“My stuff.”
“Funko Pops and sci-fi stuff?”
“No, I have lots of different stuff. I’m a very diverse person. I even have some vampire stuff. There’s definitely a Nosferatu Funko Pop on my shelf.”
“Do you have alien stuff?”
“I may have some alien stuff,” he says.
“But you don’t believe in aliens?”
“Not sure.”
“Or vampires?”
“Probably not. But you don’t have to believe in stuff to think it’s cool.”
He’s right about that. And that makes him so different from Ben. “Is that why you read Transylvanian Drip?”
“No. My parents made me read it,” Dominic says, “because your mother told them that Victoria Kensington was here and we’d get to meet her.”
“Victoria Kensington is a them: Edgar and Ceil.”
“I know that now.”
“Do you want to meet them?”
“Sure.”
“Then let’s go take them this superstrong coffee.”
5
I tell Dad we’ll take the cups of Colombian to the Philpotts’ house, and he says, “Great. They just called in an entire meal order, complete with ‘mind-crushing’ coffee, so I’ll make a really strong pot.”
In seconds, Mom is at my shoulder. I swear she has radar like a bat. She can hear every conversation in a room, even while she’s busy showing people a map, talking on her phone, and checking the speed of the sisters’ van as it leaves the parking lot.
“Quinnie, drop off the coffee and food, but do not—I repeat, do not—bother Edgar and Ceil. They are here for a relaxing vacation. They want privacy.”
“But Dominic wants to meet them.”
“I’m sure he will, but not until they’re ready. I’ve spoken to Jack Philpotts, Quinnie. They want to be left alone.”
“But when they come to Gusty’s, can we—”
“They won’t be coming to Gusty’s. They’ve arranged for daily deliveries.”
There are about ten things I want to whine about right now, the first of which is, How weird is that?
“Work with me on this, Quinnette. Can you do that? The summer people will start arriving any day now, and I need your help. This is important.”
After hearing that, what am I supposed to do?
“Sure, Mom. I’ll help.” Saying it feels better than I thought it would. I don’t even roll my eyes.
Mom squeezes my shoulder like she’s proud of me. I’m kind of proud of me too. I could have argued with her. I would have argued with her a year ago.
Dominic had stepped back during my lecture from Mom. He’s standing with his parents, a few tables away.
Mom looks at him and says to me, “You two take the delivery to the Philpotts’ house. Then you can show Dominic around Maiden Rock.”
When I tell him this, his parents think it’s a splendid idea and add that they are going to “hit the beach to gather crustal brines and other specimen.”
“Crustal brines?” I ask Dominic.
He whispers, “I’ll explain later. It’s an oceanography-ichthyology thing.”
For a second, he looks like the parent of kids who can’t wait to play in the sand.
* * *
Dominic and I stand in the Gusty’s parking lot, with me juggling a bag packed with lobster rolls, chowder, and blueberry pie in one hand, and a napkin full of cold French fries in the other. Dominic is clutching a large thermos full of strong coffee. He squats and ducks as I toss the fries into the air for the circling gulls. One of the gulls, I recognize on sight: it’s old, scarred-up Buster. He never misses a fry. I make a few hard-to-catch tosses and give up a few easy ones. After the gulls have swooped and snapped and caw-cawed their thanks, they pinwheel away.
“I can skip the gull interaction excursion next time.” Dominic straightens up and checks to make sure his hat is secure.
“It’s tradition. Plus, they’re just leftovers. The gulls might as well eat them,” I say.
“I’m surprised Ben hasn’t told your dad about saturated fats and the effect upon the avian body mass index,” Dominic says.
I look at him, trying to figure out if he’s jabbing at Ben, and if he is, whether it’s because of science–versus–sci-fi or something else—like Ella. I decide it’s neither. Just standard new-kid competitiveness. I see it every summer with the vacation kids. It especially shows up at sailing lessons. Fortunately for everyone’s water safety, the conflicts work themselves out in a couple weeks.
