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

by C. M. Surrisi

“Can I go over to Dominic’s, even though it’s darkish? To work on a school project for tomorrow?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. Did you ask Mom?”

  “She’s talking to a cancellation.”

  “Okay, but can you do it in one hour?”

  I absolutely accept this condition. “Yes. One hour.”

  “All right. Git!”

  In less than five minutes, I’m in Dominic’s room, pacing back and forth as he downloads the video to his computer so we can look at it on his big monitor. We don’t talk. He clicks and clicks, and finally the screen jumps to life.

  “I set it to start at 9:00 p.m. and stop at 8:00 a.m.,” he says.

  The screen is mostly dark, and our pupils take a few seconds to adjust. We can hear the ocean crashing on the shore. Clouds move across the screen, casting shadows and then letting moonlight shine through.

  After about five minutes of nothing happening, I consider the time stamp in the bottom corner. We have eleven hours of video to watch in the next fifty-five minutes.

  “Can you speed it up?” I ask him.

  “I can fast-forward until we see something.”

  “Hurry. Do it.”

  Dark and light wash over the scene in rapid waves, with no one and nothing passing between the beach and the house. Until something flickers by the trash bins.

  “Stop!” I say. “Go back, go slow.”

  Dominic backs up the video, and we lean in.

  “It’s just gulls,” he says.

  We watch gulls try and tip the bins for a minute.

  “Go fast again,” I say.

  Minutes pass.

  “Stop!” I say. “Back up.”

  From the left side of the screen, a dark figure, slightly hunched over, walks past the trash bins and out toward the beach.

  “Can you slow it down?” I ask.

  My heart is racing, and I can tell Dominic is excited too, because he tosses off his hat and adjusts his chair. He moves the cursor over the back arrow, which sends the video flying in reverse, then hits stop when the figure returns.

  We look at each other and take deep breaths in unison.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “Ready.” I can feel my heart beating.

  Dominic presses play, and we focus on the figure. “I’ll go frame by frame,” Dominic says. He clicks around until the video appears as a series of pictures at the bottom of the screen. He enlarges the first one, then toggles one picture at a time as the figure ticks through its movements.

  On the sixth tick, I yell, “Stop! Look.” I point to the left arm, which has swung forward. At the wrist is a white bandage. “That’s Ceil.”

  “Okay,” Dominic says, “Ceil is going for a walk on the beach.”

  “Speed it up to normal again,” I say. “Turn up the sound.”

  We watch. We listen. There’s wild thrashing of underbrush, and very soon, we hear some stray squeaking sounds.

  After that comes silence, except for the wind and surf.

  We wait and watch. Minutes go by with nothing happening.

  “Speed it up, speed it up.” I press on Dominic’s shoulder.

  The screen lurches forward. The time ticker in the corner moves from 11:00 p.m. to midnight to 1:00 a.m.—all the way to 4:00 a.m.—with no one, and nothing, crossing the screen. Then, once again, a figure appears on the right and walks from the beach back to the trash bins. Ceil. She lifts the lid and puts something in the bin, then disappears toward the house.

  17

  That night, I toss and turn. The air is sticky in my room. I get up and wash my face. It doesn’t help. So I pick up my tablet and open Dracula.

  Near the end, there’s a part where a vampire appears to a lunatic in an asylum—as a rat, then as a spider—offering to make him immortal. It makes me realize how many forms vampires can take. Wolves and bats and spiders and rats—at a minimum. Wolves. Bats. Spiders. And rats!

  Wait . . . we forgot to look in the trash bin! When Ceil came back, she threw something away! What was it? Oh, man. Why didn’t I tell Dominic to check the trash before heading home? Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

  I know I can text him to go. He believes. He agrees. He’ll sneak out.

  Me: We need to check the trash bin to see what Ceil threw away.

  Dominic: Done and done.

  Me: You checked?

  Dominic: Buster and his buddies beat us to it.

  Me: What was it?

  Dominic: I think there’s a need for a gull funeral.

  Me: A dead gull?

  Dominic: Dead. Picked over. Pecked and plucked.

  Me: By other gulls?

  Dominic: My dad says, don’t be the unlucky chicken who trips in the coop.

  Me: Birds.

