Dead is the New Black Page 3

  Oh, right. The Hollywood houseguests he’d mentioned.

  “Okay,” I replied, wanting to believe him, yet the images from those old movies were difficult to dispel.

  “In fact,” he said, “I only agreed to let Foremost Films use my home in the hopes that their docudrama might further our cause.”

  “Your cause.”

  He shrugged in such a way that showed his frustration. “For many years, Vampires have tried without success to end people’s fear of us. To make it clear we are not the bloodsucking monsters portrayed in books and movies, and therefore are not a threat to anyone. When Robert Renfield, the director, approached me and asked me to relate my own personal struggle, I agreed. He thought using Moonrise Manor would make the perfect location for such a film, which is why I need to find a replacement before Leech departs.”

  “May I ask,” I ventured, “why Leech is dep…uh, leaving?”

  He seemed to cast about for the right words. Then, “It’s a bit complicated, so just let me say that every few years, she must return to her place of her birth for a period of time in order to perform certain rituals necessary to her continued longevity.”

  I was confused. “Do all Vampires have to do that?”

  “Leech isn’t a Vampire.” He flashed those pearly whites again. “Vampires are in a class by ourselves.”

  I’ll say.

  Still a bit confused, I asked, “Well, if she’s not a Vampire, what is she?”

  “Generally known as zombies, they include gnomes, demons, succubae, ghouls, bloodsucking parasites. Supernatural entities who are dead, yet behave as if alive.”

  “So Leech’s birthplace is Transylvania?”

  “No. Washington, D.C.”

  Ah.

  He relaxed back into his chair. “Did the agency tell you the job is a live-in position?”

  I pressed my lips together and nodded.

  “Room and board are supplied in addition to a monthly salary. Your evenings and weekends are free, unless there’s a function that requires your presence. Those such events are pretty rare, though.”

  “I see.” I did see, but I still had one big question that needed answering. “The agency assured me,” I began cautiously, “and you have reassured me that I am in no danger, however, I’m sure you can understand my trepidation. Vampires have a really, really, really bad reputation.”

  A flash of irritation crossed his features. “Let me just say that, while Vampires—upper case V—have existed for many thousands of years, the traits attributed to us such as you described them came directly from Bram Stoker’s imagination, and are a complete fabrication. It was, and continues to be, fanciful fiction, nothing more.”

  “But there is such a place as Transylvania.”

  “True. But Stoker, or Bramble as we used to call him, never actually went there.”

  Christie, Theramin, and Stoker? Who else had Dr. Van Graf known personally?

  “Originally,” he was saying, “Bramble was going to set his story in Austria, but when he looked at a map of Europe, he decided on Transylvania as being more exotic, remote, a place where a character such as Count Dracula might have existed. I tried like hell to talk him out of it, but he cited literary license as his justification and did as he wished, stubborn Irishman that he was.”

  Dr. Van Graf smiled to himself as though remembering his nemesis fondly. “While he wrote several other books and was many years the business manager of London’s Lyceum Theatre, Dracula is all most of the world knows of him.”

  Well, all that was very interesting, but it still didn’t answer my question. “You are a Vampire, though, yes?”

  He blinked a few times, and his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “True, Mrs. Scott. But Vampires are an ethnic group in the same way as Slavs or Hispanics or Celts. Stoker’s book condemned us forever, though I’m sure that wasn’t his intent. He simply wanted to write a thrilling story.”

  “And just so we’re clear on this, Vampires aren’t members of the undead?”

  “The undead was a term coined by Stoker. Long story, short, he was a sickly boy and didn’t even walk until he was seven. To entertain him, his mother told him stories of the plagues and where some people who were thought to have succumbed and were even buried, awoke and climbed out of their graves at the last minute, thereby seeming to come back to life from death.”

  “How awful.”

