Dead is the New Black (7 page)

As I worked hard to normalize my breathing, I
let my gaze evaluate the victim.

Dead guy was around thirty or so. Good
looking, a male model type. Except for the dent in the side of his
head and the blood on the carpet, he might just as well have been
sleeping.

“Stephanie?”

I just about jumped out of my skin, jerking
my attention to the end of the row where Dr. Van Graf stood glaring
down at me.

When had he come into the study?

Had he been here all along?

Had he killed this man while I’d waited in
front of the fire?

Dr. Van Graf’s expression was unreadable as
he stepped forward, taking my arm and helping me to my feet. I was
in shock, or I probably wouldn’t have let him anywhere near me, but
his touch was gentle, his hand strong. Standing so near him, I
could feel the heat from his body and wanted to curl into it for
shelter and reassurance.

But he could be a murderer. If so, would he
kill
me
now?

I started to pull away from him, but he
tightened his grip on my arm. He didn’t hurt me, but it was clear
he was not going to let me go.

“Are you okay, Stephanie?” Dr. Van Graf’s
blue eyes narrowed as he studied me, surely looking for signs of
impending hysteria.

Not only am I not a screamer, I’m not given
to hysterics, either, so I slowly nodded, assuring him without
words that I was all right. But to be fair, I’d never before
discovered the body of a murder victim, so when I did try to speak,
my throat was so dry, all I could get out was a high-pitched,
“He-he-he-he-he.” I sounded like a hyena on helium. Swallowing, I
tried again and managed to choke, “He’s dead.”

Thank you, Mrs.
Obvious.

Releasing my arm, Van Graf knelt and put his
fingers to the guy’s neck. His jaw clenched, he bit out,
“Dammit.”

I stammered, “Who-who-who?”

Thank you, woodsy
owl.

Van Graf rose and turned to face me. “His
name’s Percy Usher. He’s an actor. I’m sorry you had to be the one
to find him, Stephanie.” His brows lowered. “This must be quite a
shock. Are you sure you’re all right?”

It was then I noticed something was not quite
right about the doctor’s sweater. At first, I thought the bulky
knit might have picked up a bit of lint, but on closer scrutiny, I
could see it wasn’t lint at all.

The specks were red. Blood red.

Without thinking, I raised my hand, touched
one of them. It smeared. Holding my hand in front of my face, I
studied it, unwilling to accept what it was.

A small spray of blood had splattered on Van
Graf’s shoulder.

Fresh
blood.

I lowered my hand and took a step back, away
from my employer.

His eyes focused on my finger. Slowly, he
lifted his gaze to meet mine.

“Dr. Van Graf?”

He said nothing.

“You have s-something on your sweater.”

He remained silent, just staring at my
hand.

On a teensy, tiny breath, I squeaked, “You
didn’t kill this guy, did you?”

I wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go.
Van Graf was bigger than I, faster, stronger. If I’d spotted him at
a party or some kind of social function, all those attributes would
have made him really hot, but as things were, he was a vampire with
spots of blood on his sweater and a dead man sprawled on the floor
of his study.

“Stephanie?”

I took another step away from the doctor, but
had to stop when my
be
hind met the
bookshelf be
hind
me.

“Stephanie,” he repeated. “Please look at
me.”

I raised my gaze, met his, felt my cheeks
heat. If I were quick, I could make a run for the door, flinging
hefty volumes at him as I went to slow him down.

Now, if I had written this little scenario
for a couple of Debby Destiny’s clients, my readers would
know
that Dr. Van Graf was not a killer,
because he was the hero and I was the heroine, and we were meant to
fall in love and live HEA. The murderer would most likely be some
superfluous character like Igor or Wolf, and the presence of those
spots of blood on my hero’s sweater would have a logical
explanation having nothing to do with murder most foul.

Besides, if he’d just committed murder,
wouldn’t there be a lot more blood on his sweater than a few
droplets? Well,
wouldn’t
there?

“I didn’t do this, Steph,” my erstwhile hero
said. “But I’ll need your help to find out who did.”

My help?

“My help?” With slow deliberation, I slid my
right hand behind my butt and grabbed the biggest tome my fingers
touched, praying it was Stephen King’s
The
Stand
, which clocked in at a hefty 1153 pages. If Van Graf
made a move toward me, I would at least have a fighting chance,
slamming his face with a pound or two of hardcover fiction,
stunning him long enough to escape.

He tilted his head slightly. “It won’t
work.”

I swallowed, tightened my grip on the book.
“What won’t work, Doctor?”

“Call me Jon, Stephanie.”

“What won’t work,
Jon
Stephanie
?”

He chuckled. “Hitting me with that book
you’ve got hold of. Even if you managed to get it off the shelf
without dropping it, I’m pretty quick and—”

Yanking the book free, I swung my arm,
smacking the volume into his shoulder.
Thwaak.
It was like hitting a concrete wall with a
sponge.

