Chapter Twenty-seven
The next day I woke up early at home, fully recovered, not to mention rethinking dreading my next siege of cramps if I could have them under the healing hands of Dr. Montoya.
Irma was still reduced to inarticulate purrs.
My new hot doc drove me home post-"treatment" so I could get the prescribed "bed rest" on my own turf. I awoke after a dreamless sleep sated and satisfied I'd accomplished a lot despite my crampy days.
I'd discovered Loretta's name, IDed her lover, learned why Loretta and her literal prince were offed, and unmasked the Karnak crew, which should be plenty of info for my four weird clients, Howard Hughes, Hector Nightwine, Snow and the CinSim Boys, but I'd neglected my personal quest for Lilith.
I'd need some time to report to everyone but Hector, and he could wait too. My clients didn't exactly keep regular office hours.
Now I needed to switch from mummy zombies to voluntary zombies. I was hoping the Snow groupies might provide a connection to Lilith or the groupie killer, but I also wanted to know why Snow's Brimstone Kiss was so addictive and encourage them to move on to a real life.
Kisses and kick-ass action, either martial or premarital, had not been on my personal road map until Ric happened along.
Being vampire bait from a young age and troubled by alien abduction nightmares, I'd found hovering mouths about as attractive as Great White Shark smooches. Thanks to Ric, I had glimpsed what these bedazzled rock-star groupies were feeling. I wonder if they realized they were better off not getting the Brimstone Kiss, rather than eating their hearts and psyches out for a return engagement that would never come.
Me, I'd rather be free than ecstatic. Maybe that was why I'd never been tempted to use drugs.
I readied myself for my first Snow groupie self-help meeting like a girl throwing a shower for several best friends at once. I'd never thrown a party for anyone or had anyone throw a party for me. Not even a birthday party. Especially not a birthday party.
This was going to be just girls and fun. Lucky I had the whole day to prepare, because I had to go shopping and buy paper goods and a flower arrangement. I didn't expect the kitchen witch to help me set up an event as unique as this, although I hummed "Whistle While You Work" and snacked on healthful plates of fresh veggies and cheese all afternoon. Thanks to some kind of kitchen witchery, I could never eat down to the bare china.
Rick called about ten that morning asking, "Awake yet, are we, Sleeping Beauty? Need any drive-by kisses?"
I laughed and couldn't stop, I was surrounded by bags and bags of foil-wrapped Hershey's Kisses at the moment.
"I love to make a grown woman giggle," he said. "Just checking in, babe." He was starting to call me that as a tease, now that he knew I loathed the word. From him, though, not so much. "Good news. I've finally rounded up all the Cicereau zombies and got them employment at Wayne Newton's Arabian horse ranch. They're going to learn to rope and ride and they'll have plenty of first-rate security." He chuckled at the idea of city-bred mob zombies amid the tumbling tumbleweeds. "I've been contacted for a meet with some Mexican consular folks. It's at the Luxor and I expect it to last into the afternoon."
"Don't worry. I've got some projects of my own."
"Where'll you be?"
"Just a little shopping center off Charleston. Safe as houses, like they say."
"Okay. Play mum. You know you'll tell me all about it after."
"You too."
"I'll call as soon as I'm done," he promised.
We closed on the usual murmurs, not quite mushy but darn near.
Back to the party plans. I figured a room where mostly women came to fight the Battle of the Bulge had a pretty good aura for fighting an addiction to a Kick-ass Kiss.
The place I'd rented for this evening came with a huge stainless steel coffee urn and kitchenette. I brought a gourmet blend and made a batch. A couple of trays filled with ice chips hosted soda cans and bottles of energy drink.
Some things, all the women at WTCH-TV swore during break periods, were better than sex. Certain gourmet flavors had a kick as good as, or possibly even better than, sex. I'd taken the lessons of those girly sessions at the TV station's break room to heart.
So I'd brought an array of snacks to tempt all tastes: Huge glazed doughnuts big enough to serve as a lifesaver rings. Carrot cake slathered with sweet cream cheese icing. Double-fudge German Sweet Chocolate Cake.
If music is the food of love, maybe food is the antidote to obsession.
Dolly's huge trunk toted all my supplies and I was on site and set up by 5:30 p.m.
Like any nervous hostess I was wondering if the music, Enya, was too mellow, and the coffee, Starbucks, too strong. I was particularly proud of two giant brandy snifters at each end of the serving table, both filled with Hershey's Kisses.
While I waited for the audience to arrive, or not arrive, I nervously adjusted the sterling silver necklace of dangling silver "kisses" around my neck. Matching chains ringed my wrist and ankle. And an adorable pair of icy silver "kisses" swung from my earlobes. Which were not pierced. And which never wore earrings. When I moved, I chimed like sleigh bells, are you listening? It was too, too corny but I knew I had to expect this kind of harassment from the silver familiar for messing with Snow's concert kissing shtick.
An hour later my cheeks were warm with success. The large room was packed with everything from Goth girls to giggling Red Hat matrons.
The chatter noise level was high and the four major food groups-fat, salt, sugar, and caffeine-had dwindled to crumbs and empty paper cups.
Most of the women had shucked off their mules, tennies, high heels and biker boots to sit on the circled folding chairs. Content, they finally regarded their hostess with interest.
"You may be wondering why I've gathered you all together," I began.
They laughed as expected at my murder mystery opening line.
"How many here have had the Kiss?"
A smattering of hands shot up.
"And not?" Many more hands.
"I'd like the Haves to sit on the right side of the circled chairs."
"And the Have-nots?" asked a red-haired women.
"May sit on the left side of the room."
"'Left' is right," the redhead shouted as she moved. "You're sort of in the middle, ain't you?"
I nodded and kept that very place. "Yup. An almost-ran. So. Let's hear the Haves describe the Brimstone Kiss. Isn't that what the rest of us are all dying to know?"
The nods and murmurs were so unanimous that the Haves visibly preened.
"Just start anywhere. The first touch of his lips."
"Not there," said an ethereal girl wearing a wispy pixie haircut. "The first sensation is being buoyed up by the crowd, this human wave seeking to wash aground on the stage floor."