Everything in me says, Back away from this conversation, but do I? No. I don’t, because the people of Maiden Rock could be at mortal risk. Including me. Including her.
“Yes, Mom.”
She turns back to her instruction papers. “Okay, that was fun. Now get to bed.”
“You have to stop them. Ella’s not safe in that house with them—or her dad.”
“Not safe with Edgar and Ceil?” Her voice soars up the tension scale.
“Ceil turned into a wolf and attacked Esmeralda, and probably the Pearlys’ dog, and maybe she even sucked the blood out of a seagull.” There, I said it. But I can tell the seagull part didn’t help my argument.
Mom’s face is getting redder by the second. She rubs her eyes with her fingertips and shakes her head.
“I honestly don’t know what to say. It’s not like we haven’t been down this path before, with wild accusations.” Her voice shifts to a monotone. “There are no vampires in Maiden Rock, Quinnette. Edgar and Ceil are not vampires. Nor are they attacking animals or sucking anyone’s blood, including cats, dogs, or seagulls. And if I hear you saying that around town, you are grounded for the rest of the summer. That means, no hanging around with Ella and Ben . . . or Dominic. We’ll find you something to do at the café that will keep you busy and out of trouble.”
I contemplate no Ella, no Ben, and most of all, no Dominic—but I can’t stop myself from arguing back. “Mom, what if they—”
“No, Quinnette. I don’t want to hear another word about this. No harassing Edgar and Ceil. Leave them alone. Let them enjoy the peace and quiet they came here for. Are we clear?”
Only one answer to this will keep me in normal human society. “Yes.”
The last thing Mom does before I leave the room is turn on her body cam, point to the lens and then to me, and say, “I’m watching you.”
21
Okay, that didn’t go as well as I would have liked. But one thing I know is, you can’t kill an idea once it’s landed soundly in your head. And the idea that Edgar and Ceil are vampires is in Mom’s head now too, and it will buzz around until it has a place to land. I know her. She’ll come around, somehow, some way.
I check my phone for reports.
Ella: Quiet here.
Ben: It would be quiet here except for the L.L.Bean geeks roaming the beach.
Dominic: I resent that. These guys give geeks a bad name.
Ella: What? Where are they?
Ben: Walking up and down the beach.
Ella: By my house?
Dominic: Just walked within twenty feet of us.
Ben: I think I heard one of them fart. Is that close enough?
Ella: I can’t believe this.
Something familiar creeps along the back of my neck. Suspicion. As if I don’t have enough to worry about, the L.L.Bean boys are turning into celebrity stalkers. I want to run downstairs and tell Mom, but I know for sure it’s not a good time.
Me: Can you guys get a picture of them near Ella’s house? So it’s clear they’re acting stalkery?
Dominic: Absolutely.
Ella: Where did they say they were from?
Me: Ohio, I think. They own electronic cigarette stores.
Ella: They don’t look like they’d be Transylvanian Drip fans.
Me: What do you think TD fans look like?
Ella: I don’t know. Not like that.
Me: Maybe they’re vampire hunters.
Dominic: Ha! Could be. I’ll google vampire hunting and see if they use fishing rods.
Me: Funny.
Ella: These guys are too stupid to be vampire hunters.
Dominic: You don’t have to be Einstein to believe you can slay bloodthirsty hellions.
* * *
I sit on the edge of my bed and think about vampire slayers. If I had to describe one before today, I would have said hip, leather-clad, good hair—no, great hair. Definitely not paunchy, old guy, sloppy eater who wears the same fishing-catalogue clothes every day. But what an amazing cover if John and Bob are for real? Who would guess that a couple of clueless autograph seekers are fighting for the side of the angels? But then again, maybe they’re just annoying celebrity stalkers, and that’s all.
Following Dominic’s lead, I grab my tablet and google “vampire slayers.” Within seconds, up pops hundreds of pictures of hip, handsome, leather-clad, good—no, great—haired young people. And what’s more, half of them are girls. But not one of them looks like the L.L.Bean boys in any way. Still . . . the perfect cover would outwit a Google search.
