Kristy and the Vampires

by Ann M. Martin

  “Hey, little witch!” said the vampire to Claire. She turned and saw him, and for a second I thought she was going to scream or cry. Then she drew herself up as tall as she could, gave a great cackling laugh, held out her “claws,” and said, “Vampire, vampire, go away, don’t come back some other day!” I guess that was her idea of a spell.

  The vampire held up his hands. “Whoa!” he said. “Please don’t hurt me, Miss Witch! I’ll go away, I promise!” He backed away, winking at Mary Anne as he left.

  “It worked!” yelled a jubilant Claire. “I scared him off! Silly old vampire. He didn’t even know I wasn’t a real witch.”

  “Thank goodness,” Mary Anne whispered to me. “Your idea really saved the day.”

  “I couldn’t have thought of it without you,” I said modestly. But just like Claire, I was feeling pretty proud of myself. By that time, Claud, Stacey, and Shannon had shown up, and we all settled in with Mary Anne and the girls to watch Mal do her walk-on. She had to repeat it about three million times before Harry was satisfied. It wasn’t Mal’s fault that there were so many takes, though. It was Carson’s. He couldn’t seem to get his lines straight, as usual.

  At the end of the day, an exhausted Mal walked home with her sisters and Mary Anne. Claire had her gown tucked up so it wouldn’t drag, and she practiced her cackling as she walked.

  “Well, I’ve decided something,” said Mal. “I’m pretty sure I don’t want to be a movie star. It’s hard work! And it’s not that exciting, really.”

  “I decided something, too,” announced Claire. “Vampires are nothing but big scaredy cats!” She grinned and let out one last cackle, and Mal and Mary Anne smiled at each other. Claire’s vampire-phobia was a thing of the past.

  “Could I have everybody’s attention please?” It was a hot Monday morning, and Cliff Chase stood in the middle of the set, holding up his hands. “People?” The buzz of activity slowly came to a halt, and a circle of actors, gaffers, grips, cameramen, and makeup people formed around the director.

  “I just wanted to say that I’m very happy with the way filming has been going. You’ve all been working hard, and it’s paid off. We have one more week here on location, and then we’ll head back to the Coast to finish up some of the interior shots on the lot.” He paused. “We have plenty to do this week, but if we stay focused we can do it. That’s it!” He smiled. The crowd broke up and Derek and I looked at each other.

  “One more week!” I said. “Just when I was getting used to this schedule. It’s really been fun, Derek.”

  “I know,” he said. “It’s been great to be back in Stoneybrook. Even though I’ve been working, it’s almost like summer vacation. I don’t even have to have a tutor on the set, the way I do when we’re filming P.S. 162. Instead, I can just hang out with you, which is a lot more fun.”

  I gave him a little hug. I was so relieved that he hadn’t had any more major accidents. In fact, I was almost beginning to wonder whether the whole mystery was just in my mind. Was somebody really out to get Derek, or were the accidents all just coincidence? Then I remembered the nasty note, and I shivered. My main job, I knew, was to make sure Derek made it through the rest of that week unharmed.

  Derek was only shooting one more scene that day: he’d be leaving at noon to meet his parents and go to an appointment in New York City. His driver, Mr. Mead, was standing by to take him there, and while Derek was in makeup, Mr. Mead and I talked for a while. He was an interesting guy, and I could tell he thought the world of Derek. “He’s a smart kid,” Mr. Mead said. “Polite, too. Not like some of the other folks I have to drive around.”

  I felt proud of Derek. “I know,” I said. “I’ll really miss him when he goes back to California.”

  “He’ll miss you, too,” said Mr. Mead. “He talks about you all the time. It’s ‘Kristy this’ and ‘Kristy that’ every morning.”

  I beamed. Just then, I spotted Claud making her way toward us. “Hi!” I called. “What are you doing here? Todd’s not filming today.”

  “I know,” she said. “I just felt like hanging out. Missy said she’d let me watch her do Carson’s vampire makeup later today.” She smiled at Mr. Mead and said hello.

  “Well, girls, I’m going to head for Derek’s trailer,” said Mr. Mead. “He invited me to use it today while I’m waiting, and I’ve got an important nap planned.”

