Vampires on the Run: A Quinnie Boyd Mystery (Quinnie Boyd Mysteries)

by C. M. Surrisi

  I look at Dominic like, go set up the surveillance camera, but he’s sucked into his conversation with Ben.

  Ella presses Start, and an organ begins to play the kind of music I imagined as I read Dracula. The room becomes completely still. The guys stop looking at their cell phones. All eyes are on the screen. I get chills all up in my shoulders. The scene is a raging storm in a mountain village.

  The sky moves in dark blue waves, dropping sheets of rain.

  A steeple bell chimes in muted tones.

  A glass window shatters.

  The music spikes to ear-piercing volume.

  I squirm in my seat.

  And when Ceil appears in the doorway, dressed in a black robe with a hood, I nearly have a heart attack.

  “Aunt Ceil!” Ella says. “Look what Quinnie brought! Come watch it with us.”

  Ella nearly pushes me off the couch making room for Ceil, who glides across the carpet and slips neatly between us. I look at each of her arms for signs of injury and see, inside her left sleeve, above her thin wrist, the wrapped strips of white cotton.

  Ben grunts and picks up his phone.

  Dominic says, “I gotta call my parents. I’ll be back,” and quietly grabs his backpack and ducks out the front door.

  Good. He’s on the job.

  Ella, Ceil, and I keep our eyes riveted to the screen until the film’s end. It’s scary, and a little funny, but it jangles my nerves raw. At least three times during the movie, I notice Ceil put a glass of water to her lips. She barely takes a sip.

  Ella is right. Ceil looks terrible.

  Ben stands up and stretches. “Gotta go.”

  As the credits roll, Dominic comes back in and says, “Oh, no, it’s over! I guess I missed it.”

  I look at him and he smiles.

  He did it.

  Ceil disappears upstairs, saying she needs to rest.

  On the front porch, we wave to Ben, who takes off on the path through the marsh, toward the nature center. Afterward, Dominic tells Ella, “Hey, when I was outside calling my parents, I noticed the gulls got into your trash. Want me to pick it up?” And she distractedly says, “Yeah, sure, thanks.”

  When she and I are alone, she wrings her hands. “I’m so scared, Q. She looked so good yesterday morning. Now she’s worse again. I told her to stay off the beach at night, but she won’t. She says it’s the only fresh air she gets.”

  Ella’s worried about Ceil, but I’m worried about Ella—and her dad—being in this house. If I tell her my suspicions, she’ll tell me to stop kidding around. If I tell her I’m serious, she’ll just get mad. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. I just give her a hug and watch her worry her way back into the house.

  * * *

  Behind the Philpotts’ garage, I find bins tipped over and rolled helter-skelter. Dominic’s picking up trash while Buster and his gang are circling above us. I yell, “Freeze!”

  Dominic clutches his chest. “Jeez! Give me a coronary or something!”

  “Where have you stepped?” I demand to know.

  “Where the trash is, duh!”

  “Back up, carefully. Step away from the bins,” I say. If there’s a chance a vampire-wolf made this mess and not a gang of gulls, we should be searching for evidence.

  “Okay.” Dominic steps backward, looking behind himself as if he’s searching for the shoe prints he left on the way in. When he reaches me, he says, “What now?”

  “We have to study the area for prints—wolf prints, coyote prints, people prints.”

  “Good idea,” he says.

  We crouch down and circle the area.

  “There,” Dominic points. “And there . . . and there . . . and there.”

  It’s true. There are paw prints everywhere, as well as shoe prints. I take off my shoe and compare its sole to some of the prints. They’re narrower and longer. They could be Ella’s or they could be Ceil’s. Very few of the prints are man-sized.

  “Pictures,” I tell Dominic as I pull out my phone.

  We both start taking pics.

  When we’re done, I ask him where he put the video cam. He’s hidden it in the brush so it can pick up the path between the house and the dune above beach, including the trash area.

  “Great job,” I say.

  “It’s getting close to five,” he reminds me. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not really, are you?”

  “I can pretty much always eat, and there are things at Gusty’s I haven’t tried yet.”

  “What about your parents? Don’t you have to cook dinner for them?”

  “Not tonight.” He holds up his phone to show a text. “They’re meeting me at Gusty’s.”

