Dead is the New Black (8 page)

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 there 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.