I start to think, Is this a trick? Does Ms. Stillford know something? “Were you scared?” I ask her.
“Sure. Especially by Dracula,” she says. “The setting was believable and the descriptions were so palpable. I thought it generated reader empathy for Jonathan.”
“But . . .” I try to continue without sounding crazy. “Do you believe in vampires?”
Ms. Stillford grins, pulls three clipped stacks of papers out from under a book, and passes one to each of us. The cover page says: Bibliography: Rausch, Menzel. Vampirism—The Clinical Analysis; Baumburger, Marshall. The Science Behind Vampirism; Jasliska, Brian W. Frantic Bites: Clinical Evaluation of Vampirism.
We all look up at her like, What the . . . ?
“I thought we might approach this from more than a literary perspective,” Ms. Stillford says.
I leaf through the document, which is at least thirty pages of small print. When I look at Dominic, he’s a goner—already nose-deep in it. I don’t know whether to thank Ms. Stillford or cry. Will this be the proof that vampires really do exist?
“‘While being well explored in the arts, the appearance of behavior that resembles vampirism has also been found in a series of clinical studies, in which it is associated with a series of other pathologies.’” Dominic is reading out loud to himself. “Oh, man, this is fantastic.”
I flip through the pages until a gray-tone photograph jumps out at me. The caption reads: Fig. B: Photograph of forensic bite mark from Ashville, North Carolina, Country Coroner’s Office.
“Is it like a real thing or a crazy-in-the-head thing?” I say without attempting to read any of it.
“Looks like someone got chomped either way,” Dominic says.
There is no avoiding the crushing feeling in my chest.
Vampires can and do exist, and Le Plasma is one of them.
15
Ella, Dominic, and I leave Ms. Stillford’s with a new assignment—choose a favorite passage from Transylvanian Drip to read aloud—but all I can think about is how I can prove that an honest-to-goodness vampire is visiting Edgar and Ceil. It’s one thing to read about vampire case files. It’s another to have one running loose in your town.
In the meantime, though, I have another mission. When we ran into Sister Rosie and Sister Ethel this morning, we didn’t exactly say where we’d meet them later on, but I know I’m going to need somebody’s approval to get in that van and I figure my best chance is Dad. We walk the way of Miss Wickham’s B&B and Loney’s Lobster Pound on our way back to Mile Stretch Road. The path takes us toward the Maiden Rock Yacht Club.
“Oh, no. There they are,” Ella says.
John and Bob, in their L.L.Bean outfits, are headed toward the yacht club too. They’re talking so intently, they don’t realize we’re behind them.
“I wonder when these guys are actually going to go fishing,” Dominic says. “I mean, didn’t they come here for a fishing trip?”
John and Bob veer toward the yacht club door, but instead of going through the door, they walk around the building.
“Duh, guys,” Ella says, “you gotta go inside to rent a boat.”
We pass the yacht club and head toward Gusty’s. The pool is on our right, as is the T-shaped yacht club boat dock. John and Bob point at the various boats, still in a deep conversation.
“Those guys have no idea what they’re doing,” Ella says. “Even I know those are sailboats. You can’t really fish from a sailboat. Right, Quinnie?”
“You can, but it’s kind of complicated,” I answer.
“The L.L.Bean boys don’t look like they can handle any kind of complicated,” Dominic says.
* * *
I’m relieved to see my mom’s car is not parked outside Gusty’s. That means I can ask Dad and only Dad about riding in the sisters’ van. He was great about my going to Ella’s yesterday. Mom will probably catch me, but the trip is worth the risk. I want to find out exactly what happened to Esmeralda, and the scene of the cat-crime might provide some proof that Count Le Plasma has been creeping around Maiden Rock.
“Hi, guys!” Dad calls out from behind the pastry case. “How was school today? Want a whoopie pie?”
Dominic looks a little confused.
“Do you not know what a whoopie pie is?” I ask.
“Correct. I do not know what a whoopie pie is,” he says.
“Even I know what a whoopie pie is,” Ella says. She lands on a stool at the counter and spins around. “Yes, please, and thank you!”