  Dominic: Birds. Brutal. Bloodthirsty.

  Me: Blood?

  Dominic: Now that you mention it, no blood . . .

  Eeew. Gross. Disgusting. I can’t believe I have to cope with this. I feel like I need to breathe into a paper bag.

  Suddenly, the situation becomes clear.

  Me: I’m wrong. I’ve been wrong all along.

  Dominic: What do you mean? Ceil was out late at night. She totally could’ve been meeting with Count Le Plasma.

  Me: No. She’s wasn’t. Ceil didn’t meet with Count Le Plasma. Ceil IS Count Le Plasma.

  I search for breath. How could I not have noticed it right away? The clues were all there: the pitch-black hair, the white skin, the bloodred lips, the dark clothes, the creepy long nails, staying out of the light—the covered mirrors! Vampires’ reflections don’t show up in mirrors! The mirrors would give them away.

  And the coincidences are just too coincidental:

  The first night Edgar and Ceil go on the beach, a wolf appears and a cat is killed—ripped throat but no blood.

  The next night, John Denby grazes a mysterious howling animal, and Ceil starts sporting an injury to her arm.

  The third night, Ceil goes on the beach and then drops a seagull in the trash moments later. Another animal snack.

  It doesn’t matter that I’m a good detective, because no one is going to believe me. I can hear it now. If I say there are vampires in Maiden Rock, I’ll hear: “Don’t get so worked up, Quinnie.” “No need for all the drama, Quinnie.” “Settle down, Quinnette.” If I say Edgar and Ceil are the vampires, the lid will come off this town . . . and Ella will never speak to me again.

  Fine. I admit I have a little bit of a reputation for being excitable, especially when I think I’m on the trail of a mystery. But pardon me if I think it runs in the family. I mean, I didn’t decide to have these instincts. They’re hereditary. Like mother, like daughter. But accusing Edgar and Ceil Waterman of being vampires is not going to go down well with Sherriff Boyd, Mayor Boyd, Realtor Boyd, or Mom.

  What I need is hard evidence. I need to have a video of Ceil the vampire actually attacking an animal. And the best way to get that is to follow her. There’s almost no other way than surveillance: tailing and stakeouts.

  I need to get close to the Watermans and watch their every move.

  Of course, it would help if they didn’t stay locked up in the house all the time. And it would help if I wasn’t grounded from going out at night or going on the beach or going pretty much most places in town. Either I’ve got to break the rules, or Dominic is going to have to do a lot of the really hard and dangerous late-night stuff.

  But in the meantime, I have to get ready for school tomorrow.

  * * *

  All day long at Ms. Stillford’s, I’m distracted. I’m so focused on real threats, I’ve completely forgotten about Dracula. How will I get in a position to catch Edgar and Ceil at their dastardly deeds?

  Ella is busy reading her favorite passages from Transylvanian Drip. Dominic keeps kicking me under the table, and when I look at him he gives me an encouraging smile. Ms. Stillford is talking about the handout she gave us, asking what we think about “the science of vampirism and the V5 virus.”

  I sponta
neously yelp and startle myself. V5! Could Ella catch the V5 virus?

  “Where’s your mind, Quinnie?” Ms. Stillford says. “You’re not with us today. Want to share?”

  “Sorry. No. It’s nothing. You’re right, I’m drifty.”

  Ms. Stillford, wonderful teacher that she is, saves me. “Some times are like that, Quinnie. Join us when you’re ready. But try and hang in there a little longer. Eighth grade is almost over. Just one more day after this.”

  * * *

  The next to last day of school should be a big deal. I should be thinking about celebrating, but I’m torn between wanting to run home and taking Dominic aside so we can make our surveillance plans. My anxiety level reaches the stratosphere once I realize Ella could be turned into a vampire. I’d been telling myself that Ceil and Edgar wouldn’t bite her neck, but what if they have that vampire virus? Could she catch it if they sneeze around her? Still, I take one look at Dominic and Ella as we leave Ms. Stillford’s, and I know it’s no use trying to do anything until we’ve hit Gusty’s for an after-school snack.

