Dead is the New Black Page 7

  Add to it the fact we were snowbound and vulnerable, somebody had put two puncture wounds in my demented mother’s neck, yet watching Jon trying to comfort and communicate with my mom, I found all I could think about was what it would feel like to kiss him.

  I am a disgusting piece of garbage. I am beyond inappropriate. What is the matter with me? This man is a Vampire and my boss and we’re hip deep in murder, and in spite of all that I have never been so attracted to someone in my life. Ever.

  Am I sick or just too stupid to live?

  I was so far gone, I’d even be willing to bet that the “blood” I’d seen on his sweater was just red paint. Yes. That was it. He’d been painting a, um, oh, I don’t know, a fire hydrant maybe? Sure. That made perfect sense.

  All around us, the room remained quiet. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved.

  I continued to watch Jon as he observed my mother, speaking softly to her, using her name, smiling. Though she made no response, he continued trying to find a word or phrase she would recognize and would bring her back to us.

  I knew from experience it would be nearly impossible, but she had shown remarkable clarity this evening for the first time in years, so who knew what might happen?

  Jon was so intent that I could almost see the gears turning inside his head. For a moment, I thought that’s what I was hearing. Then I realized that the clicking and tapping weren’t the cogs and wheels in his brain, but the stealthy footfalls of someone quietly heading for the door.

  While everyone’s attention was on my mom, somebody was trying to sneak away.

  I could tell the moment Jon became aware of it, too. His gaze shifted from my mom to meet mine. He rose to his feet, turning around to face the man tiptoeing toward the door.

  “Going somewhere, Professor Plum?” When the man made no reply, Jon demanded, “Well?” His accusatory bark shook the room like a roll of thunder. “Why did you change your clothes, Igor?”

  Igor swallowed and gave a nervous little shrug. His eyes bulged so much, he looked like a carp staring out of an aquarium. “I was, you know, uh, dirty,” he stammered. “I, uh, wanted to change before dinner, see.”

  Wolf left the love seat and moved to stand next to Jon. “This is being not true, Doctor,” he said. “Inside, we worked, because of the storm. I am not getting dirty. He is not getting dirty.”

  Of course. I remembered. Earlier that day, Igor had been wearing the same color T-shirt as Wolf.

  The shirts were purple.

  Purple—like a plum.

  Wolf was still wearing his shirt, but Igor had changed. Was that because there was blood on it?

  Abruptly, my mother pushed herself out of her wheelchair and stood. My breath caught. Mom hadn’t possessed the strength to stand or walk unaided for several years, yet here she was, standing straight and tall and proud.

  “Mom?” I choked, overcome with emotion at the sight of her looking like her old self. When she wobbled a bit, I put out my hand to help steady her. “Did you want to say something?”

  She nodded and raised her chin in obvious triumph. Lifting her arm, she pointed straight at Igor.

  “Professor Plum,” she announced. “In the hall with the candlestick. Woof!”

  Across the room, Igor’s expression changed from trepidation to terror. He forced a smile, then shrugged again and gave a cajoling little laugh. “Hey, hey, like, listen. She don’t know what she’s talkin’ about. She’s got Al’s hammers, for God’s sakes. She’s a thief. You can’t believe nothin’ she says.”

  Before anyone could respond, Igor lunged for the door, grabbing the knob with both hands. But before he could get the door open and make good his getaway, Jon and Wolf were on him. Amid grunts and curses, Jon wrestled Igor to the floor and pinned his arms behind his back.

  Not even breathing hard after the tussle…

  Oh, be still my heart…

  Jon said, “Wolf. Find something to tie up this son of a bitch.”

  With a quick, “Yes, sir,” Wolf leapt to his feet and hurried from the parlor. Behind me, the movie people applauded as though this were a performance staged expressly for their entertainment.

  But Percy Usher’s death was no stage production. He was well and truly dead. Murdered.

  I remained silent, continuing to hold my mom steady, but as Jon yanked Igor to his feet and shoved him into a chair near the fireplace, I said to Igor, “Did you kill Percy? Was it you my mother saw in the hallway?”