  He nodded. “Those sorts of stories and images would have had a powerful effect on Bramble’s imagination. Having said that, Vampires have sadly been topics of constant ridicule and persecution. I’ve made it my business that this docudrama should reveal the truth and set the record straight once and for all.”

  Watching me, his eyes were curiously bright.

  “Have I set your mind at ease, Mrs. Scott?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “Thank you.”

  Like I said, I needed a job and I needed it now. I wanted to believe him, needed to. So if I were hired, I’d do my best to accept what he’d said as truth. Then, if things started looking iffy, I could always make a hasty exit. Probably.

  He stood. “Well, I think we’re done here.”

  Slowly I rose to my feet. This interview was obviously over, and I was still unemployed. But before I could thank him for his time, he interrupted me.

  “Mrs. Scott, I find you to be neat, clean, smart, personable, dedicated. You are desperate for a job—don’t deny it—and I am equally desperate for a housekeeper. If it works for you, it works for me. You’re hired.”

  It took a moment for the words to penetrate my skull, but when they did my heart skipped a whole bunch of beats.

  Stomping down on my urge to let go with a nervous giggle, I said, “It definitely works for me. Thank you. I won’t let you down. I promise.” I felt tears sting my eyes, and blinked them away. “When would you like me to start?”

  “Now,” he stated. “Today. This minute. Can you?”

  “Oh, um, yes. Well, almost. I just have to arrange for my mother to be cared—”

  “Bring her.”

  I looked up, my brows lifted in surprise. “Bring her? Bring her where?”

  “Here,” he said. “I understand she’s ill and needs looking after. Forgive me, but I spoke with the agency earlier to find out why someone with your abilities was applying for a housekeeper’s job for which she had no professional experience. So, as far as your mother is concerned, we have plenty of room and this way, you won’t be worried she’s not being properly cared for.”

  Just who was this guy? Where had he come from? Was he too good to be true? Dear God, he wasn’t planning on making a meal of me and my mother? The agency had a signed contract that clearly stated Dr. Van Graf would not feast on my blood, but what about my mother’s?

  I was willing to take the plunge and keep my options open, but my mother was a whole different story. Could I keep her safe and get her out of harm’s way if the need arose?

  Dear God, what had I gotten myself into?

  Chapter 4

  Before I could think myself into a thorough tizzy, Van Graf said, “I’ll send my men to bring whatever you need for you and your mother. You both will be perfectly safe here. I give you my word.”

  I searched his deeply blue eyes for any signs of duplicity. I saw none, but instead, was once more overcome by that dreamy, languid feeling. Any reservations I had died on my lips, unspoken. All I felt was an odd sense of peace and well-being.

  “‘Kay,” I murmured. “Mm-hmm.” I yawned, covering my mouth with my hand. “Honestly, I’m neither bored nor sleepy, so I don’t know why I suddenly feel so…so…”

  “You need not explain.” His tone was soft, and though I didn’t know why I felt such lethargy, I got the distinct impression he did. He cocked his head and seemed to study me, but made no further comment other than to continue with, “We can work out the details, go over your responsibilities, and do the employment and tax form paperwork when you return. The snow has stopped for now, but it looks as th
ough it may really hit us tonight. The sooner you get back and settled in, the better.”

  Either through timing or some subtle signal, there came three knocks on the door and it opened. The current housekeeper virtually floated into the room.

  Dr. Van Graf stood and turned to me. “The address on your resume is current, Mrs. Scott?”

  I nodded.

  “Superb.”

  “Oh. Um. Thank you, sir.” My words seemed wispy and distant, even to my own ear. “Thank you so much for this opportunity.”

  He smiled as his eyes met mine. “You can expect Igor and Wolf in about an hour.”

  Igor and Wolf? No. Really? Igor and Wolf?

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or pee my pants.

  “Leech,” he said to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Scott is now in my employ. She and her mother will be taking up residence here later today. Please have rooms readied as soon as possible.”

  The woman’s brows arched only slightly as she stabbed a look into her employer’s eyes. With a quick glance in my direction, she cleared her throat. “As you vish, sir.”

