Stockings and Spells: A paranormal cozy mystery (Vampire Knitting Club Book 4)

by Nancy Warren

  I considered his theory. It wasn’t bad. A shiver went over my skin. "Or, less heroically, if he was indeed a drunk, maybe he was also a smoker. He had too much to drink and fell asleep on the couch with a lit cigarette." It was a sad way to end but not as uncommon as one might wish.

  "Or, someone else murdered Martin Hodgins."

  "But why?"

  “I don't know. Perhaps, after all these years, Mr. Hodgins decided to have another attempt at proving his ownership of the manuscript? His old friend Sanderson had already eviscerated him professionally, perhaps he decided to finish the job."

  "That stuffy old professor? I could see him stealing intellectual property, but killing someone?” I imagined Professor Sanderson with a weapon. Maybe bashing his old friend over the head and then setting fire to his home. I couldn’t believe it. “I’ve never killed anyone, but I wouldn’t think it was that easy to do."

  "Easier than you think, if the motivation is there."

  I shivered again.

  He looked at me. "Try and relax."

  I would relax if I wasn’t so busy being stressed out and anxious. He cast another glance my way, then flipped on his Bluetooth and called Alfred, who answered immediately. Rafe said, "Is someone keeping a close eye on Gemma Hodgins?"

  "Of course," Alfred said. "Mabel and Clara are both at the hospital now. Mabel's posing as Gemma’s grandmother and Clara as her aunt." He was on speakerphone so I heard every word. I asked, "But how did they get in? Visiting was supposed to be limited to close relatives and friends only."

  "I believe your cousin Violet helped get the documentation."

  Nice work, Vi.

  Rafe said, "Get a message to them. They are not to leave her side for a second."

  "What happened? Has there been another attempt?"

  "No. But her father just died under suspicious circumstances."

  Alfred didn't waste time on chitchat. "I’ll make sure they get the message."

  “Good. Also, I believe you had an altercation with a young man who accosted Lucy? She says his first name is Darren.”

  Alfred made a sound that, I thought, was a growl. “Yeah. I remember him. Nasty little O neg.”

  “Can you find out where he is? I know it will be difficult to track him without a surname, but do your best.”

  “Don’t worry, Rafe. I already tracked that little punk. I wasn’t having him come near Lucy again when I wasn’t around to protect her. No man should ever treat a delicately nurtured female that way.”

  I reminded myself that these vampires were hundreds of years old so their sexism came naturally. Besides, I wasn’t averse to a little protection, whatever the motivation behind it.

  “Where is Darren now?” Rafe asked.

  “He left Oxford, that’s all I know. On a motorbike. Nasty, noisy thing. He took the M40 headed toward London.”

  Rafe and I shared a glance. It was the same road we’d taken. It might lead to London, but it was also the road one took to get to Balcombe. “When did he leave?” Rafe asked.

  “Last night. Latish.”

  “Excellent work, Alfred. Thank you.”

  And then he rang off. Rafe looked over at me. “So, Darren took the same road we did when we went to visit Gemma’s father.”

  I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, even if they were obvious. “Yes, but that road goes to a lot of other places.”

  “Still, it’s interesting, don’t you think? It also means that Darren isn’t around Oxford to harass you or Gemma. Feel better now?"

  I’d feel better when I saw Gemma myself. I’d feel even better when she opened her eyes and proved to all of us that she wasn't brain-damaged. But, for now, knowing she was being safely watched definitely helped. There was a certain irony in placing two vampires at the bedside of a beautiful young woman who might be dying anyway, but I had grown to trust my vampire knitting club and I knew that Mabel and Clara would protect her with everything they had. So I nodded. "I feel better."

  Rafe said, "Professor Sanderson is giving a lecture tomorrow night. I think we should go. After the lecture we’ll have a little chat with the professor."

  He was obviously out of touch with Oxford events. I passed the Weston often and I’d seen the poster advertising the lecture countless times. "That lecture has been sold out for months."

