Murder in Vein Read online

  Praise for Sue Ann Jaffarian's

  U.... Mystery Series

  "Odelia Grey is delightfully large and in charge."

  -Publishers Weekly

  "Jaffarian plays the formula with finesse, keeping love problems firmly in the background while giving her heroine room to use her ample wit and grit."

  -Kirkus Reviews

  "[Odelia Grey] is an intriguing character, a true counter against stereotype, who demonstrates that life can be good, even in a world where thin is always in."

  -Booklist

  "An intriguing, well-plotted mystery that will entertain and inspire."

  -The Strand Magazine

  "... a real treat for chick-lit and mystery fans who like feisty women."

  -Library journal, starred review

  "More fun than a lunch pail full of plump paralegals, The Curse of the Holy Pail is a tale as bouncy as its bodacious protagonist."

  -Bill Fitzhugh, author of Pest Control

  "[Curse of the Holy Pail is] even better than her first...a major hoot!"

  -Thomas B. Sawyer, author of The Sixteenth Man and former head writer/producer of Murder, She Wrote

  "Sue Ann Jaffarian does a masterful job. Once you get to know Odelia Grey, you'll love her. I know I do."

  -Naomi Hirahara, Edgar Award-winning author of Snakeskin Shamisen

  "A plus-sized thumbs up. Jaffarian's a new sharpshooter in crime fiction."

  -Brian M. Wiprud, author of Stuffed and Pipsqueak, winner of the Lefty Award for Most Humorous Novel

  "Odelia Grey is everything you want in a heroine... smart, funny, and completely unapologetic."

  -Tim Maleeny, award-winning author of Stealing the Dragon

  "Odelia Grey is the perfect take-no-prisoners heroine for today's woman."

  -Camryn Manheim, Emmy award-winning actress and author of Wake Up, I'm Fat!

  Praise for Sue Ann Jaffarian's

  Uk Mystery Series

  "Ghost a la Mode is a charming tale, as appealing as apple pie; I predict a long life (and afterlife) for Sue Ann's latest series."

  -Harley Jane Kozak,

  Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awardwinning author of Dating Dead Men

  "A delectable first in a new paranormal cozy series from Sue Ann Jaffarian."

  -Publishers Weekly

  "A fun new series. Ghostly puzzles are one of the trendy new themes in cozy mysteries, and this is a good one."

  -Booklist

  "Emma handles her `gift' of seeing the dead with aplomb and class. I'll look forward to seeing where the sequel will take Emma and Granny."

  -Deadly Pleasures

  About the Author

  n addition to the Fang-in-Cheek Mystery series, Sue Ann Jaffarian is the author of two other best-selling mystery series: the Ghost of Granny Apples Mystery series and the Odelia Grey Mystery series. She is also nationally sought after as a motivational and humorous speaker. Sue Ann lives and works in Los Angeles, California.

  Visit Sue Ann on the Internet at

  www.sueannjaffarian.com

  and

  www.sueannjaffarian.blogspot.com

  SUE ANN JAFFARIAN

  MURDER

  IN'IEIN

  A G-IN-CH MYSTERY

  MIDNIGHT INK

  WOODBURY, MINNESOTA

  Murder in Vein © 2010 by Sue Ann Jaffarian. All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. As the purchaser of this e-book, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means. Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author's copyright and is illegal and punishable by law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. First e-book edition © September 2010 E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-2718-9

  Book design by Rebecca Zins Cover design by Ellen Dahl Cover images © Image Source/PunchStock Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public. Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher's website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125 www.midnightink.com Manufactured in the United States of America

  For Darrell and Diana James. Thanks for everything!

  Acknowledgments

  While writing is a fairly solitary endeavor, the publishing of a book is not. I am truly blessed to be surrounded by so many capable and talented folks.

  For Murder in Vein, in particular, I would like to express my very special gratitude to Terri Bischoff, my acquisitions editor at Midnight Ink, who supported me from start to finish in the birth of this manuscript and this new series.

  And, as always, thanks to Whitney Lee, my agent; Diana James, my manager; and all the good folks at Llewellyn Worldwide/ Midnight Ink.

  ONE

  adison had been in Los Angeles just over two years when she found herself facedown on the ground in a wooded area. Her clothes were in tatters. Duct tape held her hands. A filthy rag muffled her screams. Fear coursed through her battered body, scraping and tearing with jagged edges as she fought to maintain control of her slippery mind. It was the only weapon she had left.

  When she turned her head slowly to the side, pine needles and gravel ground into the cuts and bruises on her face, the pain bringing clarity to her mind for a fleeting moment. Bobby Piper had smacked Madison around pretty good while dragging her from the car. After roughing her up and ripping at her clothes, he'd stopped, then moved away, seeming to have second thoughts. He certainly hadn't had any second thoughts an hour ago when he had grabbed her in the parking lot outside the diner where she worked.

