Night of the Living Dandelion (9 page)

Grace started to say something, but the phone rang at last. Really. Was that so hard?

I picked it up at my desk and said, “Bloomers Flower Shop. How may I help you?”

“Abigail,” my mom said, “are you aware that Marco’s new employee is a vampire?”

 

It took ten minutes to convince my mom that Vlad was merely the victim of malevolent rumors and that I was perfectly safe at Down the Hatch in the evenings. It took another five to repeat it all to my dad. Then I had to break the news that Marco and I wouldn’t be at the family dinner. They were both on the line at that point, so it got a little confusing because they talked over each other, but I hung up feeling that they were okay with it.

I’d just returned to the floral arrangement I’d started earlier when Tara and her friends Jamie and Crystal came darting through the curtain in breathless excitement. “Have you heard about the Most Hunkable Vlad abducting a mortal?” Tara asked as her friends climbed on stools.

“Hunkable?”
I asked.

“That’s Aunt Jillian’s word,” Tara explained. “It’s a mix of
hunky
and
adorable
.”

I should have known. “Tara, Vlad didn’t abduct anyone. Someone is spreading false rumors about him again.”

“It’s those crazy vigilantes,” Crystal said.

“So we formed a girl posse to protect his MHVness,” Jamie said proudly.

All three girls removed their coats to show me their black T-shirts with WE ❤ VLAD inked on the back in puffy, heartshaped red letters, with their Web site URL beneath. Then they held out their hands to show me their black nail polish. “We’ve got black lipstick and eye shadow, too,” Jamie said, “but we’re not allowed to wear it at school.”

“Aunt Jillian said the Garlic Party believes dressing Goth means we’ve gone to the dark side,” Tara said. “So to show our support of Vlad, we’ve gone Goth.”

“What do your parents think about that?” I asked.

The girls glanced at each other; then Tara said, “They’re fine with it.”

Right.

“We’re not going to let any vigilantes harm one hair on MHV’s head,” Crystal declared, proving that even young teens were susceptible to his charm.

“Where did you hear about the Garlic Party?” I asked.

“Someone posted it on Facebook first,” Tara replied. “Then everyone was tweeting about it, so I asked Aunt Jillian. She’s a vampire expert. She’s read every vampire book out there.”

“That’s noble of you to want to help Vlad,” I said, “but you can’t stay out all night.”

“Some of the girls in the posse are older,” Jamie said, “and they’ve volunteered to take over for us at nine o’clock.”

“We’re going to form a human chain around almost-Uncle Marco’s bar,” Tara said.

“No one will get to Vlad unless they go through us.”

“Exactly how many girls are in this posse?” I asked.

“Six”—Tara stopped to count in her head—“seven dozen.”

“Seven dozen girls?” I was stunned. “There aren’t that many girls in the entire middle school. Did you have to import them from Maraville?”

“Okay, not seven dozen,” Tara said. “But a lot. You can do just about anything using Facebook and Twitter.”

Tara’s phone chirped. She read the message, then motioned for her friends to follow. “Time for action.”

“Tara, what about the family dinner tonight?” I asked.

Tara made a face. “Bor-
ing
. Nothing ever happens at those dinners.”

Wait until next week,
I wanted to say. Things would be happening then.

“Tara,” I called, wheeling after the girls, “do your parents know what you’re planning?”

She glanced back at me and put her fingers to her lips.

“Tara!” I called. “You have to tell them!” But the girls slipped out the door faster than I could get through the shop without tearing down the doorframe on my way.

I rolled to the bay window and watched as Tara and her friends joined with more girls in Goth clothing and headed up the sidewalk. The crowds across the street watched curiously as at least three dozen girls formed a semicircle around the front of Marco’s bar.

A news van pulled to a stop across the street, and a reporter and cameraman from the local cable channel got out and walked toward them. Uh-oh. Tara was going to be on the evening news. If my brother and sister-in-law didn’t know what Tara was up to, they would shortly.

