One Dead Vampire: A Rocky Fitzgerald Paranormal Cozy Mystery, #1

Chapter One

It’s not every day your high school chemistry teacher’s accused of murder, and I definitely wasn’t expecting to land (okay, insert myself) into a big police investigation when I left my apartment that morning.

Hey, sometimes you go with the flow. Sometimes you plant yourself right in the middle of the creek and the flow goes around you.

Sometimes you find out your high school chemistry teacher’s a vampire. But I digress.

I’m Rocky Fitzgerald. If that name’s familiar to you it might be because you’ve stumbled upon my Instagram feed…or someone talking about my Instagram feed. The first thing you need to know is that the whole thing was an accident. I didn’t mean to become a fat activist Instaceleb. Like at all. At the time I would have said fat activism was about as far from me as *insert mandatory fat girl food joke about vegetables here*.

And no, I don’t make a lot of food jokes. It’s one of those irritating things, the fat girl food joke. Like the world is saying, It’s okay that you’re fat, as long as you’re funny with it and you’re comfortable being laughed at.

Well, I’m not too huge on being laughed at, and I can be funny without making fat jokes. Who knew?

I started up a selfie-specific Instagram account because—and here’s the big secret you can never tell anyone, I will absolutely deny it—I was too embarrassed to post selfies on my main account. Not because of fatness exactly. More that I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. It was too vulnerable to post pictures as if I thought I was the kind of person other people wanted to look at, so I created a whole new account.

And that account? Blew the fuck up.

On the day Mr Bisset was arrested for killing his husband, I was on my way to a meeting that derived from my weird brand of accidental activism (a nonprofit devoted to promoting body positivity in the queer community who loved my ass because: intersectionality, baby).

I didn’t make it to the meeting. In fact, I forgot all about the meeting until the following day, at which point I emailed a heartfelt apology and asked for another meeting. They…did not email me back. Oops. #professionalAF

Mr Bisset lived a few blocks away from my apartment in Canaltown, the little queer neighborhood squeezed between Conquistos proper and the old aqueduct north of the city. I’d see him and his husband out walking their dog or watering their roses, even gone to dinner at their house (and chuckled to myself that they were such quintessentially perfect old gay dudes, Mr B all sweet and avuncular, Mr F all stern and aloof). Coming up on the house and finding it swarmed with police cars was unsettling. To say the least.

Practically running into Nichelle Crawford was a hell of a lot more than unsettling.

We both did that thing, the double take thing people do when they haven’t seen each other in a long time. Seven years. To be precise. Not that I was counting. Except she’d been my best friend for most of our lives until she’d up and left me to go to college like the betraying betrayer she was.

Okay, so I was counting. Six years, eleven months since graduation. At which I’d avoided her because I couldn’t manage to really hate her so I just pretended to.

Rocky? Her mouth dropped open, her eyes filled with tears.

Nichelle? My voice was cold to drive home the point that I still hated her.

No, it didn’t actually go that way.

Rocky? What’re you doing here?

I gestured to the sidewalk. Going to a meeting. What’re you doing here? Because this was my damn town and she had no business being in it. She’d given up that right when she took off for more exciting places.

She gestured to the house. Working.

Working. My eyes took in her suit, which wasn’t exactly a uniform, but was definitely law enforcement styling. What, you’re a cop? She’d gone off to some fancy school in some fancy place…to become a cop? That makes quite literally no sense.

Sorry my life makes no sense to you. She didn’t sound sorry. Do you live around here?

For a split second my treasonous brain thought she was asking because she’d missed me or wanted to see me or something. Until—

Because we’re questioning everyone in the neighborhood.

My emotions solidified into granite. Questioning them about what?

Hey! Crawford! Both of us turned toward the doorway, where a tallish white guy with a terrible goatee was standing, one foot on a higher step than the other.

Nichelle waved. Potential witness, give me two minutes!

