Drawn and Buttered

by Shari Randall

  “Did it work?” one of the guys asked. “Do the rocks keep him in?”

  Shrieks and laughter burst from the group surrounding the professor.

  “Nope.”

  “I thought someone said Otis was a vampire?” one of the guys said.

  Murmurs from the group by the kegs grew louder. Some of that crowd started moving across the patio to the lawn.

  “I heard they’re both vampires, Otis and Uriah,” Verity said.

  “I think the story got scrambled.” I thought the vampire bit was exaggeration by high school kids to scare the younger kids. “Putting the rocks on the grave became a fun thing to do and that’s why everyone talks about Otis and not Uriah. But somehow it all got turned into Otis walks and we have to keep him in his grave on Halloween night.”

  “Let’s go see Otis.” The two guys leaped to their feet.

  I shrugged. “Why not? Let’s go.”

  Everyone else had the same idea. Laughter and whispers in the darkness surrounded us as guests streamed across the lawn into the woods behind the Parish home. Everyone turned on their phone’s flashlight. We followed bouncing paths of light across the velvet-soft grass and onto a rough path through woods.

  Chapter 12

  As we pushed through thicker vegetation to the graveyard, the laughter and chatter tapered off. I held onto Verity’s arm, cursing my champagne-fueled decision. One trip over a root or headstone and I’d mess up my ankle again.

  Just two minutes later a guy in a Dracula cape stopped short in front of me. “We’re here,” he whispered. I was surprised at how close the graveyard was to both the new Parish House and the historic Parish House.

  A voice behind me called. “Does anyone have a decent flashlight?”

  I remembered Hilda’s flashlight. I pulled it out of my boot and turned it on. Its very bright beam sliced through the darkness.

  Headstones of deteriorated granite loomed out of the dark earth. All that remained of many was the thinnest sliver of gray stone mottled with lichen. I couldn’t help thinking of teeth, that we were standing over a mouth waiting to devour us.

  Others aimed their flashlights toward the grave, and I lowered my flashlight so I could see the ground. Now all I wanted was to get out of here without tripping. A name from a headstone became visible in my beam. Mercy Parish. I shivered. Some long-ago relative of today’s Isobel Parish, who was probably too sensible to join in this escapade.

  Someone laughed. “Hey, leave a stone for Otis. Which grave is it?”

  “The one with the pile of stones, you moron. Over there.” Someone else’s flashlight drew a path across the cemetery to a low pile of stones. The beam swung wide, illuminating a space next to Otis’s grave where some wooden stakes had been driven into the ground and white string connected them. Just what I needed—more obstacles to avoid in the dark.

  A guy behind me dressed in a black robe slipped an arm around me. “Don’t worry.” A cloud of beer breath surrounded me as he whispered in my ear. “I’ve got you, pirate wench.” His hand started to travel from my waist to my bottom. Creep. I hip-checked him and he stumbled and fell over a low stone.

  The soil under my feet turned soft and the scent of newly turned earth was strong. I prayed I wasn’t stepping onto a recently dug grave, ready to give way beneath my feet.

  “Which way to the grave?” a girl shrieked.

  Some people started chanting, “Otis! Otis!”

  More drunken laughter rang out in the dark.

  “Hey, somebody lost a hat.”

  I flicked up my light as a guy picked up a hat and put it on.

  Where have I seen that hat? It looked like the tall Pilgrim hat some of the men had worn at the historical society: Royal Parish, Lyman Smith, and Max Hempstead.

  “Let’s get a selfie with Otis’s grave, okay?” a guy shouted. “Who has that bright light? Spotlight me!”

  I turned my flashlight beam toward the front of the group, spotlighting two guys in pirate outfits. They trampled the white string surrounding a large pile of stones, clambered on top, and struck poses.

  “You’re knocking off the stones! They keep him inside!” someone yelled.

  “That pile of rocks is smaller than I remember,” Verity whispered.

  A gust of wind stirred the dry leaves on the ground, sending them swirling around our ankles as several people snapped pictures.