My phone rang again. I checked the caller ID, then answered. “Yes, Marco, I know what Tara and her friends are doing, and I’m sorry about it, but it wasn’t my idea. If you don’t want the girls there, tell them to go away.”

“I appreciate that, Abby, but it wasn’t why I phoned. Have you had any harassing calls this afternoon?”

“No. Why?”

“We’ve had a number of them here from someone claiming to be the leader of the Garlic Party, whatever that is, with threats to harm Vlad if he shows up for work. I was hoping they hadn’t called you, too.”

“The Garlic Party is what the vigilantes call themselves, Marco. Tara said they wear garlic cloves around their necks.”

“In any case, I called the police and asked to have a tap put on our line. We’ll see if they cooperate. Actually, the media outside may be doing us a favor. I doubt anyone would harass Vlad with dozens of young women and a news crew watching.”

“In that case, you’re welcome.”

 

At ten minutes after five, I hop-stepped up the sidewalk toward the chain of girls, who cheered when Tara announced me. Marco was waiting at the door to let me in, and he got a cheer, too. There were still quite a few people standing across the street wearing garlic garlands and carrying signs, but the news crew had departed, having finished filming for the evening broadcast.

“I hope the Goth squad isn’t keeping customers away,” I said to Marco.

“No worries there.” He stepped back to let me inside, where I saw a packed room. Apparently Tara and company were good for business.

And that wasn’t the only surprise. Marco pointed toward the bar, where Vlad was mixing drinks, to the delight of the women filling every seat along the counter.

“Where was he?” I asked.

“Let’s get you seated first,” Marco said. “Then I’ll explain.”

 

“Vlad took the train to Chicago?” I asked, as Marco brought two beers back from the bar and slid into the booth across from me.

He nodded. “Took a cab to the station early this morning, then rode the seven-thirty train into the city to see an old army friend. He got back at four thirty this afternoon, showed up here at four fifty, and was shocked when I told him the police had been looking for him.”

“Didn’t Vlad get their messages?”

“Nope. He forgot to charge his cell phone last night. He didn’t realize it was dead until he got to Chicago and tried to use it. He was completely unaware of what was happening here.”

“What was his reaction?”

“Alarmed. Concerned. He was going to go straight to the station to be fingerprinted, but I talked him into calling Dave Hammond instead. And it was a good thing I did. Once Vlad explained the situation, Dave put a halt to any thoughts he had of giving the cops any help. As he told Vlad, either the prosecutor has a case against him with what he already has, or he doesn’t. And fortunately he doesn’t.”

“Did you tell him about the threatening calls?”

“Yep.”

“And Vlad still wants to work here?”

Marco nodded. “He said he enjoys the work and isn’t going to let a few idiots ruin that for him. A news reporter tried to get an interview from him, but he wouldn’t agree to it. He doesn’t want the publicity. I had to guard the door to keep more reporters from coming in.”

“Was there a mob scene out front when Vlad arrived?”

“He saw them and came in the back way.”

“I hope he realizes that will only work a few times before they figure it out. Anyway, I’ve got some good news. Jillian asked me not to make our announcement because she and Clayton can’t be there. I didn’t have to bribe her after all.”

Gert stopped at our booth. “What’s for dinner tonight, lovebirds?”

“Ham and cheese on rye,” I said.

“Same, please,” Marco said. “Would you bring fresh beers, too?”

“Sure thing, boss,” Gert said, and hurried away.

“What happened when you told your parents we weren’t coming to dinner?” he asked.

“The usual. Dad was understanding, and Mom was disappointed. I had to promise three times that we’d be there next week.”

“You got off light.”

“Not quite. Mom told me she was going to drop off her latest work of art after school on Monday and asked if I’d hang it in a prominent place. What could I say?”

Marco reached across to squeeze my hand in sympathy. “Did she say what it was?”

“Does it matter?”

