Beach Blanket Bloodbath (Amanda Feral Book 4) Page 8

  “We used to have some pretty wild times here at the Dunes.”

  “Which reminds me,” I said. “How did you get the name for the place?”

  “Hazard was my late husband’s name. Messy business, Richard Hazard. Met his end right out there on the beach, all we found were the lower plate of his dentures. A couple of months later, his feet showed up in British Columbia. Still in the goddamn shoes. No one knew what to make of it. But I did.”

  She scrabbled away to a nearby bookshelf and retrieved a dusty hardcover book which she wiped against her polyester pants. I reached out to accept it.

  Death on the Dunes. A murder mystery it seemed. And there on the cover, instead of dentures was a sloppily rendered prosthetic arm complete with harness and a few droplets of blood jutting from some beach grass. At the bottom, of the cover, the name Marissa Winterford popped out in bold all-caps.

  “Only partially autobiographical, of course,” she said, retrieving it from my hands and petting it like she might a treasured heirloom. “And available at the online retailer of your choice.”

  “What?” I said, cocking my head. “You’re a writer? I’m a writer. I’m here for an event at the bookstore.”

  This was apparently the wrong thing to say. The woman’s eyes narrowed, her lips pinched. “A writer, you say?”

  I nodded.

  “Well,” she huffed. “Everyone claims to be a writer, don’t they? My Aunt Sylvia, on my mother’s side twice removed—wish it was three times—whenever I mention I’ve got a new thriller ready to hit the shelves, she scoffs. Sylvia says, I wish I had the free time to write a book. People always tell me I tell the best stories. Don’t you think I tell the best stories, Marissa? What I don’t say is No, no I don’t Aunt Sylvia, and you couldn’t tell a Goddamn story if your life to depended on it. If you were locked up in a goddamn gulag and the key to your release was one good story, you’d be in there until the rats gave up on the tough meat clinging to your carcass, started spitting it out. But I don’t say that. I just smile, as you do, ‘cause I’m a nice person. Who says mean things like that? And who’s this handsome young man, you brought with you? Are you a writer, too, sweetie?”

  “No.” Gil shook his head.

  “No? Well, after you get settled, you’re more than welcome to come down here and rub some analgesic cream on poor Mrs. Winterford’s aching shoulders. Would you like that? I’ll make you a cup of tea with a little bourbon…and some cookies.”

  “Would you like that, Gil?” Wendy asked.

  “Gil’s quite the masseuse.” My silent laughter had reached the trickling pee stage—if I did that anymore, which I don’t. Ever.

  Mrs. Winterford’s smile dwindled.

  Wendy raised her brow, as if to make another joke when a loud gurgle interrupted the pleasantries and Wendy hunched over moaning.

  “Bathroom’s right this way, little lady.” She ushered her down the hall and out of sight quicker than I’d thought the chair could manage.

  Gil grabbed my hand and pulled me close, choking back tears of laughter. “I’d totally fucking forgot about the Twix, she’s gonna be on the crapper all night!”

  “Bad joke,” Abuelita grumbled.

  “Oh shut up you, take your phone to your room and watch Senor Sinister twist his mustache hair some more.”

  “No no. It is variety show now. So much singing and dancing.”

  Abuelita had completely forgotten her disgust at my guttural prank and was swiftly wrapping herself in a fandom I cared less about than…well, you name it, I simply don’t give a shit about what cranks your hog. I mean, I understand. I get it. People are really into things and they buy replicas and toys and dress up, and I guess that’s just what you do when you don’t have a purse, shoe or clothing addiction—I might pet my Birkin bag, what of it? It’s not like I’d collect Fashion Trading Cards. Though if there were such a thing, I’d definitely need an Hermes and a Balenciaga, possibly an Alexander McQueen. I’ll trade you a Tim Gunn for your L’Wren Scott—I heard that one just shot up in value.

  What? Too soon?

  Wait…are there fashion trading cards? I might need some, but that’s where it would stop. I’d never go to a convention or anything…except for Fashion Week.

  Whatever. Shut up.