“Ben’s given his two cents,” I say, “but Dad doesn’t use saturated fats to cook his fries, so . . .” I raise my shoulders in the so-what salute.
We’re walking south from Gusty’s, past the Buttermans’—the Moldartos’ for the next twelve months—then past our house and down the road, toward Ella’s, which is the last house on the beach at the end of the road.
“What’s the big secret?” Dominic asks.
“What secret?”
“The writers. Why do we have to bring them food? Why can’t they come to the café like everybody else?”
I give him the explanation that’s been given to me. “They’re famous and they want to be left alone for a while. They don’t want people bugging them for autographs or whatever. That’s all.”
“Sheesh. How famous are they? They can’t make a cup of coffee?”
“Oh, famous-famous. Do you know about Ella’s dad? Jack Philpotts? He writes crime books. He’s famous too. And he can’t make a cup of coffee either. I mean, he can make it, but Ella says it tastes like motor oil.”
“Nope. Never heard of him.”
“You’ve heard of Stephen King?”
Dominic stops dead and looks at me with his eyes bugged out. “Is Ella’s dad Stephen King?”
I bust out laughing. “No. Duh. I’m just saying Ella’s dad is like Stephen King, except he writes crime stories, not horror. And Edgar and Ceil are even more famous than Ella’s dad. So they want some time off from being celebrities.”
“Do they really say they get their stories directly from the vampire, Count Le Plasma?”
“That was news to me. I only read the one book and”—I keep walking and don’t look at Dominic—“I only skimmed it.”
“That’s okay. I’m not huge into vampires either. It would have been cooler if they wrote about werewolves. Or zombies.” He widens his eyes, stiffens his arms, and staggers a few feet.
“You like zombies?” I ask.
“Zombies, werewolves, all kinds of gory stuff. Plus The Strain. I love The Strain. It’s all great. But do I stay up at night, worrying they’re going to break into my room and suck my brains out? No.”
I laugh so hard I almost drop the bag of food. “What’s The Strain?”
“It’s a show about vampirism, but—! It’s being caused by a virus that’s passed from person to person, like any other infection.”
“Eeww! Gross!”
“It’s called Code V or V5.”
“Not really.”
“Yes, it’s really called that. And it’s not just in the show—people have real-life theories about that kind of thing. You can read about it online. Nobody’s ever disproved it.”
I look at this boy walking next to me, carrying coffee, and spouting off about V5. He’s so easygoing about who he is. Geek and proud. He’s hilarious.
“If we have to walk much farther, I’m going to break into this thermos. It smells really good,” Dominic says.
“You do and you’ll have to answer to some serious coffee lovers.”
“If they even let me see them.”
“Oh, I hope you get to see them. The guy’s got, like, long fingernails.”
“How long?”
“Long like a woman’s,” I say. “And Ceil’s fingernails were long and pointy and deep red. And so were her lips.”
“Her lips were long and pointy?”
“Her fingernails. Dummy!”
Dominic smiles but
doesn’t totally concede that he was being stupid on purpose.
6
It’s getting to be late afternoon, and the sun is the hottest it’s going to be for the day. The temperature has struggled upward, but a chilly wind is blowing in from across the ocean. I’m wishing I had jeans on instead of shorts.
“When does it warm up around here?” Dominic asks. I think he’s looking at the goose bumps on my legs.
“In a couple weeks, it will be warmer.”
“Like go-in-the-water warmer?”
“The water never gets over sixty or so here. So that’s what we call warm.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter, really,” Dominic says. “Jersey’s got a shore. But we don’t actually go swimming very much. Mostly my parents take samples from it.”
I’m trying to walk in step with him, but I’m having a hard time. I try to take bigger steps and match up, but then I think he’s trying to slow down and let me catch up. First I lag, then he lags. I decide to just walk my walk, and we go along.
“Was that their car that drove in after us? The one with the tinted windows?”
“Yes. That was their car.”
“It was a seriously great car.”
By now, we’re standing in front of Ella’s. The ocean breeze should be whooshing around her house and smacking us in the face, but I swear the gusts are blowing from the opposite direction, from across the marsh behind us, pushing us a step closer to her door.
