Tantalize

  Pausing at the hostess stand, I whispered to Yani. “Could you do me a favor? Holler for the bouncers from the back lot.”

  “This is about your ex, isn’t it? I’m sorry I seated him. But there he was and —”

  “He’s not exactly my . . . I mean, it’s okay. I don’t even know if —”

  “Ian and Jerome will toss him —”

  “Let me see what he says first,” I said. “We don’t want a scene.”

  I made my way into the dining room, slipped into the chair across from Kieren’s.

  He slid the manila folder to me.

  What could it hurt to play along? I opened it, flipping through the documents he’d brought, nodding for Simone to fetch me another drink, making a mental note to remind her to card the customers. “If this is about Ruby —”

  “It’s not.”

  Frowning, I returned my attention to the paperwork. It was a collection of printouts from websites. He had enclosed a bibliography. A few entries caught my eye, those that had been highlighted in yellow:

  Johnson, Henry. “Beyond Sashimi and Tartare: Culinary Expressions of Neovampirism.” The Gothic Gourmet (December 1986): 3–12.

  Johnson, Henry. “Hearts at Stake: Gender Politics Arising in Post-Vampyric Infection.” Demonic Digest (July 1967): 2–31.

  Johnson, Henry. “Vampirism and Attention Deficit Disorder: Ramifications Related to Social Interaction, Cross-Species Relationships, and Iron Deficiency.” Preternatural Psychology (March/April 1994): 2–19.

  In that vein, the list went on and on.

  “He wrote these,” Kieren explained. “Henry Johnson, Bradley Sanguini, whatever you want to call him — Sanguini’s chef. Some of the Web pages hosting these documents haven’t been updated since the 1990s. Some of the articles were first composed when flappers were considered trendsetting.”

  I tapped an impatient blue-glitter fingernail on the tablecloth. “Oh, come on. Last night you thought Ruby was a killer vampire. Tonight, Bradley.” Bradley hadn’t even been living in Austin when Vaggio was murdered. “Who will it be tomorrow? Me? Will I be a homicidal vampire, too?”

  “Wednesday night,” Kieren countered, “a man carrying an ID for a Vaggio T. Bianchi bought a case of silver bullets from a guns-and-ammo shop owned by some local Wolves who got in touch with my mother. The Gamma working backup tailed the guy downtown —”

  “Not funny,” I said, trying to act natural. But it was coincidental that this revelation was linked to one of the few hush-hush Wolfish things I happened to know about. “Uncle D packed up Vaggio’s stuff and shipped it to his family in Chicago.”

  “You think I’m lying?”

  I rubbed my eyes, not caring if I smeared the makeup. “I don’t know.”

  Simone cruised by, setting a fresh glass of house wine on the table. “‘In a glass darkly,’” she said. “Compliments of the chef.”

  A nearby four-top turned over, and an aging, B-list movie star was seated with his scarcely postpubescent eye candy of the week. It was time to wrap this up. “Kieren —”

  “Quince, look at yourself.”

  “Can’t,” I said, palms up. “No mirrors.”

  The small joke had been a miscalculation. He picked up his fork, a possible weapon, and I raised my glass, flagging for backup.

  “Where’s your planner book?” Kieren asked. “Where’s Frank?”

  “I, I think it’s in my uncle’s office. On the desk.” Truth was, I wasn’t sure. How could that be? Frank and I were codependent. But I hadn’t checked my calendar lately, my tasking pages. My fingertips itched for the leather cover.

  “You’ve changed,” Kieren went on. “I’m not only talking about wardrobe, though” — he studied the taut lace semicovering my breasts —“I must say . . .”

  Damn him, I thought. “Why are you even here? You said you were leaving.”

  “So what?” Kieren replied. “You’re trying to beat me to it? Shut me out of your life so it doesn’t hurt so much when I go?”

  “I’ve been here the whole time,” I protested.

  “No, you haven’t! I don’t know who you are.” He took a steadying breath. “Quince, this guy you’re messing around with is dangerous.”

  “I’m not ‘messing around’ with —”

  “He’s evil. And you’re, you’re slipping away. Listen to me, please. I’m begging you. I’ll get down on my hands and knees if that’s what it takes.”

  It was such a puppy thing to say.

