Blood in the Batter Page 8

  So instead of answering, Priscilla took a deep breath and moved further into the living room, avoiding Holly’s gaze. The smell was becoming more tolerable. Maybe it was some sort of cleaner or perfume meant to cover up a smoking habit. Yes, that had to be it. Priscilla had spotted a pack of them and a lighter on the table in the hall.

  Priscilla examined the photos of Holly and Aaron on an end table. The woman in the photo looked more attractive than her sullen, real-life counterpart. The smile did wonders, and Priscilla could finally see the woman that Aaron had fallen in love with. She frowned when she noticed something else that was different in the photo.

  “Where are his glasses?” she wondered aloud. In every photo, Aaron Burke was wearing a pair of Ray-Bans.

  “What?”

  “Your husband wore glasses.”

  “Yes, so?”

  Priscilla finally looked up at Holly Burke with a frown on her face. “I didn’t realize at the time, but I didn’t see a pair of them on his face in the store. Did he need them all the time?”

  Holly nodded. “He was blind as a bat without them.”

  Arthur would want to know that little detail, she was sure. But how to get the tidbit to him? She’d promised not to grill Aaron’s widow for information, and she doubted he’d think it was an innocent observation. It hadn’t been. She’d been hoping for the opportunity to snoop.

  “Does that mean anything?” Holly asked. “They could have gotten knocked off.”

  “I’m not sure,” Priscilla admitted. “Do you know if anyone would have had a reason to steal them?”

  Holly shrugged again. “I don’t know why anyone would want to kill him. He was a good man. A bit misguided sometimes, but not bad.”

  Priscilla averted her eyes as Holly began to cry. She’d never been comfortable with human emotion even when she was a human. If there was one society that didn’t like maudlin behavior, it was the Puritans. She picked up a tissue from a box on the end table and offered it to Holly silently.

  “He’s gone,” she sniffled.

  “I’m sorry,” Priscilla said quietly. “I wish I could help you.”

  “Tell that police officer friend of yours to solve this,” Holly mumbled. “I want to be able to bury my husband.”

  Priscilla hesitated again. Arthur wouldn’t like her doing this. It was treading the line dangerously close to interfering in an ongoing police investigation. “Do you know if anyone would have had a reason to kill him?”

  Holly gave a watery snort. “I doubt it. He wasn’t exactly what you’d call social. He spent his days at work, his evenings with me, and the weekends with that silly nerd club that meets in Blackthorn Field.”

  Priscilla wasn’t sure who the latter group was, but did recognize the name Blackthorn Field. It had once belonged to Claudia Blackthorn, as had the house that had sat on the lot. Both had burned down when Priscilla was a relatively new resident in the Bellmare area in the 1690s. There had been talk of rebuilding the “witch house” to promote more tourism. Priscilla didn’t like the idea of restoring the old house, but kept her mouth shut as her objections would probably prompt the ladies of the historical society to fund that very endeavor. They were petty like that.

  “What about his boss?”

  Holly’s face darkened, color flushing back into her cheeks in a sudden rush. She went from red to purple in a matter of minutes. Priscila watched, alarmed by the sudden shift in mood. Maybe it was the poor woman’s grief that made her act so emotionally. Priscilla couldn’t be sure. She had never been good at reading people, even when she’d been a human. Any emotions that were more complex than the basic five were beyond her. A psychologist, she was not.

  “Simon Grant,” Holly growled. “That rat bastard had something to do with it, I know it.”

  Priscilla raised an eyebrow. “Aaron’s boss?”

  “Aaron asked him for a raise three times,” Holly seethed. “He was barely making over minimum wage and his benefits were a joke. And you know what Grant said?”

  “What did he say?”

  “Aaron would get a raise when he earned it.” Holly’s fists slammed down on the couch cushions beside her. “My husband had been working there for twelve years, and that’s the thanks he got?”