  His expression was flat, his head slightly bowed, his jaw clamped tightly shut.

  At that moment, Wolf entered the room with a length of rope. Together, he and Jon tied Igor’s hands and feet, trussing him up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

  Jon grabbed Igor by the front of his overalls. “The lady asked you a question. Answer her. Now.”

  Jon shoved Igor down into the chair. Slouching down, Igor shrugged again, and then gave a halfhearted nod.

  “Why?” Jon asked. “You didn’t even know him.” He crossed his arms and looked hard at the prisoner. “Or did you? Yeah, that’s it. You did know him. And more importantly, he knew you.”

  Igor pursed his lips. “Aw, hell,” he sighed. “It’s over now anyways.” He straightened in his chair. “Yeah. I knew the little shithead. We was roomies together for a stint in Camarillo.”

  The movie people had been pretty quiet until now, but on hearing Igor’s confession, Robert Renfield put his hands on his hips. An expression of shock distorted his features.

  “Camarillo?” he yelled. “The California State Mental Hospital for convicted felons? Rapists? Sexual predators?”

  Igor cracked a smile. “Yeah. Some fun, huh.”

  Teri Van BoobBounce gasped. “Percy was incarcimated there? He was one of them? My Percy?”

  This got a derisive snort from Igor. “Your Percy, my ass. He was everybody’s Percy, whether they wanted it or not. He wasn’t real good at takin’ no for a answer. Besides,” he said on a tired breath, “when I knew him, his name wasn’t Nancy-boy Percy Usher. His real name was Mack MacMack.”

  Jon frowned. “Mack MacMack?”

  Igor nodded. “Mack MacMack.”

  “You sound like two chickens talking to each other.” This from my mother, who had suddenly become aware of the proceedings.

  “Yeah,” snarled Igor. “Some moniker, yeah? But when he turned porn star, he changed it to Ben Dover.” He snickered, and then laughed out loud. “Guess when he went legit, he changed it again to Usher.”

  Barnaby Karloff piped up. “So you killed him because he recognized you?”

  “Yeah. I thought movin’ this far north, I’d never see the guy again. But what do you think? The little perp walks right into my life, sees me and informs me that for a few bucks he won’t say nothin’. So I put it that I’ll tell on him, and he says I got more to lose than he does, so I solved the whole dillenema with one of them big brass candlesticks from the cabinet in the study. He was looking for porn when I rang his bell. Permanently.”

  I turned to Jon. “You have porn in your library?”

  He shrugged. “Men are pigs.”

  Every woman in the room murmured in agreement.

  “You’re a doctor,” I rasped.

  He arched a brow. “Yes, it just doesn’t get any better than The New England Journal of Medicine or The Lancet. Oh, baby.”

  Turning back to Igor, Jon crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “The candlestick. What did you do with it?”

  Igor’s eyebrows rose. “Tossed it out my window in the snow somewheres. I imagine it’ll turn up after the melt, but I’d planned to be long gone by then.” He smiled. “Long gone and scot-free.” He snorted. “Shit. Busted by some old lady in a wheelchair. What’s this world comin’ to anyways?”

  I looked at my mother. She smiled at me, then at Jon. Finally, she turned her attention to Igor. “I have only one thing to say to that, you little prick.” With a saucy grin on her lovely face, she whispered, “Woof!”

  ***

/>   An hour later, the police and coroner had been summoned and would arrive as soon as the roads were passable. Igor was still trussed up and locked in a small laundry cupboard with no windows and no means of escape. Wolf stood guard outside the door, just in case.

  My mom had been pretty quiet after the wild events of the evening, so Lucy had taken her up to bed.

  The movie people meandered about the parlor, trying as best they could to understand what had happened. Renfield was rather philosophical about it though, saying, “Hey, just another day in Hollywood.”

