Page 5 of The Accidental Detectives

Chapter

Two

Brenda’s in deep donkey poo and I still don’t want to be a detective.

To say Brenda was a hot damn mess, her eyes wide and her body shaking like a Yorkshire Terrier on ice, was an understatement. Dressed like she was going to dinner—with her stacked bracelets and shiny earrings—instead of on the lam from the law, she still looked terrified.

And with good reason, if the online news reports (the human ones) I’d read about her were true.

She was wanted as a person of interest for questioning, by both the paranormal council and the human authorities. The council had sent out an email alert to all of us about her.

The council doesn’t like when you kill people. It kinda blows our cover if you’re convicted and you get a life sentence from a human judge.

When you’re immortal, serving life has a whole new meaning that can’t be explained to a human prison warden. Not tomention, escaping a human jail would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

The clan council would wanna wrap this up, and fast. As in, they’d take her out if it meant avoiding our exposure to the human world, and her name all over the news as a person of interest was def an issue.

Sure. We live amongst humans, but the risk of exposure is real and, if found out, could mean we end up in some damn science experiment. The various councils would go to extremes to keep us protected.

And if the human po-po was after Brenda, too, things could get hinky—quick.

But at least she wasn’t crying about how she couldn’t believe she’d been turned into a paranormal. In our other line of work with OOPS, there’s a lot of crying, and proving the supernatural reallydoexist by lifting cars over our heads while Marty shifts into a snarling werewolf and makes a damn mess all over the floor with all her hair, with Wanda right behind her, shedding like a Malamute.

It’s exhausting proving you’re not somethin’ straight out of a Spielberg movie to a human who’s scared shitless.

But murder, and not just the human law, but the council hot on her heels, too?

We were gonna have to tread lightly in our world—eggshell light.

As Marty and Wanda got her settled in a chair and had Archibald, our manservant (I’ll explain him later) bring her some tea, Bertrand swooped in on the poor woman, his camera pointed in her face during probably one of the worst moments of her life.

I gave him a nudge with my elbow (a light one, swear) as I leaned up against Marty’s desk, setting my hip on the edge of the surface. “Dude, back off. Can’t you see she’s freaked out? Learnto read the room, buddy. Also, she’s probably not gonna want this on film. Camera off, and delete whatever you’ve got on the client, um,please.”

Bertrand instantly backed away, pushing his curly mop of auburn hair from his face. “Sorry,” he muttered, scurrying to the corner of the basement.

As Arch brought in some tea, Brenda shook her head, her blue eyes tired when she acknowledged him. “None for me, thanks,” she whispered, barely glancing at him.

Arch, once a vampire turned human, recently turned cute blue troll, but most of all loyal family member, gave a curt nod. “Of course.”

I sniffed the air around Brenda. I didn’t only smell fear and desperation mixed in with a heavy spritz of Charlie. I smelled heressence.

“Vampire?” She hadn’t specified in her email.

I should have smelled that when she’d first waltzed in; meaning, her fear had overridden everything else about her.

Brenda nodded, twisting her pale fingers together. “Yes. A vampire who’s in a lot of trouble.” She paused for a moment, her eyes, artfully made up, going wide. “I’m begging you, please, please help me. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

Marty gave her the Marty smile—the one that said everything was going to be all right, now that she was on the scene. “First, we don’t want your money. Wewillask that you make a donation to an animal shelter or a children’s hospital, in accordance with your financial situation. Second, hi, Brenda. I’m Marty Flaherty—a werewolf, if it matters. How about you tell us what’s happening first. Your email was exceptionally vague.”

“I can help with that,” I offered. “Brenda’s in deep shit for allegedly killing one Owen Barker, who she thought was her online boyfriend, but turns out to be a married guy with a coupla kids.”

Brenda’s shoulders began to quake as she let out a keening wail of despair. She pushed her artfully styled, chin-length hair from her face. “I didn’t know! I swear, I didn’t know about any of it! He said he was single and didn’t have any children. I can show you the emails!”

Wanda patted her hand and gave her a sympathetic smile. Wanda’s the comforting bosom you rest your head on when the world becomes too much. Not my head, mind you. I don’t need her bosoms, but if you need a compassionate ear (and some bosoms), she’s your girl.

“I’m Wanda Jefferson, Brenda,” she offered, her eyes soft. “Please, take a minute to gather your thoughts. We’re going to have a lot of questions for you. There’s no rush.”

“The hell there isn’t a rush. Brenda’s in deep poo…” I mumbled, but no one was listening.

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