“Did you hear that?” Dominic asks.
“The creaking?”
“Yeah, like old boards straining against the wind.”
“That’s exactly what it is. Welcome to Maiden Rock. All of these places are old. Old and creaky.”
“Where’s the car?” Dominic asks.
“In the garage. Come on, let’s get the food inside while the chowder and coffee are still hot.”
Dominic is already at the old wooden garage door, shading his eyes to see through the four dirty square windows along the top. He whistles. “This is not just a car.”
“What do you mean?” I jump to see in the window but I’m a few inches too short.
“It’s exactly what I thought it was.”
“Which is what?”
“A Flying Spur.”
“What’s a Flying Spur?”
“It’s a Bentley. It’s magic. And it can go like the wind.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because a famous vampire drove a Flying Spur.”
“Oh, yeah?” I ask. “What famous vampire?”
“You are so busted.”
“What? Why?”
Dominic smirks. “Because the famous vampire who drove a Flying Spur was Count Le Plasma. And you are lucky that I outed you instead of Ella.”
He’s right. I am lucky. She would have been super mad about me skimming the book, which reminds that me she was kind of mad when she followed Ben out of Gusty’s.
“Come on,” I tell Dominic, “they’re waiting.”
I march up to the Philpotts’ front door and knock, wondering if Ella will even open the door. Dominic stands behind me like a butler, pulled-up all straight and dignified, holding the thermos.
Ella’s dad greets us, not Ella herself, so I still don’t know whether Ella’s holding a grudge.
“I’ve been expecting you, young lady,” Jack Philpotts says. “Your dad called and said he was going to get an espresso maker.”
“Great,” I say. I feel pretty sure that Mom weighed in on this.
“I told him I’d spring for the overnight delivery charges.”
I look at Mr. Philpotts to see if he’s making a joke or he really plans to pay for the delivery. It’s hard to tell with him. I decide to smile and say, “I know how much you love your coffee.”
“Damn straight,” he says and reaches for the thermos.
“Is Ella home?” I ask. I position myself to walk in once he says, She’s upstairs.
“Nope,” Mr. Philpotts replies. “She and Ben are on the beach. You can probably find them there.”
I notice a shuffle behind me and realize I’ve forgotten to introduce Dominic. “Mr. Philpotts, this is Dominic. His family just moved into the Buttermans’.”
“Hey there, Dominic,” Jack Philpotts says. “That’s a good location. We lived there for nine months. Nice beachfront.”
Dominic falters like he doesn’t know if he should extend a hand to the famous author, what with Mr. Philpotts’s arms being full of takeout. “Yeah, I guess we get plowed out first.”
“That you do,” Mr. Philpotts says. “Well, see you, kids.”
He closes the door, and I hear him call out, “Ceil, the coffee’s here. Edgar?”
I give Dominic a wave. “This way. I’ll show you the beach.”
We walk around the Philpotts’ house. From here, unlike my family’s place, you have to climb a small dune and some rocks to get to the beach.
The North Atlantic is dark and deep with a silvery sheen across the surface. You know just by looking at it that if you put your leg in, it will send shivers clear through to your bone. Yet we spot four people there, knee-deep in the surf.
Ben and Ella are pushing each other as the low tide rolls across their shins. Ella laughs and tries to make Ben fall in, while Ben grunts, hopping to stay on his feet. When they see us, Ella walks out of the water toward me.
“Quinnie! Come in! It’s great.”
For about a second, I consider whether I should be leading Dominic anywhere near Ben. Then I think, Hey, what’s gonna happen will happen.
“I’m coming!” I yell and run to the water, shedding my flip-flops along the way and then stomping in the surf.
When I’m good and soaked through, I look up for Dominic. He’s sitting on top of a huge rock, with his elbows resting on his knees. I wave at him to come in, but he shakes his head.
“Come on!” I scream at him and splash some water.
Ella looks his way and yells, “It’s great!”
