Vampires on the Run: A Quinnie Boyd Mystery (Quinnie Boyd Mysteries)
Page 1
Praise for Vampires on the Run
“Quinnie Boyd has a nose for mysteries, much to the exasperation of Maiden Rock, Maine’s sheriff—who is also Quinnie’s mom. . . . A delightful mystery with a clever plot twist that does a good job keeping the suspense going while balancing Quinnie’s desire to obey her parents with her concern for her friend’s safety.”
—Nancy Banks, City Stacks Books & Coffee
Praise for The Maypop Kidnapping
“[A] delightful cozy mystery, snugly mixing intrigue and humor, with an unpredictable and satisfying resolution.”
—Kirkus
“Surrisi has created a tale that captures readers’ attention within the first few pages and keeps up the pace through the last chapter. The characters are relatable, refreshingly human, and very funny.”
—School Library Journal
“The only thing that would make this book better is if it came with a Gusty Burger and a side order of lobster fries. I’ve never flown through a book so fast to find out whodunit.”
—N. A. Nelson, Smithsonian Notable Children’s Book Award winning author of Bringing the Boy Home
“The Maypop Kidnapping teems with one-of-a kind local characters, likely suspects and unexpected heroes, humor, and heart.”
—Sue Cowing, author of the Society of School Librarians International Honor Book You Will Call Me Drog
“Cynthia Surrisi’s Quinnie Boyd is one of the cleverest most memorable young teen protagonists I’ve met in quite a while! . . . Surrisi’s debut novel is an engaging cozy mystery, with unpredictable twists and turns and an ending you’ll applaud!”
—Cindy Norris, Malaprop’s Bookstore/Cafe
Text copyright © 2017 by C. M. Surrisi
All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.
Carolrhoda Books
A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.
241 First Avenue North
Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA
For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.
Jacket illustration by Elizabeth Baddeley.
Map design by Ingrid Sundberg.
Backgrounds interior: © Gordan/Bigstock.com.
Main body text set in Bembo Std 12.5/17. Typeface provided by Monotype.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Surrisi, Cynthia, author.
Title: Vampires on the run : a Quinnie Boyd mystery / C.M. Surrisi.
Description: Minneapolis : Carolrhoda Books, [2017] | Summary: “Two suspicious writers from New York arrive in Quinnie Boyd’s small Maine town. They claim to be the confidants of a vampire count. But Quinnie begins to wonder if the authors are vampires themselves” —Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016016920 (print) | LCCN 2016034208 (ebook) | ISBN 9781512411508 (th : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781512426922 (eb pdf)
Subjects: | CYAC: Mystery and detective stories. | Vampires—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Maine—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S88 Vam 2017 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.S88 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016016920
Manufactured in the United States of America
1-39659-21288-5/24/2016
9781512432800 mobi
9781512432817 ePub
9781512432824 ePub
For my brilliant, brave, and
sweet-hearted Magda
1
“What time is it?” Ella asks again.
“It’s thirty seconds later than the last time you asked.”
I’m twisting my hair, and she’s blowing on her nail polish.
“They should be here,” she says.
It’s May, and spring has finally found its way to the North Atlantic. The funky aroma of washed-up seaweed fills the air, and damp cold still seeps out of the wooden boards we’re perched on. We’ve broken out the flip-flops and shorts but pulled hoodies on over our T-shirts. In Maine, spring means sixty-five-degree days, tops. The sun’s weak, but we’re sure it’s giving us some color.
“Have they driven to New England before?” I ask her.
“Are you kidding?” Ella says. “I think this is the first time they’ve ever driven anywhere.”
Ella’s waiting for her Aunt Ceil and Uncle Edgar. They’re only sort of relatives, actually. But they’ve been her family’s friends forever. They’re coming for a vacation from being famous vampire-novel writers. Many of Ella’s dad’s writer friends have visited Maiden Rock, but until now it’s been detective and spy types.