  After Mr. Mead left, Claud and I strolled around the set, watching the gaffers and cameramen set up for the day’s filming. “Hey, where’s Cokie these days?” Claud asked me.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t seen her since the party. Maybe she was embarrassed about everybody getting sick. Or maybe she really did poison us on purpose, and now she’s lying low, trying to avoid suspicion. In any case, I’m glad she’s been staying away from the set. That gives me one less suspect to watch out for.”

  “Our detective work hasn’t paid off yet, has it?” Claud said, frowning. “And we only have one more week. After that, Derek will be back in California, where we can’t keep an eye on him.”

  That really made me think. I realized that my job wasn’t only to protect Derek while he was here in Stoneybrook. If I didn’t solve the mystery soon, Derek might be in just as much jeopardy back in California. “Claudia, this is serious,” I said. “We need to figure out who’s after Derek before it’s too late. I feel like I have to do something — right now. Since you’re here, maybe you could look out for Derek while I investigate. He’s probably almost finished in makeup. Would you stay with him for a while when he’s done?”

  “Sure,” said Claud. “No problem. Just be careful, okay?”

  “I will,” I said. I left Claud sitting in the actors’ lounge and started to wander around the set, looking for suspects. I knew Carson was in makeup, and for a moment I thought about going back into his trailer to poke around some more. I walked over to check it out. The window shades were up, and I peered inside, then stepped back quickly. Frank Bottoms was sitting on a chair near the window, leafing through a magazine. So much for that plan.

  As I stood near Carson’s trailer, trying to figure out what to do next, I noticed Sheila Mayberry walking by, talking with a red-haired woman and a blonde girl. I fell into step behind them, trying to overhear the conversation. At first, I couldn’t tell what they were talking about. Sheila, in a peach-colored suit, seemed to be rattling on enthusiastically about something. I walked a little faster, trying to close the distance between us.

  “I just know Variety’s audience will want to read about what’s going on here,” Sheila was saying to the red-haired woman. She lowered her voice, but I could still hear what she said next. “Some people are actually saying there might be a curse on this set, you know,” she added.

  The red-haired woman, whom I now assumed was a reporter for Variety, took some notes. “And what’s your role here?” she asked the blonde girl.

  “Oh, I just try to help out wherever I can,” said the girl. “My name’s Lindsey Rockaway — that’s R-O-C-K-A-W-A-Y — and I’m a huge fan of Carson Fraser’s. His biggest fan ever, probably. I was just telling Sheila about the fan club I want to start, and she was giving me some tips …”

  Lindsey went on, but I had stopped listening. Right after she had told the reporter her name, she had turned to wave at somebody, and I had noticed the red rose in her buttonhole.

  That’s when I started to put a few things together.

  First of all, her name was Lindsey Rockaway. It took me a second to remember why that name was familiar, and then I had a sudden image of the busy man in the trailer office. Could she be one of those Rockaways? If she was, that might mean she had access to some of the materials they delivered. And then there were those red roses in her buttonhole … and heaped up in Carson’s trailer. This girl, I realized, had been on the set every single day. Maybe I had another suspect on my hands.

  “Well, ‘bye,” I heard Lindsey say. “I have some errands to do. Nice to meet you!” She shook hand
s with the reporter, smiled at Sheila, and walked away. In a split second, I made a big decision. I would follow her for a while, just to see if I could learn a little more about her.

  She started to walk fast, dodging grips pushing hand carts, and wardrobe people with loads of costumes. Then she was heading off the set, toward the street where all the cars were parked.

  Just as she stepped off the curb, I heard somebody call my name. I turned to see Charlie waving to me. He was standing next to a huge light, holding it up while one of the gaffers adjusted it.

  “Kristy!” he yelled. “Come here for a second.”

  “I’m busy!” I called back.

  “This’ll just take a second,” he said.

  Reluctantly, I went over to talk to him. “What’s up?” I asked.

  He told me that he was planning to stay late that day, and that I’d have to find my own way home. “I’m sure Watson will come and pick you up if you call him,” he said. “I’m really sorry, Kristy.”

  “No problem,” I said distractedly. “I have a BSC meeting later today, anyway. I’ll just walk over to Claud’s. Is that it?”

