Dead is the New Black Page 6

  Rising to my feet, I said, “All right. I’ll bring my mother and Lucy with me.”

  As I retraced the route back to my room, I worked hard to stay calm. This has all happened so quickly. What a day. My house in foreclosure, a new job, a move to a new place, weird people, a Vampire, a murder—and it wasn’t even midnight yet.

  If, as Jon Van Graf claimed, he hadn’t killed Percy Usher, who had? And why? Would there be more victims?

  Debby Destiny had never encountered anything like this.

  I stopped dead in my tracks. Hmm, I thought. Maybe she should.

  If you’ve ever asked a writer, Where do you get your ideas? this is where. Turn any corner and BAM! without warning, an idea slams into your head and you’re off creating your next story—even if your life is in danger.

  That’s how warped writers are.

  Trust me.

  As I resumed my hurried pace along the hallway, I plucked an antique saber from the wall in case I needed to defend myself against a possible attempt on my life—or my mom’s.

  If anything—human or undead—came at me now, I was ready.

  Chapter 7

  Returning to my room unscathed, I discovered my mother was awake and sitting in her wheelchair, staring out the window at the falling snow. Lucy sat close by, her legs curled under her in the window seat, reading a story aloud to my mom.

  “‘Oh, don’t pay any attention to me,’” said Charlotte. “‘I just don’t have much pep anymore. I guess I feel sad because I won’t ever see my children…’”

  Lucy stopped reading and looked up. Closing the book, she uncurled her legs and stood. “Hello, missus. We’re havin’ a right good time.”

  I looked around the bedroom. There were no bookshelves in the room and no books lying about. As far as I could recall, Lucy hadn’t held anything in her hands when she’d arrived.

  I glanced at my mom sitting quietly in her wheelchair, off somewhere in her own world. Had she heard Lucy reading the story? Probably not.

  “Where did you get the book, Lucy?”

  “My room.”

  “Where is your room?”

  She shrugged and closed the book. “Just down t’hall from t’study,” she said cheerily. “There’s a whole shelf with picture books on ’em. This here’s my favorite. Who’d’ve thought a lady spider could be so clever.”

  Lucy thought Charlotte’s Web was a documentary? Okay.

  “When?” I said. “When did you get the book from your room?”

  Abruptly, the sparkle left her eyes and her mouth turned down. She lowered her head and looked at me dead on like a feral cat tracking its kill. “Why do ya wanta know, missus?”

  Jon and the others were assembling downstairs. Now was not the time or place to engage in what could turn out to be a to-the-death confrontation, so I shrugged, “No reason.” Grabbing the handles of my mother’s wheelchair, I circled the chair around and headed for the door. “Dr. Van Graf wants to have a word with everyone in the parlor. Could you please lead the way, Lucy?”

  Bustling past me, the maid opened the bedroom door and held it while I pushed Mom’s wheelchair out and headed toward the elevator at the end of the hall. As we entered the elevator, I happened to glance down at my mom. Her hair was disheveled from her nap, so I finger-combed it a bit to get it off her neck.

  As the elevator door slid closed, I noticed the marks on Mom’s neck.

  Two marks about an inch apart.

  Two tiny puncture wounds.

  My blood turned to ice, then to fire. Someone had bitten my mother? Was it Lucy? Or had the “lady” Jon had claimed to have been with really been my mother?

  Could he?

  Would he?

  Did he?

  I tried to think past my racing brain. Scenarios came and went, each horrific scene replaced by the next, each one more terrifying than the last.

  Calm. Calm. Steady on. Think. Breathe. Do not panic.

  I had to protect my mother. But how? I had nobody I could turn to. I was isolated in an unfamiliar place, trapped by a snowstorm, surrounded by a creature or creatures intending to do my mother and me harm.

  The elevator came to a halt and the door slid open, but my mind continued to race. What to do, how to escape? Make blind accusations against—whom? Keep quiet, avoid arousing suspicion, and wait for the chance to get away?

  Shit, I’d been stupid. I’d rather be starving on the street than subject my mom to something like this. But that’s what I’d done. I’d walked right into a vampire’s den. I gritted my teeth. Not Vampire, so-called “ethnic” group as Jon had claimed, but bloodsucking monsters.