  “By the way,” he added, his lips curving into a wry smile. “I informed Mrs. Scott as to what a great sense of humor you have.”

  Dead silence reigned while they stared at each other. Finally, Leech nodded. As though she were reading the yellow pages aloud in search of a root canal specialist, she pronounced, “I am more fun den a barrel off monkeys.”

  “As you escort Mrs. Scott to the door, why don’t you tell her one of your jokes.” Turning to me once more, he said, “I have arrangements to tend to. It’s a pleasure meeting you, Stephanie. May I call you Stephanie?”

  “Yes, of course.” And may I call you whenever I need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? “Thank you again, Dr. Van Graf. I promise I’ll do a good job for you.”

  “I do not doubt that we’ll be a fine fit,” he said quietly. “No doubt whatsoever.”

  Well, that sure could be taken two ways. I wondered in which way he meant it?

  I know the first thing that popped into my mind—muddled as it was at the moment.

  He said nothing further, but quickly left the room. As soon as he was gone, Leech gestured for me to follow her down the hall. As we walked, she said in her morose monotone, “Three vampires valk into a bar.”

  “It’s okay, Leech,” I rushed. “Please don’t feel obliged to tell me a jo—”

  “De barmaid approaches.” She stared straight ahead as she spoke, walking along the gallery as though she were in a trance. “‘Vat vill it be?’ says de barmaid. De first vampire says, ‘I vill heff a mug uff blood.’ De second vampire says, ‘I, too, vill heff a mug uff blood.’ De terd vampire speaks up. ‘I vill heff a glass of plasma.’ De girl turns to de bartender and says, ‘Order up; two bloods and a blood light!’”

  This punch line was followed by a chuckle that sounded more like a cat choking up a wet hairball. Leech continued making that sound and snorting through her nose until we reached the front door.

  Her hand on the knob, she turned to me. “Velcome to Moonrise Manor. De Herr Dock-tor seems pleased mit you. I am heppy to leaf him in zuch gapable henz.” She opened the door and followed me onto the veranda.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I should be back in a couple of hours. I’m aware you have several guests. Will I have any duties I need to be prepared to perform this evening?”

  Leech stepped back into the threshold and crossed her arms. “Not tonight. Ve all vill probably be watching our favorite TV show.”

  The undead watched television shows? Who knew? “May I ask what that is?”

  A gleam sparked in her obsidian eyes. “Boardwalk Vampire.” Again with the hairball gag. She continued to giggle and chortle as she closed the door, leaving me to return to my car in a bit of a daze.

  Sliding behind the wheel, I buckled my seat belt and turned the key in the ignition, then gazed at my reflection in the rearview mirror.

  What in the hell had just happened? Now that I was away from the house, my thoughts seemed to clear, my brain unfuzzed, leaving me with the distinct impression I’d just experienced some kind of waking dream.

  Was I really going to be working for a Vampire? And living in his house? With my mother? Dr. Van Graf had sworn we would be safe and he had such an expression of sincerity, I believed him. I probably wanted to believe him more than I actually did, but I needed a place to live and I needed a job and I needed to care for Mom, so the incredibly attractive Dr. Van Graf just had to be on the level.

  Part of me was elated and relieved. A job. Money. Security. A roof over my head. At last. But part of me—that back-of-the-brain nagging part—was worried I’d just made a horrible mistake.

  Releasing the parking brake, I had the distinct impression I was being watched. As I started to pull into the driveway, a movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned my head in time to see the curtain in the topmost turret flutter, as though someone had pulled it aside and then quickly stepped back. The telltale curtain confirmed my suspicion. But who was watching me, and why? Simple curiosity, or something more…sinister?

  In movies, the heroine shakes her head and dismisses these kinds of warnings as just her imagination running wild, or a trick of the light, or an errant breeze, but this wasn’t a movie and I’d just accepted a job as housekeeper to a vampire. Oh, excuse me. Vampire.