  He looked at me as though I was being incredibly naïve. "I have a certain amount of influence at the Bodleian. I don't think it will be difficult to acquire two tickets."

  I may have bobbed my head and mimicked him in a rude voice reminiscent of Hester, the eternal whiny teenager, but inside I was pretty pleased with him. I tended to forget that, in his professional capacity, Rafe was an important person at the Bodleian.

  "Do you think we’ll be able to get close to him?" I imagined the elusive author might be mobbed after giving such a rare public lecture.

  "There's a cocktail party afterwards, VIPs only, in the Old Bodleian across the street. We'll find time to talk to him." The way he said it made a shiver run down my spine. I got the feeling that if Rafe decided a person was going to talk to him, that person was going to be singing like a canary whether they wanted to or not.

  Chapter 14

  The lecture was held in the Sheldonian Theatre and the gracious, Christopher Wren-designed dome was packed with people waiting to hear Dominic Sanderson. I glanced around and saw fans of all ages, more men than women but not by a huge margin. They were young and old of assorted nationalities and many had copies of the books with them. Some looked to be old treasured volumes that were well read, some were in foreign languages, and quite a few with the brand-new ones that had been reissued to celebrate the fortieth anniversary.

  There was a buzz of anticipation as we waited. Dominic Sanderson was like a rock star of literature. I saw Professor Jeffrey Naylor in a tier above us. Rafe, of course, had perfect seats. We were directly across from the podium on the main level.

  When Dominic Sanderson walked onto the stage accompanied by the man I recognized as his agent, the room broke into spontaneous applause. Sanderson looked like a scholar. He was tall and thin and tweedy. He had pair of reading glasses tucked into his pocket and a copy of the new edition of the Chronicles of Pangnirtung in his hand. No doubt a public relations exercise, as there were media photographers in the room. Any photographs taken would feature the new edition his publisher was trying to sell.

  I was surprised at my own antagonism towards him. The tall, tweedy fake. I felt in my bones that he was not to be trusted. Even from this distance I was certain I detected something shifty in his eyes.

  He and the agent sat together and chatted quietly for a few minutes and then Charles Beach, the agent, stood and approached the microphone. Rafe leaned close to me and said, "He’s as much his personal promoter as his agent.”

  Charles Beach was about the same age as Sanderson, but was in every other way his polar opposite. Where Sanderson was tall he was on the short side. He was also plump, whereas Sanderson looked like the sort of person who would forget to eat because he was so caught up in his books.

  The agent wore a blue striped suit and a yellow bow tie. He had a booming voice, so he really didn’t need the mic. "Welcome." He waited for the shuffling and whispering to end and when the room was silent, he said, "My name is Charles Beach. I'm Chaz to my friends, and I'm proud and honored to call our guest this evening, Dominic Sanderson, one of those friends. When he first came to me in London, forty-one years ago, he’d just finished his undergraduate degree at Oxford. I'd only been a literary agent for a couple of years. We were both at the beginning of our careers.

  “Dominic's novel had already been turned down by several publishers. This is not unusual in my business. However, I could see right away that there was something raw and powerful and exciting in his prose." He paused for the spontaneous clapping that erupted from the fans. I did the polite fake clap, where my hands moved but my palms didn’t touch. I thought Rafe was doing the same.

  He nod
ded and went on. "Dominic and I took a chance on each other. He, with an unproven agent, and me with an untried author." He turned and grinned back at his client. "It was a gamble that paid off handsomely for both of us.”

  Pause for more spontaneous applause.

  “Many fantasy novels come and go. In the last four decades we've seen plenty. There aren't many that stick, that become part of the contemporary consciousness. The of Pangnirtung is a series that will live forever.”

  I wondered how he could possibly know that, but the fans applauding madly obviously believed he could see into the future.

  “I look around this wonderful theater and know that each of you have your own reasons for being here. Your own reasons for appreciating this man's genius. I don't need to tell you all of Dominic Sanderson's many accomplishments. He's a professor here at Oxford, at Cardinal College, because he loves to give back. He loves teaching and he loves his students. His books have hit every bestseller milestone and won many awards, and the success of the films has created an entire new generation of Chronicles of Pangnirtung fans." He waved his hand theatrically around the room. "Of whom you are but a small number. But a very special number. Please let me turn over the podium to my friend, Dominic Sanderson."