  Lucy watched me carefully as she held the elevator door open, but not as carefully as I watched her.

  For the moment, I had to keep my fears under control and be patient. If it were just me, I’d take my chances out in the snow, but with the storm and the isolation and the wheelchair, I had no choice but to stay put.

  The puncture wounds on Mom’s neck were small and she seemed not to be bothered by them. From the look of things, she wasn’t a member of the undead or a creature of the night just yet, so she was still salvageable. I needed to protect her from another attack and then get her to the hospital as soon as possible.

  As I pushed my mom’s wheelchair out of the elevator, I felt a strong sense of self-loathing with only one thing on my mind…

  What a damned fool I’ve been.

  As Lucy led the way to the parlor, my mother began to mumble and shake her head. Bending toward her ear, I whispered, “Mom? Is something wrong?”

  Without turning, she suddenly shouted, “Woof.”

  I moved around to crouch in front of her. “Mom?”

  She blinked a few times before making eye contact with me. It happened so seldom these days, it took me a little off guard.

  With a furrowed brow, she appeared to be searching for a lost puzzle piece. She glanced around the room, settling her gaze on Lucy standing by a closed door, beyond which, I assumed, lay the parlor.

  Returning her attention to me, Mom said, “Where have I been, Lady?”

  I cupped her cool hands together in mine. “We’ve been upstairs, and now we’re going—”

  “No,” she said, her brown eyes clouded with confusion. “No, no, no. Where have I been? I can’t seem to remember. So much…lost time…I…”

  Her words trailed off and she became silent once more. Over the last few years, she’d had occasional moments of lucidity, but this one seemed different in some way.

  “Missus?” Lucy called out. Turning the handle on the door, she opened it. “This way, missus. They’re all waitin’ fer us.” She grinned her incisor-challenged, pointy-canined grin.

  Dammit. Reluctantly, I moved around behind the wheelchair and continued propelling it toward the yawning parlor door.

  Whatever was up with Mom would have to wait for now.

  Though the parlor was enormous, it reflected the same cozy tone as the rest of the house—the small portion of the house I’d seen, anyway. Overstuffed leather chairs, brocade-covered settees, plush sofas, and carved-oak coffee tables were arranged in such a way as to encourage relaxation and conversation. Beautiful landscape oils filled the walls, and at the far end of the room, an enormous fireplace offered a roaring blaze.

  All eyes turned to watch as we entered the room.

  A quick inventory allowed me to identify those people I’d already met.

  The man himself—Dr. Jonathan Van Graf—stood with one arm resting on the polished cherry mantel. Though his rugged face held no particular expression, his blue eyes seemed to smile at me as I wheeled Mom to a spot near the fire. Of course, I could have been mistaken, and what I thought was a warm greeting was just the reflection of firelight on his glasses.

  Leech stood next to him, her arms folded, her shiny obsidian eyes glaring at me. No mistaking that glint for firelight.

  Wolf and Igor sat on opposite ends of a love seat near a bay window. Wolf was still in his jeans
and purple tie-dye T-shirt, while Igor had changed into a khaki jumpsuit such as mechanics wear.

  Still attired in their respective aprons, Ura Troll was joined by Lucy, who sat perched on a settee like a nervous bird ready to take flight at the least sign of a predator.

  Shoving off from the fireplace mantel, Jon walked toward me. “Everyone,” he said. “This is Stephanie Scott and her mother, Mrs. Wilder. Stephanie is Moonrise’s new housekeeper.”

  A variety of greetings—from grunts to murmurs to restrained hellos—emanated from the assemblage following his introduction.

  Jon gestured to a short, pudgy, bald man of middle years. “Stephanie, this is Robert Renfield, the docudrama’s director.” Renfield gave me a brief who-the-hell-cares smile.

  Catapulting from a chair next to Igor and Wolf’s love seat, a tall, gaunt, pale man in his thirties stretched his hand toward me. As I reached around my mom, he said, “Barnaby Karloff. I’m writing the screenplay for this little project. I understand you’re a writer? A novelist?” He released my hand and stepped back toward his chair.