  “I suppose I can drink a Moxie and tell you what you missed while the movie was on.”

  * * *

  When I open the café door, Clooney Wickham is directing people to and from tables like a traffic cop, waving a coffeepot in her left hand and a plate of rolls in her right. According to Dad, she walked in one day about twenty years ago and went to work without really asking. She’s got her own version of a uniform: T-shirt, cargo pants, and a baseball cap.

  As soon as Clooney sees us, she walks over to my usual table and hurries the slow eaters along. I spot Mom at the counter, drinking coffee and talking to Ms. Stillford. Owen Loney idles on a stool next to them, sitting like a lump, cradling a mug with his rough lobsterman hands. He’s not one for women-talk.

  I’m barely in my seat when the Moldartos walk through the door, wave to Dominic, and then step up to the counter by Mom.

  “Oh, man, the L.L.Bean boys are here,” Dominic says. “I think the one guy still has a price tag on his vest hanging down under his arm.”

  Something I don’t expect happens next. Clooney’s face brightens when she sees the visitors, and she waves them out of the line to a table where people are getting up to leave. “Here you go, fellas!”

  “John. Bob,” my dad calls out and gives them a friendly nod.

  “I guess their names are John and Bob,” I say.

  “How original,” says Dominic.

  John and Bob settle into the table like they’ve been coming here for thirty years instead of since this morning.

  Clooney’s soon back at our table with a menu and a Moxie for me. She sees us staring at John and Bob. “Those boys are from Ohio. They’re staying at the B&B for a fishing vacation.”

  She must notice my disapproving look. “They’re not so bad. They own a chain of electronic cigarette stores. They’re just a couple of guys who want to enjoy some Maine time.”

  This is too weird. If there’s one person who turns her nose up at summer people, it’s Clooney Wickham of Auburn, Maine. She is a Mainah snob through and through. I look again at the L.L.Bean boys. They’re pouring over the menu like they plan to order every item. And whoa, one of them—John or Bob—even waves Owen Loney over to their table. And whoa, Owen Loney gets up and walks over to them. And whoa on whoa, he sits down. I know Owen Loney shuns women-talk, but hanging out with the L.L.Bean boys? Really?

  The world of Maiden Rock is off its axis. I look again, and Mom and Ms. Stillford have grabbed seats with John and Bob too. But I have new respect for Dominic’s parents—they’ve stayed at the counter.

  While Dominic looks at the menu, I sip Moxie. I tell him about Ceil’s strange bandaging. About her distaste for water. We start to wonder about other examples of vampire-friendly behavior, but what is there to say? It’s pretty consistent. If you were best friends forever with a vampire, these would not be strange things to do. What’s strange is being best friends forever with a vampire.

  14

  At eight thirty that night, twelve hours before I have to face a compare-and-contrast exercise at Ms. Stillford’s, it occurs to me that once again, I missed big passages during my first reading of Transylvanian Drip. Such as: I really sped through the big crisis scene. So I decide to go back to the part where Count Le Plasma’s assistants, Treen and Vera, are in the van
with the kidnapped cat. I flip until I find it.

  Treen yanks open the van door and finds Vera with her fangs out, just about to puncture Fidela’s neck.

  “Vera! Stop!” Treen screams.

  Vera looks dazed, like she’s in a blood frenzy. Treen jumps in the van and pulls the door shut behind her. In a split second, she grabs Fidela from Vera’s quivering clutches. But that ungrateful Fidela does not realize she’s being saved. She bares her claws and starts slashing Treen’s milk-white arms and face, drawing thin lines of bright red blood. Vera’s gaze moves to Treen’s oozing wounds, and before long, there is an all-out vampire fight with a spoiled Persian in the mix. Scratches and bites everywhere, cat fur flying.

  If anyone had been standing outside the van while this was going on, they would have thought the Devil himself was courting a bobcat.

  Even though I know that the cat survives, the story sucks me back in. It’s chilly outside my window, and I want to get up and close it, but there’s no time. I turn the page.

  Treen and Vera are in rough shape after their altercation with Fidela. They’re covered in bloody scratches, and the cat is licking her paws. Next, Treen complains about how long the Count’s heist is taking. It’s been almost four hours, and Count Le Plasma hasn’t called to say he’s got the blood.