A creak from the stairs gives me a much-needed distraction. I know it’s Mom’s footsteps by the sound of the heavy sheriff’s shoe. A light tap on my door comes next.
“Quinnie?”
“What?”
“Can I come in?” As usual, she opens the door as she says this. “I’ve been thinking about our talk . . .”
I knew it.
“And I think it must be because Blythe has you reading those vampire books. It gets your imagination going—”
I sit bolt upright. “This is not Ms. Stillford’s fault, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m just trying to understand.”
“You will. I just hope it’s before I have four pointy teeth.”
She rolls her eyes. “Good night, Quinnette. Remember what I said.”
When she’s gone and the door is firmly shut, I’m glad I at least bit my tongue about John and Bob being vampire hunters. Before I say anything to Mom, I need proof. Hard evidence that John and Bob are on the hunt for the real deal. Or I’ll be grounded until my clothes go out of style.
* * *
The next morning, we’re on the case early—minus poor Ben, who has another day of school. But crazy us, we start out by going back to Ms. Stillford’s. We find her in her potting shed with flats of mulch and packets of seeds. We ask her what she knows about John and Bob.
“They seem like nice enough fellows. I think Maiden Rock has made a good impression on them,” Ms. Stillford says.
I pause, trying to think of a way to ask her what else she knows about them without her thinking that we’re going to harass the two guys that all the grown-ups like so much—and without her mentioning it to Mom. But she knows me too well.
“Okay, what are you guys up to?”
“Nothing,” I say.
Ms. Stillford laughs. “You kids need something to do. How about cleaning out my carriage house? I’ll let you sell any old junk in there in a tag sale, and you can keep half the profits.”
On any other day of my life, this would be a terrific offer. There is so much cool stuff in that carriage house. But we have important business to get on with.
“Thanks, Ms. Stillford. Can we do it in a couple weeks?”
“Sure, sure,” she says. “Go blow off some steam for a while.”
On the way back around Circle Lane, Ella’s still wrestling with the situation and getting frustrated with our lack of answers. “If those guys really are vampire hunters, they don’t look like a match for my aunt and uncle. And if they’re not, they should get the heck away from here.”
“We can’t exactly walk up to them in Gusty’s and ask them if they’re friends of Buffy,” Dominic says.
“I wonder what’s really in those gear bags they carry around,” I say, “or in their room at Miss Wickham’s?”
Dominic looks at me. “Why do I think we’re about to find out?”
Ella laughs. “Ah, you know her so well already.”
“So what is my mission?” Dominic says. “Bag rifling?”
“Well,” I say, “you can choose. You and Ben can follow the vampires or the goofballs. Which do you want?”
Dominic doesn’t hesitate. “Vampires.”
“Fine. Ella and I will poke around for intel on the goofballs.”
* * *
During the next two days, Ella and I spend as much time as we can at Gusty’s when John and Bob are there. We move around. Sit where we can
hear their conversations. We walk around Circle Lane and stroll past Miss Wickham’s when their car is out front. We walk under the open window we think is their room. We ask around. Not too obvious-like. People tell us what they think. After two days, we summarize our notes:
Autograph Hounds or Vampire Hunters?
Subjects: John and Bob from Ohio
Known Facts: They drive a car with Ohio license plates. It’s a dusty green Honda. They are staying at Miss Wickham’s in room 211. They wear clothes from L.L.Bean—the same ones every day. They carry gear bags. They eat at Gusty’s three times a day. They appear friendly and they joke with people in town. They walk on the beach morning and night. They’ve looked in some house windows. They’ve walked by Ella’s house several times. They’ve driven down Mile Stretch Road at least two times a day. They’ve stopped near Ella’s house. They fish (or pretend to fish) on the beach at odd hours with the wrong fishing gear. They’ve walked around the yacht club and looked at boats at least three times. They’ve been seen digging in Ella’s trash bins.