  Of course somebody was watching me.

  As I headed for home, however, I couldn’t shake the feeling that whoever or whatever had been in that tower window had not been watching me out of curiosity, but out of malice.

  I should have known right then and there to drive away—and never look back.

  ***

  We live in Sequoia City on the western slope of the Sierra Nevada in northern California. California, land of fruits and nuts, as my mother used to say. She still does on those rare days when she’s lucid. In her former life, she’d taught poetry at Stanford and had many of her own poems published. But those days were gone now. These days, Mom lives in a confusing world where poems and poetry do not exist, have never existed.

  Since Mom’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis six years ago, she’s been with me in the house I bought back when I was a popular romance novelist and the money was rolling in. Like most people, when my career was flying high, I thought it would last forever. As to that topic, my mom had warned, Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched, and, Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.

  Sadly, the only thing I got from her words of wisdom was stay away from poultry farming.

  Boy, was I ever naïve.

  Or stupid.

  Or both.

  Even before she developed Alzheimer’s, my mom never was politically correct. She often burst forth with cleave-to-the-bone remarks whenever she felt so inclined. Which was whenever she was awake. She had opinions on everything, and voiced them loudly, especially on topics most people tend to avoid in polite conversation: politics, religion, gun control, and whether Snooki or Kim Kardashian would win the thickest-layer-of-sticky-lipstick contest. Mom’s biases swirled around her like debris from a tornado. She would occasionally fling a cow or car from the tempest, inflicting wounds on the innocent. She didn’t intend to hurt; she just didn’t know how not to.

  I love my mom, but she could be a gigantic pain in the ass. Still is, only now the pain has crept up into my heart.

  “Where are your kids?” she demanded as I hurriedly tossed all her meds into an open suitcase on the bed. From her wheelchair by the window, she looked around the room as though I’d somehow misplaced her grandchildren.

  “They’re at school, Mom.” Telling her Kimmie and Jace didn’t live with us anymore would have no meaning. She wouldn’t remember anyway. “Now, don’t change the subject. What do you think about going to live with a vampire?”

  “Who’s going to go live with a vampire?” She blinked at me several times, and then narrowed her once-clever brown eyes in thought. Those eyes had kept me
on the straight and narrow all my life, but in the last few years, they’d dimmed, milky with confusion.

  Scanning the room again, she growled, “What have you done with my grandchildren?” then redirected her gaze at me. “You know what you need? A man. You’re no spring chicken, you know.” Mumbling under her breath, she turned away from me once more to look out the window.

  She sat hunched over in her wheelchair like a she-wolf guarding its kill. The persimmon polyester pantsuit she wore needed to be laundered, but it was her favorite outfit and I’d had a tough time trying to get it away from her long enough to wash it. Her head bowed, she muttered, “I need a cigarette.”

  “You quit smoking thirty years ago, Mom.”

  Her gray brows lifted. “I did?” which was quickly followed by an angry, “What in the hell are you doing with my bottles? Those are my bottles. They’re special. Don’t you hurt my bottles, Lady.”

  My mom always calls me Lady when she can’t remember who I am. At first, it hurt. Now, years in, the pain has sharpened to anguish.

  “I won’t, Mom,” I said gently. “There are a couple of men with a van coming soon who will help move us to our new, uh, place. I want to make sure we don’t forget any of your prescriptions.”

  “A van? What van? Why am I getting in a van? Where in the hell is this van gonna take me?” Peering up at me like a little girl trying to fathom why she was being punished, she whimpered, “Lady? Do I like to ride in a van?”

  My heart squeezed.

  “Just our belongings will go in the van.” I spoke slowly, hoping she would understand, all the while knowing she would not. “I’ll drive you in my car.” I tried very hard to smile and said cheerily, “You’ll have fun today. A new place, new room, new friends. It’ll be great and I’ll be there with you all the time.”