  Mrs. Winterford ground her chair across the shag carpet, back into the room sans Wendy. We surely wouldn’t be seeing her for a while. The woman took up residence behind a tall bamboo bar. She slapped her palm atop a bell and waited with a smile.

  We were waiting too. “Was someone coming to get our bags?” I asked.

  “No.” The woman shook her head as though I’d said something completely ridiculous. “This isn’t a hotel, dear. I was ringing the bell so’s y’all would know I was ready to receive you formally.”

  Gil and I exchanged a quick uncomfortable glance and approached her cautiously. Her expression had changed. Soured somehow. She stole several suspicious glances across the top of her glasses as she flipped pages in a dusty old guest register.

  I guessed this had something to do with interrupting her. “I’m sorry that we kept you from your event, Mrs. Winterford. I’m terribly sorry.” The apology clung to my throat like sour milk. An unfamiliar sensation, since I’m rarely wrong, as you know.

  But the woman softened slightly. “It’s fine really. I had to work on my latest novel anyway.”

  I stared at her, waiting for whatever constituted a formal receiving, and shouldn’t have been surprised when she pulled a credit card reader out and put out her palm.

  “That’ll be one nineteen a night per room for three rooms and then another nineteen for my new book, The Pine Fresh Scent of Murder. Can I put you down for eight?” she asked, resolutely.

  “Just the rooms,” I said.

  Mrs. Winterford prickled, clutching her pearls once more and wincing as though some mysterious pain had come on.

  Gil nudged.

  I rolled my eyes. “Okay. I’ll take one of the Goddamn books.”

  “Perfect!” she slapped it onto the bar and proceeded to sign it with a flourish. “To Amanda, my newest fan.”

  Gil chuckled beside me.

  “What are you laughing about,” I whispered, curling my fingers and pretending to knead old lady chicken skin. “You better get those hands ready for later.”

  “Enough chattering, I’ve got a bestseller to write and you’d probably like to rest up after such a long trip in from the big city and the excitement of the pageant.”

  Wait…what? She knew we had been there?

  “So you know what happened at the pageant, then?” I asked.

  The woman stopped ambulating away and sat silent for a second, refusing to respond as only a fraudulent paralytic could. I had the urge to come at her, jaw jacked open and snapping and see how fast she’d bolt from her chair.

  “Uh...no,” she said finally. “Did that terrible Becky Swinton win? She’s about as interesting to look at as a sheaf of blank paper, you just want to adorn her with something.”

  “Like a personality?” I watched the woman closely. She seemed to have blown off the fact that she’d given herself away.

  “So, she did win.”

  We followed Mrs. Winterford down the hall to a closet that turned out to be the basement stair and an elevator the size of a closet.

  “I’m afraid so, but shortly after was forced to relinquish her crown.”

  Mrs. Winterford backed into the elevator and descended as Gil and I took the stairs. At the bottom, she rolled out and twisted playfully toward us. Her smile so broad and fixed, she could have had a stroke and I wouldn’t have known the difference.

  “Shut up! I don’t believe it. Drugs? Whoring?”

  “Well, it’s nothing scandalous. Just a murder.”

  The woman threw her hand up to put a stop to my story and ushered Gil ahead of me ahead of me toward an open door. “In here young man.”

  Her eyes coursed over him lewdly, lost for a second in a fantasy and
then snapping back as soon as he’d tugged his luggage inside and closed the door behind him. “Are you saying Becky was murdered?”

  I nodded. “It was quite the scene, too. Blood everywhere. Someone had it out for the girl...or possibly they were hungry.”

  Mrs. Winterford gestured to the door opposite Gil’s and I opened it, propping my suitcase at the foot of the bed, I turned to judge her reaction only to find an empty door frame and the sound of the little elevator cranking its way upward. I went to call after her, to figure out where we could get a drink close by, but a door opened onto the hall and soon after a mammoth figure of a man filled the space.

  “Uh...” the sound flittered out of my throat, but before I could come up with a greeting, the shape sank back into the shadows. A moment later, a latch clicked at the end of the hall.

  At least the Dunes of Hazard Bed and Breakfast wasn’t filled with suspicious characters. Five, by my count.