  The clapping was thunderous. I tapped my hands together with more politeness than enthusiasm as Sanderson approached the podium and cleared his throat. He said, "Thank you, Chaz. And thank you all for coming tonight." He had a dry voice. And took frequent sips of water as he spoke. But, he was an academic and a teacher, and he talked about the books and their symbolism as though he were teaching a class about them.

  He told a couple of witty anecdotes, but he didn't strike me as a naturally humorous man. After about half an hour, he read a passage from one of the books. And then he stood to the side and Charles Beach returned to stand aside him. Now each of them had a microphone.

  Charles said, "As you know, we took questions in advance. I will be asking the questions we received most commonly and Dominic will answer them. If there's time at the end, we will open the floor."

  Rafe leaned in. “Interesting that they’ve already vetted the questions. They’re playing it safe.”

  Charles, my-friends-call-me-Chaz, pulled out a piece of paper and turned to Dominic. "First question—and if I had a pound or a dollar for every time we get asked this question, I'd be a wealthy man, or I should say, a wealthier man. And Dominic would be a much wealthier man.” He raised his hands in dramatic fashion. "When are you going to write another book?"

  I was interested in the answer. I felt Rafe stiffen slightly at my side. Dominic Sanderson smiled, a dry, secretive smile, and patted the reissued novel that sat on the podium. "The Chronicles of Pangnirtung were a work of passion. A young man's books. I can’t say I'll never write another one, because, perhaps, one day I shall. However, there's a symmetry to these three books. A completeness to the Chronicles. I do not want to be a writer who turns out endless volumes for the sake of making money."

  Chaz threw up his hands again. They were like a comedy duo, the clown and the straight man. "I'm all about making money. But I have to respect my friend Dominic here. He's a genuine artist."

  He moved on to the next question. "Who is your favorite author?" And so it went on. After about ten minutes of this back and forth, there was no remaining time for any questions from the floor. Which, I suspected had been deliberately organized so that Dominic would not be blindsided by anything embarrassing.

  Then it was over. If I'd hoped to grab a moment with the author, I'd have been sorely disappointed, as many people in attendance were, who’d rushed forward to have their precious books signed only to find Sanderson was gone.

  Sanderson and his agent disappeared back through the door they had come in from. There was no mingling, no book signing. Only the lucky ones who had tickets to the VIP reception would be rubbing shoulders with the famous author. I’d never been so grateful to have Rafe in my life.

  It was a short walk across the street to the Bodleian. The cocktail party was held in the cavernous entrance hall, a massive space with high stone ceilings. Those who’d managed to get tickets for this event clustered in corners talking amongst themselves, but it was pretty obvious all eyes were on the door, waiting for the guest of honor to arrive. Rafe collected two glasses of red wine for us from a long table where Bodleian staff members were serving. There were also appetizers going around on trays. I shook my head as one went by. I was too nervous to eat.

  I said to Rafe, in a low voice, "What's our plan? What do we do when we finally get Dominic Sanderson to ourselves?"

  "I wonder if you should stick to the story you made up for Jeffrey Naylor yesterday. You’re an American grad student, and you're interested in his background and influences."

  I felt panicked at the very idea. "What if he asks me what my favorite scene is? Or tests me in some way? He'll know right away I'm lying."

  He looked at me and shook his head. "You really never read the Chronicles?"

  "No. I really never have. I read Jane Austen and novels about female empowerment."

  "Perhaps you should talk to the agent, then. He'll be easier to get to anyway. Everyone here wants a few words with Dominic Sanderson, but few will be interested in the agent."

  I liked that plan much better. Charles Beach looked exactly like the sort of man who was more interested in hearing his own voice than in listening. Exactly the kind I wanted. "But what do I ask him?"

