Nice Girls Don't Live Forever (16 page)

Zeb finally broke when he realized that we’d nearly scrubbed the paint off my porch but hadn’t made a dent in the smell.

“I think we made the smell angry,” Zeb said, wrinkling his nose. “The good news is that we just happen to have intimate information of a personal nature about a certain vampire who knows how to obtain a pressure washer at eleven P.M.”

“One, I hope you mean Dick,” I said as he dialed his cell phone. “And two, whatever intimate personal information you have about Dick, please don’t share it with me.”

We went inside for some cold drinks. Zeb stripped his shirt off, wiping the durian remains from his hands. “You know what, I have to say the whole unkempt-workman thing is a good look for you. You should go home to Jolene right now all sweaty and manly.”

“I can’t. I smell like …” He shuddered. “I can’t go home to Jolene like this. I’m always telling her not to come home stinky after she’s rolled in something dead.”

I stretched out on the porch steps, flexing my tired legs. “Wait, you do mean in wolf form, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking at me as if
I
was the crazy one.

“Your marriage is not like other marriages,” I told him. “So, how are you guys? Have you adjusted to the whole twins thing yet?”

“You were right,” he said sheepishly.

I smirked. “I usually am.”

“I don’t have much of a choice in the matter. The babies are on their way, so the best thing to do is just hold on and enjoy the ride. And when you think about it, it’s pretty cool,” he said, pausing to take a drink. “Besides, Jolene’s cousin Raylene is having triplets, so it could be worse.”

“Well, there you go.”

Zeb wiped his forehead off and considered. “This stinky-fruit drive-by is a weird thing to do to someone. Do you think Gabriel did it?”

“This isn’t really Gabriel’s style. This involves a certain whimsical malice that he lacks. Besides, he’s not mad at me. He just can’t seem to grasp why I’m mad at him, which is infuriating. And even when he was mad at me, he was much more likely to lecture me sternly or give me a spanking than leave putrid fruit paste on my porch.”

“I’m going to ignore the spanking reference,” he said under his breath.

“Probably for the best,” I agreed.

“So, who do you think is the fruit bomber?”

I shrugged. “Could be some random person in town who doesn’t like vampires. Could be a member of the Chamber of Commerce who has decided they don’t want me there after all. Now, that’s the place for whimsical malice. Heck, this could be Dick’s idea of a hilarious practical joke to lift my spirits. It could be anybody.”

“That’s not comforting.” Zeb said.

Or, I thought, it could be my mysterious pen pal, hoping I would be disoriented enough from lack of sleep and olfactory overdrive to stumble out of the house in full daylight to investigate the smell.

“It sucks to be this popular,” I said, reaching into the front hall to pull out my purse. “Which is why I went to the scary sporting-goods store last night and bought this.”

I pulled my new stun gun out of its holster and pressed the trigger, smiling as the arc of current connected between the two prongs.

“You bought a stun gun?” he cried. “Why did you buy a stun gun?”

“Do you want to smell my porch again?” I asked. “There’s some stuff going on right now, Zeb. I need something for protection, and I lost the mace Gabriel gave me. And I lost Gabriel. I can’t depend on anybody to protect me. I think we can agree that buying a gun would be much more likely to end in my shooting myself or innocent bystanders.”

“But you’re a vampire! You have superstrength. I’ve seen you kill someone with your bare hands. Well, there was a wooden stake in your bare hands. But still.”

“I don’t like carrying this thing around with me, either, Zeb. You know me, I only resort to violent impulses when I feel I have no option—”

“Or you’re cranky or startled, or your blood sugar is low, or you have a hangnail—”

I cut him off with a glare. “This will keep me doing too much damage to the other person while still giving me enough time to get away. And this will keep me from getting my hands dirty or, you know, dusty.”

“You know you’re going to end up electrocuting yourself, right?”

“I know it’s highly likely,” I conceded.

As if I didn’t have enough odd, emotionally hamstrung men in my life, Emery Mueller started spending a lot of time at the shop. A lot of time. Enough time that I started to consider making up with Gabriel just so he could reach into Emery’s brain and wipe out any memory he had of where the shop was located. It was a skill neither Dick nor I possessed.