  One of the guys posing on the grave swore and pushed his friend away, rocks rattling to the ground as he struggled to maintain his balance. “Wait a sec. There’s a dude back here. Passed out.”

  “Who is it?” Another guy, dressed in a toga, pushed to the front and circled behind the guys standing atop the stones. He disappeared behind the headstone as he dropped to his knees. I tried to keep my flashlight beam on him so I could see what he was doing. I moved closer, threading through the crowd.

  One of the pirates standing on the pile of rocks slipped and shouted, “That’s blood! On his shirt!”

  Screams rang out. People pushed, some to get closer to the grave, some to get away. Verity and I moved closer to each other.

  Blood. My heart thudded.

  “Somebody call 911,” the guy in the toga called.

  “What do I say, where are we?” a girl’s voice said.

  The screams cleared my head.

  “The Parish graveyard off Old Farms Road,” I said.

  “Right.” The girl dialed.

  “Something’s on the ground next to him. It’s moving! An animal!”

  The guy behind the grave yelled, “I need more light!”

  More screams cut the air and now everyone was pushing and running back toward the house. Verity and I clung to each other to remain upright. Then I hurried to the guy behind the grave, following my flashlight beam as I clambered over the rocks strewn around the grave.

  The powerful beam spotlighted a man’s body splayed on the weeds behind Otis Parish’s headstone. I traced the light from his sneakers, breeches, and shirt, gasping as I saw the dark stain at his stomach and neck. The guy’s eyes were closed, his mouth slack, but still I recognized him.

  “Max,” I said. Max Hempstead, the guy who helped Professor Nickerson with Lobzilla. The guy who had fought with Isobel Parish. The guy who’d been one of the colonial spear carriers for Royal Parish at the grant ceremony.

  The pirates who had posed atop Otis Parish’s grave, so bold a moment before, melted back, pushing each other in their haste to get away from the body.

  The guy in the toga ripped his costume from his shoulders and pressed the cloth against Max’s wounds.

  “Allie!” Verity moaned. “Is he—dead?”

  Another gust of wind loosened a shower of leaves and tossed my hair around my face. I shifted away from Max’s body as two other students gathered to help. A white scrap of paper fluttered in the vines by Max’s feet. I feared it would blow away. Could it be important? I picked it up and tucked it into the top of my boot. My hand shook as I again moved the beam up toward Max’s face.

  “My God, his neck,” I whispered. I had to look away.

  Verity moaned.

  A mottled shadow writhed on the ground next to him. It made a small whispering noise, a scraping in the dirt. A familiar odor rose.

  “That’s—” I moved my flashlight, the beam shining on mottled shell and antennae.

  The young man kneeling next to the body, now dressed only in shorts, looked up at me as he held the white costume against Max’s wounds. “It’s a freaking giant lobster.”

  “That’s not any lobster,” Verity said. “That’s Lobzilla!”

  Verity grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet so violently I dropped the flashlight. The next thing I knew she was dragging me into the trees. I lifted my knees high. I was terrified to trip over a tree root or headstone or rock and reinjure my ankle.

  “Verity, stop! Why are we running?”

  Verity bent over, panting. “I don’t know, I just panicked. Allie, what was that lobster doing next
to that guy? And”—she looked around—“where are we?”

  I grabbed her arm. We’d gotten disoriented and had run into a small clearing in the woods. The cloud-covered moon gave stingy light as our footsteps whispered through a soft carpet of fallen leaves.

  A large, flat stone, as big and long as a mattress, sat on top of several other large stones, leaving an open space underneath.

  “Witch’s Rock,” Verity whispered. She played her cell-phone light on top.

  White candle stubs formed a circle on the altar’s surface. I reached out. All thought of Lobzilla and Max disappeared as I remembered Delilah’s words. The stone was cool and rough except for spots where lichen grew. I counted the candles, suspicion and horror growing. “Eight candles.” Verity aimed her light into the center of the circle. It spotlighted a wooden spoon.

  “What the heck?” I whispered. A wooden spoon just like Aunt Gully always used. “Aunt Gully’s spoon.”

  “Why is Aunt Gully’s spoon on the Witch’s Rock?” Verity whispered.

