Fearless in High Heels

I cringed involuntarily at the idea of scalpels anywhere in the vicinity of my skin. “I’m sure we won’t need to-”

“Or what,” Mom jumped in again, “if you have a long labor?”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Rosenblatt agreed. “My second husband’s first wife was in labor with their son, Tommy, for thirty-six hours.”

“Thirty-six?” I squeaked out. I suddenly felt faint.

“Don’t panic,” my Mom repeated. “I’ll pack you a bag. I’ll be sure to put lots of cozy nightgowns in it.

The last time I wore a “nightgown” I was five. But I didn’t argue, still trying to wrap my brain around the idea of being in labor for a full three days. That must be a mistake. That can’t be normal. I mean, What to Expect When You’re Expecting said nothing about thirty-six hours. Surely What to Expect When You’re Expecting would have told me if I should expect thirty-six hours. It mentioned three stages of labor, but I was pretty sure I could knock each one out in an hour. Two tops, if I was determined.

“…and then… Maddie are you listening?”

I realized I wasn’t. I’d been too busy not panicking.

“Sorry, what?”

“I was saying that when they put in the epidural-”

But I put up a hand to stop her. “Stop right there. I’m not planning to have an epidural.”

Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt turned to me as one, looks of horror on their faces like I’d just said I was going to roller skate down the Venice boardwalk without pants.

“What do you mean no epidural?” Mom asked.

“I want to have a natural birth.”

“Good lord, why?” Mrs. Rosenblatt asked.

“Because the fewer the drugs, the safer it is for the baby. Besides, my Lamaze teacher says that we can use proper breathing techniques, and with each contraction my endorphins will kick in to provide a natural pain reliever.”

Mom stared at me. She blinked. Then she burst into laughter. “Oh honey, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Okay, this conversation was going downhill fast. “Look, I’m fine. Ramirez and I have a natural birth plan worked out with our Lamaze coach. We can find the hospital. We’ll be great. Thanks so much for all your help,” I said, ushering her ever so gently out of the room and toward the front door.

“My fifth husband, Buck, was all into that natural stuff, too,” Mrs. R said, nodding. “He died at age forty. Had a wheat grass blockage in his colon.”

“Greatseeingyou, thanksforstoppingby, seeyousoon,” I said all in one breath as I shut the door behind them.

I let out a long sigh, then turned around to see Ramirez, still standing in the kitchen, staring after them, a shell-shocked look on his face. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this tennis ball.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d say Bad Cop was actually scared.

* * *

While Ramirez reheated a tamale casserole, courtesy of his mother again (I don’t know why people are so down on mother-in-laws. I was kinda in love with mine lately.), I settled in at the laptop and a) tried not to think about labor, back or otherwise, b) tried not to think about where my husband was planning to sleep tonight, and c) tried to focus in on just who might have wanted Alexa dead.

I started by googling the term “vampires”.

Okay, let’s face it, Ramirez was right on one account – all I knew about vampires I learned from Moonlight. Which maybe wasn’t the most definitive source out there. And considering everything in this case seemed to point back to them, I figured I’d better educate myself about my subject.

An hour and six tamales later (Hey, if The Bump only weighed a pound, I had to fatten her up.), I had found out three things:

1. There is a proportionally large number of the online population that think they are actual bloodsuckers

2. Everyone on Facebook couldn’t wait for the Moonlight sequel and

3. It’s a lot harder than Hollywood would have you believe to drain the blood from a person.

This last fact was courtesy of a woman who called herself the Vamp Doc, and had a blog article explaining just what it took to drain a body of blood.

Apparently the rate at which someone would naturally bleed out depends on which artery is punctured. An average person has five to six liters of blood. The heart circulates this entire amount every minute. So, depending on the size and location of a puncture wound, it’s possible to drain a person’s entire blood supply in just over a minute.

In theory. But, as Vamp Doc went on to say, those are under ideal (or non-ideal, depending on your point of view) conditions. In a typical “vampire” biting, the puncture wounds would be small enough that the heart wouldn’t pump out at maximum volume. However, she estimated that it would only take a total of two to three minutes before an individual would lose two-and-a-half to three liters of blood, a sufficient amount to cause loss of consciousness and death.

Which was plenty of time for our killer to off Alexa in the bathroom stall. Assuming that the killer punctured her neck and drained her of blood, it would have taken no more than five minutes tops, and the killer would have been on her way.

The only snag would have been I doubted Alexa would let someone drain her of blood without a struggle. Sure she was into the scene, but at some point she must have realized that they weren’t playing. So how come there was no sign of a struggle? No blood anywhere at the scene?

“What’s that?” Ramirez asked, coming up behind me, a plate of cookies in hand. Chocolate chip, if my nose didn’t deceive me.

I quickly shut the laptop screen.

“What?” I asked innocently.

He shot me a look. “Did I just see fangs on that website?”

“I don’t know. Did you?”

“Luuucy,” he said, doing his best Ricky Ricardo.

I rolled my eyes. “Fine, yes. I’m researching vampires. Happy?”

“You know what would make me happy?” Ramirez asked, setting the plate down on top of a diaper genie box. “A wife who sits at home and knits. Or bakes. Or even does crossword puzzles.”

“Boring,” I decreed, grabbing a cookie. “What fun would that be?”

He grinned, showing off the dimple in his left cheek. “You’re right. No fun at all,” he teased.

I grinned back.

But then the weirdest thing happened. A film of awkward settled in the room between us. See, normally, this is where he’d make some sexual comment, do those dark, chocolate eyes at me, I’d melt into a puddle, and then he’d scoop me into his arms and we’d hit the bedroom.

Only his eyes weren’t dark chocolate right now. They were just a slightly amused brown. And he wasn’t making sexual comments. In fact, his eyes were straying to the pile of paperwork beside the laptop more than they were to me. And I was way too big to be scooped by anyone.

It was almost as if I could feel the chemistry between us dying a slow, painful death as we sat there grinning stupidly at each other.

Okay, I had two choices here. I could either grow a pair and ask my husband why he didn’t want to sleep with me… resulting in most likely being rejected for the second night in a row and possibly hearing the dreaded truth that my gargantu-butt no longer turned him on. Or, I could instead take the plate of cookies, get into my Snuggie, and go watch Moonlight for the eighth time with my good pal, Denial.

The cookies were chocolate chip. The decision was a no brainer.

I did a yawn that was bordering on uber-fake, stretching my arms above my head. “Well, I’m super tired so I’m gonna go retire early,” I told Ramirez.

“Sure. Good idea,” he said, his hands already reaching for the papers beside the desk, his eyes not meeting