  “That’s it,” he said, giving me a quizzical look. “Hey, are you okay, Kristy? You seem tense.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “But I have to run. See you!” I took off toward the spot where I’d last seen Lindsey, but she was nowhere in sight. “Lost her!” I said, smacking my fist into my palm. I spent the next half hour roaming the set, trying to spot that stringy blonde hair and the red rose, but I didn’t see her anywhere. Suddenly, it seemed incredibly important to find her. Now that I thought about it, there was definitely something suspicious about the way she hung around the set. And I knew that any fan of Carson’s had the potential to be an enemy of Derek’s.

  Just as I was about to give up on finding her and start looking for Claud and Derek instead, she popped into view. She had come from behind one of the big trailers, and she looked awful. Her hair was all messed up, the rose had disappeared, and her fingers were black with what looked like mud. For a second, I wondered what she had been up to, but then she started walking and I had to concentrate on following her. No way did I want to lose her again!

  She left the set and began walking quickly toward downtown Stoneybrook. I followed close behind her, dodging behind bushes and trees every now and then so I wouldn’t be noticed.

  We walked all the way downtown, which took almost fifteen minutes. I glanced at my watch and noticed that it was nearly noon. I wanted to be back on the set before Derek left, which didn’t leave much time. But I decided to stay with Lindsey, at least until I found out where she was heading.

  Finally, she pulled open the door of a convenience store. I paused outside, and then decided to follow her in. She went straight to the refrigerator case, pulled out a can of soda, and headed back to the cash register. I ducked behind the magazine stand and kept watching.

  She reached into her backpack and rummaged around. I figured she was looking for her wallet, and I was right. When she pulled it out, something fell out of the backpack and landed behind her on the floor. She didn’t seem to notice. She just paid for her soda and left the store. I jumped out from behind the magazines, picked up what she had dropped, and ran out the door behind her.

  Lindsey didn’t seem to be in a hurry anymore, once she had left the store. She plopped herself on a bench, opened the soda, and took a gulp. As soon as I saw that she was settled, I ducked around the corner to take a better look at what I had picked up.

  It was a book — a car repair manual, all greasy and worn. At first, I was disappointed. I had been hoping for some evidence. Then I started to leaf through it, and what I found made my heart start racing like mad.

  The corner of page 137 was turned down, as if to mark something important. And page 137 was all about brakes. Brake malfunctions, read the chapter heading. I scanned the paragraphs below it, and saw that somebody had used yellow highlighter to emphasize three sentences. And those sentences explained the main causes of brake failure.

  “Oh, no!” I said out loud, thinking of Lindsey’s blackened hands and messy hair. That wasn’t mud on her hands — it was grease! She had been fooling around under a car. And if the car she had been fooling around with was the one Mr. Mead drove … I gasped. “Derek!” I breathed. Then I started to run as fast as I could.

  “Gotta run,” I panted. “Gotta make it. Keep moving, keep moving.” I talked to myself as I ran. People stared at me as I zoomed by, and I knew they thought I was nuts, but I didn’t care. I had only one thing on my mind.

  The day had started out hot, and by that time, at high noon, it was sweltering. Sweat was pouring off me, and it was hard to breathe, but I just kept on running, clutching the book Lindsey had dropped. In my mind, I could picture Mr. Mead sliding behind the wheel of the car. Derek would be settled in the back seat, leaning against the cool cushions and enjoying the feel of the air-conditioning. He might even be closing his eyes for a short nap. Mr. Mead would put the car into gear and pull out of his parking space. Then he’d head down the road, never knowing that his brakes might not be working. What if a car pulled out in front of them? What if Mr. Mead went flying through a red light at a big intersection? “Gotta run,” I told myself again, panting. “Save Derek.”

  Finally, I saw parked trucks up ahead. I put on one last burst of speed and sprinted through the set toward them, hoping I’d spot Derek’s car before he drove away. I scanned the lines of parked cars, trucks, and vans, but the black sedan was nowhere in sight. “Oh, no,” I moaned. “They already left!”

  I slowed to a walk. If Mr. Mead had already pulled out, there was nothing I could do. Anyway, maybe I was nuts. Maybe there was nothing wrong with the car. Maybe there was some other, perfectly good explanation for the mess on Lindsey’s hands.

