by Tamsin Baker
“Ms. Thompson, I presume? Are you joining us or studying my grammar?” A deeply accented voice cut into my dithering.
I spun to face Ms. Anna Osipova. Unlike a few people I knew, she looked as good as her Instagram pics. I guessed she knew my name as I was the only new kid registered for class. “It’s been years since I’ve…” I fluttered my hand as a wave of heat blossomed in my cheeks.
“A long time between classes, I see. We have a mix of beginners and returning dancers. Give this group a try.” She gestured to the double doors at the end of the long hallway.
We walked in silence. At the door, I stood aside to let her enter first but she waved me forward. A moment later she swept into the room as regal as the principal ballerina she had once been.
My eyes widened. A dozen women lined the mirrored walls in the large dance studio. I’d blown out a breath at the well-appointed Gravier Auditorium when I’d arrived. But this took my breath away as well. It wasn’t at all what I expected for a small high school in a small town. Several of the women smiled at me. They looked mostly around my age, though one graceful dame in a leopard print leotard had to be in her sixties, at least.
I took my place at the barre, stripped off the t-shirt and tossed it over my bag. I made the class thirteen. Ms. Osipova obviously didn’t believe the number unlucky. She took us through a series of basic stretching exercises to prepare us for barre work. My thigh muscles complained as we repeated forward and reverse lunge stretches, but my chest swelled with pleasure. I hadn’t even tried to dance in such a long time. But this room, these women, even wearing my old dance clothes, all swirled to pour joy into every pore.
At the end of class, a woman approached me. Barely out of breath and elegantly glossy rather than dripping with perspiration, she extended her hand and introduced herself.
“Imogen Williams.” She squeezed my hand in a firm grip. “My condolences. I knew Tilly Thompson well. Fine woman.”
She looked closer to my age than Aunt Tilly’s seventy-three years old. Though on closer inspection, perhaps her smooth skin and lifted cheeks were due more to Botox and fillers than youth.
“Thank you.” I retrieved my hand and gave her a quick smile.
“Do you plan to stay?”
Straight to the point. Just like Aunt Tilly. And a good question. It’s not like I had anywhere else to go. “I have a twelve-month contract with the school. We’ll see after that—”
“I’m on the school board.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Let me know if I can help with anything.”
With the house and money Aunt Tilly had left me, I could afford not to work for several months, but it wasn’t in my nature to sit around and do nothing.
“We should catch up for coffee.” Imogen leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I’ll fill you in on a few things you need to know.”
I pulled away from her.
“More things I need to know?” Darn. I hadn’t meant to squeak that out.
The thought shouldn’t have come out at all, let alone in a queer, high pitch that made me sound as silly as if I’d sucked in too much gas at the dentist. I’d never found Dogwood Grove creepy on the many occasions I’d visited Aunt Tilly. But with first the sheriff and then this woman wanting to whisper secrets, it seemed downright eerie now.
Imogen lifted her carefully groomed eyebrows in question, but I wasn’t about to enlighten her. Not until after I’d spoken to Ben Miller again, at least.
I glanced at my watch. Darn it, I told him I’d be home all day Saturday. “I have to go. Expecting visitors.”
She raised her brow again.
I yanked my t-shirt over my sticky body and grabbed my bag.
“Perhaps coffee tomorrow.” Imogen proved herself not easily deterred. “The Tails and Hoops Cafe tomorrow morning? Shall we say eleven am?”
It was a favorite haunt of Aunt Tilly’s. When the weather cooperated, they opened large garage style doors to the road, letting in light and Norman Rockwell-style street scenes. Aunt Tilly always said it was to remind us why we put up with six months of grey sky and rain each year. On my many visits, we’d eaten walnut-pecan rolls, cinnamon rolls, pecan coffee cake, apple mazurka, blueberry scones, orange-currant scones, and banana-walnut scones. All delicious.
Imogen blocked the straightest path to the door, still looking at me expectantly.
“How rude of me. I’m sorry. I quite drifted down memory lane—”
“I hope the place brings back good memories for you. It was a favorite meeting place for Tilly and me also.”
