Verse of the Vampyre (11 page)

“It is most certainly not true.”

“Was it an accident? The security guard, Bill Jones that is, was his death an accident?”

“When someone is killed in the commission of a crime, it’s murder. Maybe not according to the courts, but it’s murder all the same.”

That didn’t sound like Jones had been in on the burglary. “Was Bill Jones involved in the robbery? Was he an accomplice?” Heron admonished, “You must know I can’t discuss the details of this case with you, Miss Hollister.”

How come it always worked in books? She abandoned her interrogation, muttering, “You may as well call me Grace since we’re dancing together.”

When the music ended they rejoined Constance. She was frowning, and it wasn’t hard to track the source of her disapproval. Sir Gerald was getting louder and drunker. As they watched he pounded one of his fellows on the back, and the man nearly staggered beneath the blow. The circle of gentlemen shouted with good humor and waylaid one of the footmen passing with a tray of champagne glasses.

Grace wondered where Theresa was. Even more, she wondered where Peter was. He had been gone for nearly an hour.

The Herons made their way onto the crowded dance floor. Grace was navigating toward the veranda when the double doors blew open. Leaves skittered in, blowing across the tables and floors.

There were tiny screams, and the orchestra died off with trailing notes. The dancers slowed and stopped.

Allegra stood framed in the French doors. Her black hair blew around her white face; the wind gusted her red gown. Red with a darker patch of red at the knees.

“There’s been an accident,” she said into the shocked silence.

The shadow spilling down the stairs to the lower garden was not a shadow. It was a woman in a black cape.

One shoe stood empty on the step above her.

The crowd that had followed Grace from the house seemed to draw back at this ominous sight. Then Sir Gerald pulled back the hood of the cape and recoiled. Lady Theresa’s blue eye stared up in profile. Blood welled from two puncture marks on her neck.

Theresa? Grace felt numb. She could not seem to take it in. Theresa was dead. But Catriona was the one with all the near misses…

Sir Gerald sat down on the steps as though his legs had given out. “Ge—” His voice cracked. He wiped a hand across his face, and croaked, “Get Heron.”

Allegra knelt beside him, hand on one broad shoulder. She said something for his ears only. He nodded and wiped his eyes again.

“Lift her up, bring her inside,” Lady Vee commanded.

No, wrong, Grace thought. That would be contaminating a crime scene or tampering with evidence. “Wait,” she said, as a man in a tuxedo and another man in a scarlet jacket bent over Theresa’s body. “I don’t think we should move her. The police—”

“Police!” exclaimed Lady Vee.

“Of course the police,” Grace said. “She’s been murdered.”

People turned faces shocked and stupid in the flickering shadows of the Chinese lanterns. What did they think, wondered Grace? Did they believe a vampire had killed Theresa?

“Miss Hollister is perfectly correct,” Heron said sternly from the top of the terrace steps. “I must ask you all to return to the house.”

“We can’t leave her out here,” Sir Gerald protested.

“No harm will come to her out here, Gerry,” Heron said gruffly. “Come inside, man.”

They filed back into the brightly lit room. Peter stood in the doorway watching. Grace avoided his gaze as she moved past.

“Connie, call Sergeant Stebbins,” Heron ordered, and Mrs. Heron went to locate a phone.

The rest of the evening was more like the hangover than the champagne bubble. The police came and the grim process of crime scene investigation began. The guests were cordoned off in the ballroom, and Heron questioned them one by one in the billiards room.

Grace was brought in quite early.

“Tell me about this play you’re involved in,” the chief constable asked. “About vampires, is it?”

Grace nodded. “It’s a play based on a play based on a short story that was published in 1819. It’s about a man named Aubrey who befriends a mysterious nobleman who turns out to be a vampire. Theresa played Miss Aubrey, the hero’s sister. The story ends with her becoming the vampire’s final victim.”

“And the name of the vampire?”

Reluctantly, Grace answered, “Lord Ruthven.”

“Ruthven? That’s quite a coincidence.”

“I suppose so.”

“This is a very famous play?”

“No. Rather, yes—to people familiar with the Gothic genre or into the vampire thing. To the average theatergoer, no.”

“I understand there have been a number of incidents at the Playhouse. Tell me about those.”

Grace related an account of the graffiti on the theater wall and the trapdoor that had given way.

“And you know about the rumor concerning Bill Jones,” she finished.

