Page 31 of Dead & Breakfast
Arthur, for his part, kept quiet, watching McMartin for signs of gastrointestinal trouble. He hoped the man wasn’t lactose intolerant on top of everything else.
“Yeah, yeah.” McMartin finished his third pint, but he handedoff the bottle with rather less flair. He opened his mouth, his words preceded by a loud belch. “You’re not the only bloodsuckers out there, though, are you?”
Arthur flinched at the derogatory term but chose not to correct him. It wasn’t worth the effort, after all; the sheriff’s mind was as narrow as his shoulders were broad. Instead, Arthur cleared his throat and said, “I believe we’re the only vampires in the Trident Falls area.”
“Yeah, but it could’ve been another paranormal type. Maybe one with a stronger stomach.” He grinned before lifting the fourth bottle to his lips.
“There are species of fae who drink blood, and there’s speculation that ghosts require a single drop of blood, but in both instances the amount would be considerably less than a vampire needs.” Salvatore softened his voice to speak the last word in a whisper—not out of any concern for eavesdroppers, it seemed, but more for dramatic effect.
“How do you know that?” McMartin asked, lowering the bottle of milk only half-drunk.
“I googled it.” Salvatore held up his phone.
“How did you get—” McMartin touched his back pocket, where he’d presumably been keeping Salvatore’s personal effects.
“Don’t get any ideas, stud. I’m married.” Salvatore winked.
“Real police work isn’t done by googling things.” McMartin took a step forward and let the half-full bottle dangle by his side, as if hoping they’d all forget about it if he changed the subject. “It takes hitting the pavement and collecting evidence.”
Arthur suspected McMartin knew as much about police work as Arthur himself knew about automobile repair, but he kept that thought to himself and instead stepped back a bit, estimating hiscurrent standing position to be within the splatter-distance danger zone.
McMartin lifted the bottle to his lips once more, making a face as he tipped it back. Not even a full second passed before he lowered it again. “I really don’t care for strawberry,” McMartin said, his voice strained, as if he were fighting down nausea.
“Strawberry isn’t the issue. Your stomach can only hold so much liquid,” Arthur explained.
“I guess.” McMartin handed the half-drunk bottle to Theodore, who looked curiously at the price tag.
“I trust this expense won’t fall to my client,” Theodore said.
McMartin let out a high whine that likely had more to do with his gastrointestinal situation than the price of milk.
“It’s like seven bucks, my man.” Theodore flung an arm around the sheriff’s shoulders. “Your department has the cash.”
McMartin closed his eyes as Theodore patted his back rather more harshly than was necessary. “You win this round,” the sheriff said through a shudder.
Arthur’s shoulders relaxed for the first time in hours. If McMartin came around to the belief that someone other than a vampire had killed the mayor, perhaps he’d call off the FPI. He might not everlikeSalvatore and Arthur, but at least they’d be able to stay in Trident Falls.
“Of course, it could’ve been more than one vampire.” McMartin belched the last word, jumping a little like a dog surprised at the force of its own flatulence. He swallowed with difficulty, then pointed a finger at Sal and Arthur in turn. “There are two of you, after all, and I got through nearly half of that by myself.” He pointed to the carefully stacked pyramid of full and empty milk containers Salvatore had begun making on the floor—obviously bored now that the attention was off him for a change.
“More like a third of it,” Salvatore corrected, taking the still partially full pint from Theodore’s hand to top his pyramid.
Of the many occupations Salvatore had tried over the years, architect was never one of them—and for good reason. The moment he placed the final bottle on the tower, it wobbled, toppled, and crashed to the ground, spilling strawberry milk everywhere.
Arthur had been right about the splash zone. McMartin’s cowboy boots—which had clearly never seen a cow in their lives—now sported a sickly pink splatter. The sheriff flinched back, but he oughtn’t have worried about the strawberry milk so much as the razor-sharp claws of the black cat who’d woken from her nap inside Arthur’s backpack and leaped out to partake in the spoils.
Once she’d detached from McMartin’s pant leg, Rumble began lapping at the pool of pink milk, loud purrs disrupting the liquid’s surface with ripples.
“You forgot to feed her, didn’t you?” Salvatore pointed a finger—or really a whole two hands, as they were still cuffed—at Arthur. “Poor thing. What would she do without her daddy?”
“Please never call yourself that again,” Arthur muttered, righting the spilled bottle while Theodore hailed a shop attendant.
“You know you like it.”
“No one likes it.”
Salvatore waggled his eyebrows. “Ilike it.”
“Please,” McMartin groaned. “If I let you go, will you stop making me listen to this?”