  “Stand and come with us.” It was more a series of grunts than words, and I wasn’t sure which of the bouncers had spoken. Ian and Jerome seemed to function as a unit. Sporting standard black business suits, they’d self-exempted from dressing like the rest of the staff. But what with their bald, sunburned heads, jaundiced skin, and noses that rivaled Cyrano’s, they nevertheless looked sufficiently Sanguini’s. “Sir?”

  Kieren didn’t acknowledge them. “Somebody poisoned Brazos’s food,” he told me. “I found him this afternoon, dead in his doghouse.”

  Brazos? I waited for the hurt to come, but it didn’t. Like it hadn’t when I’d heard about Travis. But, why not? I’d loved that dog like he was my own.

  Kieren set down his fork and looked at me like I was the one who’d died. “I’m not giving up on you,” he said as he rose from the chair, then left.

  Seconds later, Uncle D materialized at my side. “Honey, are you —”

  “He didn’t hurt me.”

  “But he was aggressive?”

  I nodded, took a deep breath, and told him about the forgotten call from the night Vaggio had died.

  “I hope you understand,” my uncle said. “Tomorrow I’m going to have to give APD a heads-up on this, let them know what’s going on.”

  I nodded again.

  At 2 A.M., as Yani locked the front doors, I skipped through the dining room. Our official opening night had been a smashing success! Every reservation had showed. Customers had raved. Bradley had sailed through the midnight toast, flirting with his red eyes. The kitchen’s pacing had been perfection, Kieren’s brief challenge had been squashed, and Clyde had stormed out early, like anyone gave a damn.

  Cleanup was a snap. Every last server and barkeep offered kisses and hugs on their way out, girls and boys both, all beautiful and ballsy and sky-high on tips. Before I knew it, the kitchen staff had taken off, too. Exhausted and cussing a blue streak, the sign of a magnificent night. I told Uncle D and Ruby I’d catch a ride home with Bradley and went to look for him in the kitchen.

  I found him stooping to clean the range. It wasn’t a chef duty, but he was meticulous. He tossed the rag aside as I danced in, floated, singing “We did it!”

  Tipsy and loving it, I beamed at Bradley, the heavens, the hells, rejoicing in that which was Sanguini’s. I spun in the room, which was spinning itself, and laughing, sagged against the counter. “We did it,” I repeated. “Bradley?” I turned to fall into his arms and teetered.

  I woke up beneath Bradley’s cape on the frayed floral sofa in the break room at about 7 A.M., feeling every inch like I’d just eaten a full-grown goat with the fur still on. Fully sober for what seemed like the first time in weeks, which was wretched.

  I had a vague memory of Ian and Jerome tossing out Kieren and another, even more distant one, of Bradley ditching me in the midst of a drunken stupor.

  Both possibilities made my squishy gray brain feel like it was being pummeled by multitudinous ball-peen hammers.

  Where was everybody?

  I struggled to my feet and left the break room for the prey restroom, where I was glad Uncle D hadn’t installed a mirror. I let the cold water run to icy and began splashing until I could think clearly and was sure the majority of my makeup had been washed off. Blinking away the wet, I gasped as my gaze traveled down my body.

  Last night, I could’ve sworn the dark blue lace had been evocative, demure, but that morning, not so much. The material had torn at the front hem of my skirt and strained to br
eaking over my right hip. It had ridden up, too. Scandalously.

  Grabbing my dress at the hem, I yanked it over my shoulders and tossed it in the trash. Leaving on my beige thong and boots, I, mostly naked, retreated to my uncle’s office where I retrieved a spare T-shirt, shorts, and Nikes from a bag I kept in the top drawer of the filing cabinet. Dressing quickly, I fell into my desk chair.

  In the great annals of hangovers, it wasn’t much comfort that this would go down as number one.

  The open ledger caught my eye. The entry for the check made out to Travis’s family. Travis had died. Sweet, clumsy, shy Travis. Dead. He’d been only sixteen years old. I felt stunned, shaky. But I’d already known, hadn’t I?

  God! When was the funeral? Had Uncle D ordered flowers or had he asked me to do it? Or should we have brought food to the house? After Mama and Daddy died, people brought food. Casseroles, tamales, a brisket, two hams, pasta salads. Microwave three minutes. Microwave five. A shrimp platter, cold cuts, cheeses, cheesecakes, pies.

