Beach Blanket Bloodbath (Amanda Feral Book 4) (9 page)

 
“Look at that bite radius.” Wendy whistled. “Enviable, even.”

I shambled forward, taking in the mess
that was obviously a girl’s torso—don’t make me tell you how. Dread
filled me as I noted the contestant’s sash coiled around the thread of her
dislocated spine like a cancer all the way to her pristine oddly viscera-free face.
Relief flooded over me, then elation. From the look of things, Miss Sandflea
would be seceding her crown to the runner up. The dazed beauty queen stared up
at me with only slightly deader eyes than she’d had in life.

Wendy and Gil crowded in around me,
clucking their tongues in a confused way.

“Huh,” Wendy said, absently fondling the
Twix
I’d given her earlier. “She’s an
odd choice. I would have pegged her for being a tough meal. Chewy.”

“She seemed absolutely bloodless.” Gil
crinkled his nose. “A definite pass in my book.”

“Well.” I pushed them back and rubbed my
throat in preparation. “It’s time to make a scene.”

I opened my mouth and cut loose with a
blood-curdling scream—not really, blood doesn’t curdle unless it’s been
sitting out in a bowl too long. You can’t scream your milk into chunks, why
blood? It just doesn’t make sense.

“Well,” Gil said and paused, chewing on
his lip as though he were about to say something naughty. “At least we didn't
catch that shark fucking her.”

A fan of chocolate spittle sprayed from Wendy.
“Ph-what?”

“Sharks have two dicks,” Gil said,
matter-of-factly, as though that kind of thing were common knowledge.

“What are you talking about?”

“It's true,” he said. “I read about it in
an article on Davenport.”

I sighed. Gil was obsessed with the web
magazine Davenport, an online gossip and propaganda network catering to the
pencil-moustache set and offering up obscure musical acts, bizarre food and
style tips that they pulled straight out of their assholes. Apparently, these
things are all important for mingling at parties where Pabst Blue Ribbon is
served exclusively. In other words, useless.

“The article was called Making the Beast
with Two Backs...and Cocks. It chronicled one stallion of the sea's journey
from aquageek to porno predator. Ugly thing, it splits and grabs the lady shark
in unmentionable ways. But no, seriously, two dicks.”

“That just seems excessive,” I said. “Most
of the time you don't even want the one that's there. I wouldn't know what to
do with two.”

“Troof,” Wendy said, palming the now
empty
Twix
wrapper and acting like no
one was the wiser.

“Luckily you guys aren't sharks then. But
if you were, you'd be slapping both cheeks.”

Gil pantomimed what could only be the
breather between a shark blowjob spectacle. Shaking his fists next to each
cheek.

I let out a second scream, less
enthusiastic this time. “Help! Someone. Come on.”

Finally, footsteps pounded around the
back and the door from the theater burst open into the alley. These people were
not used to emergencies, clearly.

“Call the police!” I screamed. “There’s
been a murder!”

Wendy nodded, agreeing with both my ploy
and that there had indeed been foul play. Gil, too. Every supernatural knew
that when in a strange place, surrounded by humans and an incident happens, you
better do your best to act like one of the crowd or you’ll be suspect. More
suspect than you are regularly, I mean.

We escaped the initial questioning by the
police by blending back into the crowd and making a lot of exaggerated horrified
expressions and nods at what a tragedy it all was, including a brief exchange
with the soon to be new Miss Sandflea, Moonglow Featherberry, who, I have to
say was absolutely glowing in the weird brilliance of the streetlight or, at
least, the circle of off-color foundation surrounding her face did, the rest
just faded away like a school dance wallflower. A white haired reporter roamed
through the crowd jotting notes onto a little pad—even more reason to
bolt. The only thing worse than being questioned by the police was the goddamn
media.

The crowd thinned near the opposite end
of the building and we simply backed away as the police cordoned off the scene with
their bright yellow streamers like it was party time.

Mrs. Swinton made her way toward us. Her
stare trained on me.