Dominic scoots to the edge. I think he’s going to ditch his shoes and hat and join us. But he doesn’t. He jumps down and heads up to dry sand, toward the other two people up the beach—his parents. Poor guy. He doesn’t have his beach legs yet. And he’s getting sand inside his shoes. It’s kind of painful to watch. Give him a month and he’ll blend in . . . maybe.
I spread my arms and let the cool salty air—now blowing from the correct side of the universe—kiss my skin.
“You know I don’t think your aunt and uncle are weird, right?” I ask Ella.
“I know,” she says, then messes up my hair even more than the wind has.
It’s a necessary fib, because I truly think “Brooklyn” doesn’t begin to explain them. But she loves them, so I will like them.
I splash Ella a few more times before running down the beach after Dominic.
The Moldartos have set large plastic tackle boxes out on the sand. Tiers of small test tubes line the insides of the boxes, with a colored plastic cork in each tube. One tier has red corks, one yellow, one green, and on and on.
Mrs. Doctor Moldarto puts little snips of seaweed into yellow-corked tubes and labels them, while Mr. Doctor fills red-corked tubes with seawater. Dominic is raking the sand with his fingers.
“Hey!” He hands his mother a small crab, holding it by the back of its golden yellow body while its small, intricate legs and claws fidget in the air, trying to scurry sideways from danger.
Dominic’s mom grabs a tube with an air-hole stopper and drops in the crab. She and Mr. Doctor exchange words like hippoidea and ocypodinae.
Dominic turns to me and says, “I’ve got to go make dinner. Wanna come?”
I look at my phone, and it’s somehow become five fifteen. I know Mom will be home soon, and Dad will be turning the café over to the night manager, Clooney Wickham. Clooney is the twin sister of Miss Wickham, the owner of our local B&B. She comes every summer from Auburn to help out nights and Sundays and enjoy some summer vacation in he
r free time.
“I can’t.”
We walk up to the platform between our two houses and climb the four wooden steps. I imagine Dominic in the kitchen, cooking while his parents are absorbed in their research samples. I’ve never cooked for my family, what with my dad being a chef and all. We usually eat at the café or he brings café food home. I take that back. I make great toast.
“What’s your phone number?” Dominic asks me and takes out his phone to type it in.
I put out my hand like, give, and he hands the phone over. “Now send me a text and I’ll yoink yours,” I tell him.
A second ago I was chilly, but this number-sharing warms me up. Before he can say anything, I reach up and grab his hat. He grabs it back and pulls it back in place.
A lot of guys would have been mad about this, but not Dominic. “I see you covet my hat,” he says. “Well, maybe, if you’re a good Maiden Rock tour guide, I’ll let you try it on.”
I get the teeniest inkling that under certain circumstances . . . if he doesn’t do something really weird . . . and if the number of Funko Pops is not horrifying . . . I could fall into crushland.
7
I’m sitting on my bed at nine o’clock, reading my emails on my tablet and—yay!—there’s one from Ms. Stillford. I open it and find a link to download Bram Stoker’s Dracula.
I know I’m going to have to re-read, or rather, really read Transylvanian Drip, but for now, I might as well read Dracula. It’s old. It’s probably hokey. Maybe it’ll be funny.
The story starts with Jonathan Harker, who is an English real estate man, bringing papers all the way to Transylvania for Count Dracula. Real estate people really went the distance for their clients in those days. I wonder if Mom has read this?
By nine thirty, it’s getting dark, so I put my head down but keep reading. And it gets later, and I keep reading. And it gets later, and the coach driver who takes Jonathan to the Count’s castle turns into a wolf that then turns into the Count. The castle gets creepier, and soon I notice that it’s gotten really cold in my room. Maine nights normally get cold, but this is uncomfortable—as if the chill in the Count’s castle is seeping into my house. I slip out of my covers, dash across the room, grab some socks and a fleece, and bolt back to bed.
Vampires on the Run: A Quinnie Boyd Mystery (Quinnie Boyd Mysteries) Page 3