After seeing that I would not be closing the shop after all, Emery claimed that he wanted to keep an eye on the “family interests.” So, he spent every night at the shop, annoying the hell out of Andrea with questions about her “alternative lifestyle.” It appeared that he’d developed a bit of a crush on my favorite blood surrogate and frequently asked her to join him at church. When she refused, he blamed it on the influence of her “unfortunate choice of suitors” and spent most of his time giving her the moon eyes. Andrea spent most of her time trying not to be creeped out by her boyfriend’s great-great-grandson’s advances.

How many women could say they had
that
problem?

Dick stopped showing up on Wednesday nights, claiming he was calling in sick for “terminal disappointment.” At least he offered an excuse. Mr. Wainwright just disappeared.

Emery became my own personal Mr. Collins, an irritating rash in human form. And just like the supercilious, socially inept minister from
Pride and Prejudice,
he got bolder with every visit. First, he asked to see a copy of his uncle’s will, which I happily provided, along with copies of his uncle’s bank statements at the time of his death. However, I started to get annoyed when Emery demanded copies of the current books for the shop, along with inventory lists, my own financial records, and a list of any books I may have taken from the shop. He commented on the number of sales per night, on the high overhead involved in the coffee bar. Then he took up residence behind the counter and casually went through drawers he had no business opening. The more time I spent with him, the less I wanted to give him. I felt the need to protect Mr. Wainwright’s possessions from his sweaty, grasping hands.

“Do you happen to know a woman named Jenny McBride?” I asked after he requested the contact information for Mr. Wainwright’s lawyer so he could set up an appointment with him. “About yea tall, blond, judgmental?”

Hey, considering that my sister was inadvertently in cahoots with Missy the psycho Realtor, I considered it a fair question. Emery’s response was an expression both confused and constipated. For some reason, his not comprehending exactly how annoying his behavior was brought all of my repressed Gabriel-related anger to the surface. I felt the need either to slap Emery or warn him that I was about to slap him.

“I’m only looking after my uncle’s legacy, Jane,” he sniffed. “You’ve made valiant attempts to organize the stock, but, to be honest, you’ve only made a small dent in the problem. You have library experience, but that doesn’t make you an expert on antique or rare occult books. Frankly, I don’t think you know what you have here. You could let a priceless volume walk out of this store for a song and not even realize it. I think you should shut down for a few days and let me bring in an appraiser to look over the older stock.”

“With all due respect, Emery, since your uncle left that legacy to me, it’s mine to sell if I want to, at any price,” I said. “In fact, I’m not legally bound to offer you anything beyond mementos from Mr. Wainwright’s personal effects, but I’m trying to be nice. Now, when I took over the shop, I got a new insurance policy. And I have estimates for the value of the stock. I’ll give you copies of that, but as far as giving you a complete inventory or letting you have some outsider go through the stock title by title, I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.”

“And why not?” Emery demanded, his face flushing an unpleasant shade of purple.

“Because I said no,” I said in my “talking to preschoolers” voice.

“I don’t see why you listen to every bit of advice Andrea and that Dick character give you, but you just write off everything I have to say. They don’t have the vested family interest in the store that I do.”

“They’re my family,” I shot back, tapping into my reservoir of Gabriel-related anger. “And they spent more time with your uncle in the last months of his life than you did in the last ten years.”

Emery blanched as if I’d slapped him. “I think I should go somewhere else before we say anything we’re going to regret.”

Emery made a show of slinking out the door with a kicked-puppy-dog expression.

Andrea poked her head out of the supply closet, where she’d been hiding. “You got Emery to leave after less than an hour. Can you teach me how to do that?”

Unfortunately, by “somewhere else,” Emery did not mean he was leaving the shop permanently. Oh, no, he stayed and stayed and … stayed. He sat at the coffee bar and made moon eyes at Andrea. He hung around in the stacks, claiming to be looking for a few books that held special sentimental attachment for him. (I’d hidden the books with the naked-lady-bump engravings.) He annoyed newly turned vampires by trying to get them to take religious tracts. Hell, even Cindy the Goth Mascot would turn and walk out if she saw Emery. She’d gone four consecutive days without a latte. I was starting to worry.