I gasped, finally making the connection
between the carcass in the alley and the bookseller—Becky Swinton, the
announcer had said. The dead Miss Sandflea was the woman’s daughter.

Jesus. This was going to be a
clusterfuck.

Mrs. Swinton pushed attempted mourners
out of her way, spinning them in place by their outstretched hug-needy arms
like she were rushing to catch a subway train. She reached out and clutched my
forearm, her face a quivering mask of emotion—normally this kind of thing
turns my stomach, but something told me, I needed to be nice to Mrs.
Swinton...and that something was a royalty check.

It didn't make sense to piss off
booksellers.

“Oh Mrs. Swinton,” I said, wrapping her
in a tight hug, using muscles I didn't even know I had. “I'm so sorry about
your daughter.”

She shook her head, as though she wasn't
interested in hearing that kind of thing and instead twisted her mouth into
something that I felt much more comfortable with anyway: the clenched
expression of vengefulness. “I've been hearing that you saw the guy that did
this.”

“Who told you that?”

“So it's true?”

“It was dark and mostly shadows, but
there was something down there, yeah. I mean keep that to yourself—”

“I'm not gonna tell the police, you
idiot. That is, unless you and your snotty friends…” Mrs. Swinton gestured to
Wendy and Gil, both had their arms crossed with the horrified faces of a pair ill
equipped to deal with a toilet blockage. “Unless you produce the killer. If you
don't, you're going to be spending a long time in Las Felicitas. You wouldn't
believe the bureaucracy here, you’d probably have to rent an apartment.”

Wendy stepped forward. “We couldn't do
that. We've got somewhere to be after the signing tomorrow. It won’t wait.”

In that moment, Wendy had reverted to a drug
dealer with a vendetta. Her eyes cut across me like daggers.

“Well, then,” Mrs. Swinton's eyes widened
maniacally. “I guess you’ll be puting those powers of detection you bragged
about in
Happy
Hour of the Damned
to
work for me.”

Wendy growled and I could have sworn I
heard the initial clicks of her jaw ratcheting open, ready to chomp—never
a good sign when diplomacy was in order. I stepped in between the two and
nodded.

“Yes, of course we'll help you, Mrs. Swinton.
And we'll do it quick. You’ll have your killer by tomorrow night to do with as
you see fit. Tie him to a metal bed frame and electrocute his nuts for all I
care. I just want to see you get the closure you so desperately need.”

Mrs. Swinton grimaced, but the tears had
begun to fall. She embraced me and mumbled something that sounded like, “I knew
you were good people” into the lapel of my Versace.

As gently as I could, I pushed her back
and turned her toward one of the more genuinely adept huggers in the crowd
before releasing her and rolling my eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ. How the hell
does she think we’re going to find this guy? I don’t swim.”

Wendy ground her teeth, pissed. She shook
a finger, far too rigid for my taste, in my general vicinity. “This is all your
fault, Amanda. We have to be in San Francisco by the time that boat docks, or I’m
screwed. And if I’m screwed, you’re screwed.”

“Jesus,” Gil said. “You bitches are
getting a little Scarface up in here. I might just have to—”

“Do everything in your power to help us
find a suitable patsy for this murder?” I finished for him, nodding as
instructively as I could manage until he did as well. “Fuck, it’s not even a
murder as far as I can tell. It was just a stupid feeding for Christ’s sake. We’ll
just throw Mrs. Swinton some possibles and let her get her revenge out quick
before anyone’s the wiser.”

“Us? I’m not getting mixed up in another
one of your capers, Amanda. I’m done with that shit.”

“Oh come on. We’ll be out of here with
time to spare. Promise.”

Wendy’s eyes narrowed to slits, but she
followed me back to the car, huffing as she resumed her shotgun seat. The
population of Las Felicitas seemed to be largely in a car wreck lookiloo state,
bar a few stragglers who’d stepped away for a smoke, so the streets were pretty
empty as we pulled away. I brought up a map to the bed and breakfast and set my
phone in front of the speedometer.