  “Was,” I said softly. “I was a novelist. What is your screenplay about?”

  “About a hundred pages,” he gushed, then laughed as though he assumed I’d never heard that lame line before. Recovering, he rushed, “Hey, just kidding, kiddo. A little Hollywood humor.”

  Very little indeed.

  He tapped his index finger against the hollow of his cheek. “You see, it’s the true story of capital V Vampires. God knows they’ve been maligned for two hundred years. We felt we owed it to this oppressed and misunderstood people to set the record straight.”

  I felt more obligated than curious, to ask the question, “What’s the title?”

  He lifted his shoulders in a sort of helpless shrug. “What else? The Vampire Strikes Back.”

  Of course it is. “Sounds perfect.”

  Next, Jon introduced Teri Van Helsing, actress, and Harry Nuckles, actor.

  “Hey,” Teri said with a little wave. “Welcome to the madhouse, sweetie.”

  The requisite blonde bombshell, Teri almost certainly had more brains in her implants than in her head. What role could this sexpot possibly play in a Vampire docudrama? “What part do you play?”

  She winked. “The female lead, of course. Leech.”

  It was all I could do to keep from keeling over. The best I could manage was to clamp my jaw shut and make no comment whatsoever. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Leech nodding her approval.

  “It is like looking in zee mirror,” she drawled. Since I’d been lead to believe creatures of the night had no reflections in a mirror, if Leech was happy with the casting choice, who was I to challenge it?

  At that point, Harry spread his arms as though he expected to wrap me in a big bear hug. “Stephanie,” he said with a beaming Bucky Beaver smile. “C’mere, baby, and give old Harry a proper welcome.”

  Not gonna happen.

  Harry Nuckles appeared to be in his midforties. His hair was too black and too long for a man his age, not to mention the disconcerting constant expression of surprise that was undoubtedly the result of too severe a face-lift, or too much Botox, or both.

  I sidestepped Harry, keeping my mom and her wheelchair between us.

  “Nice to meet you all,” I said to the room at large, and left it at that.

  “Say, where’s Percy?” This from Renfield who stood, hands on his hips, a bemused look on his face as he surveyed the room. “Somebody forget to tell Percy about this little confab?”

  Jon stepped into the center of the room. “Percy Usher is the reason I’ve called you all here. There has been a development.”

  Teri Van BoobJob leaped to her feet with a breathy, “What kind of”—dramatic pause—“development?”

  “I’m sorry to have to break it to you all like this, but Usher has been found dead. Murdered.”

  As Jon had suggested, I studied everyone’s reactions.

  Robert Renfield threw up his hands. “Shit. There goes my leading man. What in the hell am I gonna do now? Sh-h-it!”

  Harry Nuckles thrust his fists onto his hips. “What? The little son of a bitch owed me money. A lot of money. How dare the little SOB get himself knocked off.”

  Barnaby Karloff crossed his arms. “I’m not rewriting the friggin’ script. I am not. It’s brilliant, just the way it is. I’ll bring the union in on this, I swear I will.”

  Titties Van Cleavage mewled, “But…but…but…he was gonna marry me. We was engaged.” Flinging her body down on a brocade couch, she proceeded to sob in long, loud, gasping breaths. Her face mushed in a throw pillow, she cried, “Oh, Percy. What have they done to you? Oh, the humaniousness.”

  Wolf and Igor exchanged Who’s Percy Usher? glances.

  Lucy and Ura gasped in unison.

  Leech frowned and said to Jon, “How vas he murdered? Vhen? Vhere?”

  But before he could answer—

  “I know who did it.”

  Who said that?

  I looked around. Everyone was staring openmouthed at my mother.

  “Mom?” I said, crouching before her again. “Do you know who killed Percy?”

  She nodded, then leaned forward and whispered, “It was Professor Plum in the hall with the candlestick.” Pursing her lips, she nodded several more times, then sat back in her wheelchair with a satisfied look on her face, and gave me a wink.

  “Mom?” I choked. “Mom, are you here? Do you know me?”

  Her forehead wrinkled as though she were trying to understand an obscure foreign language. A moment later, her expression cleared and she smiled. “Yes. I know you.”