Things that cannot be confirmed: They own electronic cigarette stores in Ohio. They really want to explore Maine. They’re seriously interested in real estate in Maiden Rock. What’s in their gear bags?
People they have asked about the famous vampire writers (that we know of): Margaret Boyd, Quinnie Boyd, John Denby, and Dominic Moldarto.
Two copies come off the printer, and I hand one to Ella. We proofread.
During the time that Ella and I followed John and Bob, Ben and Dominic watched Edgar and Ceil. The only excitement they had was when John and Bob came up the beach in the dark and started digging in the trash bins at the back of Ella’s house. Otherwise, Ceil took two early evening strolls on the beach, and no pets turned up drained.
I let the paper float to my bed. “Do you think they’re looking for somebody? Or something? I think they’re looking for something.”
“In our trash. In the dark. It’s so”—Ella shivers—“creepy.”
“But they haven’t made a move to go inside. They’re keeping their distance.”
“All I can say is, if they’re looking for fan stuff to sell on the Internet, like something with my aunt or uncle’s writing on it, they’re playing with fire.”
“Sure, but if that’s what they’re doing, they don’t know they’re playing with fire because they don’t know Edgar and Ceil are vampires.”
“I’m becoming more convinced they’re crazy stalker paparazzi,” Ella says. “Maybe you should show this to your mom, and she’ll investigate it for their own good.”
“And tell her what? That Edgar and Ceil need protection from some fishermen?”
“Come on, Q. That they are paparazzi.” Her green eyelids open wide. “She would believe that, right? Your mom would have to check that out.”
“They don’t have cameras.”
“What if we said they were stalkers?”
“That might work. We’ve seen stranger things around here.”
* * *
I have our investigative notes rolled up behind my back when I walk downstairs the next morning. I’ve changed the title to: Suspicious Activities Report. Mom is in the kitchen making toast.
“Morning, Mom.”
“Good morning, Quinnie. Toast?”
“No thanks. I’m going to the café.” I lean on the counter, squeezing the paper so hard it’s starting to scrunch. “Mom, I wanted to talk to you about something. Again.”
I hold out the Suspicious Activities Report, which is now twisted in the middle.
“What’s this?”
“Just read it. Then I’ll explain.”
Her shoulders sag when she reads the title. I want to read over her shoulder but I stand back. Once she’s reading it a second time, I move a couple inches closer. Finally, she sits down at the table and lays the report in front of her.
“You saw them all these times around the Philpotts’?”
“Me, and Ella, and Ben, and Dominic.”
“Uh-huh. Who saw them picking in the Philpotts’ trash bins?”
“Ben and Dominic.”
“And who saw them fishing in that area?”
“All of us.”
“How do you know they asked John Denby about Edgar and Ceil?”
“He told Ben that.”
“And Dominic?”
“It was at Gusty’s. I was there.”
Mom clearly believes our report is worth something. Otherwise, she wouldn’t even be asking questions. But there is still the possibility that she will blow up. At least she hasn’t asked the exact times of any of these observations. Although we probably should have noted that in the report anyway. I mean, trash-digging late at night is more suspicious than trash-digging in the daytime.
“You do realize that you’ve done exactly what you promised you wouldn’t do?”
“Yes, but.”
“Yes, but, what?”
I search for the right words. “I haven’t harassed Edgar and Ceil.”
“Well, there’s a consolation.” Mom gets up and adjusts her sheriff’s belt. “I’m disappointed, Quinn. Do you know why?”
“But, Mom. They’re the ones harassing Edgar and Ceil. They’re paparazzi or something. Paparazzi have killed people, chasing them for pictures.”
She repeats her last question: “Do you know why I’m disappointed?”
I know what she wants to hear. “Fine. I should have told you first.”
“Bingo. You should have come to me and let me do the investigation.” She tosses her toast in the trash and wipes the counter. “Don’t follow them around anymore. Do you understand?”
“Are you going to do something?” I ask.
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“Fine. I won’t follow them around anymore.”
