely attracted to him. Even if I sort of liked the fact that he didn’t remind me of a walking coconut cream pie.

  As far as I was concerned, Remy was…Well, Remy. I’d known him forever (translation—since we’d both been baby vamps back in the old country). I’d seen him wear knickers and he’d seen me in pantaloons and powdered wigs (uh, yeah), which equaled way too much history for me.

  Hello? Get over it. I could if I’d actually felt it. The chemistry. The heat. The bam!

  Bam! was a must-have on my prospective eternity mate list and so I’d crossed Remy off a long time ago.

  The doorbell rang and my mother’s voice sounded somewhere in the house.

  “I told you I heard something,” she said to my father.

  “Of course you heard something. The entire neighborhood heard it.”

  The knob clicked and the door creaked open.

  “Remy? What’s the meaning of this?”

  “Sorry about the siren, Mrs. Marchette. Morris here is a rookie and was just following procedure. She hit the button before I could stop her.” While I couldn’t see what was going on, I knew Morris was no doubt standing there with a look of pure rapture on her face because Remy was sort of hot and he’d obviously vamped her to keep her silent.

  “Since when is it procedure to stop by for a nightcap?” my mother asked.

  “This isn’t a social call.” He paused and my heart stopped beating. “There’s a warrant out for Lil.”

  “I told you she can’t handle her finances,” my mother blurted. “Haven’t I told you? Just tell us how much the parking tickets are and we’ll take care of it.”

  “She isn’t wanted for outstanding traffic violations, Mrs. Marchette.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “She’s wanted for murder.”

  “I told you the constant bottled diet would eventually get to her,” she told my father with the same exasperation she’d used in reference to the traffic violations. “Haven’t I told you? A vampire has to hunt. End of story. Obviously we can control ourselves, but to deny the hunger completely…It’s ridiculous.”

  “That’s our Lil,” my father added.

  See, I wasn’t much for hunting. Not that I couldn’t, mind you. I just preferred drinking my dinner out of a martini glass and following it up with an appletini chaser. Or, my most recent discovery, a cactus margarita. Talk about delish. See, they use sugar instead of salt and this to-die-for cactus juice that’s actually sweet…

  Wait a second. Where was I? Oh, yeah. While my parents went for the bottled stuff for the most part, they did indulge in the real thing on occasion. To nurture their wilder side.

  I know, I know. My wild side had most likely bitten the dust a few hundred years ago. Maybe. And maybe I’m just bottling it up in hopes of unleashing it with a megalicious vampire who can’t keep his hands off me.

  Hey, it could happen!

  “It’s just like your cousin Brigitte,” my mother went on. “Remember when she decided to become a nun and gave up men and blood? She lasted all of two weeks before she drained an encyclopedia salesman and even tried to sink her teeth into the free globe.”

  “The globe?”

  “Of course, she was out of her mind by then. If you ask me, she was out of her mind even before. Imagine, a nun. It’s too frightening to even contemplate.”

  “Lil didn’t lose it and drain him. She chopped him into little pieces.”

  “That’s preposterous. Not that I wouldn’t like to see our daughter do a little healthy hunting. But our kind don’t kill. You know that, Remy. Besides, Lilliana cried for a week when her brother ripped the head off her favorite doll. You remember that, don’t you, dear?” she asked my father.

  “We had a hell of a time calming her down,” my dad said. “Hell of a time.”

  “She would never do something so messy. She hates to get her hands dirty.”

  Actually, it was my clothes that I hated to get dirty. But Mom got kudos for standing up for me, so I wasn’t going to argue semantics.

  “There’s obviously been a mistake,” my mother added. “A ridiculous mistake.”

  “I agree,” Remy sighed. “But the evidence says otherwise. The victim was Kevin Gillespie, aka Keith Gillman.”

  The name drew an immediate image. I closed my eyes and saw the geeky twenty-something who’d come to my office desperate to find the girl of his dreams less than two weeks ago. He’d been a little pudgy and much too pale, but I’d agreed to help him anyway. What can I say? I love a challenge. Even more, I love a client who can pay a bonus for express service.

  “He was a reporter for The New York Times,” Remy went on. “He was…”

  Whoa, back it up. A reporter?

  “…a story on the local dating scene. Posing as a secret dater, he would sign himself up for the various services, go on a few dates, and write a review. He’d been about to leave his apartment for a date arranged by Dead End Dating when Lil arrived. She gave the doorman her name and her card.”

  Uh—yeah. Keith had shown up at Dead End Dating wearing sandals and socks, for Damien’s sake. We’re talking the walking poster guy for What Not to Wear on a First Date. Which meant I’d shown up at his apartment prior to date number one to make sure he wore something decent so he didn’
t remain a pale, geeky, lonely subway attendant for the rest of his life.

  He’d had on Reeboks and jeans and a new blue Banana Republic T-shirt I’d talked him into during our predate shopping spree. Perfectly acceptable attire for a casual night of pizza and beer and conversation with his possible soul mate.

  “I knew that dating service would get her into trouble. Dating, of all things.”

  Here we go again.

  “Born vampires don’t date. And they certainly don’t arrange dates for humans.”

  Or made vampires. Or werewolves. Or any of the Others who’d signed up since I’d opened up shop. Yada, yada.

  “First she’s the laughingstock, and now she’s a wanted criminal. She might as well stand on the street corner with a sign around her neck: Vampires exist and I’m one of them.”

  “Now, now, dear, I’m sure she doesn’t mean to draw attention to herself.”

  “Did you see what she wore to last week’s hunt? A hot pink tutu, of all things.”

  It hadn’t been a tutu. It had been a poet’s shirt with fringe, the latest from Christian Dior and my most recent wardrobe coup.

  “This is all your fault,” my mother told my father. “My side of the family is the picture of discretion.”

  “What—”

  “Now, folks,” Remy cut in. “There’s no need to blame each other for this unfortunate situation. What’s done is done and the only way out of it is to stick together.”

  “Such a smart boy,” my mother said. “But of course, you’re right.”

  “I still don’t see why the police are so convinced she’s guilty,” my father said. “Just because she was seen at this reporter’s apartment doesn’t mean she killed him.”

  Right on, Dad.

  “True, but the victim took a picture of her with his camera phone just minutes before the projected time of death. She was in his bedroom where he was killed. With the murder weapon in her hand. A huge kitchen knife.”