“Oh, wow. Ouch.” There was laughter in his
blue eyes and an infuriatingly sarcastic tone in his voice. “Put
that damn book down before somebody gets hurt.”

“Like
you
, you
mean?” I challenged. “Move aside or I’ll hit you again,
Jon
.”

I don’t know how it happened, but one moment
the book was in my hand and the next it was in his. Turning the
volume, he read the title aloud. “
The Collected
Works of Stephenie Meyer
. Hey, thanks. I’ve been looking all
over for this.”

His brow furrowed as he looked at the book,
then back at me.

“Your name’s Stephanie. Is this one of
yours?”

“Mm-hm,” I mumbled. “Sure is.”

He reached for me and curled his long fingers
around my wrist. I started to pull away when he said, “I’m not
going to hurt you. Look at me.
Trust
me.”

Call me an idiot…

You’re an idiot!

Thank you. But I
wanted
to trust him.
Hoped
I
could.
Needed
to.

“Let’s sit down,” he urged. “This is a crime
scene. We don’t want to disturb it more than we already have.”

As he tugged me along the aisle and out into
the main part of the study, I said, “Are you going to call the
police?”

“Eventually.”

The fire crackled and popped in greeting as
we took our seats. “Why wait?” I asked. “If you didn’t kill
Percy—”

“I told you,” he interrupted. “I did not kill
anyone. Hell, I didn’t even know Usher. Only met him briefly
yesterday. What possible motive would I have? Besides…” He paused
and seemed to search for words. “I have an alibi.”

I straightened in my chair and eyed him. “An
alibi? What kind of
alibi
?”

“I was with someone.” He cleared his throat
and said softly, “A lady.”

Narrowing my gaze on him, I said, “Well,
since you were with someone, why did you send Lucy to get me? Why
was the cook waiting for me here instead of you? And why does she
yell everything?”

He shifted in his chair and with a small
shake of his head, said, “I can’t elaborate on your first two
questions, but I can tell you that Miss Troll is nearly deaf. She
resists getting a hearing aid because she thinks it will make her
look old, and since English is her second language, she yells
because she’s afraid she might be misunderstood.”

I flattened my mouth. “She called me a
troll.” I shrugged. “At least, I thought she did. At first.”

He appeared more amused than surprised. But
just as quickly, his expression turned serious again.

“I do have an alibi, Stephanie, but it would
be awkward for the lady in question to come forward. You must trust
me or we’ll never get past your assumption that I killed Usher and
find out who did.”

So what then? His lover was married? He was
having an affair with a married woman? I was being asked to trust a
man who was lying and cheating with a married woman?

I felt my blood pressure start to rise. I was
experiencing a reaction to Jon’s explanation that caught me by
surprise. For some reason, I felt a tiny cramp in my heart. I was
disappointed in him. Despite his being a vampire and a possible
murderer, someplace deep inside, I’d wanted him to be a good guy.
But he wasn’t a good guy. He was a user, just like my
ex-husband.

“Well, if you didn’t do it,” I snapped, “and
if you have an alibi, why aren’t you going to call the police?”

“For one thing,” he said, leaning back into
his chair. “With this storm, they won’t even be able to get here
until it stops snowing and the roads are cleared. By the time that
happens, whoever did kill Usher could be long gone.”

“And for another thing?”

He arched his brows. “I’m a Vampire,
Stephanie. The local yokel cops will automatically assume I did it,
and stop looking for the real killer. And since we don’t know why
Usher was killed, the murderer could have another murder planned.
We have to figure out who it is, gather evidence, identify and
isolate the murderer, and then call the authorities.”

I studied him for a moment. “Okay. Let’s say,
just for the sake of argument, that you didn’t do it. Who had a
motive to kill him? What was he doing in the study? Was he here to
get a book or was he lured here for the express purpose of killing
him? Was it an argument with someone that turned violent, or—”

“Hang on,” he interrupted. “The first thing
we have to do is get everyone in the house together and tell them
what happened. Watch their reactions to the news. Since we don’t
know exactly what time Usher was attacked, the best we can do for
now is find out who saw him alive last and nail down that
time.”

I considered this. “He might have been
attacked hours ago and just lay there, dying. Actually, I think…I
think
…he may even still have been alive
when I came into the study. As I was waiting for you, I heard a
sound. I thought it was my imagination or that a book had toppled
from a shelf or something, and when I went to check, there he was.
I’d hate to think he was still alive, and that I might have been
able to do something to help him.”

No question about it, I was still in shock. I
know I felt uncertain and confused. In my wildest dreams, I never
would have believed I’d be involved in a real murder, or working
for a man I wanted to trust, wanted to believe, but couldn’t simply
take it for granted that he was innocent.

“I’m sorry, Stephanie. Truly. For your sake,
I’m so sorry this happened.”

“Well,” I muttered, crossing my arms, “I
imagine Percy Usher feels a little more regret than you do.”

He stood. “I’m going to have Leech assemble
everyone in the parlor in fifteen minutes. I want you there.”

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.

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?”