He eyed us another second before shrugging and going back inside.

He looks like a tool, I observed cheerfully.

You have no idea. She blinked and shook herself. I couldn’t help but notice that the blemishes that had haunted her in high school had disappeared, leaving her dark skin smooth and clear. And also that her eyes were the same shade of please look into me for hours while we pretend we’re doing our homework. I mean…brown. Ordinary. Boring. Yeah.

Anyway, she said, as if we’d been in the middle of an actual conversation. Did you hear anything suspicious this morning? Loud noises, shouting, anything like that?

I lived too far away to have heard shouting, but I wasn’t quite ready to tell her where, not after that ugly flare of wishing she gave a fuck. Nope. Sorry. Did something happen to Mr B and Mr F?

You know the people who live here?

I rolled my eyes. Uh, are you a terrible cop? You know them too, at least one of them. Mr Bisset? From chem class? Are they okay?

She shook her head slowly and I could practically see the lines of code in her head while she processed new data. Mr Bisset. Shit.

What? I grabbed her arm. Nichelle, what?

I can’t talk about it.

The hell does that mean?

Crawford!

She sighed aggressively. Tell me quickly—who’s Mr F?

Brandon Farber, Mr Bisset’s husband. They got married once it was legal. I turned my back so I couldn’t see Irritating Dude On Porch staring at her like she owed him money. What’s going on?

I’ll—I’ll call you later. I have to go. She turned and marched up the front steps, saying loudly enough for Irritating Dude to hear, According to a neighbor, the homeowners are Franklin Bisset and Brandon Farber…

I watched her disappear into the house, my feelings a mincemeat jumble. Oh, so I was a neighbor now, was I? The nerve! Why was my heart pounding? Because whatever happened to Mr Bisset wasn’t good or because seeing Nichelle…surely that wasn’t good either? My palms were sweating. My stomach was clenched.

How was she a cop? How was she back in town? How was she a cop in my town and my damn family didn’t think to mention it to me? I sent a quick all-caps outrage text to my dad (retired after twenty-seven years on the force, packed my mom’s lunch every day before she took off for the desk job she halfway resented). Conquistos wasn’t that big and not much happened at the Conquistos PD without my mom, aka the lieutenant, hearing about it.

Which meant they had to know. And also that they hadn’t bothered to tell me. Jerks.

For good measure I sent NICHELLE BACK? with an angry face to my older cousin, Luis, a detective in the metro bureau. He immediately sent back an x-eyed squiggly-mouthed emoji because his favorite thing to do in the world was troll me.

Whatever, I had a meeting. I could obsess later about Nichelle Crawford being so close I could literally run into her on the street. No, hang on, no obsessing. Absolutely no obsessing. Ever.

I was still casually musing about how good she looked in her neat little suit a few minutes later when a familiar bark jerked me out of my thoughts.

Oh jeez. Mr Bisset. Grinning and walking his dog like every day.

Rocky! How lovely it is to see you this morning! Isn’t it beautiful out for October? I keep waiting for it to get cold, but so far so good.

Mr Bisset hadn’t been a particularly exclaimy teacher, but retiring and being able to live as an out gay man had done wonders for him; whenever I saw him as an adult he practically radiated happiness. On a rainy day he’d say, Isn’t it gorgeous? We need this rain, too. I’m sure the farmers are delighted.

I realized I’d stopped walking but hadn’t actually said anything. Hey, Mr B. Think, think, think. I couldn’t just act like everything was normal. Hey, where’s Mr F today?

He was finishing up some paperwork at home, but we have a lunch date. He winked. Let that be a model for you and your no doubt wonderful future partner: always take time to eat together.

Oh god. Oh no. Not that…I didn’t know for sure that anything had happened to Mr F back at the house. Except if it had been a break-in or something, Nichelle wouldn’t have been so surprised to learn who lived there.

What kind of crime happens that gets the police called when they don’t even have the name of the homeowner?