  I knew why. Someone was trying to put a spell on her.

  A gust of wind rushed into the clearing, stirring up a whirlwind of leaves.

  “Allie, let’s get out of here!” Verity cried.

  We ran out of the circle. “Where are we going?” Verity said.

  Dance music from the party carried on the breeze. “Follow the sound of the music!”

  Chapter 13

  A few guests pushed past us toward the graveyard as we ran back to the party. The group that had been at the grave stampeded, screaming, toward the house. Verity and I burst from the woods and cut across the lawn, our footsteps pounding onto the grass like a drumbeat.

  Just before I dragged myself up the steps onto the patio, a slight figure stepped out of the shadows in front of me.

  I shrieked.

  “Allie! It’s me.” Madame Monachova held a hand to her chest. “What is it? What happened? I was feeling tired and was going to go home but then I heard screaming.”

  Verity panted. “It’s crazy. There’s a dead guy down in the cemetery. I mean, he just died. He was killed.”

  Inside the house, the music stopped abruptly. A siren’s wail grew loud in the night, along with shouts and urgent conversation.

  I took a deep breath. “He was a student at the college. His name’s Max Hempstead.”

  The siren cut, thank goodness, but flashing red lights flickered from the drive. The group that had gone to the graveyard was now sharing the news of what had happened with their friends. Several partygoers slid from the doors of the mansion, rushing back to the graveyard to see the body.

  “Ghouls,” Madame Monachova said. In the flickering torchlight, she led me to a bench and sat next to me. Verity sat on her other side. “Are you girls okay?” The lights in the ballroom flicked on. Dancers blinked in the light as EMTs with squawking radios hurried past them, through the patio doors and onto the lawn.

  “The police are coming, yes?” Madame Monachova said. “Or is there another way to the cemetery?”

  “Yes, Old Farms Road,” I said. There were only a few houses on Old Farms Road. The narrow lane was barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Visitors to the Parish cemetery parked along its stone walls, where a towering old willow overhung the road.

  Madame Monachova pressed her hand to her forehead. “What a night. I don’t even know why I came to this party.” She gave me a wan smile. “Especially when I didn’t get the grant for my choreography project. I thought I should be, how do you say? A good sport. Come and thank my host.”

  Kathleen Parish ran up to us, her broad skirt silhouetted against the bright lights from the ballroom. “I cannot believe this!” She fumed. “What these kids get up to and now somebody gets hurt.”

  “Hurt?” Verity clutched her throat and looked at me, her eyes wide.

  Kathleen doesn’t know.

  “Royal insists on inviting these boys from that frat. They’re always in trouble, always need bailing out. And now this. Another prank gone wrong. Have you seen Isobel? Or Royal?”

  Madame Monachova shook her head.

  “Prank?” If this was a prank, it went beyond wrong. How could somebody accidentally—I clutched my throat—stab someone. “I don’t see how this could be a prank.”

  “Some kids said there was a lobster on top of some drunk boy.” Kathleen’s voice trailed off.

  “He’s not drunk. He’s dead,” Verity said. “It’s awful.”

  “It’s Max Hempstead,” I said.

  Kathleen gaped at me, then Verity. She took a step backward, her face stricken. “Max Hempstead? Are you sure?” Kathleen’s chest heaved. “Where’s Isobel? And where the hell is Royal!”

  “Kathleen!” Madame Monachova rushed to her. “What is it?”

  “I have to find them.” Kathleen ran to the lawn.

  “Is she going to the cemetery?” I said.

  “I must see what’s wrong.” Madame Monachova ran after her.

  “Whoa, she’s panicked!” Verity said.

  “Let’s go help.” We rushed after them. Kathleen ran across the grass, her white sprigged dress glowing in the darkness. Madame Monachova darted after her. For a woman in her seventies, she ran easily, her long cape trailing in the grass behind her.

  Two dark figures herded kids back toward the house—cops in the tan uniform of the Mystic Bay Police Department. One held up his hand to stop Kathleen. When she didn’t stop running, he intercepted her and grabbed her arm. She twisted in his grip, shouting, her voice shrill.