Heron changed tack again. “How did Lady Ives get on with the rest of the cast?”

“Fine.”

“No arguments with anyone?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t seem quite sure.”

Grace said slowly, “Theresa got on with everyone.”

Heron’s dark eyes were canny. “There’s something on your mind, Grace. Suppose you tell me what it is.”

Grace gave him a troubled look. “It’s not that easy,” she tried to explain.

“Suppose I make it easier. Someone has suggested to me that Lady Ives was especially close to one cast member. Would you agree with that statement?”

“I hate this.”

“We don’t ask these questions for our own amusement. It’s difficult to know what will prove to be important in an investigation. Would you agree that Lady Ives appeared to be on close terms with one cast member?”

“Derek Derrick is extremely flirtatious,” Grace said. “He spent a lot of time flirting with Theresa. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

“Very true.”

He asked her a few more questions, but they were clearly routine. It wasn’t long before the chief constable told Grace he would have an officer drive her home.

Something about the offhand way he said this alerted Grace to trouble. “That’s all right,” she said quickly. “I’ll wait for Peter.”

“It could be a long wait,” Heron said grimly. “We’ve more than a few questions for Mr. Fox.”

“Chief Constable, you can’t think Peter had anything to do with…this. What possible reason would he have?”

“Lady Ives may not have been the target. Indeed, she may simply have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Grace protested.

“Ah, but there’s something you don’t know, Miss—Grace,” Heron said somberly. “At some point this evening the silver bugle of John Peel went missing.”

Moisture beaded the glistening grass. Moths batted at the light above the cottage door. The moon drifted in a smoky haze beyond the treetops.

Grace’s thoughts also drifted in a smoky haze. Too much had happened during that long evening. She felt numb. Her muscles were in knots of tension. She had to clench her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering as she found her keys in her handbag.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw something move by the cottage stoop. She sucked in an alarmed breath, but the lantern illuminated the features of the man waiting for her.

“
Ch-Chaz?”
Grace managed.

“H
ello, Grace.” Chaz smiled uncertainly.

The amber light gave his lean face a bronzed cast, but it was illusory. He was tall and very thin, with curly dark hair, soulful brown eyes and a meticulously groomed mustache and beard. He looked like an artist rather than a math instructor, which, according to Grace’s friend Monica, was false advertising.

“What are you doing here?” Grace’s hand closed on the collar of her coat as though she needed fresh air.

“I came to see you, obviously.”

Her mind couldn’t seem to wrap around this. After everything that had happened that evening, the sudden materialization of her ex-boyfriend seemed surreal.

“Can it wait?”

“Wait? I’ve been waiting for nearly a year.”

She took in the suitcases at his feet, the dampness of his coat. “I’m sorry. It’s not been a good night. I was at a party and my hostess was—there was an accident.” It seemed too unreal to say the word “murder.”

At a loss, she unlocked and opened the door. She turned on the lights as Chaz dropped his bags inside, looking around himself curiously.

“Let me change out of this dress.”

“You look…amazing,” Chaz said. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Where’ve you been?”

“The Hunt Ball.” Somehow it came out sounding like “Tea at Buckingham Palace.”

“The Hunt Ball?”
Chaz’s Adam’s apple was prominent. She had forgotten its tendency to swell when he was shocked. She had forgotten he was easily shocked.

Grace shut herself in the bathroom, wriggling out of the gown and pulling on jeans, a white shirt and a shaker knit cardigan in oatmeal.

She rejoined Chaz in the living room. He was studying the photos of Grace and her family.

“You do look different,” he remarked, turning at her entrance.

“It’s my hair.”

He shook his head. “Your hair is curly, but that’s not it.”

“Tea? Coffee?” She headed for the tiny kitchen. When in doubt, drink caffeine.

Chaz followed her.

“When did you get in?”

“A few hours ago. I flew into Manchester…” He frowned at his watch. “Three o’clock? Or was that Pacific Standard Time?” He went on calculating while Grace fixed coffee and chocolate praline cookies, or “biscuits,” on a tray.

Carrying the tray into the main room she set it on the carved trunk Peter had loaned her for a coffee table. To fill the silence that fell between them she poured coffee and handed Chaz a cup. She offered him the plate of biscuits, still not speaking. She was too tired to make small talk.

“There wasn’t a hotel,” he began.