My mom’s art was infamous around New Chapel. She thought of herself as an
avant-garde artiste
, but in reality she was a weekend hobbyist with a talent for combining the ridiculous with the outrageous. Her baby bassinet was a good example. It was literally a bass-in-a-net. Then there was her hatrack—a man-sized bowling pin with a bowler hat on its head and hooks on which to hang hats down each side.

“I hope she’s not using mirrored tiles,” Marco said. “I still can’t go into her house without cringing. Covering the inside of the toilet seat lid was way over the top.”

“The tiles were last summer, right before the giant beads. Then came the . . . I forget. But now she’s back at her pottery wheel. I just hope that whatever she made, it’s not too—”

A dark shadow fell across the table. I gave a start at the man with gleaming white fangs and slicked-back black hair—Oh, wait. It was Vlad with our drinks.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said with a smile, setting the bottles down. I smiled back, completely forgetting what I’d been saying. There was simply no denying the raw male magnetism Vlad emitted. It was a powerful draw that even I wasn’t immune to.

“I hear you talked to Dave Hammond,” I said. “How did you like him?”

“I liked him well enough to retain him,” Vlad said.

“Did he warn you about not talking to the cops?” I asked.

“Yes. He told me the police have a tendency to leapfrog over other information to arrive at the conclusion they want, which was a luxury we weren’t going to give them.” Vlad grinned. “I like the way he phrases things. And I understand I have your niece Tara to thank for my circle of friends outside.”

“I’ll pass along your thanks. And by the way, your houseplants and dandelions will be in on Monday. Sorry for the delay.”

“You found a supplier for the dandelions, then?”

“I sure did.” And it hadn’t been easy. A florist from Georgia had tipped me off that dandelion greens were popular as a side dish in some cultures, so I was able to track down a farmer who sold them to markets. Thank goodness for the Internet.

“That’s great, Abby. I really appreciate it.”

“I don’t mean to be nosy,” I said, “but I can’t help wondering why you need so many.”

Marco cleared his throat, then said quietly, “Abby, that’s Vlad’s business.”

Vlad winked. “Exactly right. Enjoy your dinner.”

I watched him return to the bar, then said to Marco, “Why didn’t you let him answer? Don’t you want to know?”

“Doesn’t matter. If he wants us to know, he’ll tell us.”

“Did you tell him about Tara forming the posse?”

“I mentioned it, yeah.”

“Did you tell Vlad her name?”

“No, it never came up.”

 

I tried hard to stay awake that evening—every hour I got to spend with Marco was an hour to treasure—but finally I had to give in to my heavy eyelids. Marco drove me home, helped me to the door, then returned to the bar to stay until it closed so he could be sure Vlad made it home safely. Why Vlad didn’t move somewhere else was a puzzle.

When he slipped into bed in the wee hours of the morning, I snuggled against his firm, warm body, still damp from a hot shower. “Any problems after I left?” I asked, still half asleep.

“Nope. Not even a hint of trouble.”

“Did the girl posse stay outside?”

“Yep. Someone brought an MP3 player and speakers, and they had a party. When the younger girls left, the older ones took over, rotating in and out of the bar until closing time.”

I yawned and snuggled closer. “Maybe this will be the end of Vlad’s problems.”

 

Since it was my Saturday to work, I let Marco sleep in the next morning while I dressed and had breakfast. I moved quietly, stumbling only once, but stepping on Simon’s tail in the process. I tried to make it up to him by giving him an extra helping of liver in gravy, but he still eyed me warily as he ate, as though I’d forever lost his trust.

I had just rinsed my breakfast dishes when Marco’s cell phone rang. He’d left it on the kitchen counter, so I picked it up. “Hello?”

“Is this Abby? It’s, um, Evan.”

Evan was Marco’s dishwasher-janitor-substitute waiter, an easygoing college kid Marco had hired after Rafe quit and went to Hooters. Today, however, he sounded uptight.

“It’s Abby. What’s up, Evan?”

“I need to talk to Marco. I just took a bag of garbage out to the alley and, well, there’s a dead woman in the bin.”