How to Party with a Killer Vampire (8 page)

The guests had gone all out when it came to costuming. I recognized several familiar faces, including Robin Williams, a local resident—of San Francisco, not Colma. He was dressed in the customary black, with a wild black wig, pale makeup, and glitter covering his face and arms. The words “Team Edward” were emblazoned on the back of his long-sleeved T-shirt, along with a photo of Robert Pattinson, the young actor who played Edward Cullen in the Twilight movies. Robin had done a film for Lucas Cruz a few years ago, and I’d seen him at other parties, as well as around the Treasure Island studio.

This time he’d brought his pal, Davin Green, the mayor of San Francisco, who, wearing a werewolf outfit, had come as “Team Jacob.” Seeing the handsome mayor out of his expensive tailored suits and looking like a furry canine made me laugh. I hoped Berk was getting all of this on videotape.

I spotted several versions of vampires in attendance: Bela Lugosi’s Dracula, Nosferatu, and the guy from
True Blood
, several sexy Buffy the Vampire Slayers, a handful of ghosts—Casper, George and Marion from the movie
Topper
—and a couple of zombies from
Night of the Living Dead
, and
Blacula
, channeled by Willie Brown, the former mayor.

This party was going to be a hoot.

Brad had left to pick up my mother over an hour ago, and I was relieved to see they’d finally arrived. I guessed the traffic had been bad—or Mother hadn’t been ready and kept Brad waiting. He wore his Crime Scene Cleaners jumpsuit, which he thought fit the theme perfectly, while Mother had dressed as Anne Rice, with a short black wig, a black lace gown, and a jeweled cross on a chain around her neck. She held a copy of
Interview with a Vampire
in her hand, in case no one figured out who she was. She looked absolutely stunning. But then, parties were her life.

I blended into the background, nicely dressed as a mourner in my black cocktail dress. I’d added a black cloche hat with netting and wore my black Mary Janes for practical comfort. I’d worn the outfit once before at an Over-the-Hill Wake Party I’d hosted for long-time local TV personality, Ross McGowen, who’d wanted to put the “fun” back in “funeral” for his sixtieth birthday. Fun had been an understatement at his milestone bash.

As I circulated through the party, I heard the theme from
Batman
playing in the background—not the one from the TV show, but the one from the movie composed by the guy who used to be in Oingo Boingo. Thank goodness Duncan had pulled it together and was on the job. I hurried over to the DJ’s spot and found him pressing buttons on his computer, his ears covered by large headphones.

“Sounds great!” I semishouted, trying to pierce through the noise of conversations and music.

He pointed to his ears, indicating he couldn’t hear me.

I nodded, gave him a thumbs-up, and mouthed,
Thank you.

He shrugged and returned his attention to pushing buttons.

I was glad he was here—and not just to help out and play the music. I hated to think of him sitting at home alone, depressed about his friend’s death. He’d disappeared for the last couple of hours before the party, but he was back now, and that was what mattered.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

“Have you seen Ryan yet?” Lucas Cruz said, still speaking through vampire teeth. “Seen” had come out as “theen.”

“Who?”

“Ryan Fitzpatrick? The reporter from
Gossip Guy
?” Lucas scanned the crowded patio. “He was supposed to come early, take pictures, do some videotaping for his show. Have you seen him?”

Since I didn’t know what Ryan Fitzpatrick looked like, I said no, but that I would check with Raj, who was guarding the entry. I walked over and, as expected, found Raj in the midst of scanning a guest’s ID with his flashlight. The man was fumbling through his jacket pockets.

“I have it here somewhere,” he said. He’d made no attempt to dress in costume. Instead, he wore a long-sleeved white T-shirt under a Sharks Windbreaker, and saggy jeans. He’d accessorized with wire-rimmed glasses, a hemp backpack, and on his feet were loafers, no socks.

The main accessory that caught my attention was the large camera around his neck.

“Are you Ryan Fitzgerald?” I asked.

“Fitzpatrick, yes,” he said, now digging into the pockets of his jeans. “I seem to have lost my invitation . . . and can’t remember where I put my ID. . . . Wait! Let me check my wallet.” He withdrew a tattered denim wallet that looked as though it would fall apart in his hands if he added one more dollar bill.