I shook her hand again and pasted a smile on my face. No point in putting her off, I needed to network anyway. “Eleven tomorrow. I look forward to it.”
Chapter Three
The sheriff’s car was heading out of my street as I pulled in. I wound my window down as we slowed next to one another. “I’m sorry, Sheriff. Completely forgot about ballet class this morning.”
He grunted something unintelligible, turned his car, and followed me into the driveway.
Apparently, whatever he had to tell me couldn’t wait for me to reschedule. I glanced at my face in the rear-view mirror and let out a groan at what peered back at me. Not a smear of make-up, a shiny red nose, and hair flattened to my head from a scarf I’d worn to keep my hair from flopping into my eyes while stretching every which way during the cool-down exercises. I should have left the scarf on, at least I’d be sporting a fashionable bo-ho look. Too late to worry about that now.
Besides it was just a quick catch-up with the local law. It’s not like I was looking for a man.
I took a calming breath and faced Tilly’s house—my house now. My home. I had to remind myself this house I’d loved ever since I was a child really was mine now. I took a moment to admire the round tower, the wrap-around porch, its complicated asymmetrical shape, and its restrained embellishments in heritage blue and grey. It did the trick. No longer rattled, I strode to the front porch.
The sheriff beat me to the front door and stood politely aside to let me unlock it. “I can come back tomorrow if this isn’t convenient.”
“You’re here now.” I let us inside and dropped my bag at the bottom of the stairs. Snuggles looked up from where he’d been sunning himself in a patch of sunlight in the front room. “Did you find the child?”
His brow creased for a moment. “He arrived home this morning. Snuck out to go to a rave in Portland.”
“Thank goodness he’s okay. Just let me shower quickly and I’ll be right down. Perhaps make a coffee. I’ll only be a moment.”
He produced a tin foil covered pie pan from behind his back. “I brought pecan pie. My mom’s. Some say it’s the best in the county.” He didn’t try to hide the pride in his voice.
“Homemade pecan pie sounds great.” I crossed to the fridge to check the date on the cream carton. Pecan pie sounded great, but pie with cream sounded even better. “Got whipping cream here too.” I held the carton aloft like a trophy.
“Sure.” He gave me a smile that fluttered muscle-melting arrows into my legs.
Somehow, he looked even better in the daylight. I scurried to the stairs and grabbed hold of the bannister to stay upright. “Can you find everything—”
“No problem.” He gestured for me to climb the steps. “Tilly invited me in for coffee all the time. Coffee, pie and whipped cream will be ready when you get back down.”
I rushed upstairs to my bathroom, not sure whether I was more impressed with his ability to whip cream and serve pie and he knew his way around my kitchen, or worried that the lawman seemed to have an unnerving ease to send me back to teenage angst.
Either way, this would be one helluva quick shower.
He probably wasn’t lying about talking to Tilly all the time. Not that she ever mentioned him. And he surely wouldn’t lie about his mom’s pecan pie.
When I bounced down the stairs a few minutes later, the scent of fresh coffee had my nose twitching. He hadn’t lied about the pecan pi
e. I turned to enter the kitchen and sweetly scented steam wafted from the warmed pie on the table. The nutty and sweet aroma announced it as homemade and very fresh. Snuggles jumped on the table and meowed for a lick of cream.
“This looks and smells divine.” I scooped a small dollop of cream onto a plate and put it on Snuggles feeding mat.
“That’s a big cat. Should he be eating cream?" The sheriff served a generous slice of pie to my plate.
“He’s a big breed. And it’s either that or fight him off at every mouthful. You weren’t lying about whipping cream.”
“I try not to fib, ma’am. Not on the little things, at least.” He gave me a wink.
Going for light-hearted had the opposite effect and I recalled the urgency of last night, and his curtness in telling me I needed to listen. “Ma’am makes me feel old. Call me Louisa.”
“I’ll call you Louisa, if you call me Ben.”
“Agreed. Now what’s so urgent and so secretive?”