Ella—full name Mariella Philpotts—is the thirteen-year-old daughter of famous New York crime novelist Jack Philpotts. How can I describe Ella? First, let me say: shoes. She has a carnival of shoes in her closet. And, eyes: she has several fishing tackle boxes full of shadow and liner. Also, nails: dozens of little bottles of shimmering polish crowd her desk. And, of course, the blues: her nickname came out of her undying worship of Ella Marvell, “the uncontested queen of 1960s rhythm and blues.”
When my best friend, Zoe, left for Scotland last fall, my heart ached. Up until then, the two of us had ruled our remote coastal town of Maiden Rock, Maine—along with Zoe’s cousin, Ben. Zoe’s leaving blew up normal. After Ella and her dad came to town, I couldn’t imagine being friends with a girl who was so exotic, especially one that Ben was head-over-heels crushing over. (Yes, I was more than a tiny bit jealous.) But then I got to know her. And day by day, little by little, I found out she was okay. In fact, she was more than okay. She became a true friend.
For one thing, she helped me find my missing teacher, Ms. Stillford. And when no one else believed my theories, Ella stuck with me. And even though Ben was following her around like a puppy, she didn’t make a big deal out of it. “Ella and Quinnie” was just as important to her as “Ella and Ben.”
Three weeks before Zoe was supposed to come home for the summer, Zoe’s dad decided to stay overseas for another year. The good news? Ella’s dad liked Maiden Rock so much, he bought the old Sprague place at the end of the beach. Oh, Ella will always be more of a New Yorker than a Maiden Rocker, but that’s okay. In fact, I rely upon her New Yorkiness whenever I need an honest assessment of someone.
As Ella waits for Edgar and Ceil Waterman, I’m waiting for the new people who are moving into Zoe’s house. They have a thirteen-year-old boy, which is exciting news, since our vacation town is boy-bleak once the summer people leave after Labor Day.
The newbies’ son is named Dominic. They have described him to my mom as “studious.” Ella says that’s code for “high geek factor.” Sigh.
“My mom says the parents are professors of marine biology,” I tell her. “They’re from New Jersey. That’s pretty much the same as New York, right?”
“If they’re from Newark, they could be teaching mutant biology. It’s all fuel tanks in that place.”
“Still, the son could be cool.”
“I dunno. I smell a collection of Funko Pops coming nearer and nearer,” Ella says as she applies a final coat of Darling Daffy Gold polish to her nails.
“Funko Pops?”
“Geek toys.”
“And you know this because . . . ?”
“Because one of my dad’s nerd fans kept sending them t
o him and telling Dad he should put them in one of his novels.”
We’re sitting on my steps at #10 Mile Stretch Road. Just like all the other beach houses, this side faces the street, and the other side faces the ocean. Behind us, also overlooking the street, is my mom’s office, with three desks: her real estate-lady desk, her mayor’s desk, and her sheriff’s desk. Did I mention how small this town is? Oh, and Mom’s the postmaster too.
“Girls?” The screen door to Mom’s office creaks open. “You still want to help me with summer welcome packets?” She’s dressed in her sheriff’s uniform, which has super unflattering trousers, a weird, thick belt, and sturdy black shoes. But she’s smiling in spite of the clunky regulation footwear, so she must be having a good real-estate day.
I’m about to say, “Sure,” when something catches my eye. A car has emerged from the woods at the far end of the access road. It’s heading straight toward us, leaving a cloud of dust along the quarter mile between the woods and the beach. Ella gets on her feet, leaning to the left and then the right, trying to make out the passengers.
“I better get the keys for the Buttermans’ place,” Mom says, heading back into her office.
I call to her. “How do you know it’s the science people?”
She calls back. “It’s exactly 1:00 p.m., and they are science people. I’m figuring they’re the ones who will be on time.”
She’s right.
A silver SUV pulls up to the front of our house, and two science parents get out. And a boy.