  An hour after that, he sends them a text: There’ve been some complications. Stay with the cat. DO NOT LEAVE THE VAN, he orders.

  They wait. They glare at Fidela; she glares at them. It’s a standoff inside the confined space. Then Fidela decides to use the litter box.

  Being part animal, Treen and Vera have super sharp senses of smell. The fresh and juicy litter box contents have them gagging and desperate for the cool night air. But they dutifully do not leave the van.

  A few more hours pass. The Count’s helpers feel feverish. Their scratches are inflamed. The Count has stopped answering their texts. The litter box mound is growing.

  Treen decides to leave the van and go to the blood bank to find out what’s going on. When she gets there, it’s locked up and dark. Crime scene tape is X’ed across the door.

  So she goes to the guard’s house. He’s sitting in his living room, clutching a stuffed mouse toy, weeping like a fool, and muttering, “But I did what he wanted.”

  It all comes together for Treen. They’ve been double-crossed by the Count. They’re left holding the cat, and he’s absconded with the blood.

  It’s now the middle of the night, and the house is quiet. My mind is ticking through the events that add up to Maiden Rock’s very own vampire story: our quiet town is visited by Edgar and Ceil, two writers who claim to talk to vampires and who slink around like ghastly creatures of the night. Wolves begin to howl mournfully, a cat meets its maker in a suspicious way. And if Edgar and Ceil aren’t lying and Count Le Plasma came here in wolf form to talk to them, then vampires might be . . . I stop. I don’t want to think it.

  I try to force myself to sleep. I squeeze my eyes shut. But the cat corpse mars my vision. If vampires are real, I want to cry. None of us are safe from having our blood sucked, and this is a much scarier life than my parents ever told me. The last thing in my mind before I fall asleep is a vision of Count Le Plasma telling Ceil and Edgar about how he pulled off the blood bank heist, while the two of them take frantic notes. And no matter who I tell about it, Edgar and Ceil will just agree with me, which will only make me look ridiculous.

  We really need proof to show up on that video.

  * * *

  At six thirty in the morning, I get up and go through the motions of getting dressed. I brush my teeth like a robot. It’s threatening rain again, so I grab a slicker and wait with my worries in the silent house.

  At seven ten, Ella knocks on my door, and a minute later, we knock on Dominic’s. By seven twenty, we are walking into Gusty’s to pick up the three egg sandwiches that Dad has ready for us. He also gives us a warm cinnamon bun for Ms. Stillford, wrapped in wax paper and tucked in a brown paper bag. Dominic gives Dad hound-dog eyes and gets a cinnamon bun of his own on the spot.

  As we are leaving the café, Ben and his uncle John stop in to grab their breakfast before they leave for Rook River.

  Ella says, “Wish you could come talk about vampires with us.”

  Ben smiles and ruffles her hair. “Yeah, way sorry to be missing that.”

  Ella slaps him on the arm playfully.

  He and Dominic hey each other.

  I wave.

  And we are on our way to Ms. Stillford’s.

  At seven thirty, we reach the driveway at #1 Mile Stretch Road, where a woodsy lane winds down toward the beach.

  “What’s down there?” Dominic asks.

  “The convent,” I tell him. Ella and I shoot each other glances. We haven’t been in Our Lady of the Tides since before it was shut down for renovation last fall. “It’s a spiritual center now,” is all I say.

  And as if on cue, a speeding van roars up behind us. Dominic jumps into the weeds at the side of the road. Ella and I just turn and wait for the sisters to come to a full stop.

  We may have become too trusting. The van looks like it’s coming straight toward us, so we err on the side of caution and leap to join Dominic. The van skids to a halt, lurches sideways, and slams into the row of trash bins.

  Both doors fly open and the sisters hop out. Their veils flap in the wind as they rush over to the bins, straighten them, stuff the spilled garbage back in, and dust off their hands like this happens every day.

  When they turn to us, Sister Ethel rolls her eyes. “We’re a little late for our once-a-month check-in at the convent.”

  Dominic’s mouth is hanging open. That’s understandable.

  “Headed for Blythe’s?” Sister Ethel asks.