He opened the wallet and thrust his driver’s license toward the guard. “See?”

Raj shined his flashlight on the card, then on the man’s face. Although I didn’t watch his Hollywood gossip segments, I recognized him from TV. Thirtysomething, he had his hair covered with a Giants baseball cap, and, when he smiled, he flashed ultrawhite teeth that everyone in show business seemed to sport these days.

“Sorry,” I said to Ryan, “but we’re being overly cautious. We had an incident earlier with another paparazzo—”

“I’m
not
a paparazzo,” the man said as he snatched the ID back and crammed it in his wallet. “I’m a professional photographer and reporter for the nationally syndicated show
Gossip Guy
.”

“I apologize,” I said, “but, as I was saying, another . . . photographer . . . tried to sneak in and take pictures, so we’re just making sure that everyone is on the guest list.”

Ryan Fitzpatrick cocked his head. “Who was the other photographer?”

“I forget his name. Someone Lucas Cruz knows.”

“Bodie Chase?” Ryan hissed.

“Yes, I think that was his name.”

Ryan glanced toward the party area. “Where is he?”

“Gone. My security guards removed him from the premises, and he left after we threatened to call the police.”

“Good riddance. That creep is the kind of ‘wedding
faux-
tographer’ that gives us professionals a bad name.” He didn’t need finger quotes with the venomous way he said “wedding
faux-
tographer.” The derogatory slap was clear.

I glanced at the man’s Sharks jacket and Giants cap and wondered what his definition of professional attire was.

“Besides,” he continued, “I’m supposed to have an exclusive. After all, my producer is helping to pay for all of this.” He straightened the camera around his neck. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll tell Lucas you’re here. He’s been looking for you.”

I doubted if Ryan heard my last words. He’d already waded into the sea of costumed attendees, no doubt hoping to get a scoop for the “nationally syndicated show.”

Hey, I thought, suddenly realizing what this meant.

My party might be featured on national TV!

 

I was almost giddy with excitement about the possibility of my fifteen minutes of fame—and I hadn’t even had a glass of wine yet. If this Vampire Party made the entertainment news, I could get calls for parties from Hollywood to New York. Before I knew it, I was caught in a full-on fantasy, pondering questions such as what would I wear? What would I say? And would I need an emergency Botox treatment?

I was in the middle of imagining my outfit— something dressy but not pretentious—when I heard an odd sound during a short music break. It came from the cemetery area beyond the party patio—and sounded like someone crying.

Several guests, drinks in hand, had wandered off the patio and over to some of the nearby headstones, no doubt to ponder the names, dates, and circumstances of those who had departed. But the sound of a sob had come from another direction, deeper into the cemetery. I took a few steps and squinted into the moonlit darkness to see if I could find the source. I wondered if it might be Duncan, still upset about losing one of his friends.

Moving stealthily among the headstones, I spotted a man in the shadows, his back to me.

“Duncan?” I called as I neared the figure.

The man spun around. Behind him stood a woman he’d apparently been embracing.

It was Jonas and Angelica. The look on both their faces was the same: guilt.

“Oh . . .
uh
. . . ,” I stammered, feeling awkward about the obvious intrusion. “I’m sorry. . . .”

“It’s okay . . . really . . . ,” Jonas said softly. “Angelica was just upset and . . .” He looked at Angelica to finish his sentence.

Instead of responding, Angelica gathered her long skirt and abruptly ran past me, back to the party. I thought I saw her wipe her cheeks as she fled.

I looked back at Jonas.

“Is she all right?”

Jonas sighed. His shoulders slumped. From his body language, I thought he was about to admit something about their intimate embrace. But the words he said weren’t what I expected.

“Angelica’s being stalked.”

“What?” I asked, not sure I had heard him correctly, he was speaking so softly.

Jonas bit his lip and nodded. “Yeah, someone’s been following her, texting her, calling her, sending pictures. The son of a bitch. She’s terrified.”

“Has she called the police?”

