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“Well, kicking her out was part of my New Year’s resolutions,” Jane said. “The lifetime ban was because I caught her swiping some of our fairy figurines and shoving them into her purse. She was standing right by the register, like I was too dumb to see . . . oh, hell. The plaque was right here next to the register. She must have taken it.”
“We can’t prove that.”
“It’s Mama Ginger,” Jane said with some emphasis, as if Andrea was missing some important and obvious point.
“OK, but we can’t just go into someone’s house accusing them of theft.”
“It’s Mama Ginger,” Jane said again. “That happens to her at least once a week.”
8
Vampires are expert travelers. Because of the many perils that traveling poses for the undead, they prepare for all contingencies.
—A Guide to Traversing the Supernatural Realm
Mama Ginger was a bizarre, bulbous woman with bright bottled-red hair and an unfiltered cigarette permanently attached to her bottom lip. She did not welcome us into her house, and not just because it was after midnight and we’d awoken her from her “beauty rest.” There was apparently some ugly history between Jane and Mama Ginger, something about Mama Ginger’s attempts to sabotage Zeb’s wedding to Jolene and subsequent attempts to make Jane’s life more difficult after she realized that Jane (a) would never be her daughter-in-law and (b) was a vampire. It took Jane using something she called the persuasion voice for her even to let us through the entryway.
“Jesus, Mary, and Jerome!” I cried, backing away from a side parlor entirely populated by Precious Moments figurines. No matter where I went, their sinister oversized eyes followed me. I desperately wanted to turn my back, but I knew the moment I did, one of them would attack me from behind with a tiny porcelain machete.
Mama Ginger had a multitude of health problems that set off my alarm bells. Her heart was under stress, and her lungs were damaged from what I imagined was years of steady smoking. The conditions combined were enough to make me lean against the wall, Precious Moments be damned, so I could construct a shield between Mama Ginger’s energy and mine.
By the time I was able to focus on the conversation around me, Jane was questioning Mama Ginger in earnest.
“How could you just walk into my shop and take something from me?”
Mama Ginger sniffed. “Well, if you hadn’t been so rude, I might not have taken it.”
“So your criminal behavior is my fault?” Jane asked frostily.
“Don’t you take on airs with me, Jane Jameson. I knew you when you were still in pigtails.”
“I’ve known you for a while, too, Mama Ginger. You need to remember that.”
“This is getting nowhere,” I shouted over their shouts of “Don’t you threaten me, missy!” and “Calm down, you thieving whackaloon!” “Look, I don’t care that you took it, Mrs. Lavelle. I just want it back. Could you please tell me what you did with it after you took it from the shop? If your information leads to my finding the plaque, I am willing to make it worth your while.”
Jane protested rewarding Mama Ginger’s larceny—loudly—but I shushed her. Suddenly, Mama Ginger’s wounded dove persona melted away. Her eyes narrowed, her expression calculating. “How much?”
“I won’t discuss specifics until you either produce the plaque or share your info.”
“Why would I show my hand early? How do I know you’ll pay up?”
“I’m a woman of my word, Mrs. Lavelle. I’ll give you what you’re owed.”
“Not much of an enticement.” Jane snorted. “She knows what she’s owed.”
“Jane!” I hissed, shaking my head vehemently. I turned pleading puppy-dog eyes on Mama Ginger. “Please, Mrs. Lavelle.”
“It’s nice to know some young people still have pretty manners.” She sniffed. “My Zeb should have married a nice girl like you. Not that redheaded hussy . . .”
Jane growled. “Watch it, Mama Ginger. You’re already on thin ice. Now, what happened to the blobby acorn thing?”
Mama Ginger made a study of her talon-like fire-engine-red nails. “I may have mailed it . . . to Georgia . . . as a wedding present to my cousin Hubert.”
“You used a shoplifted item as a wedding gift?” Jane exclaimed.
I didn’t think Jane had much room to judge, regifting-wise, but I also didn’t think this was the appropriate time to point that out. And suddenly, I realized. “Georgia,” I said. “As in the abbreviation GA? Georgia.” But Jane was too busy staring holes in Mama Ginger’s head to note my amusement. “Well, I’m happy to know my nana wasn’t a Gaga fan. Life makes sense again. Sort of.”
“Hubert loves squirrels!” Mama Ginger exclaimed. “His wife, Mindy, wrote the sweetest thank-you note. Well, it was e-mailed. But they loved it, you could tell!”