  Sadly, that wasn’t beyond the realm of belief. Simon Grant was a thoroughly unpleasant man. Priscilla was astonished it had taken her so long to notice. The signs were so glaring, they might have been marked with a flashing red sign. Was it just ignorance on her part, or was the dentist afraid of the reputation Olivia said she’d garnered?

  “It doesn’t mean that he killed anyone,” Priscilla pointed out.

  “Aaron was putting in his two weeks’ notice,” Holly said. “Right after his hygienist left, too. Grant was furious and said he couldn’t go. He said he’d regret it.”

  “Perhaps he was just angry. That would be quite an inconvenience.”

  “Are you taking his side?” Holly demanded.

  “No. I’m just saying that it could have been an empty threat. He didn’t seem the type to kill anyone.” Grope, leer at, and make advances toward someone certainly, but Simon Grant hadn’t struck her as a killer, no matter how creepy he’d come off.

  But Priscilla had badly misjudged people before. She’d overlooked signs and trusted people she shouldn’t, simply because they fit her idea of what a “safe” person looked like. Underestimating people could eventually cost her her life.

  “I’m so glad you approve,” Holly drawled. “I’m sure Grant will love that. Should I tell him he’s got a fan club?”

  Priscilla frowned at her. “You’re very impolite, you know. I came to help you.”

  “No, you came to stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong. Just like always. Everybody knows that you’re the police department’s pet vampire. So run along home now.”

  “Why was he asking for a raise so often?” Priscilla asked. “Surely after the first rebuff he’d have started looking for other employment?”

  “He wanted to make it work. His hours would have been ideal after we—” Holly cut off suddenly, and she glanced away shamefaced, as if she’d been caught spilling state secrets.

  “After what?”

  “Mind your own business, Pratt!” Holly snapped.

  “It could help,” Priscilla insisted.

  “His hours would have been ideal after we adopted our baby,” she whispered.

  Oh. Well, that had been unexpected. Holly didn’t seem like the maternal sort. She wasn’t open, patient, or kind. Priscilla couldn’t make a judgement based solely on Holly’s behavior toward her, but she didn’t seem like a pleasant person, overall.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You sound like a broken record. Is that all you can say?” Holly asked.

  “What would you like me to say?” Priscilla asked pointedly. Holly’s ire was understandable, but she didn’t understand why the woman directed it toward her so frequently.

  “That you’re done here, and you’re going to leave.”

  Priscilla sighed. “If that’s what you really want, I’ll go. I just wanted to let you know that there are people in town that do want to help you.”

  “Put Grant behind bars. That will help me.”

  “Is that all you need?” Priscilla asked.

  The house wasn’t … well it wasn’t bare, per se. But it wasn’t exactly going to be in a home decor magazine either. Priscilla couldn’t tell if that was due to a lack of means, or by choice. Some people liked the spartan look. After growing up in Plymouth at the height of Calvinism, she’d gone a little crazy and taken an interest in decorating. She liked to fill the houses she lived in with material goods and make them look nice. Her father probably turned in his grave every time she bought colorful curtains, but she ignored the twinge of guilt. She was undead; it wasn’t as if she could fall any further in the esteem of God, could she? Besides, a little materialism was hardly the worst sin she could commit.

  “What does that mean?” Holl
y bristled.

  “Do you have someone to stay with you?” Priscilla asked. “Someone who could help look after the house while you work? I know some people in town who offer very affordable rates.” Inspiration struck her. A way to help someone else who was in need. “I hear Luna Sheppard is available—”

  “I don’t need a maid.” Holly’s voice cracked like a whip. Priscilla fell immediately silent, almost quailing under Holly’s burning glare. “And I don’t need that hussy and her brat as roommates either. I’ll pay the bills on my own.”