  The moonlight penetrating the canopy of overhead branches allowed her to see Bobby as he sat with his back against a nearby tree. He was guzzling from a can of generic beer torn from the six-pack resting at his side. He glanced at the cheap watch strapped to his wrist. He seemed to be waiting for something or someone.

  There had been several news reports over the past year about missing women. Three had been found dead and mutilated. The others were never found. And even though the police claimed to have the killer in custody, Madison's panic and terror gathered anew as she worried about being the guest of honor at something evil and terrifying. She wiggled, but the tape around her hands and feet stayed put. Bobby noticed and glanced her way, causing her to freeze.

  Getting down on his knees, Bobby scooted over and knelt next to Madison. "Steady now," he warned. He bent close and tongued her ear as he spoke. When she squirmed in disgust, he laughed. "Don't go making things worse for yourself."

  Worse? Madison thought. Worse than this? Her fear splintered, invading every cell of her body.

  Bobby glanced again at his watch, then looked off in the direction of Madison's car, which he'd driven with her stuffed in the trunk. "Damn it. Where is he?" he said to the empty night.

  These were the last words he ever uttered.

  Something came out of the dark. Something large and silent. It struck Bob
by hard and fast, sending him into the tree where he'd been leaning just a moment before. Beer, malty and lukewarm, rained on Madison's face. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of her attacker splayed against the thick trunk of the tree, busted and askew, a rag doll in a disturbing pose. He moaned.

  Whatever it was that had attacked Bobby now hovered over his broken body, totally ignoring her. It tore at Bobby's shirt, the fabric rasping loud and foreign against the natural sounds of the night. It looked to Madison like a man, dark and looming in appearance. When it raised its head and looked up at the moon, she saw that it was a man-an older man, his face strong but weathered, his jaw line slack with age. Then he looked back down at Bobby. Bobby screamed. It was a short scream, winding quickly down into a whimper, until Madison could hear it no more.

  The man raised his head again toward the moon. Even with the rag in her mouth, Madison's breath caught in her throat. He heard it and turned toward her, leaning down until she could smell his metallic breath. He grimaced, displaying fangs dark and thick with fresh blood-Bobby's blood.

  Madison passed out.

  When she regained consciousness, Madison found Bobby Piper trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey. He was just as white as raw poultry and just as dead.

  My name is Madison Rose, she reminded herself in silence while she studied Bobby's body. She hoped that remembering the small details of her life would keep her focused and not allow her mind to drift back into unconsciousness. What she'd seenthe man with the fangs-couldn't have been real. Bobby's killer was just another psychopath like himself. She tried desperately to convince herself that her mind was playing tricks on her.

  Madison heard footsteps. The sound brought her focus back to the problem at hand. It sounded like there was more than one set. They moved with stealth over the dead leaves until they were nearby. She didn't close her eyes, but neither did she turn her head to look.

  "What should we do with her?" she heard a woman ask in a soft, cultured voice.

  "She saw me," a man answered. "We'll have to kill her." His voice was low, rounded out in unexpected civility, and almost apologetic.

  Madison. Rose. She repeated it to herself like a mantra. It was her first and last name. She had no middle name like regular people-just a last name for her first name and a first name for her last. People always screwed it up. No matter how clearly she explained it, there was always some jackass who insisted on filing her under the Ms instead of the Rs. On more than one occasion, she'd thought about changing her name to Rose Madison just to make things easier for everyone. But she'd never been known for making things easy on the folks around her-or on herself. After being raised in a string of foster homes, Madison Rose wasn't used to things being easy on any level.

  Remembering the details of her twenty-three years of life didn't change the fact that she was still on the ground, still bound and gagged-a sitting duck for whatever hell would come next. Looking again at Bobby's body, she had only one regret: that she hadn't killed him herself.

  It also crossed her mind that moving to LA had been a bad call.

  TWO

  adison's eyes opened slowly until they caught on a vertical strip of diffused light. It signaled to Madison in the darkness. The last thing she remembered was waiting to die. Is this death? she asked herself. Is this the light everyone talks about? She squinted and concentrated on it, thinking the light of passing should be big and bright, not dim and slim as a reed. She felt disappointed, let down even in death.

  She wiggled her fingers, then realized her hands were unfettered and her mouth no longer gagged. She lay on her back, on what felt like a very large, soft bed. Again, she wondered if she'd died and gone to heaven. After a few minutes, she decided if heaven was all about lounging in a big bed, cocooned in expensive linens edged in lace and smelling faintly of lavender, then it was okay by her.

  Closing her eyes, she opened her mouth in a wide yawn. A sharp pain stabbed the middle of her lower lip. She touched her tongue to the spot, tasting blood and feeling a small split. Her cheek throbbed. Lifting a hand to her face, she felt a gauze bandage on her right cheek. Gently, she moved her fingers over her face in a Braille examination and detected a small bandage across the bridge of her nose. She felt like she'd been hit by a train. If she was dead, she wouldn't be bleeding-or in pain. She also had to pee and reminded herself that she couldn't recall ever hearing of the dead needing to use the bathroom.

