As we drove on, I began regretting the choice I’d made at the second shop.
Bubble gum ice cream is like Hawaiian pizza.
If it’s good, it’s fine.
If it’s bad, it’s horrible.
Still, I wasn’t letting it go to waste as Sam announced, “Road sign says Mantua is ten miles away.”
“It’s pronounced Man-ah-way,” I said.
Gabe shook his head. “That makes no sense at all.”
“I looked it up before we left.”
I stared into the rear-view mirror and opened my mouth wide. “What color is my tongue?”
“Same as your lips,” Sam said. “Blue. Like a corpse.”
I grinned. “Perfect.”
We drove into downtown Mantua.
Actually, we didn’t. Or more precisely, we couldn’t.
The entire Main Street had been blocked off by cars.
“Oh no,” Gabe whispered. “What happened?”
“It’s fine,” Sam said quickly. “See?” She pointed to a giant banner that stretched across the road.
MANTUA POTATO STOMP FESTIVAL
“I can see the need for a potato chip festival,” I said. “But a street party for plain old spuds?”
Gabe, on the other hand, was suddenly super-stoked. “Oh! I wonder if they have any new varieties?!”
Sam and I exchanged a look in the mirror. We grinned.
Sam parked on the shoulder of the road, and Gabe shot out the door.
“Remind me again why we’re here?” Sam asked, turning around.
I adopted my best Hollywood tour guide voice.
“If you look out your windows, you’ll see the first real stop on our Zed and Gabe Adventure Tour is the tiny potato-loving town of Mantua.”
“Got it. But Man-uh-why?”
“Nice wordplay.”
“Thanks.”
“Taylor’s poem mentions Shakespeare’s lovers. Romeo, as we now know, fled to Mantua. The poem also points to roses, skulls and angels.”
“Graveyard images.”
“Exactly! Which is a sign that the poem links to the first chapter that Taylor left behind, ‘The Vampire’s Grave.’ Here’s a taste.”
I pulled out my notebook and, before Sam could protest, started reading:
Lysander St. Clair woke in the dark. But not the dark of his own coffin—no, this was a darkness that pressed in and choked him. A darkness that seemed alive. He moved his slender hands around and felt . . . dirt. Lysander was trapped underground. What had happened to him?
Then it came back in a flash—how his new hiding place had been found out. How those who had sent him away from his beloved home had tracked him down, across oceans and continents and into the deep forest.
They had dug a grave and pushed him into it. They’d expected him to die.
Well, they had failed. He allowed himself a small smile. He was awake, and he was going to find Yves. He thought again of the howl that had pierced the night sky on his journey to America.
And Lysander knew in his heart that Yves would try to find him as well, and together they would escape this exile.
“We will return to the Monster’s Castle and live together forever, Rosaceae and orchids and everything in full bloom all year round—a testament to our undying love.”
I closed the notebook with a flourish.
“See? The chapter also mentions that Latin rose thingy, so we’re operating on the assumption that we’re looking for a grave or a graveyard or a gravestone here in Mantua.”
“And it might even have a rose near it, on it or over it?” Sam asked.
“You get the idea perfectly.”
“Okay. Now, any idea why you’re looking for all that stuff?”
I hesitated. “Well, we’re not totally sure yet. We’re kind of hoping that finding the clue will explain that.”
“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” she said. “Never mind. It’s because I’m a doofus. Speaking of doofuses, I’d better go find my bro.”
We set off down Main Street, where the whole town seemed to have gathered. Vendor carts lined the sidewalks and were packed with bushel baskets full of potato seedlings and cuttings. There were artists selling paintings of potatoes. There was even somebody walking around dressed like a potato, playing a fiddle.
“It’s spud-tacular!” Gabe said. He was like a kid in a potato store.
A moss-covered stone wall stood at the far end of the street.
“The graveyard is over there,” I said, pulling him away from a cart filled with—guess what?—potatoes!
“I’ll get us some snacks,” Sam said. I was pretty sure I knew what was on the menu in this town.
Gabe and I marched away down the street. As we passed through the cemetery gates, the fiddle music grew fainter and fainter.
We began to move slowly among the graves.
There were more than I expected. About five John Smiths. A few Mary O’Reillys. But nobody named Lysander. And no St. Clair.
“No vampires, as far as I can tell,” I said.
“How would you even know?” Gabe asked.
“Oh, I’d know,” I said confidently.
The sun blazed as we eliminated more graves from our search.
“Whew, it’s hot.”
“Maybe take off the sweater?” Gabe suggested.
“Never!”
He shook his head and kept walking.
“This is taking too long,” I said eventually. “We need to speed things up. If I were a vampire’s grave, where would I be hiding? I need to think like a corpse.”
I grabbed some dandelions and lay down on the nearest grave.
“I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead,” I intoned. “Oh, where can my bones rest in peace? Oh, woe. Oh, woe.”
“Oh, brother.” Gabe rested his head on the gravestone. “Can we take a break and look at some potatoes?”
“I can’t answer that. I’m dead.”
“Fine. You stay here and decompose. I’ll go look at some more graves.”
“Oh, woe is me,” I said.