  “It could help,” Priscilla tried again. “If you still wanted to save up for that baby—”

  Holly stood up abruptly, startling Priscilla. She took a step back, though she wasn’t sure why. Holly wasn’t physically imposing. She was skinny, and not the waifish sort of thin that was in vogue these days. She looked as if she hadn’t eaten for days. Still, the hostility radiating off of the young woman was enough to set her predator’s senses tingling.

  Priscilla tended to listen to her gut. It was smarter than she was, by far, letting her know when there was a threat, and when it might be a good time to walk away. Humans didn’t often show up on her radar, but those that did meant her serious harm. Priscilla surreptitiously glanced around for anything that could be used as a weapon against her. She didn’t think Holly Burke was about to attack, but it would be best to know what she’d need to dodge if one came.

  “I’m never going to have a baby,” Holly hissed. “Not now, not ever. I can’t produce one on my own, thanks to my stupid biology. I kept losing them, and it hurt Aaron every time. We couldn’t even afford to adopt one. And Simon Grant is to blame for all of that.”

  Holly’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You want to help? Get that man locked up. He needs to pay for everything he stole from me. Now get out of my house, Pratt. I don’t want to look at you anymore.”

  The edict clamped down on Priscilla like a vise, and she had no choice. She was no longer welcome in this home. She walked stiffly toward the door, setting the chocolate chunk cookies down as she went. She had a feeling that Holly Burke might throw them in the trash. It didn’t matter, in the end, did it?

  Holly followed behind her. “Pick up the pace,” she grumbled.

  “You can only kick me out of your house,” Priscilla said. “You can’t dictate how fast I leave.”

  Priscilla glanced into the dining room as she passed the open doorway. She thought she’d finally found the source of the foul smell. There was a huge arrangement of purple flowers, wilting slightly in a vase on the table.

  “Someone sent you flowers,” she commented, taking another measured step toward the doorstep. “Another well-wisher?”

  Holly scowled. “It’s blue rocket, and I grow them myself in the backyard. They’re relaxing.”

  “If you say so,” Priscilla said.

  She’d never personally understood how people could enjoy gardening. Priscilla had planted plenty of them in her lifetime, though it had been a matter of survival when she’d done it. The vegetables you got out of the garden could feed your family, or be stored for lean times. Flowers were just … superfluous, in her opinion. At least they weren’t roses. Wild roses were rumored to be a vampire weakness, making them stay inside a coffin during daylight. She had no doubt that Holly would ward her off with a bouquet of them if she knew that little secret.

  The pressure that had clamped down on her limbs lifted the moment she set foot outside the house. The door slammed behind her, and she faintly heard Holly Burke’s irritated voice on the other side, grumbling obscenities.

  Priscilla sighed. Well, at least she’d tried her best. And she had a few more leads than she’d started with. The motive that Holly had put forth sounded flimsy at best, but Priscilla couldn’t discount it. She’d seen people murdered for less. There was just one pressing question on Priscilla’s mind.

  How on earth was she going to pass the message along to Arthur?

  Perfect Chocolate Chunk Cookie

  The chocolate chunk cookie is a classic for a reason. Understated, easy to make, and delicious— who doesn’t love to bite into one of them when they’re warm? I personally don’t have a comparison, but Anna insists they’re much better than blood. But she might be biased. I’d be welcome to feedback. Which is better, blood or chocolate?

  —Priscila Pratt

  Ingredients

  2 1/8 cups all-purpose flour

  1/2 tsp baking soda

  Pinch of salt

  1/2 cup butter (melted)

  1 cup brown sugar

  1/2 cup granulated sugar

  1 egg yolk

  2 tsp vanilla

  2 1/4 c chocolate chips (your choice on type of chocolate)

  Directions

  Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and grease two baking sheets.

  As the oven preheats, combine the flour, baking soda and a pinch of salt. Cream the butter and sugars together until smooth. Continue mixing as you add the egg yolk and vanilla. When the mixture is well combined, add in chocolate chips.