That snapped her out of her apathy. “Wait a sec,” she said. “There’s only one bed, and I’m sitting on it.”

“Oh,” said Chaz. “Well, I guess I could sleep on the floor.” He looked doubtfully at the flagstone at his feet.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Neither do I. It’s not like we’ve never—”

“I meant your staying here is not a good idea.”

“You can’t throw me out tonight,” Chaz protested.

She could of course, and Chaz was civilized enough to go, but Grace would only be postponing the inevitable. She shivered.

“Are you all right? You look peaked.”

“It’s been a long night.”

“You said there was an accident?”

She blinked at him with heavy lids. If she started explaining, they would be up for whatever was left of the night. “Sort of.”

She sipped her coffee and was comforted by its warmth, though she still felt chilled to the bone despite the sweater. It was a coldness that went beyond the physical. She was too tired to think clearly, that much she knew.

“You can stay the night, and we’ll talk tomorrow,” she said finally.

She didn’t like the gleam of triumph that she saw in his expressive eyes, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. While Chaz finished his coffee, she stoked the iron stove.

The nip in the air began to dissipate from the room. After making up a bed of extra blankets and pillows on the floor for Chaz, she pulled out the chesterfield and crawled into her own cocoon of flannel sheets and wool blankets.

“My God this floor is hard,” Chaz muttered in the darkness.

“Good night,” Grace said.

Before her smile faded she was asleep.

“That was fast,” Peter remarked.

She came back to awareness of the cold breath of morning across her face.

Grace’s eyes popped open. The front door stood wide. Clad in navy pajamas with white polka dots, Chaz blocked the doorway. She kicked off the blankets and joined him at the cottage entrance.

“Come in,” she croaked.

“I don’t want to intrude,” Peter said courteously. He looked groomed and well rested for a man who had spent the night in police interrogation. His face was expressionless.

“You’re not intruding.”

Chaz looked at his watch. “It’s not even seven.”

“And you are?” Peter inquired urbanely.

“Charles Honeyburn.” He added belatedly, “The Third.”

“Ah, the famous Chip.”

“Chaz.”

“Quite.”

“Who are you?” Chaz demanded.

“This is Peter.” Grace finally got a word in.

“Oh,
you’re
the guy,” Chaz growled.

“I’m the man,” Peter corrected.

“What man?”

“The man with the power.”

“What power?” Chaz turned to Grace. “What is he talking about?”

“The power of voodoo,” Grace said. “It’s an old vaudeville shtick.”

“You’ll admit,” Peter said, “that this scene has its farcical aspect.”

“Come in and tell me what’s happened,” Grace urged.

The cold morning air reached through her peach silk pajamas and turned her skin to goose bumps. It was affecting her in other ways, too, Peter’s gaze informed her.

“If I’m in the way,” Chaz said, in a rather huffy tone.

“It’s not that,” Grace said. “It’s just—”

“It is that, actually,” Peter said.

“Do you want me to leave?” Chaz asked Grace.

She did, but it seemed both unkind and rude to say so.

“Why don’t I get dressed, and we can go somewhere and talk,” Grace suggested to Peter.

“Don’t be silly,” Chaz said. “I’ll get dressed and go out and you two can talk here.”

“You’re my guest,” Grace protested.

“It’s your home,” Chaz argued.

“Fascinating,” Peter murmured. “Grace, love, what I had to say can wait. I’ll talk to you later.”

He turned on heel.

Grace snatched one of the quilts off the floor, stepped into the Wellingtons by the front door and ran—clumping—after Peter, ignoring Chaz’s protest.

“Peter, wait!”

He paused by the hydrangeas, their heads beige and papery. In the crisp sunlight she could see that there were tiny lines of weariness around his eyes and a faint golden stubble on his jaw. He was carelessly dressed in jeans and green flannel shirt beneath a leather jacket. Maybe not as groomed and well rested as she had initially thought.

“What happened last night? Why did the police let you go?”

“Why wouldn’t they let me go?” His smile mocked her. “Or do you think I killed that poor silly cow?”

“I know you didn’t.” She didn’t have to think about it. She saw an almost imperceptible relaxing of his frame. “What did happen?”

His lashes lowered for a moment, and she knew she was about to get the
Reader’s Digest
version of the night before.

“Cat provided me with an alibi.”

Grace considered every syllable of that neutral statement. “That means you provide Cat with an alibi as well,” she said finally.