“Eat while it’s warm.” He shoveled a mouthful of pie in his mouth. It would have been churlish not to do the same. Besides, it looked as good as it smelled, and ballet induces hunger. I mixed a little cream with a small piece of pie and let it melt in my mouth.
I think I groaned aloud. When nothing but crumbs remained on our plates, we topped up our coffees and carried them to the front room. I sat on the sofa with a happy Snuggles licking his paws and cleaning his face. Ben sat opposite in the comfy recliner.
“I’ll listen, but don’t expect me to stay quiet when I have questions.”
“I’d appreciate if you’d ask questions, rather than throw me out.”
I might have thought him to be joking, except for the tightness around his eyes and the absolute gravity in his tone.
“Did Tilly ever talk about her role here?” He leaned back into the chair.
“All the time.”
He lifted his brow a little.
“She loved her role as the headmistress of a private girl's school. I’m sure I heard every story she had, two or three times each.”
“Not that role. The other one.”
“She retired at seventy. Sat on boards until her death. I hardly think—”
He lifted his palm to silence me. “I had hoped she mentioned something, especially given you’re the only one left in your family’s line.”
“Mentioned what? What line?”
“I better start at the beginning.”
“You’d better, or I will throw you out.” I waved my spoon at him for dramatic emphasis. But my curiosity was sparked. Something about the gleam in his eye suggested he knew I wouldn’t throw him out until I at least heard what this was all about.
Ben finished his coffee and crossed his ankle over his knee. Snuggles decided his lap looked inviting and jumped across the coffee table to turn a few times before settling against his chest.
“Jeez.” Ben puffed out a breath. “This beast weighs a ton. I don’t know how you carry him all the time.”
I flexed my biceps. “He’s only fifteen pounds, not so big for a male. Now out with it before I give him the order to attack.”
Snuggles chose that moment to whack Ben on the cheek for failing to pet his head appropriately. Ben barked out a laugh. “I guess I better pet the monster and start at the beginning. You know what a vampire is, right?”
“Of course. May or may not be sparkly, runs fast, incredibly strong, sucks blood and brilliant at sex.”
Ben pursed his lips. “You watch all the wrong movies.”
“Are you seriously telling me this is about my choice of movies?”
“No, I’m doing a lousy job of telling you fictional vampires aren’t necessarily accurate depictions of the real thing.”
“You mean in mythology?” That made sense. Aunt Tilly was a scholar in ancient mythology before she took the post as headmistress. “They aren’t real, you know. Aunt Tilly wrote papers on the subject. Her Buffy-verse article won accolades and awards.”
“She wrote papers on the subject because she knew they do exist.” He forestalled my objection with another raised palm. “You and she are both descended from a distinguished line of vampire hunters. Your friend in the garden last night, Nic Gravier, is the local vampire lord.”
Vampires and vampire hunters? I coughed out a laugh that ended in a snort. He had to be kidding, crazy, or both.
“There is no way my dear, sweet Aunt Tilly was a vampire hunter.” I shook my head firmly. “She studied mythology. She knew better than anyone supernatural beings don’t exist.”
Ben massaged Snuggles’ ears and the little traitor amped up his purring.
“You and she are both descended from a strong line of hunters. It doesn’t present in every generation. But it has in you. That’s why she chose you to inherit.”
A painful tightness constricted my throat. Aunt Tilly hadn’t said a word. Not a single word. This man had to be quite crazy. There had to be a catch to balance all the gorgeous. But then, out of all her relations, why did Aunt Tilly choose me? I’d always liked her, and had visited her at least twice a year, I was her only niece, but she had other relatives. I swallowed hard. “She told you that?”
“You think I’d make this up?”
“If it is true, and I doubt it, why do you know? Why did she tell you and not me?”
Ben moved Snuggles off his chest and leaned forward. “Because I’m the same as you.”
I snorted out a harsh laugh. “A vampire hunter. From a long line of the same?”
“From the same as you. We’re second cousins.”
“What? That means we shared a grandparent? Where did your Southern drawl come from? Is it fake?”