For me, the breaking point was when Emery interrupted my reading yet another letter from my “concerned and vigilant friend,” this one telling me how Gabriel had taken her from an innocent, sexually inexperienced girl to a strung-out love junkie by assuring her that he enjoyed her naiveté, her unpredictability.

I remember feeling Emery standing over my shoulder as I read:

“Gabriel told me that he liked not knowing what I would do or say. He said my innocence was a refreshing change. I don’t have to ask whether he said the same to you. He says this to all of the women he beds. He is as skilled at lying as he is at loving. His ability to manipulate emotions through just the right mix of sweetness and feigned overprotection is unparalleled.”

“What do you have there, Jane?” Emery asked. I ignored him.

I remember Emery clearing his throat and holding his too-soft hand out imperiously, as if I was caught reading
his
mail. My upper lip pulled back from my teeth in what I considered a warning expression. But Emery was oblivious to it and the hostile tension that seemed to be rolling off me in waves. I remember turning my shoulder slightly, so my back was to him, and continuing to read. Emery’s fingers closed over the top of the page and pulled it out of my hands. I think I had some sort of rage blackout, because I do not remember snarling and flashing my fangs so viciously that Emery ran out of the store. But Andrea said there was a small urine stain on the carpet to prove it, so I had to believe her.

Andrea and I both made elaborate and sadistic threats against Dick if he didn’t take his great-great-grandson out for some quality time. Andrea’s threats were far more effective, as they apparently involved refusal of certain “privileges.” So, Dick took Emery out for an evening of bonding and bowling, practically by force. I hoped Emery would end up with a really embarrassing tattoo.

With the shop cleared of Emery’s presence, I yelled, “OK, Mr. Wainwright, you can come out now. It’s safe.”

He materialized, looking a little chagrined.

“So, what have you been up to?” I asked cheerfully, then glared at him.

“Jane, I’m sorry.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, narrowing my gaze but eventually smiling despite myself. “You said Emery was eccentric and personality-free. You didn’t tell me that he was …”

“An enormous pain in the rear?” Mr. Wainwright suggested.

“I was going to say ‘infuriating pustule on the butt-cheek of humanity,’ but yeah. He’s driving me crazy! He questions every decision I make. He insinuates himself into conversations and situations that are none of his business. It’s like hanging out with my mom, only without the loving part.”

Mr. Wainwright put his insubstantial hand on my shoulder. “He has that effect on people. I’m surprised you lasted this long.”

“Hmph. I just don’t think I can let him come around the shop anymore, Mr. Wainwright. I mean, he’s chasing customers away. I just got the place up and running, and he’s killing sales.”

“By all means, toss him out on his sanctimonious keister. It will be good for him.”

“Excellent,” I breathed.

“By the way, I thought you had a Chamber of Commerce meeting tonight?” he asked. “You have it marked on the calendar in the office with little skulls and crossbones. Really, you executed an amazing amount of detail with a Sharpie.”

“Yes,” I grumbled. “I do have a meeting. But I really don’t want to go.”

“But I was so proud of your joining the chamber. I had no patience for that sort of thing, really. There were too many people involved.”

“There still are,” I muttered. “I really don’t think the chamber is for me, after all, Mr. Wainwright. Those women are just—well, they’re just mean! They’ve called every day for the last week to remind me that as the newest member, I am responsible for bringing at least three kinds of mild cheese, wheat crackers, and four bottles of California white. And I’m supposed to submit weekly progress reports on how my quest for freebies is going. When I suggested that this was excessive, I was given five demerits. I don’t even know what that means! There has to be something going on. Demon possession or a man-hating cult or—ooh! Witches! They could be witches.”

“Isn’t that kind of obvious?” he asked.

“Don’t use logic on me.”

“Jane, you’re not a quitter.”

“Well, that’s just not true.”

Nice Courtney was the only chamber member who was happy to see me walking through the door with my basket of yuppie goodies.

“Jane, honey!” she cried, breaking from the pack to greet me at the door of the chamber house and relieve me of my boozy burden. “I’m so glad you’re here. We just got another new member. You’ve got to come meet her.”