He was still looking and I was still decomposing when Sam’s face suddenly loomed over top of me.
“If you’re dead, it leaves more room for me and the Gabester in the car.”
“Hardy har har. Any luck finding snacks? Are they all potatoes?”
“Yes and no. I scouted a good food truck parked near the stage. Pizza and sandwiches, and of course, fries.”
“Potatoes at their truest selves, IMO. I can’t be dead if I’m craving fries this much.” I got up and carefully laid the dandelions on top of the grave. “Let’s go.”
Sam waved at Gabe. “Break time!”
I looked at him hopefully. “Any luck?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither.” I hoped the fries would help revive my declining spirits.
And in a way, they did.
Chapter 12
Monster Mashed Potatoes
The picnic tables were all set up on a large field near a tent-covered stage.
The speakers were blaring some country tunes, and the field was filled with people eating, chatting and even dancing.
I’ll say this for the potato party animals: they knew how to have a good time.
They also knew how to prep taters. The Mediterranean fries in particular were amazing! Lightly salted, with a hint of cumin.
They momentarily took my mind off the futile search for the grave.
Maybe it wasn’t a grave we were supposed to be looking for? Maybe we got it all wrong? I pushed that horrible thought out of my mind.
“This town sure does love taters,” Sam said with a snort. She polished off her pizza. “I’m going to see if there’s anything else worth looking at.”
“Me too!” Gabe jammed a final handful of fries into his mouth and stood up. “You coming, Zed?”
“I’m good,” I said. “The only potatoes I’m interested in are deep-fried and sitting in front of me.”
�
�Okay. Hey, are those Idaho reds over there?!” He was off.
More farmers were pulling up in dusty trucks, unloading huge crates of produce—not just taters but corn, beans, tomatoes as red as a vampire’s breakfast. There were also ribs being prepped on a long wooden table with smoking grills behind it.
It looked like they were getting ready for a good old-fashioned BBQ.
I spotted Sam by a booth with some tie-dyed T-shirts. A sign said the dyes were “All natural. Made from taters.” No sweaters that I could see. Not worth getting up for.
Gabe was now by the trucks and had struck up a conversation with a group of farmers. They were excitedly passing around some potatoes and stuff. Boring.
Then, just as I was noshing on my third serving of (excellent) fries, the walking potato walked up to the microphone.
The country music suddenly stopped.
“It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting fooooooooor,” said the spud, his voice rising with each word. “The Potato Dance-Off!”
I stopped mid-chew, entranced, as six more people in potato costumes rushed out on stage. There was a huge cheer from the crowd, and people began forming a kind of mosh pit. Maybe a “mash” pit?
The potatoes counted down: “3, 2, 1!” Then music came blaring over the loudspeakers.
And do you know what song they played?
“Mashed Potato Time” by Dee Dee Sharp!! This is one of those golden-oldie songs from before technology and fun existed. There’s even a dance that goes with it. Mom Watson loves that retro stuff, and she taught all of us kids this dance before we were out of diapers.
I was up like a shot, pushing my way to the front of the lawn.
I twisted my heels, waved my arms, wiggled my butt. Oh, my goodness, it felt amazing!
“C’mon, everyone. Let’s cut a rug!” yelled the potatoes.
Some ninety-year-old grandma joined me. Pretty soon, about a dozen of us had formed a mashed-potato conga line. A circle closed around us, townsfolk and farmers clapping along with the song.
I spotted Gabe and Sam staring from the crowd, eyes wide.
I bowed to them and gave one last jiggle of my backside as the song ended.
I let out a howl, “POTATOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” And me and Grandma hugged.
The spectators and the potatoes gave a huge cheer.
Next thing I knew, the biggest spud was handing me a giant potato-shaped purple ribbon! AND IT MATCHED MY SWEATER!
“This was a contest?” I said.
“You were the bee’s knees,” Grandma replied.
“You too!” We hugged again.
I pinned the ribbon on my sweater and accepted the high fives and slaps on the back.
“Next up, the ‘Monster Mash’!” yelled the potatoes.
I think I squealed so loud the tent ripped.
I started dancing, but soon Gabe tapped my shoulder. “I’ve got news,” he said, smiling.
“You found the grave?”
“Maybe. I was talking to those farmers, and it turns out the graveyard we were looking in is the new graveyard.”
“New? Those dead people were, like, ancient.”
Gabe shrugged. “The town has been around awhile.”
“And?”
He leaned in close. “There’s a secret older graveyard hidden in the woods!”
My eyes bulged. “Let’s go!”
But I admit that I cast a sad glance back at the dancing potatoes as we hurried away.
The woods were amazing. Creepy. Vines hung down from trees. The path was almost completely overgrown, and we practically had to cut our way through the bushes and branches. It was like each tree had hands that reached out to stop us from moving forward.
“OMG!! This is so perfect!” I said.
But that was nothing compared to the graveyard itself. If a vampire was ever going to rise up from the ground and chomp into your jugular, it would happen in this graveyard.
Everything was covered in yellow-green moss (Sematophyllum demissum, according to Gabe). Strands of other green stuff hung off the branches of the knotted ancient trees. You could barely see the gravestones underneath years’ worth of decaying branches and leaves.