  Shrugging, I locked the door behind be and sank into the bed, one of those memory foam nightmares that pools around your body like packing peanuts, and stared at the ceiling. The dead don’t sleep but we can rest our eyes and use it as an excuse to get away from each other for a while.

  The house quieted around me and for a moment I had a chance to think about the last few hours. Had it only been that long? The zombie walk and the cloud heist, the Golden Boys and the landshark feeding in the alley. So much in so short a time. Our lives weren’t getting any easier...or normal. That was obvious. In fact, I seemed to be attracting the craziness like a magnet. Everywhere I ended up, insanity followed, like the Pied Piper of crazy.

  If there was somehow to make money at that, I’d be golden; sadly people didn’t buy into fairy tales, except that whole true love thing.

  Which brings me to my ex-boyfriend Scott.

  Technically, we’re on a break. I guess, since Scott was the one that termed it that. I’d merely shrugged and watched as he grabbed his bag and flew to Sweden. I’d had my suspicions about his fidelity upon finding several coarse blonde hairs on his favorite black cashmere sweater--one I’d purchased for him as a birthday gift, I might add. The confrontation wasn’t violent, I merely held the three hairs I’d combed from the discarded sweater like a post-rape pubic mound out in his direction and watched as his cheeks went cherry red.

  “Listen,” I’d said. “I understand if you need someone more alive, from time to time. But I’m disappointed that you can’t use your big boy words and tell me there’s a problem or that you want a living person from time to time. Seriously. Just don’t be a pussy.”

  Scott had stood there silently, nose crinkled up like I’d shit on the carpet. Finally, I’d just pointed to the door and let the dog out and like the werewolf he was, he high-tailed it out of there. I’d only kept him around so long because he was fantastic in bed, despite the occasional lapse into leg humping.

  The love I thought we shared turned out to be indigestion.

  “And on that note.” I shot a quick text to Gil and Wendy.

  One word.

  dranks

  Chapter 7

  Okay.

  What’s with Gil? Wendy, I can understand passing on pickling her insides since half of them were probably dangling into the chilly water of Mrs. Winterford’s toilet. But Gil? There was something strange going on and I was pretty sure it was the same thing that kept him isolated to his Victorian manor of horrors.

  That he was keeping a secret bugged the shit out of me. I like to keep mine, of course. No one needs to know I provide jars of pear cilantro butter with adorable lace toppers tied with twine to a Pike Place vendor named Gracey (10 oz. $8.99—the jam, not the vendor).

  Gracey’s worth at least twenty, if for nothing else than to coax her into replacing the loose gauge in her earlobe with the big black vibrator she always carries in her purse. When she turns that thing on and it jiggles against her jaw you’ll lose your shit, especially when you realize the whole stall smells like pear, cilantro and pussy.

  Better make it $25.

  I slipped out of my heels and sank into the sand. According to the brochure I’d found in the Dunes’ conversation pit, The Driftwood Inn was only a quarter mile down the beach, but in a dress as tight as the Versace, it was going to take a half hour, so I glanced up and down the beach for creepy midnight beachcombers and seeing no one, rolled the skirt up over my hips to get some extra leverage. It seemed only right that panties as expensive as the Natoris I wore, should get some exposure. But, as I can’t seem to experience a moment that isn’t tainted by embarrassment, as soon as I did it, a tall and obviously muscular figure stepped from between a thicket of pampas grass and onto the beach.

  “Woah!” The voice was deep as a lagoon.

  I scrambled to cover my nethers.

  “Hey, I can turn around if you need to pee, or something.” The spare slice of moonlight blazed against the man’s jet black eyes and caught on a head as slick and shiny as neoprene.

  “No, no,” I said, still tugging. “Feel free to watch, you fucking pervert.”

  But when I looked back he’d already turned, the blackest monolith this side of a Kubrick flick. The more I looked at the guy’s back, the more it seemed he wasn’t entirely clothed either. Maybe I’d caught him cramming his legs back into his pants, silently escaping a sedated rape victim still tangled in the dune grasses.

  Then again, I do tend to sling mud first and throw a wet nap later.

  “You decent?” Longshoreman buttoned his plaid shirt and cocked his head, listening.

