The Vampire Always Bites Twice | Wattys 2022 Grand Prize Winner

12

G̶r̶e̶g̶o̶r̶i̶o̶,̶ Just Greg

"Why—what are you doing here?"

She traced a delicate, gloved hand across my desk. "I have an appointment. Honestly, you've no customer service at all."

I stood, but she breezed by me, removing her fuzzy, leopard print coat and flinging it right past the coat rack and onto an empty chair like she owned the damn place. Beneath that coat she, she was... well she'd gotten all gussied up. Her bobbed hair was styled in waves I hadn't seen since, when, the forties? It matched her black dress, swinging about her knees (was that a petticoat under there?). The seams of her stockings climbed the backs of those gams in maddeningly straight lines as she took a turn about the room, studying the place. That silver anklet still adorned her right ankle, snug beneath her stocking. She grazed a gloved finger, also leopard print, along my bookshelf like she was searching for signs of dust. The eye makeup was still smeared, but her lips were wine-red, and she trailed the scent of mint and citrus shampoo and cigarettes in her wake.

"I smell coffee," she said, "is it for guests?"

"It's for clients." I straightened, remembering quite suddenly that I was a professional. "I have to say, I am pleasantly surprised you decided to come forward with more information regarding Lily Perez. I hadn't thought I'd made that good of an impression on you. Considering how we left things."

"A girl has a right to throw blood sucking predators, and vampires, out her residence."

Fair enough. I'd been called a bloodsucker in more than one manner in my lifetime.

"You're doing the right thing."

I gulped out that last bit, trying not to think about Dmitri's shady wedding night comments, or his foul breath.

Margarita nodded. A pair ofbig, round hoop earringsin a thin gold batted softly against her chin. "Mr. Vis-lack-skoo, I'm sorry for my last remarks. I believe we got off on the wrong foot—what? Why are you staring at me like that? Shit, do I have a run?"

She bent over to glance at what I could confidently say were her perfectly intact stockings.

I shrugged (she was, after all, still a person of interest in Dmitri's case) as I moved to my desk, positioned at the head of the room, in front of the bay window, the farthest spot from my coffee marker. In my chair, I relaxed, kicking up my feet on the paper covered desktop, mirroring the move she made when I had come into her parlor. If anyone was to make themselves at home, it was going to be me.

"You, just, clean up nice."

"Don't act so surprised," she said, flatly.

"Not surprised, impressed."

"That means you're surprised."

Eh, suppose she had a point there.

"What foot would you like us to land on, now, Margarita?"

"Isla," she said, pulling at her gloves. "My name is Isla. Madame Margarita is a..." she shrugged, "nom de plume."

"I suspected."

Marg—Isla (boy didn't that just roll off the tongue nice) took a deep breath, looking down at her wringing hands, as if this next bit was going to be a tough swallow for her. And when she swallowed, her throat bobbed. I pretended to flick through some papers to avoid staring.

"You find missing persons, am I right?"

"I'm a private eye, Eye-la." She rolled her eyes as I annunciated her name like I was trying it on for size. "Missing persons, assets, records, pets, familiars, cheating spouses, damaged property, stolen spells, alibis, Shakespeare's missing manuscripts, the Ark of the Covenant, socks the dryer ate, and the Lindbergh baby are all things I may happen to, on occasion, find."