Jonas frowned. “She doesn’t want the police involved.”

“Why not? Doesn’t she realize having a stalker could be extremely dangerous? You have to convince her to let the police know.”

He shook his head. “We can’t.”

“We?” I repeated.

“Angelica and I . . . we’re . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence.

“Oh my God,” I said. “You weren’t just comforting her. You two are actually . . .”

Jonas looked away, obviously uncomfortable.

“Involved, yes. So you can see why we can’t go to the police. The paparazzi would jump on a story like this. All the sordid details, exposed for everyone to see. No. No way.”

“But what’s so wrong about the two of you having an affair? That’s pretty common in Hollywood these days, stars filming a movie together falling in love. Look at Brad and Angelina. Surely that can’t have a negative effect on your careers.”

Jonas looked at me with those pained dark eyes. No wonder Angelica had fallen for him. He was handsome, sensitive, and cared about her reputation. But even in the dim moonlight I could see there was something more behind those eyes.

“What is it, Jonas?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

He frowned. “Angelica is . . . married.”

 

Oh boy
, I thought as I made my way back to the party, leaving Jonas alone at his request. Angelica was secretly married? According to Jonas, the man I’d guessed was her bodyguard was actually her husband. No wonder that photographer guy from TMI wanted to crash the party. He must have had a suspicion that something was going on. I could only hope Ryan Fitzpatrick from
Gossip Guy
was clueless about the potential scandal and stuck to snapping pictures of the happy, costumed guests. If he started asking the wrong questions, this party could be in serious trouble.

But I had questions. Was Angelica’s husband trying to protect her? Or was he suspicious that she might be involved with Jonas? The way he hung around and stared at her creeped me out a little. Was he just being watchful because of her stalker? Or was he trying to catch her in a compromising position?

“Ladies, gentlemen, and bloodthirsty vampires,” a voice boomed over the loudspeaker.

I spotted Lucas Cruz at the microphone, trying to gather the guests into a semicircle around the party patio. “Fang you very much,” he continued, using a really bad Transylvanian accent. “We have a special surprise for you—a reenactment from my new film,
Revenge of the Killer Vampires
. Please, give it up for the two talented stars of the movie, Jonas Jones and Angelica Brayden!”

A roar of applause nearly deafened me as the eager—and no doubt inebriated—guests welcomed the entertainment portion of the party. Lights flickered ominously, the music turned brooding, thanks to Duncan, and a hush came over the crowd. Two blue-tinted spotlights suddenly lit up, one focused on Angelica, the other on Jonas, giving their skin a sickly cast.

Consummate actors, neither showed any signs of the real drama that had played out only moments ago in the cemetery. There were no tear stains on Angelica’s pale cheeks, no concern on Jonas’s unlined brow. They were just two people seemingly—and actually—attracted to each other as they stood face-to-face among the movie-prop headstones.

As in rehearsal, Jonas recited his memorized lines and offered his glass of red wine to Angelica. She took the glass, then cocked her head, exposing her long slim neck. It was the scene everyone was waiting for—the bite on the neck.

Jonas leaned in....

The crowd held a collective breath as he bared his fangs and . . .

All hell broke loose.

From out of the darkness about half a dozen bizarre figures seemed to fly on to the scene. They all had black eyes, white skin, red lips, and wore ragged, bloody-looking clothes. One guy’s hair stuck out in all directions, another had longish green hair, while still another had shaved one side of his head, leaving the rest of his hair hanging in his face. A few had bleeding wounds; some had ugly scars; knives, or cleavers protruded from the foreheads or arms of others.

Blood dripped from their mouths and chins.

One of the party guests screamed, setting off the others. They clustered together, not knowing which way to go, trapped by freaky-looking zombies on all sides. One woman had spilled her drink on her outfit, startled by the freaky intruders. Another man cowered behind his date.

I glanced around for Lucas or Brad or Raj, but instead caught a glimpse of Angelica, who stood frozen in her spotlight, looking terrified once again. There was no sign of her bodyguard/husband, but Jonas was there, holding her clutched to his chest.

Suddenly, with a jerk, he was wrenched from her and became airborne.