  It’s three thirty when the three of us slam into the café. Dominic wants two whoopie pies, and Ella is desperate to try an espresso from Dad’s fancy new machine. Dad’s placed it so customers can see its copper-lever beauty behind the counter when they walk in. It’s a little overwhelming, actually.

  “Hi, Dad. Is that it?”

  “This is it,” he mutters. Packing material is scattered everywhere, and an instruction manual is unfolded into a map-size sheet on the counter.

  I slide onto a stool and spin the instruction map around. Then I turn it a few times and flip it over. “This isn’t in English.”

  “Oh, yeah. There’s a small little box with the English how-to’s, but you need a darn magnifying glass to read it,” Dad grumbles.

  Dominic and Ella have lined up on the counter seats next to me, watching Dad try and figure out the Espresso Milano.

  “Quinnie, go ahead and get snacks. I’m busy here,” he says.

  It doesn’t take me a minute to slip around the counter and grab two whoopie pies.

  “Ella? I don’t think the espresso is going to be ready soon. Want coffee from the pot?” I look toward the good old round-like-a-ball glass coffeepot.

  “Sure,” she says. She’s fixated on watching Dad. “Do you want any help, Mr. Boyd?”

  “Nope. Nope. I got this. It just takes a little concentration.”

  I pour water in glasses and slide them across the counter, then resume my front row seat. I fidget while Ella and Dominic loll over their food and coffee.

  Before long, Ben arrives with his uncle John. Ben sits down with the rest of us kids, and his uncle walks behind the counter to stick his nose in the mechanical confusion. He picks up the instruction map, turns it over a few times, and tosses it down by the napkin holder.

  A few minutes later, Owen Loney comes in. He’s instantly drawn into the scene. Now multiple men in T-shirts and cargo pants are blocking the espresso maker, scratching their heads and saying things like “that’s one savage coffee machine” and “hard tellin’.”

  There’s one whoopie pie left on Dominic’s plate when the café door opens. Ms. Stillford is carrying a large box of something that clinks and rattles. When she sets it on the counter and flips back the top, we see two sets of old-fashioned cafeteria glasses. She lines them up on the counter.

  “Here you go, Gus. Tempered espresso glasses. The tall ones are for lattes. Washed and ready to go. Now, one latte, please . . . whenever you’re ready.”

  * * *

  An hour later, espresso is squirting and sputtering out of the copper contraption. Everyone has had one except Ben, who sticks to milk. My latte smells better than it tastes, but drinking something hot from a glass is a fun experience.

  Dad’s first espresso gave him a foamy mustache that he wiped away with the back of his hand. The second had him hopping around behind the counter. Now he’s on his third, buzzing around the café with a tray of samples and getting applause all around.

  It seems like a great afternoon for Gusty’s. There is sunlight shining on the town for the first time in days, telling us that the world is warm and safe. All the grown-ups are focused on something new, something good, something they crave. If they only knew what was lurking at the end of the lane.

  Dad hands Ella a big sack of food and gives Ben the giant thermos.

  “Tell your dad,” he says to Ella, “there’s the real stuff in there. Fully-leaded depth charges.”

  “Where’re you going?” John Denby calls to Ben from the counter. “Don’t you have homework?”

  I jump in before Ben can answer.

  “I can take the thermos.” I look over to Dad. “Can I take the thermos?”

  “Okay. But be home by”—he looks at his watch—“six.”

  Ben looks bummed. “Yeah, I got homework.”

  Dominic says, “That sucks. I’ll hang with you.”

  He stands next to Ben, digging his hands in his pocket, genuinely sympathizing. And instantly Dominic goes on my list of favorite people. I mean, how much more can you ask of a person than they help you hunt vampires and they’re good to your friends?

  18

  After a too-brief stroll in the bright sunlight, my eyes adjust to the gloomy interior of Ella’s house. We head straight for the kitchen. When I see Ceil, my heart skips a beat. Ella had mentioned on the way over that Ceil’s health was getting worse, and if I didn’t know the truth, I’d say Ella was right. She’s sitting at the table, wearing dark glasses. She doesn’t look milky white. She looks pale and gray. Her lips form a thin, colorless line.

  “Hey, Aunt Ceil. We brought real espresso depth charges and lots of food.”

  Ceil doesn’t seem to hear at first. Then she startles at the sound of the paper bag being unpacked. “Oh, good. Great.”