He opened his eyes wide in exaggerated astonishment. “My accent sounds fake? I’m hurt. We share a great-grandparent. My branch of the family is still in Austin Texas. I’m sure there’s a genealogy chart amongst Tilly’s things.”
“What brought you to Dogwood Grove?”
“A promotion and Tilly.”
I raised my eyebrow and he shrugged. “Our parents kept in touch.”
Looks like we had some history to explore, another day. I could accept him as a second cousin, but the rest? “No, this is silly.”
“Have you ever wondered where your great night sight and superior strength come from? I bet you enjoy a rare steak and streaked ahead in gym class at school.”
I jammed my fists against my hips. “How did you know—”
Ben stood. “You obviously aren’t going to listen to me. Find Tilly’s journals. Perhaps you’ll believe her.”
“And where are these journals, hidden in an old chest in the attic?” I didn’t bother to disguise the sarcasm I felt.
He paced to the front door. “Last time I visited, they were in her bookcase in the study. She kept meticulous notes.”
I remembered my manners, sped after him and let him out. “Thank you for coming, and for the pecan pie.”
On the doorstep, he gave me a brief nod. “We’ll talk again after you’ve read them. Until you know who knows what, keep this to yourself.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Snuggles jumped onto the wide window sill next to the door and we watched the sheriff stride to his car and drive off without looking back. Cousins, distant or not, put him in the not available category. That was a damn shame. Not that I was looking for a man. No, siree. I sang the words out like a mantra.
I glanced across the hall to the spare room. The door was closed tight. I’d shoved most of my luggage in there and was yet to fully unpack and stow it.
“We didn’t have a good look in there when we arrived did we, bubs?”
Snuggles bumped my hand with his head and let out a short meow.
“We might as well look. Need to unpack, anyway.”
I strode to the spare room shaking my head at myself. No way could I believe Sheriff Ben Miller, second cousin or not, and I couldn’t wait to refute his claims with evidence.
#
It t
ook several hours to sort through the boxes I’d pushed together in the spare room. With everything put away and the boxes broken down on the back porch, I could finally see all of the shelves clearly. Snuggles had grown bored long ago and disappeared to find fun, or sleep, elsewhere.
I sat behind the large mahogany desk and stroked my fingertips across the birds-eye maple inlaid into its surface. It needed dusting. If Aunt Tilly was looking down at me, she’d be shaking her head. I’d often sat in the easy chair reading while Tilly worked and I never saw so much as a speck of dust in here. I’d always assumed one of her papers on mythology kept her busy. I spun the chair to face the bookcases behind the desk.
Surely, even if she donned a black cape and hunted vampires in her spare time, it would be secret? Would she leave journals lying around? I smacked my palm into my forehead. Was I going to take Ben’s far-fetched claim seriously?
Wouldn’t hurt to look and tell him to his face that he was dreaming. Or suffering from nightmares, perhaps.
I scoured all the shelves. No handwritten journals anywhere. Tilly used her laptop for research but not for writing. She dictated her academic papers for her straight-laced secretary to type up. I couldn’t imagine Tilly giving vampire notes to her or anyone else to type.
The corner shelves held various awards, family photographs and a few gorgeous crystal ornaments. But the doors at the bottom of the corner unit were locked. The only locked doors in the room.
I searched through the drawers and found no keys. My stomach growled. I needed coffee, and perhaps more pecan pie to tackle this. Wait—I pulled out the drawer and smiled to myself. Sure enough, someone had taped a small key to the back of the drawer. My smile broadened at the recollection of my grandfather and his favorite place for hiding anything he didn’t want a casual seeker to find.
Key in hand, I no longer felt hungry. My scalp prickled like it had when I saw Nic Gravier at the bottom of my garden, the local head honcho vampire, according to my distant cousin.
Enough of this. I marched to the corner unit, tried the key and pulled open the doors. Inside, a dozen or more leather-bound journals were neatly stacked. I grabbed the top one and opened it. Definitely Tilly’s writing. The last entry was dated one week before her death, I dropped cross-legged onto the floor and started reading.