Author's note:
I have never written a mystery before, and this is my first attempt. It is completely unedited because I've been out of town for the last week, and quite frankly, forgot that I'd promised to write for this event. Between writing for two other projects, plus releasing my debut novel, this one got lost in the shuffle. Real life always bites me in the ass. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, but if you're looking for an Agatha Christie quality whodunit, you should probably pass on this one. I wrote it in one evening. Mea culpa. All errors are my own, etc.
I also hemmed and hawed about the category this should go in. For my followers, sorry, there's no kinky sex. It was a toss up between nonhuman, sci fi, and erotic horror. After chatting with a few regular Lit writers, I decided on nonhuman.
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Mud makes a particular sound when it hits the top of a coffin.
A shovel inserted into dry grave dirt makes a solid thump of contact as it bites in and lifts its payload. The earth skitters over the coffin lid, sliding down with a whisper. It's quiet and sterile; those few moments where even the topsoil is reverent as each mourner adds to the blanket under which the departed will sleep.
It rained the day we buried my grandmother. Instead of polite granules of sandy soil, her mourners threw sticky shovelfuls of muck on top of her. The wads of mud peppering the top of her silvery gray casket looked like cow patties and made about the sound you'd expect. It was a squelchy wet splat -- just like dropping a cow pie from six feet up.
Lisette's friends were there; dozens of retired showgirls, prostitutes, and performers in flamboyant red hats over black dresses and fuck me shoes. My mother sniffed her disapproval at the spectacle of color on old women, but I thought it was charming. Besides, I knew my grandmother had a red hat in her closet that would put any Kentucky Derby fascinator to shame.
My mother, the tight assed bitch, left the wake when the male strippers showed up, lace handkerchief held over her nose as she escaped. I'll tell you one thing about Lisette's friends. They had awesome taste in booze, men, and couture -- and had enough money from filthy rich and conveniently dead husbands to let them put on a truly raunchy wake. Lisette would have loved it.
Ignoring the sounds of revelry and feminine screeches as the strippers did their thing, I tipped my martini in the direction of a massive boudoir photo of my grandmother from her days on the Vegas stage. "Fuck, I'm going to miss you, Granny."
A man I didn't know walked up as I sipped my drink. "She was one of a kind," he murmured.
His voice was soft, but rough with age and gravel. Strangely, he didn't look old enough to have such a raspy voice, but he was the foxiest silver fox I'd ever seen. He reminded me of the fitness model Anthony Varrecchia, olive skinned with silvery hair and a well-groomed beard. His black suit was perfectly cut and fitted to his bulky frame.
I smiled at the memory. Lisette had always had an eye for a pretty man, and he'd been one of her favorites, never mind the fact that he batted for the other team.
"Yes, she certainly was. Did you know my grandmother well?"
"She was my dearest." He turned to face me, his pale blue eyes cataloging and measuring, and I knew he compared me to her.
People always said I look like her, but I didn't see it. Where Lisette was tall and statuesque, with curves that rumors say made Raquel Welch jealous, I'm more fire plug in combat boots. Before she gave in to nature's dictates and went platinum, her hair had been shimmery honey, a thousand shades of blonde, amber, and chestnut. Mine is boring brown. The only thing we shared was our cheekbones and green eyes.
"One of your dearest friends?"
He stroked a cold fingertip down my cheek, making me shiver at the touch. "Yes, of course. She was a dear friend." He shook his head and smiled. "My condolences for your loss, Miss Archer."
Leaning toward me, well into my personal space, he whispered, "Her house holds many secrets. If you are fortunate, you might find one or two."
"How did you—"
He shot a cuff and looked at his watch. "I'm afraid I must be going, my dear. It was lovely to chat with you." Taking my hand, he kissed my palm. His beard tickled and I resisted the urge to tug my hand away. "We'll see each other again soon."
Without another word, he strode away, leaving me gaping after him with too many questions. I didn't believe his words about being my grandmother's friend. I wouldn't say I knew all her friends, but I knew a lot of them, and they'd have mentioned such a handsome specimen. I also had no idea how he knew Lisette had left me her house, along with a significant trust for its upkeep. We'd kept that information to ourselves and the lawyer handling the trust. Nobody questioned me, though, so maybe she'd told her friends.
Still, his words made me uncomfortable. Such odd phrasing. Dearest what, if not friend? And he hadn't even introduced himself. I tossed back the rest of my drink and rejoined the party. Lisette wouldn't want me to stew over something so silly during the last party held in her honor, and there were dozens of lovely male bodies to admire, alcohol to be drunk, and a gloriously scandalous life to celebrate.
I pasted a smile on my face and snagged a vacant chair to watch the show. The servers were attentive, the booze was free, and Lisette's debauched friends had hired a limo service to take everyone home. Best wake ever.
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Let it be said that moving while hung over sucks. Let it also be said that a certain stripper with a cock as thick as my wrist was more than a fabulous fuck. He didn't complain over my makeshift bed on the floor of my downtown apartment. He also woke me up with croissants, hot coffee, and hotter kisses before helping me move the last of my shit into my new house. I think his name was Luke. That was probably the name on his business card, anyway. God only knew what his mother named him.
I was pretty sure one of Lisette's friends paid him to take me home from the wake, but I didn't care.
He'd said he was a student at UNLV. I didn't know if that was true, but he seemed about the right age for it, and he wouldn't be the first to turn tricks for tuition. I was a student, too, but Lisette had funded my art degree when my mother refused to pay for what she called a useless education. I was cute enough to waitress in a casino, but too short and clumsy to follow in Lisette's stilettoed footsteps.
Though most of my grandmother's personal belongings were gone, the house was fully furnished. Bearing a new mattress and fresh sheets, her antique mahogany four-poster held dominion over the room. I'd picked the mattress out myself a few months before she passed, hating the morbidity of the action even though I knew it was necessary. I could still smell the comforting fragrance of Chanel number 19. Rare and hard to find now, supplanted on shelves by dozens of chemical based celebutante brands, it was classically gorgeous just like Lisette had been.