  Madame Monachova rushed up and spoke quietly to the police officer. Kathleen sobbed and covered her face with her hands, then headed back with Madame Monachova’s arm around her waist.

  “The police must have come in from Old Farms Road.” We ran over to Madame Monachova and Kathleen.

  “Breathe, there, there,” Madame murmured, her face drawn with concern.

  “Mrs. Parish, please sit down.” I took her elbow and helped Madame steer Kathleen to the bench where we’d been sitting earlier. A dark stain smeared the seat.

  “Wait, something spilled there.” I looked behind me, hoping my pants hadn’t gotten stained.

  Someone flipped on bright floodlights, dazzling us.

  Verity gasped. “Your dress!” She pointed at Kathleen.

  Kathleen looked down at her dress. A dark handprint smeared the waist. “What on earth,” she said in a whisper.

  Madame Monachova looked from the stained fabric to her hand. She cried out. Her hand was smeared with—blood.

  “Oh my God,” she said.

  One of the cops came over. “Lady, you okay?”

  Madame Monachova swayed. “I—I don’t know.”

  I put my arm around her and led her to another bench. Distracted with worry, I accidentally stepped on the hem of her cape and stumbled, trying to make sense of what was happening. Is Madame injured?

  “Allie, look!” Verity pointed.

  Where I’d tripped I’d left a boot print in blood on the marble patio.

  * * *

  Hours later, after answering questions from the police and leaving our contact information, Verity and I went back to the Tank.

  I slammed the door and held my hand to my pounding head. The police had taken Madame Monachova to the station for questioning. Her cape had been heavily stained with blood. It had transferred to Kathleen’s beautiful dress and then to my boot when I tripped over her cape. I scrubbed the sole of my boot with bar towels in the Parish kitchen. I’d probably obliterated evidence.

  I didn’t care.

  “This is the grossest night of my life,” Verity said.

  “Verity, how could the police think for a moment that Madame Monachova could kill somebody? And that way?”

  Verity took a deep breath and turned the key. The engine roared but we sat there, staring at the trees illuminated by the headlights.

  “You got me,” Verity said. “Madame doesn’t look like she could hurt a fly. Do you think she kn
ew that guy, what’s his name, Max? Did he take one of her dance classes?”

  “He wasn’t in the class I help her teach. I’d assumed he was a marine biology student. I saw him with Fred Nickerson when Bertha found Lobzilla.”

  “And why was Lobzilla there with Max?”

  I shook my head. I’d told the police about the lobster as soon as I could. Fred had heard and when we’d left he was pleading to take the lobster away. I had no idea what the police would do. Was Lobzilla evidence?

  “Why do you think Kathleen was so upset?” Verity said.

  I thought back to the night I’d seen Max and Isobel. “The other night at the college, when I was leaving class, I saw Max and Isobel. They were fighting.” What had she yelled at him? “She said something odd. ‘Max, I hate you. I thought you liked me. Now I know it was just an excuse.’”

  “An excuse to what?” Verity asked.

  “I don’t know. He said he didn’t do it. Whatever it was.” Suddenly I was exhausted. “Let’s go home, Verity.”

  Chapter 14

  The next morning, I slowly lowered myself into my chair at the kitchen table. Aunt Gully set a mug of tea in front of me and I wrapped my hands around it. Frothy pink tulle spilled from the coat closet by the kitchen door. “I wish I’d seen you in your Glinda costume.”

  Aunt Gully gave me a small worried smile as she set a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of me. To my surprise, I was ravenous.

  When Verity had dropped me off, I’d told Aunt Gully about the terrible end to the party.

  Just before I’d gone to bed, I’d received a call from Madame’s sister, Yulia. The horror of discovering the blood on her cape and the stress of being questioned by police had been too much. Madame had collapsed. She’d been hospitalized and was stable but needed someone to feed her cats, Raisa and Rudi. Yulia gave me the security code to Madame’s house and asked me to pick up a few things and bring them to the hospital. She didn’t want to leave her sister alone. And would I cover a class for Madame that evening at the college?