  Rubbing my temples, I went into the restaurant kitchen. If Vaggio were here, he’d make sausage lasagna. I’d seen him do it thousands of times. I opened a cabinet and took out a pan, grabbed a bottle of olive oil. Went to the refrigerator and stared inside.

  It was no use. The stock wasn’t Vaggio’s. It was Bradley’s. I slammed the refrigerator door shut.

  Poor Travis. His family. It’s awful, death. Not just the dying, the intrusive rituals surrounding it. Here I was, worrying about flowers, food. I should’ve known better. At death, flowers were ugly, food went to waste, and words seemed insignificant. But, I guessed, the worst thing to do was nothing. The worst thing would be if nobody cared.

  I wanted my mama. I wanted my daddy.

  I wanted Kieren.

  Poor Kieren. He must’ve been miserable. And I, I couldn’t even remember having told him last night how sorry I was. Not about Travis. Not about, oh, Brazos either. Did I still believe Kieren could be Vaggio’s murderer? I wondered, blinking back tears. The last couple of nights I’d been almost sure. This morning, I had no idea what to think. I couldn’t . . . this was . . . it was . . . I hardly knew myself anymore.

  In the break room, I tried to call Kieren. No answer. Uncle D at home. No answer there either. At Ruby’s, the line just rang and rang.

  Bradley! I had to talk to Bradley. He’d help me sort through it. These past few weeks, he’d made time for me. Listened. He wasn’t obsessed with a Wolf pack or Ruby the skank. He’d been around long enough to have an informed opinion but not so long that he couldn’t be objective. I’d written his contact info in Frank. God! Where was Frank anyway?

  I searched everywhere, under a pile of Xio’s menu notes on the coffee table, beneath the couch. Back in Uncle D’s office, on top of the filing cabinet, under the desk, in the trash can — finally finding it beneath the overflowing IN box. I clutched Frank to my chest, rocked back and forth, kissed the leather cover, and then opened it to the contact pages so I could copy Bradley’s address onto my palm.

  Then I remembered what Kieren had said last night, that Bradley was the bad guy. Kieren had found some stuff on the Internet. But how many Johnsons were there anyway? Besides, it wasn’t like you could believe everything you read online. And Bradley hadn’t even been in Austin on the night of Vaggio’s murder.

  Had he?

  To be safe, I called directory information for Paris, Texas, and got the number for Chat Lunatique, Bradley’s previous employer. Pretending to be a magazine editor, I said I needed to double-check the spelling of the name of the chef on duty August 9. For a rave review, I’d explained. A hostess working brunch transferred me to a manager who confirmed that on the night of Vaggio’s death, H-E-N-R-Y J-O-H-N-S-O-N was some three hundred miles away cooking up coq au vin.

  On the way out, through the kitchen, I reached into the refrigerator again, this time for the habanera olives from Kieren. Comfort food. I popped one in my mouth, managed to down it, then, coughing, fought nausea as it tried to force its way back up.

  Bad olives, I thought. Disappointed, I tossed the rest.

  It was then that it occurred to me why the pastry team hadn’t arrived at 5 A.M. to start on tonight’s pasta and whatnot, why the prep team wouldn’t be arriving within the hour to chop and slice.

  It was Sunday.

  Sanguini’s was closed on Sundays.

  “Hallelujah.”

  I took a bus to Bradley’s neighborhood. North side of the river, close to downtown, la-di-da old money back in the day, already regentrified. Many of the houses could be called mansions, where fountains flowed and where, now that I thought about it, a twentysomething chef out of Kansas City, Missouri, by way of Paris, Texas, newly hired by Sanguini’s, shouldn’t have been able to afford more than a carriage house rental.

  Walking past one estate after another, I licked my lips. God, I was dehydrated.

  Rounding a landscaped corner, I looked up at Bradley’s house, its beige stucco façade, forest green wrought iron balcony rails. It stood two-and-a-half stories high on a hill. Three flights of cracked concrete stairs rose from the sidewalk to the front door, cutting a hard line through the lawn, the portico flocked on either side by statues of sleeping dragons. Pushing my damp hair off my forehead, I trudged up and rang the bell.