  Ella pours a cup for Ceil and puts it in front of her.

  I say, “Hi.” I shiver. I just said hello to a real vampire.

  “Hi,” says Ceil. “You guys home from school?”

  “Uh-huh,” Ella says. At the same time, she catches my eye and shakes her head in worry.

  “That’s good.” Ceil takes a drink.

  I immediately want to pull out my phone and google: Do vampires drink coffee? Did Dracula drink wine? I can’t remember. Do vampires eat normal food at all? Who’s eating all the food Dad’s sending here?

  No sooner do I wonder this than Mr. Philpotts and Edgar come into the kitchen, apparently led by their noses.

  “This smells great.” Ella’s dad pulls out a lobster roll and some slaw. He hands Edgar a Gusty burger. “Ceil? There’s chowder and a . . .” He reads Dad’s handwriting on the side of a wrapped sandwich: “Vermont cheddar grilled cheese with pickle and mustard.”

  “You know, I’m just not hungry right now. Save the sandwich for me. I’ll eat it later.” She takes another sip of the depth charge. I want to think that she’s just sick, not evil. She looks sick. She acts sick. But I don’t know the difference been a sick human and a sick vampire. I’d sure like to see her eyes.

  “Will do,” Mr. Philpotts says and puts the chowder on his plate. “Well, I’m going back in my cave.”

  “Me too,” says Edgar. “Getting some great writing done these last couple days.”

  My mouth starts moving before my brain has a chance to catch up. “Are you writing a new Le Plasma book?” I ask.

  “Indeed.” Edgar smiles at me, and his pointy white beard doesn’t look so scary.

  My motor mouth can’t stop. “Did the Count come here to Maiden Rock to tell you the story?”

  Edgar turns to Ceil. I’m pretty sure that if she didn’t have those glasses on, her eyes would reveal something big.

  “Ha. Ha. Hahahahahaha!” Ceil’s sputtering laugh sounds like it might drift into a cry.

  Then Edgar lets out a chuckle, and soon they are both laughing like limp puppets. Ella and I laugh along with them, neither of us knowing what’s so
funny.

  “Sorry,” Edgar says. “It’s not you, Quinnie.”

  Ceil pulls her glasses off and shakes her head ever so slightly at Edgar as if to say, “Be careful.”

  “Yes, Quinnie,” Edgar continues. “Yes. We got the new story from the Count.”

  Ella looks at me and says, “Not really. They make them up.”

  There’s a moment of silence. Edgar and Ceil look at each other as if they have no choice but to deny it. “No, Ella. We get them from the Count.”

  I never imagined Ella would get mad at them, but it looks like she’s about to.

  “No, really. For real. You make them up,” she insists.

  “We get them from the Count,” Edgar says flatly. He turns to leave. “I’ve got to go back to my computer and get some work done.”

  “Aunt Ceil, stop it,” Ella says. “Tell Quinnie the truth. Tell me the truth. You can trust us. Tell us you make them up.”

  “I wish I could, honey. But I can’t.” Then she gets up, fills her cup, and walks upstairs.

  “That’s not funny,” Ella yells after her.

  I’m not surprised. I figured all along this would happen. It’s the perfect cover. The cleverest lie is the one that is closest to the truth.

  Ella pulls me up the stairs to her room and closes the door.

  “Errgh!” She flops onto her bed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with them. They’re acting so weird.”

  I want to say, Well, duh, they’re vampires, but I don’t. I want so much to get Ella on my side. I take a chance. “Maybe they do talk to the Count.”

  “Stop it! It’s not funny.”

  “I’m not being funny. I’m just asking. They said it.”

  “Don’t be mean.”

  My tongue hurts from biting it. Finally I say, “Okay. I’m not being mean. I just think they are too, too different.”

  Ella bounces off the bed and looks out the window, toward Pidgin Beach. “I’m telling you, something is not right.”

  “Ella, I’m trying to agree with you.”

  “By saying they talk to vampires? How is that helping? That’s just stupid.”

  That’s it. She has to be told. For her own good.

  “Listen to me.” I pull her back down and make her sit next to me. “I didn’t say it. They said it . . . and they’ve done a lot of other things too.”