I swallowed and reached down to pet Higgins the springer spaniel, sporting a royal blue bow today, which I expected he’d have ripped to shreds within five minutes of getting home. Hi, boy. How’re you doing? See, if this had happened to Rocky 2.0, the character I play on Instagram, she would have known just how to handle it. But I’m not that Rocky, I’m just myself, and I had no freaking clue.

We should be getting on, Mr Bisset said, after a description of the rest of the neighborhood. (Who was out this morning, who was late to work, who was sitting on the front porch spying on everyone else, an observation he always made in a low voice as if he wasn’t the best spy the neighborhood had to offer.)

Um, yeah. Mr B…when you left the house everything was normal, right?

His forehead crinkled in confusion. Of course.

Okay, well… Shit. I turned back. I think I’ll walk with you if that’s all right.

Rocky? What’s wrong? You look concerned.

There were police out on your block and I just want to make sure you get home safely, I untruthed blandly. It’s not lying if it’s true. But sometimes it’s also not, you know, the actual truth either.

Police out? Whatever for?

I’m not sure. Do you remember Nichelle Crawford?

Of course I remember Nichelle. You two were practically joined at the hip. Have you seen her lately?

Walking into your house ten minutes ago. Um, yeah, I guess she’s a police officer now. A detective, I think. Which, if that was the case, and it must be judging by the suit, meant she was young for it—and that made sense because she’d always been so damn smart…

Well, isn’t that a thing? Mr B said companionably, bringing me out of my non-obsessive thoughts.

We turned the corner and I glanced up, biting my lip. Any second now. Any second now he’d look up and—

That’s…but that’s… Mr Bisset held up a hand to shield his eyes. That looks like our house.

I… I what? I had no idea. His steps picked up and I stayed with him. A minute later he was nearly running, with Higgins trotting in blissful joy at his heels.

He outpaced me for the last ten feet, almost dragging the dog up the steps. Brandon? Brandon, what’s wrong?

Mr F didn’t answer, as I hadn’t really thought he would. The door stood open to the entryway: polished hardwood floors I knew from when I’d been there for dinner, glossy scrollwork on the stair rail, creamy walls. The kind of house anyone would be proud to live in, with crown molding, that sort of thing. Old for California, dating all the way back to the early twentieth century.

I stood there staring up at the open door. Then the sound I’d been braced for and dreading: a cry, a denial, Mr Bisset’s voice carrying just enough for me to hear it from his front gate. "No! No, no, no, oh no, oh Brandon, oh no…"

Irritated Dude Cop appeared in the doorway and stared at me while I stared back until he sharply closed the door.

I couldn’t move immediately. What else could this mean but that Mr F was dead? Mr F, who I knew. Who’d told me about his roses. Who’d been kind of a cold fish, but who’d never sneered when Mr B offered me pastries and I accepted. (It’s weird how offended some people get when fat folks have the audacity to eat.) He wasn’t as sweet as his husband and I wouldn’t have called him kind exactly, but in his own way he’d been good to me.

And Mr B just adored him. Not that one person can be solely responsible for another person’s mood, but as far as I could tell, their life together had been deeply gratifying. Getting Higgins had been Mr F’s idea. He says I could use a lap dog, Mr B had confided to me, pretending to be insulted. Well, I told him I didn’t need anything of the sort! And then he brought out Higgins and I just…couldn’t resist him. Look at how cute he is!

But maybe he wasn’t dead. Maybe—maybe there was some other reason for the police presence, some other reason for that horrible cry. There was, of course, one way to find out.

I texted my mom to ask if there had been a body discovered in a single family home in Canaltown within the last few hours, adding that I was worried about Mr Bisset (good untruthing there: those two thoughts were technically true, but I’d implied a connection between them that didn’t exist).

She got back to me fast, probably primed by Dad that I was on the warpath. I’d forgotten I was supposed to be angry at them.