“I suppose so.”

“You suppose so? Like it never occurred to you?”

“It occurred to me. Cat didn’t kill Lady Ives.”

“How do you know?”

“Because we really were together.”

“Oh.”

His eyes were the blue of the shadows that lengthen twilight. “I thought it would be better if you heard it from me.”

“Sure.” She pulled the blanket more tightly about herself. “What about the Peeler? The police believe the two crimes are related.”

“The police are often mistaken.”

“Are they mistaken this time?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t take the Peeler.”

“Did she?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

She stood there breathing in the cold morning air, her Wellies sinking into the mud, and she became slowly aware that she was angry and getting angrier by the moment.

“Is that all you wanted to tell me?” she queried.

“Er…yes.” She couldn’t interpret his expression, but the fact that he was smiling very faintly irked her.

“Thanks for letting me know.” She turned, but the blanket caught on a shrub.

Peter freed the blanket. “My pleasure,” he murmured.

She hoped she didn’t sound as brittle as she felt. “You won’t mind if I take a few days off? I’d like to spend time with Chaz.”

“Really?”

She cast him a baleful look. “Really.”

“He’s not your type, you know.”

There were any number of answers to that, but they all would have come out sounding childish and spiteful. Instead, she took a leaf from his own book and smiled.

It must have been a convincing smile because Peter’s eyes narrowed.

Knowing she had scored, Grace swept off, quilt trailing, boots galumphing. As she closed the cottage door behind her, she had the satisfaction of knowing Peter was still standing where she’d left him.

“So that’s the guy,” Chaz said. “He’s not what I expected.”

Chaz had changed into khakis and a white shirt with a yellow ascot. He always wore ascots, Grace remembered. And tweed golf caps. She’d used to think how dashing he looked in them. How British. She wasn’t the only one. Chaz had been universally popular with students and female faculty alike at St. Anne’s.

“What did you expect?”

Chaz shrugged. “I didn’t know what to expect. No one does. Your parents—”

“What about my parents?” she demanded.

“They’re worried about you. We all are.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Maybe. Partly. I care for you, Grace. I care about us.”

It was difficult, but it had to be said. “There is no ‘us.’ ”

“You can’t just call it off. Not without giving me a chance.”

Chaz believed he could reason his way back into her life. This trust in the infallibility of logic probably came from devoting one’s life to mathematics.

“Why now?” Grace objected. “Why didn’t you say all this a year ago?”

“I don’t know. Would you have listened? I thought the best thing would be to let you try it out. It was such a crazy idea, moving here. I thought the weather alone would have you home in six months.”

“Well, you were wrong. All of you.” She kicked off the rubber boots. “I need a shower.”

The cottage was fragrant with pancakes and sausages when Grace exited the bath.

“Goodness, when did you learn to cook?” she inquired, toweling her hair as she entered the kitchen. Chaz stood at the stove, spatula in hand.

“Cooking classes are a great way to meet women,” he informed her.

Grace chuckled. “Sly dog.”

Chaz smiled. He had a wonderful smile, and she remembered how much she liked him and how refreshingly normal he was. Chaz would never get himself mixed up in jewel robberies or murder.

“Eat your breakfast before it gets cold,” he ordered.

He had found plates and cutlery, setting the table and even making coffee while she bathed. Inevitably it brought back memories—good memories.

They breakfasted on pancakes and sausages while avoiding discussion of anything more serious than how out of control airline security had become.

“I’m seriously thinking of writing to my congressman,” Chaz concluded, spooning a dollop of Sally Smithwick’s blackberry jam on his last pancake.

Grace made some absent comment. She was trying to figure what to do with Chaz. She didn’t want a heart-to-heart, but there was probably no way around it. And she probably owed Chaz that much, but the timing couldn’t have been worse. All Grace could think about were the events of the evening before.

She decided she needed to see the paper and read the local perspective on the murder.

“Now that you’re here,” she said, “can I show you the sights?”

Chaz professed himself agreeable, and Grace changed into black leggings and a long cable-knit sweater of lavender.

The narrow streets of Innisdale were quiet on this Sunday morning. Swans glided on glassy water beneath the stone bridge. The single hand on the main street corner clock ticked soundlessly. On the village green tents and the merry-go-round were being packed up. The trees had lost more leaves, limbs shivery white and skeletal.