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. “I’m clothed, so, I guess?”

  He turned, descending the dune in three aggressive strides. “Have we met?”

  “Unlikely.”

  He nodded but stood there transfixed, looking me up and down as one might the butcher’s case. I couldn’t help but notice his mouth and those teeth peeking through his broad smile, sharper than they had any right to be. Not in a vampiric way, but a lack of access to orthodontia. He seemed to have too many canines.

  “Were you at the theater, tonight?”

  I nodded. “I guess. Not really any of my business, though.”

  He shrugged, began to turn back the way he came and then stopped, swiveling toward me. “Wait. I do remember you. I got the distinct impression you were oogling me.”

  “Oogling? Two o’s?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, since that’s not technically a word, I’m certain I wasn’t doing it.”

  “Fine. You were sizing me up. Taking my measurements.”

  “I’m not a tailor. I’m not sure what you’re getting at.” I did, of course, but it’s important to string these things along, let the guy know you enjoy a chase, especially since he was making all this shit up. Men love the banter. The more salacious the better—watch and learn.

  “Alright then,” he said, eyelids suddenly heavy. “How’s this, you were imagining fucking me.”

  My mouth dropped open, he’d stolen my line!

  He continued. “I was frankly surprised when you didn’t cross that parking lot and blow me right there in front of the grieving and the bloodthirsty.”

  Bloodthirsty? Did he mean Gil or the crowd?

  I scoffed. “That would’ve never happened. You’re far too greasy for my taste.”

  He closed the distance between us, tilting his head. I could feel his dark eyes tracing my outline, making plans for me. “And you’re sure of that?”

  His scent radiated. Wet. Oceanic. Ferrous. And then, somewhere beneath that, a subtle fragrance of skin creams and makeup. What the fuck? It’s like two people. Didn’t make sense. Unless he was both a skin diver and a tranny, which wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility. But he cut quite a masculine figure and his voice was so deep, he’d make the shittiest drag queen ever.

  I shrugged.

  He shrugged and smiled as though the whole routine was a joke. “What are you doing out here, anyway?”

  “I’m headed to the Drif
twood for a drink.”

  “Sounds like a date.”

  “Nope.”

  “Sounds like it could be a date.”

  “Listen. I don’t know you from Adam. As far as I know, you could be the guy that ate that girl in the alley.”

  The breath caught in his throat and he seemed to mull this over before extending his hand. “My name is Thad. Thad Chumley.”

  I accepted his greeting with more than a little reticence, but when I did his big hand enveloped mine in a near blistering heat. “Nice to meet you,” I said, jerking my hand away. “I’m Amanda.”

  “Cold hands, warm heart,” Thad said, laying it on thick.

  “It’s no date, Thad. I just need a drink, it’s been a shitty day.”

  “Well, at least let me walk you down to the Driftwood. The beach isn’t safe for a single lady at night. Didn’t Mrs. Winterford explain?”

  “No.” In fact, just the opposite as I recalled. She’d insisted this was the path of least resistance. I should have known she’d led me astray when I had to take off my shoes. “How did you know I was staying at Mrs. Winterford’s?”

  “Hers is the only accommodation on this end of the spit.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll tell me all the reasons why I’m taking my life into my own hands as we walk then. Also, don’t skimp on the part where you’re offering excellent protection in an attempt to make yourself feel manlier. That’s always helpful.”

  He ignored my slight. “It’s nothing really, just a rash of disappearances. Nothing a woman like you couldn’t handle.”

  “You have no idea,” I mumbled. “So how many is a rash exactly. Four? Five?”

  “Thirteen. Occasionally they’ll find a foot, still in its shoe. Those usually wash up in Canada, for some reason.”

  “Just the feet?”

  “They found a wrist once. Just the wrist.”

  It took everything I had in me to keep from saying that wrists were my favorite. When I was alive I used to love hot wings, but not the drumstick, the part with the two bones. The one you had to work for. The sweetest meat is the hardest to get, they always say—and by they, I mean me. I’ve never actually heard that before. In fact, I just made it up. Plus, the delicate little bones make great toothpicks.