I direct Dominic to a stool, then tell him to sit down and get his mouth ready. Dad puts a whoopie pie on a plate in front of each of us. “Soft chocolate cookie, cream filling, soft chocolate cookie. Pick it up with two hands and . . . bite in!”
“It’s the size of a sandwich,” Dominic says. He holds the pie up and turns it over a couple of times, then takes a bite. As with all first timers, his eyes roll back in his head. He takes bigger and bigger bites until it’s history. Two bites into his second whoopie pie, he manages to say, “These are sooo . . . good!”
“Mmm-hmm,” Ella and I say with our mouths full.
Dad laughs. “I do love to watch a first whoopie pie experience.”
“Dad.” This seems like the perfect time.
“Quinnie.”
“Dad, Dominic hasn’t seen Pidgin Beach yet, and the sisters have invited us to come to the lighthouse this afternoon and help out a little, and they are stopping by to see if we want a ride, and—”
“Yes, you can go, but no, you can’t ride with the sisters. I’ll call Mom to give you a ride. She’s in her office.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and walks toward the kitchen. I hear him telling Mom about our plans. He turns and smiles at me and gives me the thumbs-up.
“They’re here,” Ella says. She’s looking out the window at the Gusty’s parking lot, where the sisters’ van has just skidded in.
Sister Rosie jumps out and charges through the door. “Gus!” she calls to Dad. “A blueberry pie and six whoopie pies to go, please.” Then she says to me, “Are you guys ready?”
I don’t want to tell her that my parents won’t let me ride with her and Sister Ethel because they drive like maniacs. I’m struggling to come up with a better reason when Dad comes to my rescue. “Sister, Margaret is on her way to drive them over. She’s got some business in Pidgin Beach.”
That’s enough for Sister Rosie. The sisters are perfectly happy not to cross paths with Mom, given their long history of being way too lax about the law. “Well, I guess we’ll just pay for our goodies and see you at the lighthouse, then.” The portly woman grabs the goods fast and pays in a blink.
The sisters drive away from the café at about five miles an hour, clearly expecting to be seen by Mom. A few minutes later, Mom pulls in with her real estate SUV and powers down the window. “Somebody here call for a taxi?”
Sometimes Mom is all sheriff, and sometimes she’s all mom. Right now she’s all mom, with a great smile that uses her whole face. Knowing she’s not going to give me a lecture about riding with the sisters takes the crimp out of my shoulders.
Ella and Dominic climb in the backseat, and I hop into the front. Mom turns to me, squeezes my hand, and says, “Thanks for asking.”
I look to see if Dominic and Ella saw the hand squeeze. They didn’t. I’m a little embarrassed that Mom’s saying thanks when I was actually trying to evade her, but I settle into the ride out to the rocky little outcropping called Pidgin Beach. There are no pigeons there. Just a lot of seagulls . . . and a lot of cats. But not as many cats as there used to be—and I’m just hoping the number won’t get smaller while Ceil and Edgar are in town.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, we’ve driven out to the main road, headed south a short bit, then looped all the way back to the ocean. We wind up at a point on the coast approximately fifty feet south of Ella’s house. You have to drive to Pidgin Beach rather than walk because there’s practically a mountain between it and Maiden R
ock. The rocky coastline protrudes so far out into the ocean, and it’s so craggy and treacherous, that you can’t climb over it—unless you’re a wolf. Or maybe the Count flew in as a bat and avoided the slippery coastline completely.
As we drive in, I notice how sad the little town of Pidgin Beach looks. Nothing like Maiden Rock, where there’s a mayor to make sure standards are maintained. The Maiden Rock summerhouses take a beating from the storms in the winter and need serious fixing-up in the spring, which Mayor Boyd makes sure they get. But the sea and raging wind bash Pidgin Beach all year round, and no one seems to care.
“Yikes,” Dominic says as he looks toward the ocean. Waves hit the coast twenty feet below him, over the edge of the road. “Where’s the beach part of Pidgin Beach?”
“Not every beach is sandy,” says Mom. “Some are just rocky stretches.”
“Why do people live here?”