  My heart lurched and I feared I might cry. “Tell me, Mom. Who am I?”

  Her smile grew wider. “You’re Lady,” she said. “Lady, who won’t let the angels take me away.”

  An involuntary cry left my throat. I swallowed, wiped my eyes. “That’s right,” I whispered, tamping down my disappointment. “That’s right, Mom.”

  Jon had moved to stand behind me. “Do you think she saw something? That she might know who killed Usher?”

  I shook my head. “No. We used to play Clue when I was a little girl. In her muddled mind, that’s what we’re doing. It’s a game to her. A game…from a lifetime ago.”

  Jon tilted his head and eyed my mom. “Hm. I wonder.”

  I slid a glance at my mother. Quiet. Serene. Off again in her world of shadows and mist and memories. If she really did know who killed the young actor, how did she know?

  And if whoever killed Usher believed my mother could identify him, would he try to silence her before she could reveal his identity?

  I stood and tried to make eye contact with those in the room. “My mother has Alzheimer’s,” I said loudly.

  Out of the corner of my, I saw Igor turn to Wolf. Looking confused, Igor said, “Who’s Al?”

  Continuing on, I stated firmly, “She doesn’t know what she’s saying half the time. Besides, she wasn’t anywhere near the study when Percy—”

  “Oh, but I did see.”

  I whirled around to stare down at my mother. She was looking up at me, her brown eyes clear and direct.

  “That’s impossible, Mom. You were in your room, asleep when—”

  “I woke up.” She leaned to her right to peer around me. “Isn’t that right, Lucy? And we went to Lucy’s room to get a book, and that’s when I saw him.”

  Jon and I turned to face Lucy at the same time. Before I could say anything, he spoke.

  “Lucy? Is that true?”

  The girl looked terrified as she slowly rose to her feet. Wringing and twisting her apron, she said, “Aye, Doctor. We did, sure. Went down from Miz Wilder’s room to get a book.” Her eyes widened. “But I didn’t see nothin’. I swear it. I never even saw this Percy fella, not alive and God help me, not dead.”

  “That’s true,” my mother added. “Lucy left me in my in the hallway while she popped into her room to get the book. She was in the
re when Professor Plum sneaked up the stairs at the end of the hall. It was dark at the far end, but I saw the candlestick in his hand.” She nodded to punctuate her remarks. “Lucy never saw him, but I did.” Another and-that’s-that nod, and she set her jaw.

  Jon crouched in front of my suddenly and incredibly coherent and articulate mother.

  “Mrs. Wilder?” he said softly. “Who did you see? Who was the man with the candlestick? Who killed Percy Usher?”

  Chapter 8

  You could have heard a pin drop. Everyone’s attention was riveted on my mother, though she seemed unaware of the commotion she was causing. After all, I was pretty certain that, in her mind, she was just playing a child’s game. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. A slight smiled curved her lips as she blinked up at Jon.

  He cleared his throat and repeated, “Who was the man with the candlestick?”

  Mom’s lashes fluttered and she looked a little disconcerted. “What man?”

  He flicked a quick glance at me, and then returned his attention to my mother. “Professor Plum,” he said slowly, gently. His eyes shone with kindness, caring. And I knew right then and there that this man could never hurt my mother. In fact, he could never hurt anyone.

  “In the hall,” he coaxed. “Can you describe the man in the hall?”

  My mother’s mouth turned down and she seemed to retreat into herself again. “When?” She stared at up him, crossed her arms, scowled. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Why are you badgering me like this?”

  My heart skipped a beat. She was gone again. Her bewilderment had bloomed into anger, and from experience, I’d learned we’d get nothing more from her.

  I exchanged looks with Jon. “I’m sorry. She won’t—”

  Obviously unused to dealing with dementia, he raised his hand to halt my remarks. Still crouched before the wheelchair, he simply watched her. The expression on his face told me he was thinking, analyzing, trying to find the key that would unlock my mother’s mind.

  This was a serious situation—a young actor laid dead a few rooms away and his killer was undoubtedly pretending to be a guiltless observer of these goings-on. Whether my mom truly had seen the killer, it was impossible to know. Was there really a “Professor Plum” or was she merely replaying a game from years ago?