  Cautiously, she eased a foot out from under the covers and over the edge of the bed. The room was cool, almost cold. Someone had removed her clothes and dressed her in a long, sleeveless nightgown. Stroking a hand down the front of her chest, she felt pintucking and ribbon trim. Her feet found a soft, cushy area rug, then traveled onto a bare but glossy wood floor. She moved slowly in the near blackness, aiming for the shaft of light.

  She'd only taken a few steps when she heard a knock, then a door opened a few feet to the left of the shaft of light. More light entered the room, silhouetting a shape in the doorway.

  "I see you're up," a cheerful female voice said.

  Before Madison could answer, a small lamp on the far side of the room came on, filling the space with a soft light. She turned her face away, giving her eyes time to become accustomed to the brightness, then turned her head back to see who was speaking. At the door was an older woman. Not elderly but definitely old enough to qualify for the senior menu at the diner.

  "How are you feeling, Madison?" the woman asked.

  Madison studied her, digging through her cottony brain for recognition. She was pretty sure she didn't know the woman, but she didn't seem totally unfamiliar either.

  Madison started to speak but stopped to clear her throat first. "How do you know my name?"

  The woman smiled and stepped deeper into the room. "It was on your driver's license," the woman explained. "I hope you don't mind, but we had to go through your purse for your ID." The woman pointed toward a dresser. "Your bag is over there."

  Turning her head, Madison saw her beat-up shoulder bag on top of the dresser.

  The woman moved toward her, her trim body gliding gracefully across the wood floor on pink velvet slippers. When she reached Madison, she held out a hand with long, tapered fingers to feel the girl's forehead. Instinctively, Madison backed away.

  "Don't worry," the woman assured her. "I'm a retired nurse. I need to make sure you're not running a fever."

  She moved closer. She was almost Madison's height, about five foot six. This time, Madison didn't half bolt when the woman laid a cool hand on her face. After a few seconds, the woman smiled, satisfied with her patient's status.

  "Are you the one who fixed me up?" Madison asked.

  The woman nodded and moved toward the bed, where she fussed with the covers, pulling them back and smoothing the sheets underneath. "Yes," she answered. She folded one edge of the sheets and blanket back in a tidy triangle, as fancy as in a luxury hotel, readying the bed for Madison's return. Then she started fluffing the pillows. "You were quite a mess, Madison. But I'm happy to say your nose was not broken." With one final fluff to a pillow, she was done. "I don't even think you'll have any scars. But you'll be feeling the bruises on your body for several days."

  With her bladder complaining, Madison had to decide which was more urgent: going to the bathroom or finding out who in the hell this woman was. As if reading her mind, the woman said, "Why don't you freshen up?" She pointed to a door next to the one she'd entered. "The bath is right that way." She started back toward the other door, then stopped. "Take your time," she told Madison with a warm smile. "I'll go find something for you to eat. You must be starving."

  Before leaving, the woman asked, "Are you allergic to anything-or a vegetarian? Anything like that?"

  "No," Madison croaked out. "I'll eat anything."

  The woman gave off a low, almost private chuckle. "In this house, that could be dangerous."

  Upon entering the bathroom, Madison discovered the sliver of light was cast from
a small night-light positioned just inside the door. The light was in the shape of a purple flower.

  Lavender linens, beribboned nightgowns, flower-shaped night-lights, and room service. She had gone from near death on decaying foliage to a fairy tale. Or had she? Madison Rose knew better than to make assumptions based on first impressions. She'd learned early in life that even good things had a way of biting you on the ass when you took a closer look.

  The bathroom was spotless. There were no chips in the tile, no water stains on the floor, no birthmarks of mildew in the corners. The room was decorated similar to the bedroom, abundant with lace and floral prints, just on the edge of being Victorian. After using the toilet, she stood in front of the vanity, where fresh soaps in the shapes of roses sat in a delicate white dish next to a matching drinking glass. Carefully picking up a fancy soap, she wet it as if she were washing a piece of antique china. Next to the soap dish was a new toothbrush, still in its package, and a fresh tube of toothpaste. She wondered if they'd been put there for her use. Again, she was unsure. Somewhere, a part of her still wondered if she might be dead.

  As she washed, Madison avoided looking into the mirror over the sink, but she knew she couldn't evade it forever. After drying her hands on a towel, she jerked her head up fast, letting her appearance hit her like a baseball bat, which was appropriate, since her face looked like it had done some time with one.

  She had a black eye, and her nose was scraped. The gauze bandage she'd felt earlier covered her right cheek from the edge of her eye almost to her mouth. Her long, dark brown hair was loose, with the odd, tiny leaf clinging to a few strands. She pushed strands of hair out of the way and saw another scrape across her forehead. Her wrists were also bruised, the outline of the duct tape still visible.

  She opened the toothbrush and started brushing the fetid film from her mouth, careful of her split lip. The toothpaste was a national brand, cool and minty. She wanted to scrub her whole body with it.