“Not many people do, and it’s not a vacation spot, that’s for sure.” Mom turns right and tucks the SUV into the short parking space next to the sisters’ van. “This crumbling lighthouse was the only reason Pidgin Beach was designated as a municipality. And the light isn’t even working anymore.” Mom seems to be talking to herself, but then points to the clock on the dashboard. “It’s 3:50 now. I’ll be back to get you guys at 5:45, while it’s still light. How’s that?”
“Good.” I say. Go. Go. Suddenly I’m eager for her to get going so I can start investigating.
She backs out and inches forward, then stops and waves me over to the car. “Don’t climb on the rocks. They’re treacherous, not like our beach. And don’t handle the cats,” Mom says. “Many of these animals are diseased.”
“Don’t climb, don’t slip, don’t pet. We got it, Mom.”
She laughs. “Remember: 5:45, honey. Right here.”
Ella and Dominic are already halfway down the sandy path to the lighthouse. Dominic’s craning his neck to take it all in. He has to hold his hat on. “Talk about the Hotel Transylvania,” he says.
“I think it’s the coolest thing ever,” Ella says. She wore flip-flops, which means she has to be careful about her toes, which have a coat of her newest polish: Azure Meridian Blue.
The Pidgin Beach lighthouse is ancient. It’s not as large or majestic as the Portland Head, but it has a sea-lashed charm. The stones have changed from gray to salt-washed white, and the whole thing leans towards the Atlantic like the Tower of Pisa—which is why it no longer has a light at the top. Nowadays, the Pidgin Beach Cat Rescue calls it home, but today you’d never know it, since we can’t see or hear any cats. Every other time I’ve been here, cats wandered along the path, cats perched on the top points of boulders, cats lolled on any stretch of ground where the sun shined. This afternoon, there’s not a feline in sight.
Dominic is the first one to the bottom of the path. He’s picking up pebbles when the small door at the base of the lighthouse flings open. Sister Rosie presents a tray with three cups of apple cider, her signature welcome gift. Sometimes she changes it to cocoa.
“Come in, come in. Have some cider,” she says. She tries to keep cats from sneaking out the door. “I’m keeping them all inside until this, you know, coyote business is over.”
The interior of the lighthouse is dim and musty-smelling. To the left of the entrance is a hallway. To the right, a wooden stairway winds up and up.
“What’s down the hall?” Dominic asks like he couldn’t guess from the squalling.
“Oh, that is the indoor cat quarters and fixer-upper room,” says Sister Rosie. “That’s where they’re all staying right now. Ordinarily we use it for bathing and grooming the sick ones.”
“Are you a vet?” he asks.
“Goodness, no.” Sister Rosie laughs. “Ethel is the scientific one. She took a vet tech course. And Doc Norton comes by regularly. Me? I just love ’em up.”
“And you bake,” I add.
“Oh, yes. I do love to bake. In fact, I’ve been feeling a rhubarb cake coming on.”
I wonder how two women with a blueberry pie and six whoopie pies could need a rhubarb cake.
Sister Rosie leads us up the stairway at a slow pace, huffing and puffing and joking about being not as fit as she should be.
After a six-floor climb, we emerge into a large, bright room with a kitchenette, table, living room area, and bunk beds. Against the round wall stands a large table with a computer, a large monitor, and a printer grinding out a stack of blue papers. Sister Ethel is at the computer.
She doesn’t turn around, but she waves and says, “Hi, kids.”
We all say, “Hi.”
“Who’d like to fold fliers?”
“Me.” I jump at a task that does not involve touching the cats.
Sister Rosie walks to an open window and motions for Dominic and Ella to come look. “You can see the top of Ella’s house from here, if you get up on your tippy toes and look over the rocks.”
As soon as they get on their tippy toes and spot it for themselves, I’m over there too. Sure enough, you can see the house. And you can see lots of the beach too. It really wouldn’t have been that hard for a vampire to get past those rocks. Heck, a bat could fly right in.
I walk over to Sister Ethel, who is fiddling with the sisters’ rescue website.
“Placement. That’s the real solution,” she says. “Rehoming as quickly and efficiently as possible. Check this out.” The home page has a picture of the lighthouse and some distinguished-looking cats relaxing on the rocks. Rescue, No-kill, Neuter, and Rehome. In God We Trust scrolls across the bottom.