  I was just starting to think about what to do next when I walked around a van and spotted Mr. Mead climbing into the front seat of the black car and slamming the door. “Mr. Mead!” I yelled, starting to run again. “Derek!”

  I was close enough so that I could see Mr. Mead putting on his seat belt. In a second, he’d start the car and drive away. “No, no!” I shouted. “Wait!” But the windows were all rolled up because of the air-conditioning. I heard the engine start. I had reached the car by then, and I began to bang on Mr. Mead’s window. “Stop!” I said. Mr. Mead looked up, startled. I glanced into the backseat and saw Derek staring at me.

  Mr. Mead rolled down the window. “What is it, Kristy?” he asked. “Are you coming with us?”

  “No,” I said. “Mr. Mead, please turn the car off!”

  He looked at me questioningly, but he did as I asked. “What is it, Kristy?” he repeated.

  “I think something may be wrong with the car,” I said. “I think the brakes may not be working.”

  Mr. Mead was obviously a man who took things seriously. He didn’t laugh at me, or ask any more questions. Instead, he got out of the car and bent down to look beneath it. Derek got out, too. “What’s up, Kristy?” asked Derek.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Let’s wait and see what Mr. Mead finds.”

  Mr. Mead was staring at a puddle of liquid near one of the rear tires. “That’s brake fluid, if I’m not mistaken,” he said. He bent farther to check behind the wheel. “Smells like brake fluid,” he said.

  By that time, a crowd of movie people had gathered. They must have followed me when I ran through the set looking terrified. I saw one of the gaffers that Charlie sometimes worked with, a couple of makeup people, and a bunch of grips and assistants. “What’s going on?” asked one of the grips.

  “Looks like the brake line might have been cut,” said Mr. Mead, standing up and dusting off his hands.

  “Whoa!” said Derek. “That means the brakes wouldn’t have worked at all, right?” He gulped.

  “Right,” said Mr. Mead. He gave me a curious look. “And Kristy was the one who stopped us in time,” he continued.

  A murmur ran thr
ough the crowd. “How’d you know about it?” asked the gaffer.

  Suddenly, I felt on the spot. I couldn’t tell whether Mr. Mead and the people watching thought I was a heroine or a potential murderer. “I didn’t do it!” I said. “It was —” I stopped, trying to figure out how to explain. I held up the car repair manual. “I saw somebody drop this,” I began. Then, at the edge of the crowd, I spied Lindsey. I couldn’t believe my eyes. She was strolling along casually, still sipping from that same can of soda. Her stringy hair was back in place, and her hands were a little cleaner. She looked like any other girl on the set — but I knew better. She was dangerous. And she must have come back to the set just so she could watch Derek’s car drive off. I realized that she must be a very sick person.

  “It was her!” I said, pointing at Lindsey. I didn’t mean to make a big dramatic moment out of it, but it turned into one. Everybody whipped around to stare at Lindsey, and I saw her face turn white. “She’s the one who did it,” I added.

  Lindsey narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about?” she asked, smoothing her hair. “I didn’t do anything. I’ve been downtown.” She started to walk away, but the crowd closed in around her, as if by instinct.

  “Somebody call the police!” I said. “This girl cut those brake lines, and I can prove it.” My voice was a little shaky, and I guess Derek noticed because he came to stand next to me and slipped his hand into mine. Lindsey was staring at me angrily, and I stared right back at her. “Look at her hands,” I said. “See all that grease under her fingernails? It’s there because she was fooling around under this car.” I smacked the top of Derek’s sedan.

  The crowd turned back and forth, watching first me and then Lindsey. They looked like spectators at a tennis match. For a second, I wanted to laugh, but I think it was just out of nervousness.

  “You’re crazy,” said Lindsey. “I wouldn’t even know a brake line if I saw one.”

  My nervousness disappeared. “Oh, yeah?” I said. I held the car repair manual up again. “Well, if you didn’t know about brake lines before, you sure did after you read this!” I turned to Mr. Mead, and spoke loudly enough so that the crowd — and Lindsey — could hear me. “The police’ll find her fingerprints all over this book, I’m sure of it.” Suddenly, I realized that I might have made a big mistake. My fingerprints would be all over the book, too! But then Lindsey started to cry, and my mistake didn’t matter anymore.