  When everyone had wandered away to grab a bite to eat or chat or watch TV, I went to the fireplace and stared into the bright flames, trying to give my brain time to process the huge amount of data this day had brought—not to mention the roller-coaster ride my emotions had been on.

  A moment later, Jon sidled up next to me. Together, we stood in silence, enjoying the heat from the fire, and—I have to add from my personal point of view—the heat from his übermasculine body.

  Without looking at him, I said, “I knew you didn’t do it.”

  “I know.” His deep voice was rich and incredibly sexy, and I decided I was okay with that.

  “I do have a question, though.”

  A moment ticked by, then another. Finally, he said, “I thought you might.”

  Turning slightly in his direction, I said, “Your alibi was my mother.”

  “Yes.”

  “She has two puncture wounds in her neck.”

  “She does.”

  “You lied. You told me you are a Vampire, an ethnic group, and not a creature of the night.”

  “I did, yes.”

  “And that my mother and I would be safe here. She has obviously been bitten. Do you care to explain to me how that happened?”

  He nudged my chin with his index finger and looked deeply into my eyes. I looked back. I wanted to. In fact, I think it was at that moment I decided I wanted to forever.

  Softly, he confessed, “I was with your mother, but I did not hurt her.”

  Diverting the conversation for a moment, I said, “What kind of doctor are you?”

  “A neurologist, specializing in dementia.”

  I tilted my head. “And you are a real vampire,” I accused. “Lowercase V. One of the undead. A creature of the night. A bloodsucking monster.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes, and no.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes,” I countered. “You attacked my mother.”

  “I thought I could help her, and I believe I have. You saw how she was this evening. More like her old self, yes?”

  I shook my head. “But how?”

  He stepped closer. “I did not take any of her blood. Vampires don’t need to do that anymore. These days, we have alternatives.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as Hemoglobin Helper and Plasm-a-Roni and Doritoes. Platelet chips come in sour cream and onion now. And lots more. We no longer need living donors anymore to survive.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He grinned that heart-melting grin. “I’m absolutely O-positive.”

  God, he was so incredibly charming, I felt myself on the verge of my very first swoon. Recovering, I said, “So how did you help my mother?”

  “Instead of withdrawing blood from her, I injected stem cells into her system. Much research is being done on this treatment, but the process is slow, and your mother needs help right now. Now, before she falls so far into dementia, she can no longer be healed.”

  I frowned and shook my head. “I wish I could believe that, Jon, but I just don’t see how—”

  “Stephanie?”

  At the sound of my mother’s voice, I whirled around. She stood there looking neat and tidy, her hair combed, a smile on her face. She’d changed out of that damned persimmon pantsuit into a lovely print dress. “Yes, Stephanie. It’s me. I’m really here.”

  I felt my eyes sting as I shot a quick look at Jon and then rushed to my mother to fold my arms around her and hold her close, close, close.

  “Mom?” I cried into her hair. “Oh, Mom. Do you really know me?”

  I felt her nod her head. “I do, my sweet baby,” she whispered. “I do.”

  She stroked my hair like she’d done when I was a little girl, murmuring soft words of comfort while I hugged her as tight as I could. “Thank you,” she said, “for taking such good care of me. I know I’ve been a burden—”

  “No, Mom,” I rushed, pushing back a little so I could look into her face. “Never a burden, Mom. Never, never, never.” Her eyes were clear and sharp and there—despite the tears that spilled from them to wet her cheeks. She was wholly there.

  Compassion shone in her eyes. “I know you blamed yourself for ‘giving’ me Alzheimer’s, Stephanie, but it just isn’t true.”

  “But the car accident,” I protested. “I wasn’t paying attention and ran that red light and you hit your head, and—”

  “Stop,” she said softly. “Not your fault. You were sixteen. Learning to drive. Please stop beating yourself up over something that happened half a lifetime ago. I never blamed you and you shouldn’t, either.”

  Stepping away from me, she said, “Well, it’s been a long day. I’m going to bed now. We’ll talk more tomorrow, okay?”