Deceased is a white male, late sixties, name called in is not Bisset.

Damn damn damn. Definitely Mr F unless there were two white males in their late sixties dead in Canaltown today.

The door opened and Irritated Dude came down the front steps, heading straight for me. Since I didn’t know him, he was probably an asshole. I liked to think I knew the non-assholes on the force.

Why are you loitering at a crime scene? he demanded.

I know the people who live here, Officer—?

"Detective Loomis. Unless you have information about what happened here this morning, you need to clear out."

"What did happen here this morning? How will I know if I have information if you ask such general questions?"

His eyes narrowed and he repeated Nichelle’s inquiries about whether I’d heard or seen anything unusual. I repeated my assertion that I had not. Officially back at square one.

Can you at least tell me if they’re both okay? I tried, giving it a final shot.

I can’t discuss the details of anything with you, ma’am. Now you have to leave.

Ugh, being ma’amed by a dude-bro cop was about as much as I could deal with. I tapped my forehead in a (slightly mocking) salute and glanced one last time at the house. I couldn’t hear Mr Bisset anymore, but I was glad that at least Nichelle was there with him. What a horrible thing to come home to.

The walk back to my apartment was slower, and this time I didn’t have the luxury of guiltily thinking about Nichelle. The only thing in my head was the cheery look on Mr B’s face when he talked about going to lunch with Mr F.

Deceased, oh god. Poor Mr F. Poor Mr B. Poor everyone.

Chapter Two

Luis showed up at seven with Chipotle, which was a half assed apology for not telling me about Nichelle.

Who still hadn’t called. Not that I wanted her to. Or cared.

What happened to Mr Bisset’s husband? I demanded the second he’s inside.

Rock, come on, you know I can’t—

I glared at him.

He shook his head, pushing me toward the living room. By which I mean the area next to the kitchen where I’d put a couch, though it was more like a small alcove with delusions of grandeur. What did Crawford say?

She wanted to know if I’d heard anything in the neighborhood this morning. I hadn’t. Come on, Luis. It’s Mr B.

That’s why I don’t want to tell you. You’re gonna be upset.

This is a good time to mention I come from a family of gargoyles, every single one of them in law enforcement. Except me. The only human (adopted), the only non-cop. Gargoyles are obsessed with protecting their own.

I surveyed my cousin with a sinking heart. Upset how? Mr F’s dead, isn’t he?

He exhaled. You already know that. Plus, can’t you just—he waved a hand—check Twitter or something?

Conquistos PD had a leak. Of course everyone assumed I must be able to figure out who it was since social media was my thing.

I didn’t know who it was. How would I know who had a random Twitter account and access to autopsy photos?

It’s not on Twitter. Okay, so I’d checked. Just in case.

Yeah, well, he’s dead. I’m sorry. Did you know him?

The question was part sympathy, part interrogation. One thing you learned growing up in a family like mine: just because someone loved you didn’t mean they wouldn’t squeeze you for all the information you might have.

Sure, I know him. I pass their place on the way to Este Ave. Nearly all the businesses in my neighborhood were located between Canal Street and Este Avenue. Plus, you remember Mr Bisset from school.

"Of course I remember him from school, he gave me a freaking C. Dad nearly had a heart attack."

Ooooh. Yeah, sorry about bringing up bad memories. I loved my Uncle Kerix, but he had a hell of a temper. I can’t believe Mr F’s dead. They’ve been together, what, like twenty years?

He suddenly looked shifty. I think longer than that. Anyway, what do you know about them? They ever fight?

Don’t be stupid, Mr Bisset doesn’t fight with anyone. He didn’t even fight with your dad, when your dad was, uh, kinda loud.

True. Luis’s expression got a little dreamy. "It was beautiful. Dad raged and ranted and Mr Bisset said, ‘It’s merely math, Detective. I can’t change Luis’s scores on his work any more than you can change the speed limit.’ And Dad was