  “Right,” answers Ella. Then, to Sister Rosie, Ella says, “I’m so sorry about Esmeralda.”

  Sister Rosie’s face clouds up, and a fat tear spills down her cheek. “Me too,” she says. It looks like real waterworks will start if she says anything more.

  I go to give her a hug and get bonked with the stiff curve of her headpiece. She leans a little, and we get the hug done, but she squeezes me so tight I miss a breath.

  “We’re a little sad that you haven’t been to visit us at the shelter this spring,” Sister Ethel says. She looks at Sister Rosie. “Today would be good. Can you come and visit after your lesson?”

  “We will, Sisters,” Ella says.

  Sister Rosie looks so miserable that it’s hard for me to say anything other than, “Sure.” But I add, “Let me ask my mom.” I know for a fact that Mom would not want us riding with the sisters, but I also know she’d think it would be a good thing for us to help them out at the cat shelter.

  Still, this means Dominic and I will have to wait to look at our surveillance video from last night. Then again, I realize it means we can investigate the attack on Esmeralda. “Maybe I can get my mom to drive us.”

  “Nonsense, your mother’s too busy. We’re happy to do it,” says Sister Ethel. “We have a pregnant calico pickup in Winston this morning, a yellow tomcat drop-off in Porterstown right after lunch, then a quick stop at Walmart. We’ll swing back and get you at three.”

  She’s right about my mom being busy. Mom’s already at the post office, sorting the mail for delivery for her postmaster job, and she has to review building permits today because she’s the mayor. And then there’s always her sheriff job. Plus, real estate buyers could need showings at any time. I guess my hesitation is taken as a yes.

  “Done and done,” says Sister Ethel. “And Ella, we’ll have a few good tunes going at the lighthouse.”

  Ella gives Sister Ethel a thumbs-up, and they do their little ritual they started last fall. The two of them begin to sing: “Trouble hanging ’round me . . . knocking at my door.”

  Dominic pushes his hat brim up with his thumb and nods his head like he’s grooving on the music. He is being so cool about this.

  They keep singing. “I give up a
little but, yeah, yeah . . . but you always want me more.”

  Honestly! In the middle of a vampire crisis, Ella and Sister Ethel are enjoying an Ella Marvell moment. It goes on for two songs before the sisters climb back into the van and peel down the convent drive. I wonder if I should explain about Sister Ethel and Ella having the common bond of being blues goddess Ella Marvell’s biggest fans, but Ella takes the lead.

  “My full name’s Mariella. I started going by Ella—”

  “Because of Ella Marvell.”

  “Exactly.” Ella is impressed that Dominic is so on top of his blues facts.

  When we reach Ms. Stillford’s, I knock on the big wooden door and she swings it open. We all gasp.

  “Whoa,” I say.

  “Ha!” Dominic says.

  “Hahahahaha!” Ella is all giggles.

  Ms. Stillford wears a long black cape and a wig of black and red tresses, and her face is powdered white. Plastic fangs protrude from behind her bloodred lips. “Vhelcome to my kazzle. Khum in. Khum in.”

  Dominic crosses himself and points two fingers at her. Ella gets her cross backward, but it’s a good effort. A couple days ago, I would have thought this was hilarious, but now I’m uneasy that Ms. Stillford’s making a joke of genuine vampire safety precautions. Dominic sees my reaction and winks at me like we should play along.

  Ms. Stillford ushers us into the hallway and leads us to her dining room, where cotton spiderwebs droop from the corners and wine glasses wait on an ornate silver tray, filled with what looks like thick red tomato juice. At each place, there’s a set of fangs. Eerie, off-key Bohemian music, like the kind in the movie, is playing. It’s too, too, too much.

  Without a word, we slip into our seats and don our fangs.

  “Shall we begin?” Ms. Stillford drops the vampire accent. “Let’s start with the reading experience. Did the books frighten you? Did they make your pulse race? Make you shiver?”

  Ella shrugs. “Not really, because I know they’re books, not real life.”

  Ms. Stillford turns to Dominic. “Nope. Not me.”

  “Come on, guys!” Ms. Stillford says. “This is good stuff. Doesn’t anyone here believe in vampires?”