  “Yes, Mom,” I choked. I gave her another long hug and a kiss on the cheek. “We’ll talk tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that. I love you, Mom.”

  “Love you more,” she said with a smile, then slowly walked, with Lucy’s help, off to bed, leaving me alone with Jon.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Her healing. It’s miraculous. It can’t happen this fast. There’s just no way—”

  “It can,” he interrupted, “when you’re a Vampire who knows a thing or two about neurology.” His tone became serious. “However, she still has a long way to go. She will relapse, but with each treatment, she will improve. I’m asking you to trust me, Steph. I have only your mother’s best interest at heart. And yours.”

  He moved closer and slid his arms around me.

  Leaning in to him, I put my forehead on his chest. His strong, solid chest. “I do trust you. Thank you.”

  He kissed the top of my head.

  “I should confess,” I said softly. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

  He chuckled. “Perfect. I’m sure I’m falling in love with you. From the moment you stepped into my office, I began to hope.”

  As soon as I raised my face to his, he kissed me. And then he kissed me again, longer, slower. His lips were delicious and I couldn’t get enough. I think I moaned. Or maybe it was him, I really couldn’t tell.

  I broke the kiss for a moment, and took a deep breath. “I need to know—”

  “I know you do.” His blue eyes sparkled with humor. “I am not from Transylvania or any other part of Europe. My parents were Dutch immigrants. I was born in New York.”

  “What year? How old are you?”

  He lifted a dismissive brow. “Oh, age is so irrelevant, don’t you think? It’s how you feel that matters.”

  I lifted my hands to grip his sweater in my fists. “What year were you born, Jon?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” he said. His large hands gently covered my own. “Let me just say that when I was born, New York City was called New Amsterdam, and my family knew Henry Hudson—personally.”

  His half answers made me giggle. “And Van Graf, in Dutch, means?”

  He pursed his lips. “Don’t let this bother you, but it translates basically into grave dweller. Pure coincidence, I assure you.”

  “Swell,” I laughed. “So what’s the mystery to living for more than 350 years?”

  He pretended to think about it for a moment, then, “Fiber. That and staying away from sharp objects.”

  “Like stakes?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve heard it said.”

  “So you’re not gonna let me in on the real secret?”

  He bent as though to kiss
me again, but stopping short, against my mouth, he murmured in a low, sexy voice, “Tell you what. I’ll give you a chance to figure it out…over the next 350 years.”

  Then his lips met mine again, and I was a goner. I was his, forever and forever and forever more.

  Epilogue

  Everything Entertaining Magazine

  Book Review Section

  by Afton Harsh

  DEAD TO WRITES: I MARRIED A VAMPIRE

  Author: Stephanie Scott Van Graf

  She’s back! Yes, the former Stephanie Scott of those quaint little Debby Destiny cozies is back and better than ever. This, her 11th novel to date, is a change of pace and takes the genre of romantic mysteries to new heights.

  When a down-on-her-luck romance author takes a job as housekeeper for a sexy Vampire, what ensues is murder, mayhem, and everlasting love.

  A fun and riveting romp. 10 stars out of 10.

  Where DO writers get their ideas?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Stories have always played a part in Marianne’s life, beginning with her birth—she was named after a character in a book. When she was four years old, her mom read her The Ugly Duckling. Marianne cried so hard at how the lonely little duckling was bullied, her mom had to skip ahead to the end of the story to prove all would be well. The first real book she ever owned was Black Beauty, which she read and reread and then read again until the cover fell off and the pages literally disintegrated in her hands.

  To this day, sad stories make her cry. And though those first books have been lost over the years, Marianne’s love of reading and happy endings has remained.

  Retired from a twenty-five year career as senior technical writer at the Boeing Company, she now focuses on creating happy endings of her own. When not writing, she enjoys quilting, embroidering, crocheting, gardening, cooking/baking, and watching every British mystery ever produced. Originally from Santa Barbara, California, she now lives in Washington State and is married to her own personal hero. Together, they have three amazing children, two beautiful grandchildren (so far!), and two rescue dogs.