And it smelled amazing. Wild roses grew almost everywhere.
“OMG, it’s MORE PERFECT!” I yelled.
Gabe brushed aside some vines from a slab of stone.
“Julius Bramble. Aged 22 years. 1776–1798,” he read. “Isn’t that a name from the book?”
“It’s one of the baddies who buried Lysander.” I shoved aside some branches covering a large stone. There were a bunch of names. “James Skinner. Mary Skinner. Abraham Skinner. All of them are also baddies in the book.”
“This is definitely the place!” Gabe said.
I could imagine Taylor sitting right there, breathing in the scent and the atmosphere. Then starting to write.
But where was Lysander?
We began rushing from stone to stone.
Finally we found it, almost lost in the twisting roots of an enormous willow tree. A large carved stone urn, cracked and mossy, peeked out from atop a mass of thorny rose vines.
“There must be a gravestone under that!” I said.
Gabe got down on his knees and used both hands to make a window in the vines. “Bingo. And there’s a rose carved on the stone.” He peered in closer. “There’s some blue pigment left. It’s a blue rose!”
We started pulling at the vines. They fought back, scratching and clawing at our hands.
“Whoa!” Gabe and I said together.
We stood up and took a step back.
Lysander St. Clair
Aged 33.
We had found it.
The Vampire’s Grave.
Gabe hugged me. “It’s all real,” he said.
I started to cry. Tears of joy.
“Wow. We’re on the right track.” I wiped my eyes and nose on my sleeve.
Then I stopped.
“Weird,” I said.
“What?”
“I’ve seen a lot of gravestones in my research. And the inscription on this one is weird.”
Gabe saw it too. “Oh, yeah. It just says ‘Aged 33.’”
I walked over and pointed at Mary Skinner’s grave.
Mary Skinner
1778–1832
Died Aged 54
“But Lysander’s doesn’t say ‘died.’ It just says ‘aged,’” I pointed out.
“And it doesn’t have dates,” Gabe said. He stooped down and started looking more closely. He knelt and began running his hands over the stone. “And this is also weird. There’s lichen all over the front and inside the numbers. But the dot hardly has any.”
“What dot?”
“This is a dot here, right after the 33.”
Now I knelt down. “Maybe a bullet hole?”
“Maybe.” He ran his finger over the edges. “It’s pretty smooth, though.”
“Maybe there are other marks?”
We cleared away all the brush around the grave. There were no more secret markings. The lid of the carved urn didn’t come off.
“I guess the clue has something to do with this weird inscription on the front,” Gabe said.
“We should take pictures!”
I swung off my backpack and pulled out an instant camera I’d “borrowed” from my brother Tom.
Gabe pulled a digital camera out of some hidden pocket in his pants and took a close-up.
“Good thinking,” I said. “Yours will be way higher res. Of course, mine will be more artistic.”
“Sure,” Gabe said. “One last question: What the heck does this clue mean?”
I gave a deep sigh. “I have no idea.”
Chapter 13
Putting Camp in Camping
“Lysander St. Clair.”
“Aged 33.”
“Lysander St. Clair.”
“Aged 33.”
“Lysander St. Clair.”
“Aged—”
�
�Can you two stop saying that over and over again?!” Sam said.
We were back in Rusty on our way to a campground not far from town.
“But we have to figure this clue out!” I said. “Lysander St. Clair.”
“Aged 33.”
“STOP IT NOW OR I WILL DUMP YOU TWO ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD.”
“And my mother the lawyer will be in touch,” I countered. “Aged 33.”
“Lysander St. Clair.”
“Fine!” Sam said. “Look, once we get the camp set up, I’ll help you figure this out. But please give me some peace until then. It’s been a long day.”
“And an awesome one,” I said.
Gabe and I fist-bumped. But we whispered the clue to each other the rest of the drive.
One other good thing happened, which is that Sam was able to find a gas station that could do a quick fix on the A/C! Turned out there was just a leak in a hose.
So we enjoyed the cool air again as we drove toward the campsite.
Finally, Sam pulled into the entrance of some state park. WoodWood or TreeTree or something like that. There were a lot of trees.
Gabe started jumping around like a puppy. “Look at all the ferns!”
“Down, boy,” I said.
“I wonder what else grows in the woods?”
Sam offered a few suggestions. “Wolves. Grizzly bears. Venomous snakes.”
“You’re joking, right?” I asked nervously.
“Oh, Sam,” Gabe said, “the snakes here aren’t venomous.”
“You mean there are snakes?!” I started looking nervously at every shadow in the trees.
Sam grinned at me in the mirror. “It’s okay. If one gets in your sleeping bag, catch it. I know how to cook them.”
“You two are bonkers,” I said.
The campsite itself was actually kind of cozy.
At least, I was cozy.
Sam lit a fire and set up some chairs.
I had, of course, packed a few blankets from home. Frankenstein, Wolfman and the Creature from the Black Lagoon were wrapped around me as I watched the sparks float in the air.
I was also watching Sam set up the tents.
Gabe had disappeared into the woods the second we’d parked.
The Fabulous Zed Watson! Page 6