“I’ll look into this.” She walks toward her office, and I follow her. “By the way, when were they picking through the Philpotts’ trash?”
Gulp. I have to say it. At least this way, Mom’s sure to jump on the case. “It might have been about two a.m.”
She touches her hair like thinking this through hurts her brain. “So you were running a stakeout by Ella’s house all night long?”
“Not me, exactly.” I hate to put this on Ben and Dominic, but . . .
“Then who?”
22
That afternoon, all four of us are lined up in the Boyd family living room, being lectured about “unauthorized investigations, harassing John and Bob, violating curfew, and frolicking on the beach at night while a dangerous coyote is at large in the vicinity.” I thought Mom might have cooled off a bit during the day, but she seems to have gotten more wound up while waiting for the other grown-ups to arrive.
John Denby paces around the room. Ben is grounded. The Moldartos have folded their arms across their chests so tightly, they look like their circulation is suffering. Dominic will be confined to quarters. And, of course, Mr. Philpotts is there too, completely deadpan. He listens to Mom and shakes his head back and forth.
When it’s over, Ben and his uncle leave, but not before John Denby cuffs Ben on the back of the head. Dominic’s parents march him out between the two of them, single file. But before Mr. Philpotts leaves with Ella, Mom says, “Wait. I’d like to talk to you.”
Mr. Philpotts sits down in a comfy chair, waiting for Mom to speak. It’s hard to tell whether he’s upset about this or if his mind is back in his office on a detective story he was interrupted from writing.
“Jack, I wish the children hadn’t been up to these antics, but the fact is, I have to check into this. It looks like these characters are casing your house.”
“I don’t like it either, Margaret. Do you have any idea whether it’s because of Edgar and Ceil, or could it be me they’re stalking? I’ve got some unstable fans too, I’m sure.”
Mom looks a little embarrassed that she might have insulted him. “Yes, of course. Sure, it could be fans of yours too. I was only thinking
since they were asking about Edgar and Ceil—”
“You’re probably right.” He looks like he’s going to get up to leave.
“One more thing,” Mom says. “I’d like to come by tomorrow morning and meet with Edgar and Ceil as part of my investigation.”
“Sure. I’ll tell them.”
Mom relaxes a little and gives Mr. Philpotts the sign he can leave. Before he does, Ella says, “Dad, I’d feel better staying here with Quinnie tonight.”
He looks at Mom. She nods her head as if the idea makes a lot of sense. “Go upstairs. Now, girls.”
Good move, Ella, I’m thinking.
Ella and I hang out at the bottom of the stairs long enough to hear Mom tell Mr. Philpotts he should make sure all the doors and windows are locked and the curtains drawn in the evening. From the tone of her voice, I can tell she’s concerned.
Once Ella and I head up to my room, I flop onto the bed while she paces and checks her phone.
“It’s only five thirty.” She raises a fingernail to her teeth as if she’s about to take a nervous bite, but then she checks the polish and stops herself.
“And?”
“And I’m wondering if the L.L.Bean boys are away from their room at Miss Wickham’s. They’re probably at Gusty’s, eating.”
“You want to sneak into their room now?”
“Of course I do. Don’t you?”
I sit up. “I guess I do. We might find what they took out of your trash. And that might tell us more about why they’re here, because if they’re not paparazzi . . . they might be vampire hunters, and then . . .”
“. . . they’re here to do a really sad kind of good. And maybe they need help.”
Ella’s being so brave, I want to hug her. But she’s also being a little unrealistic.
“It’s a good idea, but we’d have to sneak in without Miss Wickham seeing us and then somehow get into their room—assuming we’re right about which room is theirs.”
I can tell the wheels are spinning in Ella’s head. She raises my window and presses her cheek against the screen, assessing the distance to the ground below.
“Oh, yeah,” I add. “And we also need to get out of this house without getting caught.”
Vampires on the Run: A Quinnie Boyd Mystery (Quinnie Boyd Mysteries) Page 11