  Jerome answered, dressed in green and peach paint-splattered overalls, taking in my presence with what I could’ve sworn was resigned sorrow. He grunted, shutting the door in my face. He and Ian had been remodeling Bradley’s house, I remembered, which did nothing to explain his behavior.

  “Um, hello?” I paced, taking in the welcome mat, the square copper mailbox. After a while, I got bored and sat on the top step. Sleepy, achy, I should’ve called first.

  Finally, Bradley opened the beveled glass front door, backed by a green velvet curtain that looked reminiscent of the crimson ones at the restaurant. He smiled at me, and I wondered if he’d taken those few minutes to put in his contacts and fake teeth.

  “Enter freely and of your own vill,” he intoned.

  “Haven’t we already played this game?” I forced myself into a standing position, shuffled inside. I’d come to talk, but now that I was in my vampire’s lair, the words were slow coming.

  As lairs went, it wasn’t bad. Crystal chandelier in the foyer, columns rising to arches framing a stairway to the second floor. A left turn took me into a parlor designed around a hand-carved fireplace mantel, and I noted the matted and box-framed antique bowie knife hanging above it in the spot o’ honor.

  The clocks caught my attention. Three grandfathers in the entry. Ornate. German. Three more — smaller, black with gold trim — had been poised in a row on the mantel. Each set to mark different hours. None ticking. Which, considering my head, was good.

  Bradley offered his arm. “Milady.”

  I took it. “Nice digs.”

  “Headache, baby?” He led me to a leather club chair and drew the curtains closed. “Does that help?”

  It did. The sunlight had been too intense for my exploding brain cells. I glanced around. The dining room, which I could see through French doors, was empty, unfurnished, and it looked like the chandelier — another one, but brass with teardrop crystals — needed to be rewired, some stray beige paint removed. The sunroom, which was visible through yet another set of French doors, housed a tropical-looking day bed and had been curtained off. A boom box on the hardwoods, just a few feet away, played something jazzy.

  “You collect?” I asked, examining the crystal clock paperweight on the cocktail table beside me.

  “Time intrigues me. Our most squandered resource.”

  “I don’t squander.”

  “I know. It’s one of the first qualities I appreciated in you.”

  Maybe it was my headache, but I had nothing to say to that. I just waited for the moment to pass, impatient. Bradley let it linger.

  “Hair of the dog that bit you?” he asked.

  Did I look that bad off? I hadn’t
even had breakfast yet. “Water.”

  He brought Cabernet instead, a glass for each of us, and pulled up the leather club chair’s mate to sit across from me, his trouser-clad knees bumping my bare ones. I shivered in the air-conditioning. One whiff of the wine, though, cleared my head.

  He raised his glass. “To us.”

  “Us.”

  “I’m sorry about abandoning you like that last night. I didn’t want to take advantage. I needed for you to come to me.”

  We each sipped, and then he took my glass and set it with his on a cocktail table.

  “You’re trembling,” Bradley said, resting his long fingers on my thighs.

  Later, when I woke up, I remembered kissing. I had a vague recollection of sucking on Bradley’s wine-coated tongue while he sucked on mine and of feeling colder. And I thought we’d drunk some more. But I may have been dreaming.

  The wine had been drugged, though. That seemed likely, given that the next clear realization I had was that someone had tied me to the rusty antique iron frame of a twin bed, no linens, in an unfinished basement with no windows, lit by a single dangling bare bulb. The room was otherwise barren except for a furnace.

  I was alone.

  My gym clothes were gone, and in their place, I was wearing a long, gauzy white nightgown. Sleeveless. Classy in a Victoria’s Secret kind of way. Beige thong in place. Barefoot. Virginal, bridal, sacrificial. In a rush, I knew . . .

  God help me, I was going to die.

  Fear ached in my joints and burrowed into my belly. It wormed its way inside my neck muscles and held them tight. Oh, God, I thought. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

  Minutes later, someone opened the door at the top of the stairs.

  Ruby looked down at me like I was yesterday’s fish. “She’s awake.”

  “She has nearly risen,” Bradley said, turning the knife in his hand so the blade flashed from the bare bulb. “She is nearly blessed.”