“Where did you find Esmeralda?” I ask quietly.
Sister Ethel’s eyes dart to Sister Rosie, who is occupied with Dominic and Ella at the window. “Quinnie, you don’t want to know.”
“I do,” I say. Then I quickly add, “For school. I’m studying it.”
She hesitates, then says, “I opened the front door, and there she was. Left at our doorstep. Thank goodness Rosie didn’t see her.”
“I heard it was . . . messy.” I can’t think of another way to put it.
“Poor thing,” Sister Ethel says. “I don’t think she really suffered. It looked like a fast attack.”
“Was there a lot of blood?” I ask.
“Not as much as you’d think.”
16
I’m sitting in the front seat of Mom’s SUV, holding a warm rhubarb cake in my lap. It smells soury sweet. Somehow, Sister Rosie managed to whip it up during the two hours we were at the lighthouse. On top of the aluminum foil that keeps me from getting sticky, Sister Rosie attached a photocopy of an ancient recipe card in curly handwriting that says, Mary Ellen Vetter’s Rhubarb Cake.
When Sister Rosie handed the cake and recipe to me, I asked her who Mary Ellen Vetter was, and she told me she was her grandmother’s next-door neighbor on the farm in Dayton, New Jersey, where she grew up.
Dominic’s ears had perked up at that. “Dayton? I know where Dayton is. That used to be farmland?”
“Almost everything used to be farmland, dear,” said Sister Rosie. “Our farm was one of the first farms to grow tomatoes for the Gephart’s Soup Company.”
“That’s so cool,” said Dominic. “I’ll have to tell my parents that. They’ll love it.”
“I’ll have to make them one of my tomato-soup chocolate cakes.”
Eek. That brings the Dayton, New Jersey, talk to a halt. Fortunately, we made it to the car with only a rhubarb cake.
“Do you have any homework?” Mom asks us all.
“We have to pick a passage to read,” I say.
“I’m picking the cat-in-the-van scene,” says Ella.
“I’m going with the Count in the vault,” Dominic says.
“How about you, Quinnie?” Mom asks.
I’m looking out the window, thinking about Esmeralda. “I don’t know yet. The man getting his cat back is a happy part. Maybe the only happy part.”
* * *
It’s seven in the evening, and I�
�m sitting at my bedroom window, watching as Dominic leaves his house and runs down the beach toward Ella’s. He’s going to retrieve the video camera and its evidence.
Shifting my gaze down the beach toward the convent, I see the Morgans have arrived for the season. They’re walking in the sand with their pant-legs rolled up, and their little grandchildren are spinning in circles around them. The scene surprises me, since I thought Mom told people to stay away from the beach. I want to yell, “Get in your house! There are vampires on the loose!”
Two more people walk down the beach from the direction of the convent. It’s John and Bob, wearing the same gear and bouncing down the beach with fishing rods on their shoulders like a middle-aged Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. They stop near our house and put down their tackle boxes. What a couple of doofuses—they’re going to try and fish in the surf with rowboat rods.
My phone buzzes—a text.
Dominic: I’ve got it.
Me: Hurry.
I turn back to watching John and Bob while I wait for Dominic.
Me: Seriously hurry. You just missed seeing one of the L.L.Bean boys hook himself in the bee-hind trying to cast a fishing rod into the surf.
As soon as I see Dominic’s hat bobbing down the beach, I go downstairs and listen at Mom’s office door. She’s on the phone talking to someone about a cancellation fee. I listen until Mom gets her way and starts copying down a credit card number, then head for the kitchen, where Dad has the kettle on.
The smell of strong coffee hits me in the face. Dad’s poised over a line of mugs, pouring boiling water into ten different individual filters.
I give him a hug. “What’s this?”
“I’m cracking the coffee nut,” he says. “I learn better this way . . . a cup at a time.”
“Are you drinking all of this?”
“Just tasting.”
“Good, because if you drank all of this you’d never be able to sleep ever again,” I say.
It works. He pinches my cheek. He has a smile on his face. I realize he almost always has a smile on his face.
“Dad.”
“Quinnie.”
Vampires on the Run: A Quinnie Boyd Mystery (Quinnie Boyd Mysteries) Page 8