  Form the dough into balls and place on the cookie sheets. Bake in the oven for about 8-13 minutes, depending on the size of the cookie. You want the bottoms to have a light brown color.

  Allow the cookies to cool for about 5 minutes before serving.

  Chapter Eight

  “Oh, come on,” Anna groaned. “This is ridiculous, you two. Just talk to each other, please.”

  Priscilla had called her assistant before leaving Holly Burke’s house, asking how best to give the new information she’d gathered to her father. Anna had said she’d take care of it, and to meet her at the Bellmare Cemetery at half past midnight. After she was done with her date, she’d take down notes and give them to her father. It hadn’t been a perfect solution. It seemed a little juvenile, passing notes to each other through an intermediary like they were a pair of nervous middle-schoolers.

  She’d arrived early to find that Anna had lied to her and had brought her tired and very grumpy-looking father along for the ride. They’d been standing like this for the last fifteen minutes, staring at each other in stubborn silence. Arthur had decided to be even pettier than she, and had elected to stand on the stairs that led up to the church, just so Priscilla couldn’t get near him. The ground the church stood on and the stairs and ramp that led up to it were holy ground. She couldn’t set foot on it without suffering a severe reaction. A rash at first, then a severe burning sensation every moment she lingered on ground where she wasn’t wanted.

  It was stupid, but Priscilla couldn’t help but feel a stab of betrayal. This hadn’t been the plan. Priscilla pursed her lips and looked away from the pair of them.

  Anna let out a frustrated sigh. “You two are acting like children. This is not a big deal. Kiss and make up already.”

  “I’d rather kiss a toad,” Priscilla muttered.

  “Your godmother would be happy to provide,” Arthur snapped back. “She’s been calling the house all day, by the way. Don’t even deny you gave her my number, Priscilla. That was crossing yet another line. You just can’t seem to help yourself, can you?”

  Anna stomped her foot. “All right, I’ll specify, since you two seem incapable of acting your ages. Talk nicely to each other or don’t say anything at all.”

  “Works for me,” Priscilla said with a shrug. “He doesn’t want to hear what I have to say anyway. I guess I’m just a stupid, meddlesome—”

  “Enough!” Anna shouted. The sound carried through the churchyard, startling Priscilla enough that she looked back at her assistant in surprise. Anna was pink in the face and glared at both of them. “You’re both coming with me, and if you can argue where we’re going, shame on both of you.”

  “Where are we going?” Arthur asked suspiciously. “I’m not stepping off holy ground so she can—”

  “Can what, Dad? Attack you? Get real. If Priscilla wanted to hurt you, she could have done it a long time ago. Follow me both of you or so help me, I’m
not talking to either of you for a month.”

  Priscilla and Arthur exchanged a glance before they followed her. Priscilla felt a little less angry with Arthur when he stepped off of holy ground. Perhaps he could be reasonable, for the time being.

  When they got away from the streetlights, there was almost no illumination to see by. The moon was hidden behind the clouds and didn’t provide much in the way of light. As they walked further inside, it was hard even for Priscilla to see. She caught Arthur when he stumbled. He stiffened beneath her touch, but allowed it, muttering to himself as he stepped away from her. Ahead, Anna turned on her flashlight and led them still further. The ground began to slope gently beneath their feet, and Priscilla felt an odd sense of familiarity. She’d walked this path before.

  Priscilla was thankful that the town had shown some decorum and decided to leave the Bellmare cemetery off of their ghost tour listing. This place was for the dead of Bellmare, and for them alone. Even the most die-hard capitalist would have to admit it was tasteless to let a bunch of strangers go trampling over the graves of the honored dead. The one man who’d even dared suggest it had been soundly beaten down by Minister Johnson, who owned the lot and the parsonage about a mile up the road. Anyone setting foot inside the graveyard for a ghost tour would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  Anna stopped in front of a pretty red granite gravestone. Arthur blanched, and Priscilla thought she might have done the same, were she still human, as she read it.