“You know,” Wendy sighed. “I’m beginning
to think you orchestrate all these dramas just to direct all the attention to
you. You want me to fail.” Wendy scowled and bit a dainty hunk from the forearm
of a vagrant she produced from her purse. It jutted from a rolled down paper
bag like a bottle of Mad Dog. “You want me to be penniless and broke, oh no,
excuse me, broker than you, and end up with nothing and no one, huddled up
under cardboard blankets drinking backwash out of shit-smudged vodka bottles.”

“Jesus. Don’t hold back.”

“Admit it. It’s never been the other way
around before and you hate it.”

“I don’t begrudge your success as a drug
lord, Wendy. Why would I? I benefit from your triumphs. Gil does too. We can’t
wait for you to rule your own private island nation, surrounded by pasty
vampires zonked out on your primo cream.”

Wendy stopped mid chew. “Now you’re
making fun of me.”

“You want me to give her a Columbian
necktie, missus?” A glint caught my eye in the rearview, Abuelita flashing a
butterfly knife.

“I thought you were Panamanian,” I said.

Wendy tossed the hunk of meat back into
her purse. “Oh for Christ sake. She’s from Bakersfield. Her real name is Jan.”

Abuelita cursed under her breath.

After a few moments of awkward silence, I
couldn’t keep it in any longer. “Jan from Bakersfield is now a chola with
Sharpie brows?”

“Missus named me Abuelita because I
looked like the grandmother on the Mexican hot cocoa box. But I like it. I’m a
new woman. This Abuelita is a bad ass.”

Wendy nodded. “I rescued her from the
ghettos of Bakersfield for her obvious skill as a jeweler, but when I learned
of her affinity for crime, I was smitten. Abby’s a fabulous one-woman
exterminator for my cloud cartel.”

“You’re a regular Harriet Tubman.” Gil
snickered.

“You better fucking believe it. She was
working at a Burger King for chrissakes! Not even an In-n-Out. But she’s a hell
of a lot better with her Glock than a burger flipper. Show her, Abby!”

I could feel the woman’s breath on the
side of my neck, the chill of steel against the base of my skull. “Wait.”

“So,” Wendy nodded, encouraging agreement.
“We’re not going to actually look for the killer?”

“Of course not,” I said, laughing at her
naivety.

“We will leave this place the minute your
obligation is over?”

“We’re going to act just like the cops do
and find someone that could be the killer and call it a day. Easy as pie. I can’t
very well jeopardize a relationship with a bookseller. Word spreads and this
word would absolutely kill sales.”

“Well at least you have the best
intentions at heart.”

“You bet your ass, now let’s motor. I
need to wash up and change into something much more provocative if I’m going to
lure a potential killer into buying me lots of cocktails.”

Gil
pushed up between the seats as we pulled onto a road with a sign indicating we
had reached “The Spit”—why anyone would name an area that is beyond me.
Had to be a running joke amongst early mapmakers that got way out of hand—probably
the syphilis talking. “Even if you give her patsies, you still need to figure
out the motive.”

“Well, it was a wereshark so...the motive
is food. Which I think we can all agree is pretty normal, so...”

“What if it’s not?” Abuelita coughed. “What
if this shark is an enforcer? Like Abuelita?”

I had to hand it to the old bitch, that
was a good question. “So what you’re saying is, the new Miss Sandflea had the
actual title to gain? I guess it could have been her. It wouldn’t be the first
time a petty title had been the motive for a crime.”

Wendy sneered, nodding her head. “Oh
yeah. That pale bitch looked like she’d do just about anything to climb to the
top.”

“Of the dune?” I asked, considering the
girl I’d been rooting for. Moonglow didn’t seem the type but you never knew. No
one looking at me would ever think I was a man-eater (oh, who am I kidding? You’d
be a fool to underestimate my ravenous hunger for man meat).

Wait. That didn’t come out right.

“It’s a start. But you’re right about one
thing.”