Not bad. Black T-shirt with a small pi symbol on the chest. Not-too-baggy jeans. Vans. Of course, there is the issue of the hat. He’s wearing a flat-like-a-pancake, gray-and-brown plaid golf hat. It’s the kind my grandpa has on in a photograph hanging in the upstairs hallway (except it doesn’t have the pom-pom, thank goodness).
“Huh,” Ella whispers. “Part geek, part vintage.”
Mom walks up to the parents with her hand extended. I think she’s forgotten she has her uniform on. They look at her like, Uh-oh.
“How do you do? I’m Margaret Boyd. Welcome to Maiden Rock.”
“How do you do . . .”—the dad searches for a title—“uh, Officer?”
Mom looks down at her badge and laughs. “Ah. Yes, I’m also the sheriff. It’s a small town.”
They check out her holster as they take the keys from her.
“You’re right next door to us,” Mom says, pointing to Zoe’s house. “Best location on the beach, and we always get plowed out first in the winter.”
Dominic takes a step to the side, which happens to put him a few inches from me. I don’t move away. He smells good. Like clean sheets.
“She doesn’t carry her gun all the time,” I reassure him. “She’s got some police thing in Rook River this afternoon.”
“That’s cool,” he says. “I feel very safe now.”
“Girls?” Mom’s voice snaps me back into the moment. “Could you help our new neighbors with their luggage?”
Ella looks at her nails, then tests one hand for dryness with the back of the other. Dominic holds up his palm as if to say, Save your nails. I got it.
“Thanks, Margaret—Sheriff,” says the dad. “We can handle it.”
I am busy imagining what’s in Dominic’s bags—and hoping there are none of those Funko things—when I feel a breeze from Ella’s direction. I look sideways, and she’s rushing into the middle of the road, waving her arms like she’s marshaling in a jumbo jet. A black sedan with dark windows emerges from a cloud of gravel dust and halts in front of her. The wheel wells are splattered with spring mud, but the rest of the car is rounded, sleek, and shiny. The passenger window powers down, and Ella leans in for a hug.
2
I wait for Ceil and Edgar to park the car and get out to meet Mom and me, but they don’t.
Instead, Ella waves at me to get in the backseat with her. I look for Mom, but she’s talking to Biologist mom. Dominic has hoisted a suitcase up on his hip and he’s hauling it up the steps. I run to the black sedan and jump in.
Ella is so excited; she’s squeezing my hand and full-on smiling, which is rare for her. She usually keeps a cool thing going. She points down the road, and the car heads toward her house. I’m staring at the backs of two heads—one bald, one with the straightest, blackest hair I’ve ever seen.
“This is my aunt Ceil,” Ella says, touching Ceil’s shoulder. “And this is my uncle Edgar.” She pats his arm.
From where I’m sitting, I can’t see Edgar’s full face. Dark sunglasses sit on the bridge of a strong, pointed nose. A closely-trimmed white beard covers a set of sharp cheekbones. It’s all anchored by a knob of an Adam’s apple. He raises his hand in a kingly wave, and I notice his white, thin fingers and longish fingernails. Kind of eeew.
Ceil turns her head to me. Below her dark glasses, her face is pale and almost papery white, with dark, berry-red lips. She looks almost sickly, but when she cracks a weary smile, I can see that she’s just tired. I guess if I spent all my time writing about bloodsuckers, I’d need some time off too.
When we reach Ella’s house, her dad is waiting on the front porch.
“Edgar! Ceil! Come in, come in. So glad you’re here.”
“Oh, Jack,” says Ceil as she hugs Mr. Philpotts, “what an ordeal.”
“Driving out of the city can be like that,” he says. “But just you wait. We drive everywhere here in the Down East.”
“I don’t know,” says Edgar, “I’d like to put the car in the garage, pull down the door, and not look at it again for a long time.”
“Well, come on in and stay awhile,” says Mr. Philpotts. “Maiden Rock is the perfect place to rest and recharge.”
“We’ll carry all your stuff,” Ella offers.