  "Stick to the same story. You’re looking for influences. Ask him about that first meeting, and casually bring up the scandal. You could pretend you've only just discovered it as part of your research and you want his take on it."

  "You'd better be ready to rescue me if I flounder."

  "Buck up. You won't flounder." And then he raised a hand in greeting and a well-dressed older couple came over and greeted him by name. Rafe said, “Lord and Lady Mead, may I present Lucy Swift. I did some work for them last year."

  They both shook my hand. Lady Mead smiled at me. "It was very exciting. Rafe looked through our collection of books, some of which had been sitting on the shelves for hundreds of years, probably never even opened, and discovered we had a rare first edition of Gulliver’s Travels. Imagine!"

  Rafe said, "It was an exciting day for me, too. There aren’t many of those left in the world. It's always gratifying to discover a treasure."

  A sudden buzz of excitement went around the room, and I knew that Dominic Sanderson must've arrived. Sure enough, we all turned and there he was walking in with his agent.

  Lord Mede said, "Of course, we’ve got first editions of the Chronicles, too. I read all the books when they first came out. Astonishing. I just purchased the new set for my grandson. He's only ten, but I was able to get Professor Sanderson to sign them. It's going to be his Christmas gift."

  His wife looked at him fondly. "My husband is more excited, I'm sure, than our grandson will be."

  "You don't know that. He's a very bright young man."

  They excused themselves to try and get a few words with Dominic Sanderson. Rafe and I watched as a crowd formed around the author, but luck was with us, when the agent headed towards the drinks table.

  I took a quick breath and said, “Wish me luck.” I grabbed Rafe’s glass and poured the rest of my red wine into it and then carried my empty glass over toward the table where wine and water were being served. I managed to arrive exactly when the agent did. He helped himself to a glass of red and I did the same.

  I said, "I enjoyed that talk so much."

  He gave me the professionally pleasant look that speakers give to strangers. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

  Before he could move away, I said, "I'm so pleased to have a chance to speak with you. My name is Lucy Swift, I'm a grad student from Boston. I'm here doing my thesis on Dr. Sanderson's novels."

  His smile deepened, but only slightly. "Excellent timing, with the fortieth anniversary celebrations.”

  "Exactly." I sai
d, looking enthusiastic. “I'm most interested in the very beginning of Dominic Sanderson's career. Tell me what it was like for you, when he walked into your office, when you first read his work."

  He glanced over to make sure Dominic Sanderson was well entertained, which he was. "It was electrifying. As you know, when you first dive into those novels, they take you into a completely different world. So much fantasy, I'm sorry to say, is derivative. But this was so fresh and bold. I suppose, because I was just starting out, I could give the manuscript all of my attention and all of my energy." He smirked a little here. "And I had a lot more energy forty years ago." He shrugged. "Also I was hungrier. I was willing to work as hard as Sanderson was to make those books succeed."

  "I'm studying his early influences, particularly his friendship with another student, one that went badly wrong."

  The expression of patronizing bonhomie disappeared and suddenly Charles Beach’s eyes went hard. "That was devastating for Dominic. Absolutely devastating. His old friend stealing his ideas and laying claim to his work like that. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that's why he was never able to write another book. It broke his heart."

  "But, as his agent, weren’t you even a little bit worried that the story might be true? I imagine it would have damaged your career as much as it would have Dominic Sanderson's if the books had turned out to be written by someone else."

  He looked a much less pleasant man now. He said, "The man was a drunk and raving mad." He shook his head. "He caused Dominic anguish just when he should have been enjoying his success."

  He glanced back at Sanderson, still surrounded by a small crowd. "I promised I’d get Dominic a drink. He’ll be so mobbed all evening, he'll never get a chance to get his own."

  I smiled. "Of course. I'm so glad I got a chance to speak with you."

  He grabbed a second glass of wine and said, "Don't waste your time on that filthy old scandal. If you really want to delve into Dominic Sanderson’s early influences, call my office. We’ll set up an appointment. I may even be able to get you a few minutes with the man himself. But run your questions by me first."