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“When was the last time you remember seeing it?”
Andrea chewed her lip. “A month or two ago. The day Mama Ginger came in.”
“Mama Ginger?” I said. “Another mother? Starting with a G?”
“Mama Ginger is Zeb’s mother. She and Jane have a checkered history,” Gabriel told me quietly.
“Don’t you remember, Jane?” Andrea asked. “She ‘dropped by’ before opening hours to give you your extremely late wedding present . . . and you kicked her out of the store . . . and banned her for life?”
“Why did you do that?” I asked.
“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.”