Ceil puts her arm around Ella’s neck and pulls her close. It’s sweet . . . except for Ceil’s studded stiletto fingernails, which I wouldn’t want anywhere near my jugular. Maybe this is where Ella gets her love of decorative nail features.
Ella loads me up with suitcases and tote bags, and we struggle upstairs to a big bedroom overlooking the ocean. Ceil is already up there, pulling the drapes shut to block the view. She catches me watching her as she pulls off her sunglasses.
“My eyes are tired, darlings.” She rubs her temples, being careful not to poke herself in the eye with a fingernail. “Oh, that light, it’s too much. I just need to rest.”
I don’t know how long a car trip from Brooklyn to Maine takes, but I imagine it’s pretty tiring, especially when you don’t drive very often.
Ella asks her if she needs anything . . . water, diet soda, tea?
“Coffee, El. I’d kill for a double espresso.”
“I don’t know,” Ella says. “Maybe we can get it at Gusty’s.”
I look at her like she’s crazy. Even her dad, the famous crime writer, who has been begging for stronger coffee at the café for nine months, has been unable to convince my dad, aka Gusty, to get an espresso machine.
Aunt Ceil is already stretched out on the bed in her black pants and black turtleneck, dragging an arm over her eyes when we close the door.
“We aren’t going to be able to get a double espresso or any kind of espresso at Gusty’s, and you know it,” I tell Ella.
“I know. I just thought maybe now that there are three people who want it, maybe your dad would . . .”
“We’d have a better chance asking my mom. If anyone would want to please them, she would. They might buy a house here, like your dad did.”
“That would be the coolest thing ever.”
“I don’t know. They’re a little strange.”
“They. Are. Not. They’re just from Brooklyn.”
* * *
On the way to Gusty’s Café, Ella explains that Brooklyn is a world where nobody is strange, because everybody is kind of strange.
“Is everybody in Brooklyn like Edgar and Ceil?”
“No, I’m telling you—you get to be whoever you are there.”
“I don’t know. A lot, maybe.”
“I don’t think I’ll be going to Brooklyn anytime soon.”
“You’ll miss the Cyclone roller coaster at Coney Island.”
“Oh, yeah? Just wait. This summer we’ll go on the Galaxi at Old Orchard Beach.” I feel pretty sure the Galaxi can beat the Cyclone.
The afternoon regulars are in Gusty’s for plain old coffee.
Owen Loney, the lobsterman, is here with our wonderful teacher, Ms. Stillford, who became Blythe Stillford-Loney when the two of them secretly married a year ago. They kept it quiet for a while because they didn’t want to upset Ben’s uncle, John Denby, who has had a crush on Ms. Stillford forever. People really try and respect each other’s feelings around here.
Ms. Stillford waves us over to her table, where she is reading Transylvanian Drip by Victoria Kensington, aka Ceil and Edgar. It’s their new best seller about Count Le Plasma.
“Come, come, girls.” She pastes what looks like the fiftieth sticky note on a page near the end. “Is Victoria Kensington here yet, Ella? Or should I say, are they here yet?”
“They are.” Ella drops into a chair and rests her chin on her hands with a happy look on her face. “But they’re resting. They need some time off.”
“Well,” says Ms. Stillford, “I’m eager to make their acquaintance.”
“Maybe,” Ella says. “My dad says they really want to fly under the radar.”
Ms. Stillford laughs. “I’m sure Maiden Rock will respect their privacy, but please let them know that we’d all love to meet them. At their convenience. We want them to have a lovely visit.”
Dad walks up at just the right time. “Can I get you girls anything?”
“Victoria Kensington wants double espressos,” Ella says.
“What do you think, Gus?” Ms. Stillford adds. “Is it time to break down and get that espresso machine?”
Dad groans. “Oh, brother. I wonder if I can get by with one of those Nespresso makers or if I have to do the whole Italian steam job. But, hey, that’s three strong coffee drinkers now. Right, Ella? Your dad and now your aunt and uncle.”